by John Creasey
He would bring Lessing back, on some pretext, when he made his first telephone call, and go down to Bane himself. He wanted to see this Helen Goodman, or at least find out if she still lived there. She might point a finger at whoever had sent that marriage certificate and had made that telephone call.
Barbara had said that a woman had spoken to her.
Helen Goodman herself?
If so, why hadn’t she interrupted at the ceremony? Had she been in the church, but lacked the courage to stand up and cry: “I forbid this marriage”? Such timidity was possible, but it did nothing to explain the bearded Joe and his booming voice, heralding doom and declaiming that one particular sentence.
Rollison heard footsteps on the stairs.
He took it for granted that this was Jolly, back with Barbara; they had been quick, but neither of them would have wasted time. The question was: what should he say to Barbara? Should he talk of this head wound and the possibility of amnesia, or should he wait until he knew more?
The footsteps sounded on the landing.
He realised then that they were not Jolly’s, and in fact there had been hardly time for Jolly to collect Barbara, take her to Lady Gloria’s Marigold Club and then come on here. A moment later, the frontdoor bell rang; and Jolly would not be without a key. Rollison went to the lounge hall, thinking only that he must get rid of him quickly, and glancing up at Jolly’s mirror.
Robert Lorne, the father of the bride, was outside.
Chapter Five
Father of the Bride
It was not difficult for Rollison to look surprised, and he had time to notice that Lorne’s round, usually red face was pale, and that his eyes, usually so merry, were grave. He was an ebullient man, both mentally and physically, and that was the chief reason for the fact that he and Guy Lessing did not get on well together; Lorne was the antithesis of everything that Lessing believed a man should be, for Lessing was a conventionalist in nearly all things.
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Rollison. “Come in.” He stood aside and closed the door. “What’s on your mind, you look as if you’ve buried Barbara, not wedded her.”
“That’s how I feel,” said Lorne. He was a head shorter than Rollison, and had to hold his head back to look into Rollison’s eyes. “I knew all the time that Barbara was making the mistake of her life. I didn’t trust Lessing, and my God, I was right. Did you know he was married already?”
Rollison was already on the move, towards the big room, the trophy wall, and a respite.
“Come in,” he said, and by the time they were in the big room, his expression showed only bewilderment. “I take it you’re serious.”
“Of course I’m serious. Do you think I’d joke about a thing like that?”
“I don’t get it,” said Rollison.
“You could answer my question.”
“I can’t answer it, because I don’t believe Guy was married.”
“You will,” said Lorne, and put a plump, pink hand to his coat pocket. He wore a pale grey suit, beautifully tailored, and a dark grey tie. His dark hair shone, his cheeks shone, his manicured nails shone and his black shoes had a sheen of remarkable brilliance. He took out a folded paper, which looked identical with the one which Barbara had given to Rollison. “Here’s a copy of the marriage certificate.”
“Good lord!”
“Nice friends you have,” Lorne said bitterly. He was deeply hurt and desperately worried for his daughter, and in that moment looked almost pathetic. “Rolly, I don’t know what to do. Read that for yourself, you’ll see there’s no mistake. I wish to heaven I’d checked more closely, but would anyone believe a thing like this was even possible? I knew that he was a womaniser, but—” Lorne almost choked.
Rollison studied the certificate, although there was no need, for he knew every word, and every name. This looked as if it had been copied by the same copy-plate handwriter, and it was also like a sentence of doom for Guy and Barbara.
“Satisfied?” demanded Lorne.
“No. I simply can’t believe it.”
“Oh, be yourself,” snapped Lorne. “It’s no use being a sentimental fool even if the man was a friend of yours. I hope you won’t try to defend him.” His lips were twisted, and that pain showed in his eyes. “Believe it or not, this isn’t the main thing I’ve come to see you about,” he went on, and took the certificate back. “I want some help and advice. Are you free to help me?”
“Yes.”
“And you won’t allow your friendship with Lessing to bias you?”
“No.”
“Well, then, here’s the problem,” said Lorne, and he moved towards the window as if he could not bear to meet Rollison’s eyes any longer. “An hour ago, I had a telephone message from someone in the London area. It was a woman. She told me that this earlier marriage had taken place, and incidentally that it had been consummated over a long period. She said that she would release the story and a copy of the certificate to the newspapers unless I was prepared to pay ten thousand pounds to keep it quiet.”
Rollison didn’t speak, but watched the back of the plump man’s head. There was a hint of a bald patch, which looked very white.
Lorne spun round.
“Well? Struck dumb?”
“Bob, you won’t help Barbara or yourself by losing your temper,” Rollison said mildly. “What came first? The telephone call or the certificate?”
“The call.” Lorne hesitated. “At least, I think it did. The certificate was brought up to my study by the footman, with the evening newspapers.” Lorne talked very flatly, and mostly out of character; it was as if everything except his portly little body had been deflated. “That’s the kind of inquiry you handle, isn’t it? Blackmail.”
“I’ll handle this one. Where were you told to hand over the money?”
“I am to post ten lots of one thousand pounds each to ten different addresses, all in the Greater London area,” answered Lorne. “Here is the letter of instructions. You’ll see that I’ve been given until tomorrow afternoon to get the money parcel it up and send it. There’s a different name at each address.” Lorne gave a tired little smile. “I’m glad that you’re as shaken as I am. Whatever else, we have to admit that it is remarkably well organised.’’
“We certainly do,” agreed Rollison, and took the letter. It was on flimsy paper, and the note as well as the names and addresses were all typewritten. No address was given at the head of the paper, and there was no signature. There was a kind of cold efficiency about it which told of a detached and dispassionate mind.
“What do you advise?” asked Lorne bleakly. “Shall I pay and keep them quiet until I’ve had time to warn Barbara? That’s the hell of it—that poor Barbara is going to get a shock like this. You don’t—” He gulped, as if he hated what he was about to say. “You don’t know where they’re going on honeymoon, do you?” He hardly paused. “No, of course you don’t. Lessing didn’t even tell Barbara, it was all to be such a great surprise for her. I’d give my right hand to stop her from spending the night with him, and I mean that. My first reaction was to telephone Scotland Yard and ask them to stop them, wherever they are, but I realised that they’ve probably flown abroad, and that I can’t stop them anyhow. Once the Yard had it, the whole thing would leak out.”
“The police can keep a secret,” Rollison said.
He could take the father of the bride into his confidence, and lift a tremendous burden off Lorne’s shoulders; but if Lorne knew the truth he would almost certainly want to see Barbara, would tell her about Lessing, and would then refuse to pay the money, telling the blackmailers to sing for their money. Rollison felt quite sure of that. As a consequence, Guy Lessing would be damned, for now and for a long time to come.
Lorne would know, sooner or later, that his daughter’s marriage had not been consummated.
“I think I’d take a chance and pay one, not ten, thousand pounds,” reasoned Rollison, very thoughtfully. “One hundred in each packet instead of one thousand.” He saw the interest that suggestion sparked in Lorne’s blue eyes. “That will keep them on a piece of string. They’ll argue that as you’ve paid something, you will divvy up the rest under pressure. And you’ll have gained a little time for me to work in.”
“I’ll do that.” Lorne was brisk. “Good idea.” He was more relaxed than he had been since he had arrived, and he moved to a chair and sat down. “All I want is to find Barbara, so that I can tell her myself. We’ll face it together, after that. I’ll hate the scandal, of course, and so will she, but better to see it through and be done with it. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes.”
“What do you think is the best chance of finding them quickly?”
“Calling in the Yard.”
“It’s the last thing I want,” said Lorne grimly. “You know them pretty well over there, don’t you?” He glanced at the trophy wall. “I remember the Home Secretary once told me that you were a much better detective than the newspapers gave you credit for. The newspapers put it all down to glamour and personality, but apparently the Criminal Investigation Department concedes that you’re a rival. I’d much rather you handled this yourself Rolly.”
It would help to say that he would.
“I’ll certainly try,” said Rollison. “How about a drink?”
“Not on top of that champagne,” said Lorne. “I’d have the world’s worst headache in the morning, and I never needed a clearer mind. Rolly, what about your fee? Name your own.”
“Forget it.”
“That I won’t.”
“If you feel stubborn when it’s over, haggle with Jolly,” said Rollison, “but this is one of the jobs I’d rather do for love than money. Bob, you never trusted Lessing: why?”
Lorne answered without a moment’s hesitation.
“His reputation with women, plus his blasted air of superiority. He seemed to think that Eton, Sandhurst and the Guards turned him into a little tin god. He hasn’t a penny to bless himself with, either. The only thing I had to say for him was that he seemed genuinely in love with Barbara, but after this—I could choke the life out of him with my own hands.”
“Bob,” advised Rollison firmly, “don’t even try. Don’t do a thing on your own. If Lessing could play a trick like this, then there’s some quality in him I didn’t know about, and he’s capable of doing anything. Don’t get involved any farther than you are. Leave it to me. In the long run that will be a lot better for Barbara and much better for you.”
“I suppose you’re right,” conceded Lorne, and gave a tight-lipped smile. “He’d probably break me into little pieces anyhow. When will you start work?”
“The moment you’ve gone.”
“I’m on my way,” said Lorne, and seemed to bound to his feet. “Let me know the moment you’ve news, won’t you? And if you can get hold of Barbara tonight—”
He broke off.
“If it’s possible I will,” Rollison assured him, and went with him to the door. “I’ll have this list of names and addresses copied, and send one to you in the morning.”
“I’ll get the money,” said Lorne grimly. “You notice that they stipulated used pound notes. Who’d you think is behind it? The real wife?”
“It’s too early to start guessing,” Rollison said evasively.
“Yes. I’ll see myself out,” added Lorne. “You get busy, minutes might make a difference in this.”
Lessing had reached the door ahead of Rollison, and now Lorne did so, too, but that was because Rollison made it easy. He heard the latch click, and Lorne pulled the door wide open. They heard footsteps.
Jolly’s? wondered Rollison.
Jolly had been a long time, Rollison realised; he had been so anxious that his man should not come back with his story until Lorne had finished that he had forgotten how long; perhaps it had taken longer than he had expected.
This was Jolly …
The moment he set eyes on him, Rollison knew that all was not well, that Jolly was a worried man. Sight of Lorne startled him, and he drew to one side, said, “Good evening, sir,” and when Lorne nodded, turned away quickly.
“Good night, Rollison, and thanks,” said Lorne, and went bouncing down the stairs, while Rollison waited for Jolly, alarmed by his man’s mood.
“Mrs. Lessing wasn’t at the hotel, sir,” Jolly reported. “I’ve been to every room on the ground floor, everywhere. She simply isn’t there.”
Chapter Six
High Speed
That was where the bottom dropped out of the affair.
While Rollison knew where Barbara was, the situation was under control. Now it was out of hand. He was already engaged on three fronts: for Barbara, for Guy, for Lorne.
He owed Guy loyalty and the benefit of the doubt, if nothing else. Probably the best thing to do now was to tell him the truth, and make him explain, if there was anything to explain.
There was the problem of the blackmailer, and the problem of this Helen, née Goodman, who might be the blackmailer’s aide.
“Jolly,” he said, “I’m going to drive down to Bane. When Major Lessing telephones, ask him to meet me at Rufus Cottage.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Wait for an hour, and if Mrs. Lessing hasn’t telephoned, have a word with Superintendent Grice, at his home if necessary. Tell him from me that there’s urgent need to find Mrs. Lessing, and could he help—keeping it as quiet as possible.”
“Very good, sir.” Jolly had fallen back to his impassive norm.
“And find out from Mr. Grice what he knows about a hot-gospelling sandwich-board man by the name of Holy Joe.”
Jolly did not turn a hair.
“I will see to it, sir.”
“Thanks,” said Rollison.
He was glad to get out of the flat, and was actually sitting in the car, which Jolly had parked outside, when he realised that he was still in morning-dress. He grinned as he started off. For the first twenty minutes, the traffic gave him plenty to think about, but after that he was able to travel without much difficulty, and soon he was on the open road. It was not yet six o’clock, so he should be at the cottage about eight. Once he was on the Great West Road he let the car show what it could do, and out-paced everything going his way. He enjoyed driving; the car seemed almost like a well-trained animal, and for the first time since he had reached Gresham Terrace, he could let his thoughts drift. The obvious answer to the mystery was that Helen Goodman and an associate were blackmailing Lorne, but did that square with the threat to Barbara? Wouldn’t it have paid the blackmailer better to have worked on Lorne alone? How could anyone be sure that Barbara would not confide in her father immediately?
There was another odd thing.
Someone had threatened to intervene during the ceremony; and someone had been carefully prepared to try to extort money from Lorne – extortion which would be quite impossible had the wedding been stopped.
“Which doesn’t add up, unless two parties are involved,” Rollison said musingly, and then spent ten minutes chasing a Bristol whose driver seemed to think that nothing on the road could catch him up.
In five minutes under two hours, Rollison was turning into the lane which led to Rufus Cottage.
This was on the Romsey side of the forest, on its very fringe. The village of Bane was in open land, where cattle grazed, but just beyond it the great oak and beech and birch trees of the forest grew stately and massive, and the road to the cottage led between these trees along a track which was little used. It was not buried deep, and was only five minutes from the main road. Rollison caught a glimpse of th
atch through the trees; and the sun was striking the thatch and the west corner of the cottage, and shining on flowers and lawns which proved that a gardener laboured greatly here.
Rollison had expected to see Guy Lessing’s car; but there was no car.
No one was in sight, but a brown pony grazed in a tiny paddock. The honeymoon gift?
Rollison drew up on a patch of green just outside the cottage, which was in a clearing, with the nearest trees a hundred yards away. A few shaggier ponies were grazing on open land, but no one was in sight: a large Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted probably kept picnickers away.
It was very warm, and he felt a little ridiculous in his morning-dress, but did not think much about it. He wondered uneasily why Guy hadn’t arrived. He had had a long start, and should have made his first telephone call from Staines or somewhere near – in fact, Rollison had expected the call before he had left. Nothing was straightforward, and it looked as if he was going to miss the chance of telling Guy what had caused the trouble.
He wondered if Barbara had turned up yet.
Barbara missing; Guy missing. Was there any connection between those two facts? Was it possible that Barbara had gone to a hiding-place which Lessing had known about – and had he gone there on the off chance of finding her?
A church clock struck eight.
Rollison opened the gate of the cottage garden, and then saw the square Norman tower of the church, between the trees; he had not seen it from the straggling village itself. In the distance there was a hum of cars; here there was only the hum of insects.
Rollison reached the front door and lifted the iron knocker. The door was of solid oak, gnarled, cracked and knotted, and obviously centuries old; so were other dark oaken beams in the walls. Age seemed to be standing beneath his hand as he banged. There was no response, but the door yielded an inch or two. He pushed and it opened wide.