by John Creasey
Rollison felt very cold in this shadowy room, with the sun shining in bright bars against the shutters outside.
“Other things happened, and it was obvious that one half of his mind didn’t know what the other half was doing. He was once nearly in jug for a couple of thousand pounds—I covered up for him. But his chief trouble was with the pretties. Before the injury he had never been what you might call a ladies’ man, but he became a positive Don Juan. Believe it or not, whenever he was challenged, he said he didn’t know what I was talking about. Damned queer business altogether. I talked to Dave Willard—you know Dr. Willard.”
“Yes.” Rollison’s voice was very quiet.
“Dave was a bit shaken, but finally agreed that it was a case of split personality. He seemed to think that it was latent all the time—I suppose it is in most of us—and that the wound had brought it out. With anyone else, I would have called enough enough, but boyhood friends and all that. There was nothing spiteful or harmful as far as I could see, apart from his recklessness with money. That had to look after itself, and it didn’t happen again as far as I know. But he got himself involved with attractive women all over the place.”
Rollison said, “Using your cottage and the flat as a homing ground.”
“Well, he always had used them,” said Carruthers, “and I didn’t feel justified in saying that he had to stop. I mean, I could more or less judge what was going on if I knew where he was, couldn’t I? I felt that I might be able to help from time to time. And I’m not often in England, my wife is a Parisienne and I prefer French cooking! Now it’s beginning to look as if he’s really gone too far. What’s it all about, Rollison? Anything to do with this marriage?”
“Yes.”
“Too bad about that, I know Barbara Lorne,” said Carruthers. “She’s a damned nice girl.” He had never seemed less like Holy Joe, but those beards were in the other room.
“Of course it’s never any use saying anything to a woman in love, love’s about the blindest thing I know when it attacks a woman who’s just realised that life can really be something,” Carruthers went on. “I did what I thought was the best thing: I warned her father.”
“What?”
Carruthers shrugged; and at last put his cigarette to his lips and lit it.
“For the love of Pete, don’t tell Guy I did that. But I had to try to do something.”
“When was this?”
“A year ago, I suppose.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me that he’d stop the marriage somehow, and I thought he was going to. I know that Guy wanted to get married nine months ago, but Barbara stalled, and I think that was out of consideration for her father. Then came the announcement of the wedding. I sent a gift, of course, and Guy wanted me to be present, but I couldn’t bring myself. I mean, I can believe that some men will settle down after they’ve sown their wild oats, but how could I be sure of Guy? Certainly I could not do more than I had, could I?”
“No,” agreed Rollison stonily.
“What has happened?” asked Carruthers.
Rollison explained, very simply, and watched the other’s eyes. He saw the astonishment giving way to consternation and then something that seemed very much like horror. Before he had finished, Carruthers was pacing the room, drawing and puffing at the cigarette. Was this acting?
“Helen Goodman,” he exclaimed. “Why, she was one of the nicest persons I’ve ever come across. Rollison, I can hardly believe it. I mean, she’s just a country girl, pretty as a picture, so serene that there were times when she seemed almost simple. To take any kind of advantage of Helen—well, it’s unthinkable. I knew she’d gone away and got married secretly, and she said her married name was Smith—but Guy! It’s appalling.” Carruthers broke off, and gulped. “He’s always called himself Brown, down at the cottage. Did you know?”
“Yes,” answered Rollison.
“As for this other woman—what’s she like?” asked Carruthers.
Rollison described the dark-haired woman of the mews flat, and tried to imagine what Carruthers would look like in a beard.
“Can’t say I can place her,” said Carruthers. “She certainly isn’t among my set. Haven’t a photograph, have you?”
“No.”
“Queer business,” Carruthers said, and barked: “Queer is hardly the word. It’s a damned ugly business, too. Do you feel sure that Guy actually murdered these women?”
“A lot of people do,” Rollison answered non-committally.
“He’s going to be at a cafe round the corner—good God, he’s due there any time, I’d forgotten! What the hell shall I do? I can’t shelter him, can I? I mean, he might do a lot more harm if he’s allowed to run around loose. It’s a damned shame, if it hadn’t been for that bloody wound, it would never have happened.”
Rollison said, “Well, it’s happened.”
“What shall I do? Turn him over to the police?”
“I doubt if they could take any action yet, there aren’t any extradition proceedings. Hasn’t been time,” went on Rollison. “Why do anything at all? Why not just tell him that you won’t get mixed up in an affair like this, and that he can’t come here.”
“Will that help?”
“I would follow him.”
“Ah, yes,” said Carruthers. “That’s your long suit, isn’t it. Think you can make sure that he doesn’t do any more harm?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I don’t mind admitting that I’d hate to feel that I’d sold him down the line,” said Carruthers. “On the other hand, if I didn’t know you were a pretty reliable customer in this kind of thing I’d have to do something. Er—think it might help if I were to talk? Lead him on, so to speak. I think he might—I say, Rollison! Supposing I bring him round here to have a chat, so that you can listen in? He would have no idea you were present, and I think I could make him talk where others can’t.”
“If he’s a schizophrenic case, he can’t talk because he won’t know anything about the other side of his life.”
“We can try,” Carruthers urged, and his eyes were bright, as with a kind of hope. “I’ll be back within a quarter of an hour.”
“It might be a good idea, at that,” agreed Rollison. He thought of Lorne’s chauffeur, in the cupboard where he himself would hide; there was grim irony about the suggestion. “How well do you know Bob Lorne?”
Carruthers grinned.
“Pretty well! He used to be a non-com in a regiment I was seconded to. You know how they’ve messed up the Army in recent years. I was seconded to a training establishment, must be twenty years ago, and Lorne was there. Believe it or not, he was as round in the belly then as he is now! He always had a genius for making money—he was the camp’s unofficial bookmaker, I well remember. Interesting chap, always marvelled that he managed to produce something out of the bag like Barbara.” He swung towards the door. “I’ll go and fetch Guy, then. You’ll treat him as gently as you can, won’t you?”
“Yes,” promised Rollison. “Do you know where Lorne stays when he’s in Paris?”
“Oh, yes. He has an appartement in an old house near the Quai D’Orsay. It’s a quiet retreat, sort of. The telephone’s under the housekeeper’s name, he only gives it to people whom he really wants to see. Why?”
“He’s in Paris.”
“Bob is? Good lord.” Carruthers was fidgeting to get off. “Number 18, Rue Barbe, I forget the telephone number offhand. I’ve got it jotted down somewhere.”
“Carruthers,” said Rollison very quietly, “will you take a chance that I know what I’m doing?”
“Gladly.”
“Don’t bring Guy back here. Tell him where he can find Barbara and Lorne.”
Carruthers said, “Are you crazy?”
“I have a queer idea
that he’s really in love with Barbara,” said Rollison, “and I also have an idea that it would be a good thing to get him and Lorne face to face. How about it?”
Carruthers hesitated.
“Well, I suppose you know what you’re doing. Sure Barbara’s in Paris, too?”
“Yes.”
“Right! Will you go along to Lorne’s place?”
“I’ll be there later,” promised Rollison.
As soon as Carruthers had left the appartement, Rollison went to the cupboard, to find the chauffeur unconscious and badly in need of fresh air. Rollison sat him in a chair opposite a window, opened both window and shutter, and left him sitting there. He hurried out, half ran along the road towards the spot where he had told the taxi-driver to wait and found the shiny new Citroen there, the driver squatting on the window-sill of a shop opposite, reading a paper-backed book. He sprang to action when Rollison appeared, and his smile could not have been broader.
“Where to now, sir?”
“18, Rue Barbe. Do you know where that is?”
“Indeed I do,” the cabby said. “It is near the Quai D’Orsay.”
“That’s it.”
“Are you in a hurry?”
“I couldn’t be in a greater one.”
“So,” breathed the driver.
Rollison sat back in his seat and watched the traffic falling behind them, and the traffic police watching the taxi almost with admiration. Soon they crossed the river, and the bridge beyond the one which led to the He de la Cite, and here the city seemed to be emptier. Only a few cars were parked, the tall, pale houses which overlooked the river had a deserted look; and a look of quality, also. The Rue Barbe was only fifty yards from the river, a small narrow turning with a few tall houses. Number 18 was almost at the corner. Rollison got out, and the cabby waited for his next orders.
“Just wait,” Rollison said. “Watch this house in case I call you from a window.”
“Very good, sir.”
Rollison stepped from the taxi to tall brown varnished doors; and here again a small door was set in the large one; but he could not open this. He pressed a bell, and heard it ring inside. Soon a middle-aged concierge came out; a man with the look of an ex-prize-fighter.
“M’sieu?”
“I want to see Mr. Lorne, please.”
“M. Lorne is not in, sir.” His English was good.
Behind the man, in the wide cobbled yard, was a gleaming Chrysler, of red and black. There might be two cars of exactly the same make and colour scheme in Paris, but it wasn’t likely. Rollison produced a thousand-franc note.
“This will find him in.”
“Mr. Lorne is not in, sir.”
Rollison said: “I’m sorry,” and shot out his right hand and gripped the other’s wrist, twisted, and sent him staggering back into the courtyard. He went in. A fountain of satyrs played in the centre, and even though the courtyard was surrounded on all four sides, the sun came through and turned it into liquid gold. The concierge had recovered, and looked as if he was preparing to counter-attack.
Rollison said, “Don’t lie again. Tell Mr. Lorne I’m here.”
The concierge looked up.
There was Lorne, leaning out of one of the windows, obviously attracted by the noise; as obviously he could see what had happened. Rollison had difficulty in bending his head back well enough to see him clearly.
“I will see no one!” Lorne called down in bad French.
“If you want to save your daughter’s life you’ll see me, now,” Rollison said, and his words travelled clear and sharp. “Tell this man to let me up.”
There was a moment of hesitation; and then Lorne said as if helplessly: “Oh, all right.” He dropped into that execrable French again, and the concierge reluctantly went to a glass door which led to the hall and to a flight of wide stairs; a staircase which could not have been more handsome. The walls were padded and the handrail shone. The concierge stood at the foot of the steps, and Rollison glanced down from the first floor, then went up to the second.
Lorne opened the door.
“What’s all this about my daughter?” he demanded roughly.
“I’ll ask the questions,” Rollison said, and thrust the little ball of a man inside, closed the door and shot the bolt. “Two, for a start. Why did you try to have me stopped in London, and why did you tell the Chrysler chauffeur to put me out of action?”
“Because I don’t trust you,” Lorne said viciously. “I’ve been warned about you.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Lap of Luxury
They stood in a square hall. Electric light from two chandeliers made it seem pleasantly bright. The walls were panelled in satin, and the furniture looked as if it had been preserved in perfect condition for hundreds of years. The carpet looked to be of hand-made tapestry. Everything was luxurious, but there was no ostentation; no bad taste.
The little ball that was Robert Lorne stood in the middle of the hall, glaring at Rollison; there was something pathetic about him.
“Who warned you?” Rollison demanded.
“That doesn’t matter.”
“What did they say?”
“They told me what I ought to have known for myself, all you’re interested in is what you can get out of this. You might as well save your breath, Rollison, I’ve nothing to say to you.”
“What did they tell you?” Rollison insisted. “That if I discovered the truth I’d blackmail you even worse than they’re doing?”
Lorne caught his breath.
“Is that it?” Rollison demanded, and went nearer; he hardly needed telling that it was true, the way Lorne had collapsed was virtual proof of what he had suspected. “All right,” Rollison went on roughly, “we’ll see how it works out, because I’m going to find out just what’s behind these killings. Where’s your daughter?”
“She’s resting.”
“Has she come round from the injection?”
Lorne said, “Who—who told you—?”
“Your chauffeur told me,” Rollison said. “He thought it was safe, he didn’t think I’d get away. Where is Barbara?”
“It’s no use, she’ll be unconscious for another three or four hours,” Lorne answered. “I had to do it, I had to get this dreadful business finished before she came round again.”
“What dreadful business?”
“Why don’t you use your head?” Lorne almost screeched. “I’ve got to make her understand that she can’t go on with Lessing. She’s got to understand.”
“And how are you proposing to stop her?”
Lorne gulped. “I—I’ll be able to do it, once he’s here.”
“Now how did you guess that he was coming here?” asked Rollison softly.
“He knew where my Paris appartement is, he was bound to come here sooner or later.”
“It could be,” conceded Rollison. “Where’s Barbara?” When Lorne did not answer, he moved towards tall double doors in one corner. “And where are the servants? All sent out, so that you can finish this little game your own way?”
“Rollison, don’t try to wake Barbara up.”
“First, I’ll make sure that she’s asleep,” Rollison said, and pushed open the double doors. They led into a luxurious room, much larger than the hall, a beautiful salon with a grand piano lost in it; there was room for forty people here, in comfort. Other doors led off, on two sides, and
Rollison went towards the right, knowing that if he went left it would be towards the windows overlooking the courtyard. Lorne followed him. Lorne could not be trusted, but at the moment he was nervous, not sure what would happen if Rollison turned on him.
There was a passage, and three doors.
In the first room, next to the salon, Barbara lay, sleeping or unconsci
ous.
Rollison went inside.
She looked quite lovely, although she was deathly pale. Her eyes were closed, and Rollison had not realised how sweeping her lashes were, nor how glossy black they looked against her skin. She seemed to be breathing evenly. He took her hands and felt for the pulse; it was a little slow. Judging from what he could see, her father was right: she would not come round for several hours.
He turned to Lorne.
“What makes you think you can lead her life for her?”
“She’s infatuated by this devil, who—”
“She is married to Guy Lessing.”
“She isn’t, it was only a form of marriage!”
“He was not married to anyone else previously,” said Rollison.
“But you saw that certificate! You know about the second Mrs. Lessing.”
“Oh, I know about the Mrs. Lessings,” Rollison said, “and I know that they were murdered. But not by Guy.”
Lorne gasped. “They were murdered by Lessing, and I’m going to make sure that he can’t do my daughter any harm.” Lorne snatched his hand out of his pocket and Rollison saw the gun in it. “Understand? I’m going to shoot him dead when he comes in. I’ll make sure that he can’t do any harm.”
Lorne was gasping for breath.
And then a man spoke from behind Rollison: “You’re not going to stop him, either,” he said. “Raise your hands, and don’t move.”
It was Holy Joe.
And it was Carruthers, betrayed by his clear blue eyes. He had changed his clothes, his hair was dark brown instead of fair and his wig was almost as natural-looking as a real one; but it was Guy’s friend, Carruthers.
He must have come swiftly ahead of Rollison.
Holy Joe held an automatic pistol in his large hand. While Lorne kept Rollison covered, Holy Joe Carruthers ran his hands over him, found the gas pistol and confiscated it, then found the automatic and dropped it into his own pocket.