by John Creasey
“Anything you want, Mr Ar?” he enquired.
“Send some men to relieve Percy Wrightson,” Rollison said, “and have Isobel Cole and Mrs. Benning watched closely, Sam.”
“Strewth! No danger to them, is there?” Sam demanded.
“Better be safe than sorry,” Rollison said.
He was smiling rather grimly when he rang off.
Chapter Twenty-One
Nine O’clock News
Rollison’s flat was very quiet.
Percy Wrightson had gone home to see his wife. Two of Ebbutt’s men were in the street, and another in the kitchen. Jolly was at some mysterious business in his workroom. So far as Rollison knew, Kitty Dwight was sitting in the armchair in the spare room, with the radio playing softly, books and magazines by her side, and her unconscious husband in bed. Rollison saw that it was five to nine, got up, and went to the spare room. He saw the girl glance round, recognised the start of fear which was never far away from her.
“Is he awake yet?”
“No,” she whispered.
Rollison went across to the bed, and Kitty stood up, looking as if she wanted to stop him, yet not daring to say a word. Rollison raised Dwight’s right eyelid, and saw that the pupil was still small, although not so tiny. The indications were that he would soon start slipping out of unconsciousness into natural sleep; then it would be all right to wake him.
“I’ll see him as soon as he comes round,” Rollison said in his normal speaking voice.
“All right,” Kitty whispered.
Was she scared of her husband or simply terrified of what might happen when he found out the truth about her past? He did not dwell on that, but went back to his room. The erstwhile prisoner was still in the hot room, as adamant as he had ever been.
Rollison turned the radio until it was quite loud.
He stood by the Trophy Wall, playing with the noose which had once choked the life out of a man, and the trophies of his chases were by his side. He was thinking of Fred Martin’s death, and the ugliness of it, and the fact that he had prompted the Salvation Army people to make the inquiries. It was useless to tell himself that as soon as Fred had reached home and learned what had happened to Benning, he would have gone to the police – and that his attackers, knowing that, would have tried to stop him anyhow. He, Rollison, had been the direct instrument of the Army’s inquiry: and so he had been responsible for a good man’s death.
The thought haunted him.
The news signal came. He sat on the edge of the desk, took out some papers, and began to run through them: the list of friends and relations which the Bennings had given him. He knew them off by heart. The announcer talked of international tensions, a by-election, a Chinese flood disaster, in his steady, detached voice. Rollison picked up a newspaper which had a photograph of Isobel Cole in it. She was as pertly pretty as any picture; and that quirk of thought did not even make him smile.
There was a slight pause in the flow of words from the loudspeaker, and then the announcer said: “And here is a police message. At about 2.15 this afternoon, on the hill leading from the north to Watford, two lorries collided and a driver of one was killed, the driver of the other suffering facial and leg injuries. The police are anxious to interview anyone who saw the accident, and also anyone who was on that particular stretch of road between one forty-five and two-fifteen. Anyone who may be able to help is asked to communicate with New Scotland Yard, telephone number Whitehall 1212.”
Rollison moved and switched off.
“Thanks, Bill,” he said.
He went into the room where Jolly was busy, and told him. Jolly, at his bench, said quietly that he was very glad indeed; Jolly knew quite well what particular kind of hell Rollison was living through, although he did not refer to it.
“Now I’m going to try the prisoner,” Rollison said. “If he won’t talk this time—”
The man was sitting back in the chair, exhausted. He actually looked thinner. The room was not so viciously hot, but was still very hot indeed. The bars of three electric fires glowed. The man moved sluggishly when the door opened, and then started up. Rollison stood over him, and knew that he must exert any pressure and use any force to make this man talk of what he knew; but unless the man talked now, how could he be made to break down?
Rollison said roughly: “You think it’s been hot, but we’ve only just started to warm up. I’ve news for you.” His voice was iron hard and his expression bleak; and he saw what he thought was fear in the eyes of the other man, the first suggestion of a crack. “A friend of mine was murdered this afternoon. Understand that? I don’t care what happens to you, I don’t care how rough I have to be. I mean to find out who did it, and what this is all about.”
It was the other case, of course; there had been no murder in the Dwight case, only violence and the threat of violence. But just as the Dwight case had got in the way of his investigation into the Benning case, so he could use what had happened in one to press forward with the other. They were almost the same in his mind now – a “double” in which the emphasis had switched during those awful minutes when he had learned what had happened to Fred Martin.
“I’ll give you two minutes to make up your mind,” he said, roughly. “Who do you work for? Who sent you here?”
The man stared at him, and Rollison saw that his lips were quivering, sensed that this was the moment he had been waiting for. He saw the sweat gathered like a pool round the other’s bloodshot eyes, saw the pallor of his skin, knew how awful he felt, knew that the heat method had worked: and all that he had to find out now was whether this man knew anything that mattered.
He licked his lips.
“Gim—gimme some water,” he muttered. “Water.”
“Get some water, Jolly,” Rollison ordered.
“Very good, sir.”
The man stared into Rollison’s eyes, trembling from head to foot. Rollison moved to him, cut the cords at the arms of the chair, bent down and cut the cords from the wrists. He said: “I can fasten them again.”
Jolly came in, and the man’s eyes turned towards the small glass of water as if it were a mountain of gold. Rollison took the glass. The man tried to stretch out his hand for it, but there was no strength in his arm. Jolly seemed to be breathing very softly; as if he, too, knew that this was the vital moment.
“Who do you work for? Who sent you here,” demanded Rollison.
The man said: “It was Ivy; that’s all I can tell you. It was Ivy.” His voice croaked; he tried to stretch forward again, but could not. “It was Ivy; Ivy always gives the messages. I mu—must have a drink, I must—”
Rollison held the glass to his lips, let him sip, saw the frenzy in his eyes. He did not think that he would continue to be obstinate now that the crack had started. He gave him two minutes to let the water soak into his parched mouth, then took the glass away, and asked: “Who is Ivy?”
“She—she always gives us our orders,” the man exclaimed. “She’s the contact with—with the boss. It’s no use asking who he is; I don’t know. I’ll tell you everything I do know; I can’t stand the heat any longer; I can’t stand it. Take me out, and I’ll tell you everything I know.”
“Come on, Jolly,” Rollison said.
He took one arm, Jolly took the other, and they helped the prisoner along the passage and into the big, cool room. They set him in one of the armchairs in which Mrs. Benning and Isobel had sat only a day before. He looked as if he would collapse. Jolly brought a towel and dabbed his face and forehead, and brought in another glass of water. Then, unostentatiously, Jolly switched on a tape recorder which stood on Rollison’s desk. It was working when the prisoner began to talk.
Grice, sitting in the room facing the Trophy Wall, listened as the tape recorder was played back. There was the prisoner’s croaking voice, his obvious fear, his apparent collapse. It was hard to believe that a man could talk as he talked without telling the truth, for his voice made it obvious that there was no courage left
in him.
The wheels stopped turning as the voice faded out.
“So there’s a lot of your story,” Rollison said, softly. “He’s one of a group of thirty or forty men, all trained in most kinds of crime. They’re all ex-fighting men, all about the same age—the early thirties—and part of the contract is to keep fit. They get a steady two thousand pounds a year each, basic, and ten per cent of the proceeds of whatever they help to steal. They’re told what to do and where to go, and they’re told to take these morphia tablets if they’re caught; and with the morphia there’s a mixture of a tranquillising drug which means that when they come out of unconsciousness they’re not worried, and they can resist questioning easily. Very easy, and very clever. They always get their instructions from a woman. Some time ago it was a woman named Cora Dantry—Kitty Dwight’s friend. Now it’s a woman they know as Ivy.”
Grice said: “It’s like trying to play chess with a piece missing. We know what this Ivy looks like, but a thousand girls would probably answer the same description.”
“Medium height, late twenties, dark-haired, always well dressed, thin features, pleasant voice,” Rollison said. “She meets the men in bars, pubs, cinemas, theatres, all kinds of public places, and—”
He broke off, and caught his breath.
Grice said: “That’s not exactly new,” and then frowned at Rollison’s expression, for Rollison looked as if he could not believe whatever had come to his mind. “What on earth’s worrying you?” Grice demanded.
Rollison said: “Bill, it can’t be. I’m just seeing double. It can’t be.”
“You may be seeing double. You’re certainly talking double Dutch,” Grice said. “What—”
“Bill,” said Rollison again, in a taut voice. “She sees them in pubs and picture-palaces and all manner of public places. She gives them their orders, and she pays them their salary in cash. What does that remind you of?”
“I can’t imagine—” Grice began, and then stopped short, and for a moment his expression was as bewildered as Rollison’s.
In fact the Toff began to recover, and began to smile in a curiously twisted way, while staring into Grice’s brown eyes as if he were beginning to enjoy the shock effect on Grice.
“No,” said Grice, chokily.
“Yes. Marjorie Fryer was murdered after going round from pub to pub, club to club, picture-palace to picture-palace, ostensibly following Bob Benning. Marjorie Fryer had some ready money after her visits, as if she collected a kind of blackmail or was paid a retainer. And Marjorie was murdered. Why, Bill? Because she was hoping to wreck the romance of a nice pair of kids? Or because she had been exerting pressure on our Ivy’s boss too long, and she had to be killed? Benning was perfectly placed as the man to take the blame.”
“Good God!” gasped Grice, and gulped, and said: “Rolly, it begins to look as if you’re right.”
“Coincidence would take us so far, but surely no further,” said Rollison. He stood up. “Come and see my heat-treatment victim.” He led the way into the room where the prisoner was sitting back, sandwiches and tea by his side. “See how well we treat our guests.” The man glanced at Grice and back to Rollison. “More questions,” Rollison went on, “and you’ve nothing to fear if you answer off the cuff. Did you know Marjorie Fryer, the girl who was murdered last Monday night?”
There was a long pause before the prisoner said: “Yes, I’ve known her for months. She found something out about Ivy, and we had to pay her five pounds every week to keep her quiet. But I don’t know anything about her murder! I had nothing to do with it, but I—I can’t prove it.” He was almost shouting. “I was at the Ealing Bank job on Monday, I wasn’t in the East End.”
Rollison heard him, but did not greatly care whether he was the killer or not.
The “double” was a double indeed; the two cases were now one. But why had both been brought to him? That was the overriding question. He could accept coincidence with any man, but not such a coincidence as this. Why—
A telephone bell rang.
Rollison took Grice’s arm.
“Come on,” he said, and hurried into the big room, where Jolly was already at the telephone.
Grice had the bewildered look which seldom affected him. Jolly could see the expression of excitement in Rollison’s eyes, and stood waiting for the caller, and then said: “It’s for you, Mr. Grice.”
“Thanks,” said Grice, in a gruff voice, as if he were telling himself that he must pull himself together. He strode to the telephone. “Grice here.”
He listened.
His eyes began to shine, and when he spoke again it was in a sharper, much more confident voice: “Fine. Get a general call put out for her. Send to all pubs and clubs in the East End and the West End. Don’t lose her.” He put the receiver down, and turned to Rollison. “A man got a lift in Fred Martin’s lorry this afternoon.”
“Ah!”
‘“He was with a dark-haired young woman, of medium height, who was very well dressed. She had been waiting nearby in a Sunbeam Rapier car, and a police patrol noticed them and saw them get out of the car and walk towards the main road. These policemen saw them hold up Martin’s lorry. The man got into the cabin, and the woman went back to her car. The patrol men thought it odd, but didn’t know about the accident—they went off duty almost immediately afterwards. They picked up the S.O.S. on the radio to-night, and—”
Grice broke off.
“Wonderful, Bill! It looks as if it’s falling right into our hands. All we want is Ivy. Just Ivy. An Ivy who might be interested in framing young Benning, an Ivy who gets around a great deal. She wouldn’t use her real name, of course; it would be a false name for her contact work. Ivy. And we want to know why I was called into both cases. Remember your little diatribe on coincidence? For once we’re in full agreement. Bill, why—”
He broke off again, and for a moment he looked almost as astounded as he had in the beginning. But this time he recovered more quickly. The light in his eyes was radiant, and it was quite obvious he believed he had come upon the truth.
“There was no danger for Cedric Dwight,” he said, softly. “The attack on him was a fake, or we would have found the bullet. It was his way of getting into my flat—because he wanted to find out how much I knew. You and Dwight really had the same delusion—that I knew much more than I did; and the timing of Dwight’s coming must have some significance, too—just after Isobel and Mrs. Benning had come to see me. If Dwight was involved in Marjorie Fryer’s murder, he would want to know what I was going to do. Being in the flat gave him all he wanted. When he realised that I knew next to nothing, he allowed himself to be kidnapped.”
“Rolly—” Grice began.
“That isn’t all,” Rollison hurried on. “There was pressure to bear on Dwight’s wife, but not on him. He seemed terrified, but recovered remarkably soon when I offered to let him stay here. In fact he was happy. I think that we shall find that putting him in the boot of my car was to fool me again. Everything about Cedric Dwight is a fake. His wife was involved in one of the kinds of crimes that Ivy’s men have been committing in—Kitty was part of the whole, a cog in the machine. And you can take it that Cedric liked the look of her, fixed that acquaintance, and decided to marry her. Poor, poor, deluded Cedric; always sheltering behind his delusions, always ready with an excuse for any odd things that he did, but brilliantly clever at organising this crime. Do you think that Marjorie Fryer found out that he was involved?”
Rollison was talking in a low-pitched voice, and looking towards the door. Only a few yards away, Cedric Dwight was lying – or sitting up. It was possible that the man was just outside this room.
Listening.
Rollison went on: “Marjorie certainly made some vital discovery and used it too freely. Bill, we’ve got Dwight right here, and we’ve got to force an admission out of him.”
Then there was a knock at the front door, startling him. That door was through the lounge hall, opposite the door o
f the passages leading to the other parts of the flat. He heard Jolly’s footsteps. He contrasted the normality of that with the astonishing revelation which he felt sure was vital. He heard Jolly open the door, and then heard a young woman say: “I must see Mr. Rollison. I must see him!”
It was Isobel Cole.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Double Complete
“I wonder what the devil she wants now,” said Grice, and then saw Rollison smiling at him, and growled: “For once in my life I need a drink, Rolly. Mind if I help myself? I’m used to building cases up step by step; this speed isn’t my way of working at all.”
“Nice to think I’m becoming appreciated,” Rollison said. “Yes, help yourself.” He saw the door open wide, and Jolly appear, with the girl just behind him. “All right, Jolly. I’ll see Miss Cole,” he said, and Jolly stood aside for the girl to hurry across to him.
She looked very beautiful indeed.
Her dark hair was unruly, and her coat was open, with the inside tying tape hanging down. There was even less doubt about her statistics. She had lovely slim legs, too, and as she came to Rollison her hands were outstretched.
“You must come and help me,” she said, and took his hands. “Bob’s mother is beside herself. She thinks it’s because of trying to save Bob that Fred Martin was killed. Someone’s told her that you don’t think it was an accident, and it’s all over the East End that it was murder. You must come and comfort her.”
“I wonder,” said Rollison, quite unexpectedly.
“Oh, please. You must!”
“Isobel, you couldn’t be over-acting, could you?” Rollison asked softly. “You could be a double for Ivy. Or could you?”
She raised one hand, as if astounded. Her make-up was better, her clothes were better, she looked wholly mature – and almost vicious.
Then a sound came at the door. Rollison heard Jolly exclaim, and looked round quickly.
There was Cedric Dwight.
He had a small automatic in his hand.
He looked taller and slender and willowy. His hair was falling low on his forehead and nearly covered one eye. He was moving in slowly, and his wife was just behind him; her breathing was very heavy, as if she were more terrified than ever.
