by John Creasey
“There’s no reason why I should deny it,” Rollison said. He was beginning to find it difficult to keep his temper. Lorne seemed to have come determined to be cantankerous, and he should have more self-control. Certainly if he knew about last night –
There was a sharp ring at the front-door bell, and a moment later Rollison heard Jolly open the door, and then heard Barbara say: “Is Mr. Rollison in, Jolly? I must see him.”
“Barbara!” Lorne cried, and bounded towards the entrance hall before Rollison could move. Rollison reached the open doorway in time to hear Barbara exclaim, “Oh, Daddy!” and then to see them in each other’s arms. Lorne was holding his daughter so tightly that it looked as if he meant to make sure she could never get away again.
But Barbara wasn’t so happy about this reunion.
She looked over her father’s head and into Rollison’s eyes, and there was no doubt at all that she had read about the murder in the mews, and of the second Mrs. Lessing. She would hate telling her father the whole truth, and must be longing to get away.
Lorne released her.
“Now that you’re back, you’ve nothing more to worry about,” he said gruffly, and there were tears in his eyes. “Thank God you’re all right. The man must be mad, but don’t worry, Barbara my darling. We’ll get out of the country for a month or two until it’s all blown over, and there’ll be no trouble in getting an annulment.” He turned to Rollison, his face now wreathed in smiles that made him look younger and almost boyish. “Why didn’t you tell me you were expecting Barbara?”
“Father,” Barbara said; not Dad or Daddy now.
“You needn’t worry at all,” Lorne assured her. “There’s nothing at all to worry about. I’ll make quite sure that he can’t do you any more harm. But thank God you were so lucky; that he didn’t try to kill you.”
“Father—”
Lorne seemed oblivious of the tension in her voice.
“The moment Lessing is under lock and key it’ll all be over, and you’ll have nothing at all to worry about I tell you. I’m sure that in spite of your understandable loyalty, you agree about that, Rolly.” He was almost skittish.
“Father,” Barbara said, very deliberately, “I don’t like to hear you talking about my husband like that.”
Chapter Fifteen
Quarrel
There was something almost comic about the change in Lorne’s expression; and something pathetic, too. The girl sensed that. Jolly, who was discreetly out of sight, undoubtedly noticed it. Rollison watched father and daughter, so utterly unalike, and wondered whether Lorne would explode again; or whether he would be able to control himself more successfully with the girl.
He tried.
“Barbara, you don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I know exactly what I’m saying. Guy is my husband.”
“Barbara, don’t be ridiculous. That isn’t true.”
“I don’t believe that he ever knew those other women.”
“Now don’t be absurd,” Lorne said sharply. “There are the certificates, the evidence of bigamous marriage, the evidence that he preyed on foolish women.”
Barbara was going very white.
“Please don’t go on, Father.”
“I must, for your own good,” Lorne said, only a little more gently. “I can understand him fooling you in the first place, although I never liked him, I never trusted him. Now we have all the evidence to prove how right I was. Why, the man is a cold-blooded murderer, killing two women to try to hide his crimes. How can you defend him?”
“I don’t believe it’s true.”
“Now look here, my girl—”
“Don’t stand there maligning my husband and ‘my-girling’ me,” Barbara said, and obviously she had great difficulty in keeping her voice steady. “You never liked him, you nearly put me against him.”
“If you’d had any sense at all you would have listened.”
“Don’t keep calling me a fool!”
“I’ve called a spade a spade all my life, and I’m not going to stop now,” Lorne said roughly. “I ought to have knocked the nonsense out of you. Why you hadn’t the common intelligence to see through him I’ll never know, you certainly didn’t take after me. I ought to have known better than to let you mix with that set of decadent fools. Just because he can trace his ancestry back a few hundred years, and was educated—”
“Dad,” Barbara said, and there was desperate appeal in her eyes as well as her voice, “don’t keep on, I can’t stand it.”
“You’ve got to be made to understand that he’s nothing but a swine.”
“Don’t talk like that about my husband,” Barbara cried, and now her eyes were glittering.
Lorne’s were as bright with battle.
“He’s your husband only in name, and thank God the police will catch him before there’s any chance of you—”
“We spent last night together!” cried Barbara. “Do you understand that spade? Now will you stop talking as if Guy’s a criminal. I love him, I married him, I’d give my life for him. I don’t believe all these lies!”
Lorne caught his breath, as if he were physically hurt. They stood glaring at each other, and to Rollison the real tragedy of this situation lay not in the death of two women, but in the breakdown between the relationship of father and daughter.
Lorne said, as if with an effort, “Where is he now?”
“I wouldn’t tell you even if—”
“You wouldn’t tell me even if you knew, is that it?” The man seemed to have shrunk physically. “So he has run away from you. He is a fugitive from justice. He is running away from the consequences of two murders. And you can stand there and defend him.”
“He isn’t a murderer.”
“When you are in your right mind you can come and see me,” Lorne said flatly. “Whatever folly you have committed, you are my daughter, and I shall give you all the help I can. Meanwhile, I shall do everything I can to help the police to find this wicked man.” His voice was edgy, and his lips were trembling as he finished speaking and turned towards the door.
Jolly appeared in the hall, to open the front door for him. Barbara watched him, hard-eyed because she was so angry, and because her love was so deep. There were other things, obvious to the Toff. She had staked her faith and her future on this love, she had to be loyal to the man whom she had married; but there must be awful doubts in her mind, doubts forced even deeper by her father.
Jolly opened the door.
Lorne did not look round, and Barbara did not speak. Lorne went downstairs, and the closing of the door cut off his footsteps. There were tears in the girl’s eyes when she turned towards the Toff, and she went to a chair and sat on the arm, pathetic, boyish except that she had pulled off the hat, and her lovely hair cascaded about her head and shoulders. Rollison thought that she was going to cry, but she did not; instead she actually managed a smile, and said: “Does everyone agree with him?”
“Nearly everyone.”
“Don’t you?”
“I daren’t.”
She closed her eyes; that old and familiar trick.
“I know,” she whispered. “I daren’t, either.” Now she looked at him. “Is there anything at all that I can do or you can do?”
“Do you know where Guy is?”
“No,” Barbara answered, and when she saw doubt grow into his expression she spoke more firmly. “That’s the truth, I wouldn’t lie to you about it. He left before I woke up, and left a note on the dressing-table. Time-honoured, isn’t it?” That was almost bitter. She waited while he read the note she handed to him, and then went on, “Can you think where he would go?”
“No,” lied Rollison, and saw the way she stared, as if she realised that it wasn’t the truth. There was a change in her expres
sion now, a kind of thoughtfulness which hadn’t been there before; obviously she had had an idea, but she didn’t put it into words. “The important thing is to find him, Barbara. Where will you stay while you’re in London?”
“I don’t know. I’ll find a hotel somewhere.”
“I’ve an aunt who runs a kind of club,” Rollison said. “It’s called the Marigold Club. She’ll have a spare room. You’ll find it much better than a hotel, you’ll get more privacy, and we can keep in touch easier. Will you go there?”
“I suppose I’d better,” Barbara agreed and then leaned forward. “I’m sorry, that wasn’t very gracious. Yes, thank you, Rolly.”
Undoubtedly her mood had changed, and Rollison was almost certain that it was because of that idea. He felt sure, too, that she believed that she knew where she could find Guy. Nothing would make her tell him, yet, in case he told the police. Now she had certainly ranged herself on Lessing’s side, and nothing would shake her loyalty, because she dared not let it.
“I’ll have a word with my aunt Gloria,” Rollison said. “You’ll probably find some clothes that will fit you in the spare room here”– he grinned – “and then Jolly can drive you round to the Club.”
“I’d rather walk,” Barbara said.
She did not want any escort, because she did not intend to go straight to the Marigold Club, Rollison knew. He said nothing to show what he suspected, but when she had gone into the spare room, hurrying, he called the Mayfair number of Lady Gloria Hirst, his favourite aunt.
She was in; she was helpful; of course she had read the newspapers and knew that Richard was the centre of a great deal of unwanted publicity again, no doubt the day would come when he would grow out of these childish escapades. Meanwhile, if the young woman had quarrelled with her father and been deserted by her husband, then she would be welcome.
“Glory, you’re more wonderful than ever,” Rollison said. “She may know where Major Lessing is. If you could find out—”
“I do not intend to act as a spy for you in one of your ridiculous games,” declared Lady Gloria tartly.
Rollison grinned, rang off and then went into the kitchen; there Jolly, working at half speed, was trying to behave as if this was a normal day.
“I should get something cold for lunch, and give priority to that aircraft ticket,” Rollison said. “As soon as Miss or Mrs. L—good lord!”
Jolly watched him, as if expecting that exclamation to herald an announcement of great significance; in fact, Jolly looked almost eager.
“I’ve just thought of something,” Rollison said. “Change the name and not the letter, change for worse and not for better. Jolly.”
“Sir?”
“I am feeling quite well, thank you. I’d better go out ahead of our guest, if I follow her from the door she’ll know what I’m going to do, and she’s not a fool. Simple, yes, but she has cunning. Tell her I’ve been called to Scotland Yard.”
“Are you sure you feel well enough to go out, sir?”
“Yes,” Rollison said, and his eyes kindled. “You take it easy, Jolly, and if you get any pain from that wound, send for Dr. Willard.”
“I shall be perfectly all right, sir.”
Rollison said soberly, “We’re not so young as we used to be. Don’t overdo it.”
“I’ll contact Fleet Street as you advised sir,” Jolly promised, as if he intended to demonstrate that he was still perfectly capable of carrying out his normal duties.
Rollison went out, and down the stairs.
He judged that Barbara would be another five minutes or so, time for him to get a taxi and to be at the end of the terrace ready to follow her; the taxi-drivers who used the nearby cab ranks were accustomed to his habits and his odd requests; and at this time of the morning he would have no difficulty in securing one. Provided he didn’t try to turn his head, he felt quite fit. He reached the street, stepped into the bright sunlight and wondered if he was right about Barbara suddenly realising where she might find Guy. She had suddenly remembered the address of the cottage, and this suggested that she was subject to quick flashes of memory.
He saw a man sitting at the wheel of a large black car a few cars along; a man who was double parked. As he neared this car the man opened the door and got out.
“Hallo, Mr. Rollison.”
“Ah,” said Rollison solemnly. “Hallo, Reno, have you been transferred to the Yard?”
“We’re working together on this job,” answered Reno comfortingly. “How’s Miss Lorne—or should I say Mrs. Lessing?”
“You should,” said Rollison. “She’s fine.”
“I didn’t think her father looked very happy when he left just now,” said Reno. “One of my colleagues from the Yard told me who it was.” Another man came strolling across the street, and now Rollison saw a third, at the corner – on the very route to the taxis he had come to get. “What time did you leave the Roebuck, Mr. Rollison? Before or after the unfortunate happening in Heddle Mews?”
“Before,” said Rollison cautiously.
“We knew that, but I didn’t expect you’d admit it so promptly,” said Reno, whose manner was almost unbearably friendly. “Did you recognise the woman who called herself Mrs. Lessing—the third Mrs. Lessing?”
“Reno,” said Rollison, with quiet urgency, “I want to follow the real, one and only Mrs. Lessing, she’ll be leaving in a few minutes. She may know where her husband is.”
“Odd thing, sir, but we had the same idea,” Reno assured him, giving a grin which had become positively hateful. “In fact, I followed the young lady from Winchester this morning with the same possibility in mind. I believe my colleague has a warrant to search your flat, in case Mr. Lessing is hiding there—without your knowledge, or course!—and we’ll look after the young lady. I know you’d do a much better job, but you can’t be in two places at the same time, can you?”
Rollison said owlishly, “Two, Inspector?”
“Yes, sir.” That was a detective sergeant from Scotland Yard. “I’d like you to come along to the Yard to answer a few questions, if that’s all right with you.”
“No doubt you’ll have all the answers,” Reno enthused.
It would be folly to try to avoid going to the Yard; folly to have the police on his heels. He would not be able to help the girl or Lessing; and would have no chance of flying to Paris and seeing Carruthers. There was a possibility that the police had already suspected that Carruthers might be able to help in this affair, but above everything else – even above seeing Holy Joe – Rollison wanted to go to Paris and find out for himself.
He still had time.
He smiled. “Of course,” he said, “but if you let that girl get away, you might have a lot to answer for.”
Reno’s expression hardened; so did that of the Yard detective. It was Reno who said in a rough voice:
“We know we’re up against a psychopathic case, and that Lessing goes around marrying women and then murdering them, and we aren’t going to take a chance with this girl.”
“If ‘this girl’ discovers she’s being followed, she’ll give you the slip,” Rollison urged. “Don’t take it too easily. And I won’t hold that piece of indiscretion against you, Reno, but a man is still innocent before he’s proved guilty. If you really want to take me to the Yard, let’s go.”
“Right away,” the Yard man said.
Then Rollison heard his name called, in Jolly’s unmistakable voice, and he turned and looked up. His neck seemed to scream at him. He saw Jolly at the open window, waving; and then Jolly disappeared. He would be downstairs in a minute or less, and the police were too intrigued to make Rollison leave at once. He went with Reno and the detective sergeant to the front door, which opened swiftly, as Jolly appeared; and Jolly had forgotten his troubles in his haste.
“She’s gone,
sir,” he burst out.
Rollison echoed, “Gone?”
“Gone?” gasped Reno.
“I was a little puzzled by the silence from the spare room, sir, and ventured to knock. There was no answer, so I looked in, and the room was empty. She had changed her clothes, the ones she was wearing were on the bed. I can only imagine that she went out by the fire-escape while I was on the telephone.”
Rollison flashed, “come on!”
He turned and ran; and the detectives followed him, while the man at the corner who had been watching the turning from which anyone who left by the fire-escapes in Gresham Terrace would come, seemed in anguish.
He had not seen Barbara.
And she was nowhere to be seen.
“If she knows where Lessing is and has gone to him, God help her,” Reno said.
Chapter Sixteen
Police Questions
Scotland Yard was at once a familiar place and a strange one. There had been many changes of staff. The younger men knew of Rollison more by reputation than by experience. The senior officers, who had virtually grown up with the Toff, had mostly retired. His old and close friend, Superintendent Grice, was on holiday. Faces which he knew but which had neither sympathy nor understanding surrounded Rollison when he reached the Yard. He was seething with anger, and yet knew that Barbara might have slipped through any guard in like circumstances. She had gone into the flat wearing the tartan jacket and flannel trousers, left it wearing a decorous grey suit, as far as Jolly was able to say. She had probably worn a hat, too. And the detective on duty at the corner might have seen her without suspecting who it was; the distraction along Gresham Terrace had made the chance of that even greater.