by John Creasey
He went on talking.
Rollison took his time pouring out, and glanced round out of the corner of his eyes. He saw Lessing moving towards the door which led to the rest of the flat, and felt pretty sure what was in the other’s mind. Lessing had been coming in and out of this flat for twenty years, and there was little that he did not know. He was much more shrewd than he allowed himself to appear, covering his shrewdness with an excess of old school tie and Guards’ affectation. Now he stood as if admiringly in front of the trophy wall, and most would have admired or else been appalled by the choice of lethal weapons.
But Lessing knew each one, and familiarity had bred indifference. He could come into this flat and hardly look at the wall.
Each article which appeared to interest him was a little nearer the door. In a moment or two he would be within a stride of it. Rollison took his drink across, as if casually and without the slightest sign of alarm; he put the drink down and, at the same time, pressed a bell-push under the top of the desk. The buzzer in the kitchen hardly sounded. Lessing edged towards the door, and actually turned round to smile broadly at Rollison in a mechanical way, and to say: “I’ve often wished I could take a hammer like that to old Lorne.”
“Barbara would never come back to you if you did,” said Rollison.
Then Lessing swung round towards the door, and grabbed the handle.
“What—” began Rollison, as if astounded.
The door opened inwards, and banged against Lessing’s toe; it seemed as if it also caught him on the nose. He staggered back, while Jolly appeared, looking flummoxed for the second time that day, and covered with embarrassment which seemed quite genuine.
“I am extremely sorry, sir.”
“A’right,” mumbled Lessing.
“Guy, what on earth—?” began Rollison, and then broke off, his voice ending on a high note. “Oh, no! You weren’t going to see if Barbara was in the flat, were you?” He raised his hands, in a motion of surrender. “I give up. Jolly, take Major Lessing through the flat, room by room, and if he requests it, lift up all the bedspreads so that he can see underneath, and open every wardrobe and cupboard door.”
“Very good, sir.” Jolly was almost himself again.
Lessing was still covering his nose with his hands, but that was pretence, for his eyes were not watering.
“All very well for you,” he mumbled. “Oh, well, I’m sorry. But you must admit that it’s the kind of thing you would do.”
“The thing I want most is to see the pair of you together again,” said Rollison firmly. “I have never subscribed to the theory that you were interested only in the money aspect of this marriage.”
Lessing took his hands away, and now looked hotly angry.
“Tell me anyone who did.”
“Half the London we know.”
“Rolly, are you going out of your way to insult me?”
“I’m going out of my way to make you realise that I don’t think you’re a coldblooded fish, and that I don’t think you could fail to be in love with Barbara. I’ve no idea what’s wrong, but I’ll gladly help to put it right if you think I can.”
Lessing said, “There’s one thing you can do.”
“What’s that?”
“Find Barbara for me, and tell her I must see her, and know what it’s all about.”
“I’ll try to find Barbara.”
“You’ll keep it confidential, won’t you?”
“As hush-hush as I can. I could ask the Yard—”
“Keep the Yard out of this, or it’ll be all over the newspapers!”
“You mistrust the Back Room Boys,” said Rollison, a little sadly. “I can’t make any promises, Guy, but I’ll gladly do what I can. There’s a way you can help, too.”
“I don’t know a thing.”
Rollison asked flatly, “Do you know why she ran away? Have you any idea what drove her to it?”
“I simply haven’t the faintest idea,” said Lessing, with such quiet emphasis that Rollison felt persuaded that he was telling the truth. “As far as I know, she was hilariously happy about the whole prospect up to yesterday afternoon. I saw her at tea-time. She was overjoyed because Lorne seemed to have come round and was making the best of it, and I don’t think she’d ever been happier. I don’t think I had been, either,” said Lessing, and that seemed to be wrung from him; it was almost touching. “Find her, Rolly, and find out what drove her to do a crazy thing like this.”
“I’ll try all I know,” Rollison promised again.
Then the telephone bell rang, and the tension in the room was so great that the sound made both of them jump. Lessing stared at it. Rollison recovered quickly and went towards the corner of the desk, where the instrument stood. His hand was on the black receiver when Lessing gave his fierce, handsome smile, said, “Sorry about this,” and without hesitation, went through the door leading into the rest of the flat.
He would go straight to the spare bedroom.
The telephone bell rang again.
Lessing would find Barbara, and that would be that.
Jolly put his head round the door.
“Will you answer the call, sir, or shall I?” As he finished, he put his finger to his lips again, and actually made a thumbs-up sign.
“Wha’—” began Rollison; then he caught on, gulped, grinned and lifted the telephone. “Richard Rollison speaking,” he said, and wondered if by freak of chance this could be Robert Lorne.
He heard the coins drop into a prepayment box, before Barbara said breathlessly :
“Rolly, it’s me. Jolly said I’d better go out the back way, and ring you and find out whether to come back, or whether you’d like to meet me somewhere else. I don’t want to see Dad, and I’d much rather stay with you, if you don’t mind your reputation being at stake.”
“Where are you?” Rollison asked.
“At a call box in the Arden Hotel.”
“Wait there until Jolly or I come for you,” said Rollison, “and while you’re waiting, try to recall every word the woman said to you on the telephone, and everyone who could have put that marriage certificate in your changing-room. A list of the names would be a great help.”
“Bless you,” said Barbara fervently, and added with a catch in her voice: “How is Guy? Does he seem dreadfully upset?”
“Yes.”
“Why can’t you confront him with the certificate, and find out what he says?” asked Barbara. “I’ve just got to know the truth of it. I’m beginning to hate myself already, but I can’t go back to him until I know, can I?”
“You could, but I shouldn’t,” Rollison said. “Don’t go far away, and—”
“Rolly, I must go, a woman I know has just come in,” Barbara whispered fiercely. “If this leaks out it’ll be a dreadful scandal. Goodbye.”
She rang off.
And Guy Lessing stepped into the room.
Chapter Four
Guy Lessing
Rollison replaced the receiver on Barbara’s last word, and looked across at Lessing; there was a possibility that he had noticed something which might betray the fact that his bride had been here; but a glance into his clear bold eyes, the eyes of a man of great physical courage, told Rollison that all was well there, at all events.
Rollison said mildly, “You might try believing me, Guy.”
“Yes. Sorry. But I could have sworn that you’re the one person Barbara would come to if she was in any trouble.”
“What makes you so sure?”
A smile found its way reluctantly to Lessing’s eyes, and curved his thin lips. He had a very square jaw, and rather jutting eyebrows; a Tarzan with all the trappings of London’s West End.
“She had an exaggerated sense of your prowess, after the first time I brought her here a
nd she saw those knick-knacks of yours.” Knick-knacks” was heresy where the trophies were concerned, but Rollison did not even flinch. “As a matter of fact, I told her that if I were ever in a jam you were the one man I’d come to for help.”
“Are you in a jam now?” asked Rollison mildly.
“You know damned well that I am.”
“I don’t mean simply because Barbara’s run off. I mean, in the reason for her decision to leave you standing.”
“Rolly,” said Lessing very earnestly, “I haven’t the faintest idea why she should run off. I’ve told you that. I expected to be at a little cottage in the New Forest by now, I’ve a pony down there as an unexpected wedding present for Barbara. I knew that all the blasted newspapers and my so-called friends would take it for granted we were going overseas, so I fooled them by fixing this cottage for a week, and I’ve arranged to take a car on to the Continent next week, for a month’s touring. Life was as nearly perfect as I ever expected it to be. I knew people talked about the difference in our ages, but I thought that would be accepted. I can’t think of another single reason why Barbara should get cold feet. The one thing that worries me is that she looked almost scared at the ceremony. I keep telling myself it’s impossible, and then start wondering if someone had frightened her away. Once I get to that stage, I boggle,” confessed Lessing, and threw up his hands. “But what the hell’s the use of talking?”
“This cottage in the New Forest,” said Rollison, almost apologetically. “Where is it?”
“In the village of Bane.”
Where a certain Helen Goodman had lived, thought Rollison reflectively.
“Whose is it?”
“Tony Carruthers. He’s out of the country most of the time, and I’ve an arrangement by which I pay for the upkeep any time I go down there. I often use it for weekends,” Lessing went on, and his jaw seemed to thrust forward. “I know that most people think I slip away for bedtime orgies to Bane and also to Paris every few weeks, but as a matter of fact whenever I go away, I go for a rest. In spite of rumour, I’ve enough money to live on, and capital for a farm when Barbara and I have decided where to settle. We’re not sure it’ll be England. Anyway, the first time I went to Bane was after that scandal—you know. I had to get away from gawping crowds and society columnists, and went down to the village for three weeks. Did me a world of good. Bit of riding, fishing, walking. But what has that to do with the present situation?”
“Did Barbara know you were going to start the honeymoon at Bane?”
“Good lord, no!”
“All a secret operation,” murmured Rollison, and wondered whether Lessing proposed to plan his married life as a military manoeuvre, and what Barbara would think if he did.
“I wanted to surprise Barbara,” Lessing added tersely.
“Well, she certainly surprised you. Guy, what are you going to do while you’re waiting? You’re not one of the world’s patient souls.”
“Damned if I know what to do,” growled Lessing. “I take it for granted that
Barbara’s in London, but there’s no reason why I should. I suppose, as she hasn’t been here, the most likely place for her to go is her father’s, but I hate the thought of going and telling him. If he doesn’t know already, then he’ll bounce for joy when he hears.”
“He’s not such a bounder.”
“You’ve never been his prospective son-in-law.” Lessing tossed down the rest of his whisky-and-soda; he seemed incapable of sipping it, and every moment and every word was jerky. “What do you suggest that I do?”
“Go down to Bane.”
“What?”
“It’s a two-hour run. You can drive hell-for-leather and when you get there you can unpack and get everything ready. If I find Barbara, and everything’s all right, I can bring her down, or telephone you to come and fetch her.”
“Cottage isn’t on the telephone,” Lessing said, but his eyes were kindling. “Might be a good idea, though. You could telephone a message to the pub, the Old Rufus. I certainly can’t just stand around here and do nothing. Think I ought to see Lorne first?”
“No. I’ll find out if Barbara’s gone home.”
“I don’t want his suspicions aroused, if she hasn’t. If he thought that she had walked out on me he’d laugh his head off. Then he’d start worrying about the scandal.”
“Guy, go down to Bane,” urged Rollison. “Telephone here two or three times en route, Jolly or I will be waiting with a message. If there’s no answer you’ll know we haven’t had any luck.”
“That’s what I’ll do,” decided Lessing brusquely. “Rolly, find her for me.” Rollison didn’t speak.
“If anything’s happened to her, I—” began Lessing, and then he broke off, seemed to grit his teeth, and moved towards the door. “Thanks. Sorry I mistrusted you. It’s Rufus Cottage, Bane. See you soon.”
He was so anxious to be on the move that he was outside before Rollison could get to the door and open it. He went down the stairs at the double, heels clicking, and Rollison felt quite sure that he had sustained the worst possible blow to his pride. If this story reached the newspapers he would be driven almost to a point of desperation, for he would feel that the world was laughing at him, and would hate the sound of mocking laughter.
Rollison closed the door.
Jolly appeared.
“Jolly,” said Rollison on the instant, “nip round to the Arden Hotel, and find Mrs. Lessing. She was by the telephone boxes. You know the main foyer, don’t you? There are plenty of odd corners, and she’ll be sitting in one of them, out of sight. Take the car, get her inside it so that no one has a chance to recognise her, and then drive her to Lady Gloria’s.”
“Very good, sir,” said Jolly.
“Now.”
Jolly moved almost as swiftly as Rollison could, and a minute later he went out with a bowler hat placed firmly on his head and a stride nearly as brisk as that of Lessing. Rollison waited until his footsteps had faded, then went to the window. Lessing was not in sight; he felt reasonably sure that Lessing now trusted him.
Rollison took the marriage certificate out of his pocket, and read it again.
There was everything, black on green and white. Here was the evidence of the marriage of Major Guy Lessing to Helen Goodman, spinster.
Rollison took out a road atlas of Southern England, studied it, found Bane, and looked up the village in a gazetteer; there was a population of one hundred and ninety-three. Among them, presumably, was Helen Lessing, née Goodman. He found himself looking into space and seeing Guy’s face when he had suggested that he should go down to Bane. Guy had not hesitated for a moment; and it was impossible to believe that he would knowingly take Barbara to that village for their honeymoon.
“It simply doesn’t make sense,” Rollison said aloud, as he sat at his desk, picked up the telephone and dialled the number of a doctor who lived half a mile away; at one time an Army doctor, also in the Guards. He listened to the ringing sound, until a woman answered.
“Is Dr. Willard there?”
“Who wants him, please?”
“Richard Rollison.”
“Oh, hallo, Rolly,” said Doc Willard’s wife. “You aren’t going to keep him for long, are you? He’s got a night off.”
“Ten minutes,” promised Rollison.
“David!” Mrs. Willard called, into the distance, and then came back to Rollison. “Rolly, have you ever known a wedding go more smoothly?”
“Never,” answered Rollison firmly.
“Dave was saying that he thought Guy must have planned the operation months ahead, and rehearsed it for weeks. Not that you could rehearse a man like Bobby Lorne! Wasn’t he good?”
“Very good.”
“And I thought Barbara looked—” began Mrs. Willard, and then broke off. “Here’s D
ave.”
“Hallo, Rolly,” said David Willard, in a voice both deep and resonant; the kind of voice which was likely to make a man move the receiver inches from his ear. “Been eating too much, or did the champagne upset you?”
“All bubbly does is make me babble,” said Rollison, and went on in exactly the same light-hearted tone: “Don’t let Alice know that I’m going to ask about Guy Lessing, pretend it’s about the Charity Ball Committee.”
Willard played up perfectly.
“Yes, old chap?”
“I know I’m being mysterious, but you’ll have to wait until I can see you for an explanation,” said Rollison. “Guy was wounded in Egypt, wasn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Head wound?”
“Yes.”
“Any possibility that it would result in black-outs or temporary amnesia?”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Willard, and obviously he was taking time to collect his thoughts. “It was a nasty wound, he’s lucky to be alive. Kerrington did the op.” Obviously his wife was no longer within earshot. “I wouldn’t say I expected trouble, but it could happen. Why?”
“He seems to have forgotten something he did three years ago.”
“Hm, yes,” said Willard. “That was a few months after the operation. Could be. How serious is this?”
“Serious enough to ask you to check with Kerrington but not urgent enough to want immediate action,” Rollison told him. “Can you let me know what Kerrington thinks, some time in the morning?”
“Yes. No trouble in the love nest, is there?”
Rollison found himself grinning. “Not yet,” he said. “Thanks, Dave, give Alice a wonderful night out.”
He rang off, swinging his leg. The obvious explanation of part of the mystery was that Lessing had married this Helen Goodman while suffering from amnesia. It would not satisfy many people unless there was the nearest thing to positive proof; and at this distance from the marriage, proof would be impossible to find. But medical reports might be enough to satisfy Barbara, and even her father. And probably it would make sure that the little matter of bigamy was only a technical one.