by John Creasey
He said very thoughtfully, “You’d have a British licence for that gun, wouldn’t you?” He was holding it by the muzzle, gingerly. “And it would have your fingerprints on, wouldn’t it?”
“What nice thought is this, Carruthers?” asked Rollison quietly.
“Spotted me as quickly as that, have you?” Carruthers said, grinning; that made his identity even more obvious. “Well, that doesn’t matter—no one saw me come in—as Carruthers—they only saw a bearded man. And I’m sure you wouldn’t give me away, would you?”
“Just as soon as I get the chance,” Rollison said. “So you killed Helen, and you nipped round the back way and killed your wife …”
“Lady-friend,” said Carruthers softly. “You know too much and you guess too much, but you’re going to be a great help.” He pulled off the beard sharply; it was quite astonishing that it had looked so real. He tossed it aside, and went on: “Wouldn’t it be a remarkable thing if you discovered your old friend Guy Lessing was a scoundrel, after all, and that in order to stop him from getting away you shot him. A pretty touch indeed. Don’t you think so, Bob?”
Lorne said, “It—it would be brilliant.” There was a moment of hesitation, but Carruthers did not seem to notice that.
“As an outraged parent you would have all the sympathy of a French jury,” went on Carruthers, “and of nearly all the newspaper readers, too. France is such a civilised country, there’s none of the puritan sternness which makes England so unbearable. But it would be much better if you didn’t have to stand trial, wouldn’t it? After all, Barbara won’t mind if Rollison. shoots—in fact, Bob, we’re going to find it much better this way.” He laughed. “It was a mistake to be frightened of Rollison’ I should never have told you to try to shake him off.”
Rollison was standing very still; calculating.
“Who will care if Barbara hates the sight of Rollison and the very sound of his name?” asked Carruthers. “It would be much better to let her think he’d killed Guy than to make her hate you for the rest of your life. Why, there’ll be a touching reconciliation. Don’t you think so, Rollison?”
“What am I to be?” asked Rollison. “Dumb?”
“You couldn’t be dumber than you are,” said Carruthers, and he sounded too gay for that to be a sneer. “Think of the evidence. Your fingerprints on your gun. Bob Lorne’s testimony, because he saw you do it. Didn’t he, Bob?”
Lorne didn’t speak.
“I don’t think you’d be able to talk yourself out of that one,” said Carruthers, with a grin which still looked pleasant and friendly. “I’ve sent the servants away, too—no one else will know what’s happened. So we’ll be rid of poor old Guy, and he won’t have any more worries about his mental health. You’ll be in bad with the French, and lucky if you don’t see the inside of a French prison; they’re not at all comfortable, I’m told. You can name me, but I’ve a beautiful alibi—I’ve not been out of England this week. My passport’s stamped—I used another one for Holy Joe Smith!”
“Helen Goodman Smith,” Rollison said heavily.
“So clever,” sneered Carruthers. “Well it’s worked out fine. I was actually hoping that we would be able to finish the job in Paris. So much more convenient.”
“What job in particular?” asked Rollison, still mildly.
“And you haven’t got as far as that,” Carruthers jeered. “You were wrong, Bob, he’s not so clever—he hasn’t guessed.”
Lorne said in a strangled voice, “Don’t take too much for granted, he’s smarter than you think.”
“He used to be smart, but he’s getting past it,” said Carruthers. But he looked very thoughtful; no one could possibly have clearer blue eyes, and no one could look more honest than he. “I’m just wondering if we could make a clean break with both of them. Two die in a duel, so to speak. Or whether—” He broke off, as if he was considering that very deeply. “Don’t slacken your grip on your gun, Bob, he looks as if he might jump at you.”
Lorne didn’t speak, but stepped back a yard.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Carruthers announced abruptly. “Rollison may be getting long in the tooth, but he still has a kind of gallantry complex. Haven’t you, Toff? He’ll probably call out to warn Guy, so we’d better make sure that he can’t.”
He moved, behind Rollison; and the gun in Lorne’s pale, plump hand was very steady.
“Quite sure that Guy will come?” asked Rollison.
“Oh, he’ll come. I had time to nip round and have a word with him. I told him that Barbara was here, and wanted to see him. He’s due at six o’clock, and I’ll be surprised if he isn’t here dead on the dot, so that gives him about ten minutes. He’ll be roaring for Barbara, longing to explain how he’s been maligned and maltreated; Barbara will be about the last thing he will roar for.”
He was doing something behind Rollison’s back; there was a rustling sound. He might have a scarf, a handkerchief, sticking-plaster; certainly it would be something with which he could gag Rollison. If there was a chance, it was here and now.
They had an automatic apiece, and Rollison’s lay on the table, in front of his eyes. Could he call that a chance? He had come, believing that Guy Lessing would walk into a trap, but also believing that he could spring it before it closed on Guy. He couldn’t now. He did not know much about Carruthers, and was not sure of the association between him and Lorne, but he was quite sure that Carruthers was deadly behind that friendly smile.
“Bob,” he said to Lorne, “If you let this happen, you’ll have this murder and two others on your conscience. You know that Lessing didn’t kill those women, and you know that he wasn’t married to them, don’t you?”
Lorne just stared at him, gun steady in his hand.
“That will be quite something to live with,” Rollison went on.
“Oh, Bob won’t mind,” declared Carruthers, and it was easy to believe that his breath was warm on the back of Rollison’s neck. “He’s had something to live with for a long time. Haven’t you, Bob? We’ve come to terms now.”
“Bob,” insisted Rollison, “you should not let him get away with it. What has he got against you to blackmail you like this? You’re becoming an accessory to murder. Don’t you understand that? They would never get you for the others, but if you let this happen—”
Carruthers tapped him, quite lightly, on the swollen bruise on the nape of his neck; a rabbit punch which was almost gentle, yet which sent pain streaking through Rollison.
He winced.
“Painful?” asked Carruthers, as if with concern. “Well, I must say that it looks as if it could be a lot better. Stop trying to bait our Bob. No one is going to get him or me for the death of Major Guy Lessing. You’ll be one witness against two, if you live to be questioned. Any bright ideas, Bob?”
Rollison felt a swift movement behind him, and then something appeared in front of his eyes. He saw a handkerchief stretched tight between Carruthers’ two hands, and before he could avoid it, it was pulled against his mouth, forcing his lips back, forcing his head back, bringing agony to the back of his neck. Swiftly, Carruthers tied a knot; and tied it again while Rollison tried to twist round, but Lorne kept him covered.
Carruthers let him go, and laughed.
“That’s about it,” he said. “Guy should be here in five minutes. Don’t stand up, Rollison, you’ve had a tiring day. Take a chair.” He took Rollison’s arm and lowered him into a chair. Then he moved away, and squatted on the corner of a beautifully polished table, nursing the gun in his right hand, watching Rollison and the door at the same time.
Lessing wouldn’t be long, now.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Arrival
There was the sound of a car outside, the first to pass along here for several minutes. Carruthers went to the window and looked out; the shutters were ope
n a crack. He seemed anxious, but suddenly relaxed and smiled. He turned towards Lorne, and said: “He’s here, walking right into it.”
Lorne made no answer.
Carruthers said, “Don’t let anything Rollison said make you go back on what we’ve arranged, Bob. Life wouldn’t be very good for you if you did. Go and sit on the other side of the room.”
Slowly, Lorne obeyed.
The car stopped outside, and almost at once a door slammed; someone was in a hurry. Footsteps came, quick and light; then there was a long pause. No doubt Lessing was pressing the bell, and the concierge was going to open the door now. He would allow Lessing to come right up.
Carruthers still had his own gun in his right hand. He went to the table and picked up Rollison’s, and Rollison saw that he had pulled on a cotton glove, the kind a Frenchman was likely to wear when travelling by train. He had come prepared for everything. He was still smiling, and it was easy to believe that he would smile as Lessing came in, and as he fired.
If he fired.
“Watch Rollison, Bob,” he said.
A buzzer sounded, obviously the frontdoor bell of the flat itself. Neither of the men moved. Carruthers weighed both guns, as if measuring one against the other, and there was tension in his smile. Voices sounded, so one servant was still here. Then footsteps came, and the door began to open.
Rollison leapt to his feet.
He swung round, grabbed the back of the chair and swung it. He saw Lorne glaring at him, saw the gun raised, and flung the chair at Carruthers and at the door. He heard the sharp sound of the shot from Lorne’s gun; then something hit him in the left shoulder, and spun him round. The effort had been so great that he was already off his balance, and now went staggering; he could not see what happened at the door. He caught a glimpse of Lessing; Lessing must see what was happening, must be able to guess at the deadly danger.
There was a second shot.
The door slammed, and Rollison believed that Lessing had seen the danger and slammed the door before the bullet reached him. Carruthers was leaping at the door, one gun tossed aside, his free hand thrust towards the handle of the door.
Rollison was going for the gun, which had landed on a chair. Lorne had fired once and hurt him badly enough; he would probably fire again, and now only two yards separated them, if Lorne shot to kill he could hardly miss.
Carruthers had the door wide open.
Lorne fired again.
This bullet struck the seat of the chair on which the other gun lay, and sent it rocketing forward. It toppled over the edge, and clattered to the floor. Carruthers was outside, and his and Lessing’s footsteps were thudding. Lorne was standing with the gun in his hand, and making himself say:
“Keep back, Rollison, or I’ll kill you. Keep back.”
Rollison could not utter a word.
There was the gun almost within hand’s reach; he needed only a second to get it. Carruthers offered no immediate danger. But there was a glint as of madness in Lorne’s eyes, here was a man driven to the absolute limit of desperation; the gun which had once been steady was quivering in his hand.
Rollison went for the chair, grabbed it with his right hand and slid it along the floor towards the fat man. Lorne skipped to one side. Rollison dived for the gun, and heard another shot; but this one missed. He had the gun in his hand and swung round, shooting at Lorne. He knew that the fat man was trying to screw up his courage to shoot again, but he could not; and Rollison’s bullet caught him in the chest. He went backwards, little legs working like pistons, hit against a chair and sprawled down. Rollison saw his gun fall. He went as swiftly as he could, but his left arm was numb, he felt as if he had no shoulder.
For as long as Lorne remained conscious, he was a threat. Rollison turned the gun in his hand and struck the man on the temple, hard enough to knock him out, then turned round with the gun the right way round. The footsteps had stopped. He heard a man speak, but could not distinguish the words. He slipped the gun into his pocket and pulled at the knot in the handkerchief at the back of his neck, but it was tied too tightly for him to release it with one hand.
He heard a door slam, behind him.
That was the door leading to the bedroom where the girl lay sleeping.
He heard bolts shot home.
Then Carruthers said, quite clearly if a little breathlessly:
“You’d better think again, Guy, if you want to see your wife alive again. She’s here, with me.”
Rollison stood there, unable to speak a word, knowing that the wound was bleeding freely, that he could not hope to keep on his feet much longer. He heard the threat, and believed that Carruthers would carry it out. He did not hear Lessing and he could not call Lessing. He plucked savagely at the knot, but instead of loosening it, seemed to make it tighter.
Then this door opened cautiously, and Guy Lessing came in.
The almost unbelievable thing was that he looked quite calm and self-possessed, and as immaculate as ever. If he had hurried, he showed no sign of it. He saw Rollison, showed momentary surprise, and then looked at Lorne; it was impossible to guess what he was thinking about Lorne, except to be sure that he had no liking for the man.
He spoke quietly.
“You all right?” Then he shifted his gaze and saw Rollison’s shoulder, and blood trickling down the back of Rollison’s left hand. “Like that, is it?” he said, and came across, taking a penknife from his pocket. “Turn round.” He began to cut the handkerchief, and Rollison was almost beyond feeling the pain at the back of his neck.
The gag fell apart.
“Can you talk,” asked Lessing, still very quietly.
Rollison’s lips were already stiff, but he had not been gagged long enough to make him speechless.
“Barbara’s in that room.”
Lessing’s eyes narrowed. “Positive?”
“I saw her twenty minutes ago.”
Lessing said, “The hell you did.” He stared at the door as he went on, “There’s another door, through the kitchen, but that’s locked and bolted, too, and he’ll have made sure we can’t get in.”
“Guy,” called Carruthers from the next room, quite clearly and calmly, “I mean exactly what I say.”
Lessing answered in exactly the same even tone of voice, and nothing in his expression suggested anger. But there was a bite in the words.
“I’m sure you do, you’ve had a lot of practice. Exactly what do you want?”
“I want you and Rollison to leave by the front door, and then cross the river. I can see you on the other side. Just do that, that’s all.”
“What about Barbara?”
“Barbara will be all right,” said Carruthers. The most remarkable thing about all this was the conversational tone of each man. “She won’t have so much money as you once thought, but love will make up for that, won’t it?”
“What will happen to her money?”
“You wouldn’t put filthy lucre above the life of your bride, would you?”
“I don’t know,” answered Lessing. “I have known you for so long that I may have caught the complaint.”
“Don’t try to be funny, Guy.”
“You can take it from me that I’m not trying to be funny,” said Lessing. “What will happen to her money?”
“At the moment she controls a lot more than she needs,” Carruthers said. “Lorne gave her a fortune, and so did her mother. She’ll make over most of this to her father, and he will make me a free gift of most of it. There are one or two little indiscretions in his past that he’s anxious to pay for.”
“Ah,” said Lessing, and then turned to Rollison and went on: “He has Barbara, we have Lorne. Is it worth the gamble of taking Lorne with us?”
Carruthers started to speak, but didn’t finish.
“Or woul
d it be better to kill Lorne now?” asked Lessing, and his voice was still quite conversational. “If he’s dead, he can’t take over Barbara’s money, and I doubt whether Carruthers’ claim would stand up in a court of law. And if he’s dead, Barbara won’t have to go through all the agony of explanation and probably the trial. What do you think?”
Carruthers called, sharply, “You’d better think clearly. You get out, and leave Lorne where he is.”
“With Lorne dead your future certainly wouldn’t be so rosy,” said Lessing. “Ralph.”
“Just get out.”
“Carruthers, listen,” Rollison interrupted. “Lessing has something there. Remember your own idea? To let me kill him, so that you and Lorne could get away with everything? Remember being so glad that Barbara was unconscious and couldn’t hear a thing?”
“You leave this to Lessing,” Carruthers answered; but now his voice betrayed an increasing tension. “Guy, get out.”
“Pretty thought, wasn’t it?” Lessing said, and he was actually grinning at Rollison. “You see what I mean when I say that being close to you for so long might make crime contagious. Barbara will never know who killed her father, and she certainly won’t believe you.”
“She’ll believe me,” said Carruthers, and there was a moment’s pause, as if he were getting breathless. “And even if she didn’t, she’d have doubts about it. Every time she looked at you, she would wonder whether you had killed her poor old dad. Don’t let Rollison fool you. Get out, and take him with you. It’s the only way you’ll save Barbara’s life.”
Lessing turned to Rollison, and mouthed one sentence.
“He means it.”
Rollison said, “He knows that it’s the only way he can win, and if he’s going to lose, he’ll probably kill her. He’s got two murders to his credit already.”
“Can you prove that?”
“I think I can give the police what they need, now. His only hope is to keep a tight hold on Barbara or her father—tight enough to keep us quiet.” Rollison went closer to Lessing, and whispered very softly, “I’ll keep him talking. You try the window.”