The Toff and the Runaway Bride

by John Creasey

  That meant that the flat had been watched; and it made the prophet of woe a different, almost sinister figure.

  Rollison turned back, walking very slowly.

  Jolly still lay unconscious, and had not moved. As Rollison drew near, he realised with a shock that the woman hadn’t come out to see what was the matter. Why not? Rollison quickened his pace, in spite of the lifting sensation in his head. He stepped over Jolly; he must soon pick him up, get him into the flat and dress that wound. There seemed to be no more bleeding.

  He called, “Are you there?” because it was impossible to make himself say, “Mrs. Lessing.”

  There was no answer.

  Did she think she could hide from him? Had she locked herself in her bedroom, and locked herself away from what she must know to be the truth?

  The bedroom door was open; and so was the kitchen-door, as Holy Joe had left it. He could see a sink, a gas-stove, taps glistening like silver – and a wide-open window. He found himself almost gasping for breath as he passed the bedroom door; and then he stopped.

  There she lay.

  Dead?

  He stood on the threshold of the room and stared at her. She lay on her side, and a silk stocking, her silk stocking, was twisted viciously round her neck and embedded in the white flesh. It could only have been done a matter of minutes, there must be time to save her. Someone had come in by the kitchen window and attacked her – and Holy Joe had probably known the man was coming.

  Rollison lifted the woman bodily to the bed; she was very heavy. Her arms and legs flopped, and so did her head; and on the instant he knew that there was no chance for her, for her neck was broken.

  He did not even know her real name.

  Her voice seemed to echo in his ears.

  “I’d like to know who has a better right. I’m his wife.”

  He felt her pulse, and it was not beating.

  There was the desperate need to find Holy Joe; and the sickening realisation that for the second time inside twelve hours, he was by the side of a murdered woman – in circumstances which pointed suspicion at him.

  He tried to remember what he had handled in this flat, and assured himself that there was very little. He left the motionless figure on the bed and looked about him, then espied the woman’s handbag, on the dressing-table. He used a handkerchief as a glove, to open it without leaving prints, and found it crammed with oddments like lipstick and compact, purse and loose money; and there was a single letter. He had no time to spare, and snatched the letter out.

  It was addressed to Major Carruthers, at 79 Rue de Gaspin, Paris, 6e.

  He looked inside the envelope; there was a bill from a Paris garage. He put it back into the handbag, and hurried out to Jolly; Jolly was stirring now, making a little grunting noise. Rollison made a great effort, lifted him, hoisted him high and staggered with him down the steps. At a time when he wanted to be at his fittest, he was as weak as a child. He stumbled over the cobbles, but did not slip, and reached the car. He stood Jolly against it as he opened a rear door, and Jolly muttered: “Quite all right, sir.”

  “Take it easy,” Rollison said. “Try to raise your leg, and get in.” He helped Jolly, whose limbs seemed like jelly, until he was squatting on the seat. “Just relax,” Rollison added. He closed the rear door, and took the wheel. He looked up and down the street, fearful that a policeman might come and recognise the car, for it was well known in Mayfair. He saw no one, but could not be sure that no policeman had passed in the past twenty minutes. He started the self-starter, blessing the fact that it made hardly any noise.

  He drove away, heading for Shepherd Market, where he knew he would find a telephone kiosk. He jumped out, stepped into a kiosk, dialled 999, and when a girl answered, he said in a hoarse voice:

  “Send the police to 3, Heddle Mews, off Heddle Street. Murder.”

  “Wh—”

  He rang off on the girl’s word, and went back to the car. Jolly was sitting up and he could see the light glinting on his man’s eyes; but Jolly made no attempt to speak until they reached Gresham Terrace. Rollison parked exactly where he had left the car before, and then helped Jolly out. Jolly asked no questions, but walked of his own accord towards the front door of Number 22. No one was in sight. Once they were indoors, they went upstairs one at a time; and Jolly was gasping for breath when they reached the top, while Rollison was almost normal.

  Odd: his head felt easier.

  He opened the door for Jolly, who went ahead and actually muttered, “I beg your pardon, sir.” He was still unsteady.

  “Bathroom,” ordered Rollison.

  The cut over Jolly’s ear was nasty, and there was a swelling and a ragged-looking wound, but the blow had not gone very deep. Rollison bathed it, using an antiseptic, and then examined it critically.

  “I shall put on some of the penicillin ointment which Dr. Marples prescribed for you, sir, and not dress it,” Jolly announced, in a firm but subdued voice. “I am extremely sorry that I was unable to give you any warning. The man came upon me without making the slightest sound. Are you all right, sir?”

  “I’m improving in everything but spirit,” Rollison answered grimly. “How much did you hear at the flat?”

  “Very little, sir, although enough to understand that the woman actually claimed to be Major Lessing’s wife. It really is ludicrous.”

  “Jolly,” Rollison said, “Holy Joe was there too, and he told me she was Mrs. Lessing.”

  He told Jolly what else he knew, and added: “It’s a fact that while I was bending over you and chasing after your assailant, Wife Number Three was murdered. Not by Holy Joe, but presumably by an accomplice. I called the police, they’ll have been with her for twenty minutes by now.”

  Jolly did not comment.

  Rollison emptied the hand basin of the pink water, washed his own hands, then rinsed his face with cold water. He could move with greater freedom than before, as if the worst effect of his own wounds were past. He dried himself gently with a white towel, and when he put it aside, Jolly was sitting on the edge of the bath, staring at him.

  “You see what I mean,” Rollison said. “I was at the cottage when Wife Number 2 was killed—or about the same time, anyhow. And again with Number 3. Unfortunate, isn’t it?”

  “Do you think you left any evidence, sir?”

  “I shouldn’t think so,” Rollison said, and made himself smile. “Pray for me. There is one thing.”

  “What is that, sir?”

  “Major Lessing could not have killed this woman.”

  “Are you sure, sir?”

  “I don’t believe he would leave Mr. Lorne’s daughter again tonight,” Rollison said with great precision. “Jolly, what have we run into?”

  “A very disturbing situation indeed,” said Jolly, and stood up quite briskly. “I think we ought to put the lights out, sir. If the police associate this with the earlier murder, they will probably come round here, and if they see lights on they might put two and two together.”

  “Put ’em out,” Rollison said. “And you aren’t having a lucky night. I want you to go out, find a taxi, and visit Croby’s and Old Mike’s doss-houses. If Holy Joe’s at either, bring him back. If he objects, say you’ll call the police. If you can’t find him, telephone me to say so.”

  “Very good, sir,” said Jolly. “It won’t be easy to sleep, I’m afraid.”

  “Easy!” echoed Rollison, and gave a queer little laugh. “There’s something we agree about. I wonder if the police will come round. If they do, it means they know I left Winchester, and that would suggest they’d been watching me all night. What do we hope, Jolly?”

  “That they don’t come here,” Jolly said fervently.

  Half an hour later, he telephoned to say that Holy Joe was at neither of the doss-houses.

  “C
all the Yard, and tell Information that Holy Joe was in Heddle Mews tonight,” Rollison said. “The police might be able to trace him.”

  The police surgeon, who had arrived soon after the police at Heddle Mews, stood back from the body of the woman and said formally that she was dead. The three plain-clothes detectives who were in the room did not need telling that. They were already working, and others were on the way, from Fingerprints and Photographs. An ambulance was outside. One of the detectives was looking through a writing-desk in the big room, and he came hurrying into the bedroom, with a letter in his hand.

  “Do you know who lives here?”

  “A man named Carruthers, Major Carruthers.”

  “And a Major Lessing.”

  “What?”

  “I thought that would shake you,” the first man said. “We’re looking for Lessing because of the New Forest job, and now we run into this. Now we really want the major, I hope they make this a hanging job.” He went to the telephone, and then turned away. “Better not touch that, I’ll use my radio phone outside. There’s one thing, we needn’t worry about Rollison, he’s safely tucked up in Winchester.”

  One of the others said, “I wouldn’t take that for granted.”

  “Had it from Reno, at Winchester, he actually put Rollison’s car away,” the man answered.

  “That’s funny.” The one who did not believe that Rollison should be taken for granted frowned at the man who had discovered Lessing’s name here. “I could have sworn I saw Rollison’s Bentley on the road a couple of hours ago, I’d been out to Ealing. Think we ought to check?”

  “Might as well,” the other man said.

  More police arrived, in two cars, and messages began to fly to and from Scotland Yard, the flat was buzzing with busy men, the body was taken away to the nearest morgue, and two policemen in a car drove round to Gresham Terrace. One of them knew Rollison’s car, and as they drew alongside it, he said without hesitation: “Reno may have put the car away in Winchester, but Rollison took it out again. Going to talk to him?”

  “No,” the first man said, very thoughtfully. “I don’t think we will. We’ll report back, and leave this to the Yard to handle. They’re used to Rollison, and they’ve got the New Forest case on the go as it is. The less the Division has to do with this job, the less our headache will be.” He switched on his radio, called the Yard and left the message.

  Rollison and Jolly, who was back at the flat, were quite unaware of all of this.

  The first thing that Rollison did when he woke next morning a little after eight o’clock was to put a call in to the Roebuck Hotel. If he asked for the room number and if necessary for himself, he would be put through to Lessing, and the telephone operator would not think that anything was amiss. He had to be very guarded in what he said, and the essential thing was to assure himself that Lessing was still at the hotel. He felt bleary-eyed, and his head was much worse than it had been under the stimulus of last night’s pressure. He put on a kettle, glad that Jolly was still asleep, and then made the telephone call.

  He was soon through to the hotel.

  “One moment, sir,” a woman said brightly, and Rollison heard the sound as the plug was put in.

  He waited impatiently.

  He waited tensely.

  He waited so long that he could hear the kettle hissing in the kitchen, and until he felt that he could fling the receiver down.

  Then the woman operator said, “I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Rollison doesn’t seem to be in the hotel. There’s no answer from his room, and he’s not in the dining-room. If he comes in, can I get him to call you?”

  “Nice of you,” said Rollison. “But no, thanks. I’ll call again after breakfast.”

  “If I can leave a message—”

  “Ask him to call this number, will you?” asked Rollison, and gave the number of the flat, then rang off and hurried out to make the tea. He peered into Jolly’s room; and Jolly looked as if he was likely to sleep for hours. Rollison drank two cups of hot tea, looking at the telephone most of the time, but it did not ring.

  Why hadn’t Lessing answered?

  He would have answered had he been in the room, so the simple explanation was that he hadn’t been there.

  Had Barbara?

  Had she refused to answer, fearful that a woman’s voice would have aroused suspicion? Or had she been out too?

  If so, when had they left?

  Last night, or in the early hours? In time to be at Heddle Mews when the woman had been killed?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Waking

  Barbara felt as if she could never open her eyes, she was so tired, and the lids were so heavy, but it did not matter, because there was no hurry. There would never be any hurry. She was aware of light, not too bright, certainly not waking her up. She heard a clatter of sound, as from a long way off, without realising that it was in the yard of the hotel; she did not at first realise that she was in the hotel, just that she was so drowsy, heavy-eyed and determined to drop off to sleep again.

  Then, she thought, “Guy!”

  She groped to one side, and her hand went over the edge of the bed. She turned round in a flurry of eagerness mingled with anxiety; her hand touched cold sheets and she saw only the rumpled pillow. The bedclothes had been drawn up over her, she could tell that.

  Bless him.

  He would be in the bathroom.

  She stared at the door, which was closed, and told herself that there was no need to call out, he would soon be in. She was married. That running away was part of a nightmare, like everything that had followed. She had no sense of shock or dismay now, because she was quite sure that whatever happened, Guy would come out of it well. He would always come out of everything well.

  Bless him.

  Her eyes were still heavy, but her mind was alert and active. She remembered everything that had been said before Rollison had left, and the fact that Rollison had gone off and left them together was a clear indication of what he thought: had he believed that Guy was already married, he would have slept in the armchair and probably made Guy sleep in the bathroom!

  She smiled.

  Guy hadn’t!

  If only ecstasy could last for ever …

  Rollison was wonderful; she should have trusted him more, but if she had, if she hadn’t taken it into her head to come down to the cottage, then last night would not have happened, and she would have spent her wedding night alone.

  She hadn’t.

  Oh, Guy, love me always!

  She was smiling to herself, and her eyes were wide open now, gently tired but no longer as heavy as lead. Her mouth was dry, and when she heard a maid walking along the passage, cups rattling on a tray, she wondered if she should press the bell and get some tea as a surprise for Guy.

  She had better not; Rollison was supposed to be in this room, and Guy – well, Guy was wanted for questioning.

  The first real shadow of the morning entered her mind. She had known that before, but had been able to thrust it aside, but now it harassed her. That Helen woman had been murdered, and Guy had been near the forest. It was hardly surprising that the police suspected him.

  And suspected her, too.

  The only wise thing was to leave everything to Rolly. She reminded herself again that he would not have left her and Guy alone unless he had felt absolutely sure that Guy was wholly innocent, and while he might have an occasional black-out, he could never have prepared that other marriage, laid all the plans, gone through with the ceremony and seen the woman from time to time – always in a black-out.

  Guy had no split mind.

  Barbara heard nothing from the bathroom, and realised that she had been lying here for five or six minutes, expecting the door to open, but seeing it closed all the time. She heard no splashing. Well, men didn’t spla
sh while they shaved, and Guy might be a very thorough shaver. He always looked as if he’d shaved a few minutes before he met her, he was one of those men who managed always to be immaculate.

  But he wouldn’t take so long shaving.

  No water was running, there was no suggestion of splashing, no sound at all.

  Barbara flung the bedclothes back.

  That was when she realised that she had nothing on. She felt herself colouring furiously, tried to laugh the embarrassment away and stretched out for the tartan jacket. She slipped it on, and caught sight of herself in the mirror, long legs bare, jacket fitting rather like a three-quarter-length coat now that she hadn’t pouched it, like a blouse. It would do, but what a honeymoon nightdress!

  She could not make herself smile as she reached the bathroom door.

  Should she tap?

  She listened, but heard no hint of sound. Now she began to fear the worst, that Guy was not here. She opened the door an inch, and there was still no sound.

  “Guy.”

  When there was no answer she pushed the door wide, and saw the thing she most feared: an empty bathroom.

  Of course he hadn’t shaved, he’d had no shaving gear, there was nothing here but the hotel towel and soap. The towels were all used, and they had left one untouched last night, so he had got up, washed, and – gone.

  “But Guy,” Barbara said, in a strangled voice.

  Absurdly, she stepped right into the bathroom and looked behind the door. Then she went back into the bedroom, and she felt as if she were suffocating, this was so bitterly disappointing. She stood and looked round, while the noises came in at the open window – the window through which he had climbed. He had told her about that; she had woken up when he had started arguing with Rollison, not before; but afterwards, snuggling together, he had told her and they had hugged each other as they had laughed.