by John Creasey
It wasn’t a laughing matter.
Beryl Ward was dead, and one model had been gravely injured, another scarred hideously, and for life. The police were uneasy.
Why was it happening?
Who was this Mr. Smith, and what did he want from Zana?
Rollison put the bag and papers in his car, left the car in this quiet square, walked towards Oxford Street, and was lucky in spotting an empty taxi within three minutes. He sank down in a corner after saying: “Zana salon, Brigham Square,” and lit a cigarette, screwing up his eyes as he pondered over his aunt, who had not changed at all, and over Maude Dennison’s obvious eagerness to help. Knowing Maude, he could be reasonably sure that even if he tried to stop her she would apply to Zana for work, and as Zana was in such need, he would probably take her on. So it would be better to have Maude well disposed.
Rollison still didn’t like the idea.
Nor did he like the sight of the two policemen standing outside the house where Zana staged his shows and created his fashions and his clothes. This was a larger, busier, bustling square, with hardly room to park; and Superintendent Grice’s car was double parked outside the door where another brass plate said simply: Zana. Just inside the door was a detective in plain clothes, and as Rollison entered the man smiled frostily in recognition.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Rollison, we’ve been looking for you.”
“And I found you, so it works out all right. What’s on?” Rollison did not want to ask the obvious question: was Zana all right, or had he been attacked? Or had Rose Mary been found? If she had, and it had brought Grice and his men, then it wasn’t likely that she had been found alive.
More likely, Harrison had recognised and named him to the police.
“Mr. Grice is with Mr. Zana now,” the man said.
“Tell them I’m here, will you?” asked Rollison, and made no attempt to look unconcerned. He did not need to dissimulate for long, for a door opened and Grice appeared. He looked gaunt and grim against the background of the cream painted walls, with intricate patterns picked out in gilt, and his footsteps sounded in spite of the thick, off-white carpet which stretched from wall to wall in the hall and along several passages.
He stopped abruptly.
“I want to see you,” he said. “We’ll talk at the Yard.”
Behind him came Zana. The designer looked angry and his fists were clenched; it was easy to imagine the bunched muscles of his arms; easy to imagine him flying into a rage, too. Yet he did not look out of place here, in spite of his ugliness.
“Everywhere the same,” he growled, deep in his throat, “police are police. If they had their way they would work only with a gun and a truncheon.”
Grice ignored him.
“Ready, Rollison?”
“Not my lucky day,” said Rollison, as if meekly. “Yes, I’ll come clean.” He winked at Zana, but was ignored, then found the Yard sergeant’s arm closing on his. For a moment that made him angry; he was about to pull himself free, but checked the movement and forced a grin. There was plenty of time for clashing with the police later, if needs be.
Was this hostility because of Percival Harrison?
Another plain-clothes man was by the side of Grice’s car. He opened the door. Rollison got in the back, and Grice followed, while the sergeant took the wheel. Half a dozen people stopped to stare. A beautifully dressed woman stepped out of a cream and grey Rolls-Bentley and swept towards the steps and the salon, as if no such thing as policemen existed.
“What’s all this about?” Rollison asked Grice mildly.
“You blithering lunatic, why did you have to do that?” Grice exploded.
“What have I done?” inquired Rollison.
“For Pete’s sake don’t sit and bleat at me as if you were a lamb being led to the slaughter. You were at Hill Court, you nearly suffocated Harrison, you made fools of our chaps, and it’s the last time we’ll ever let it happen. You ought to be put in a cage or sent to a desert island. Now shut up and let me think.”
Rollison murmured: “I hope it’s all right for me to smoke.”
“I hope the smoke chokes you.”
“Yes, Bill,” said Rollison, and sat back while the sergeant seemed to charm other traffic out of his path, and they headed swiftly for Scotland Yard. Grice was spotted by every constable on the way, and saluted a dozen times. He sat glowering. He was still glowering at the Yard and on his way up to his office, but at least he sent the sergeant away so that he and Rollison were alone.
“Why did you do it?” he demanded. “Where are the things you took away? Don’t tell me you haven’t got them. I’ll trace every movement you’ve made and find them if I have to put half the Force on to the job. It’s bad enough dealing with you when you’re sane, but when you lose what wits the good God gave you—”
“What is all this?” demanded Rollison, rather less meekly. “Who’s going to call me liar if I say I don’t know what you’re talking about?”
But he knew.
“Mr. Percival James Harrison is going to call you a liar,” Grice began, “and he’s going to say that he got there when Beryl Ward was alive, that you shot her, that you were going to hang him behind that door and make it look like suicide. When the police arrived, he says, you dropped the idea. That’s what’s going to put you in the tightest corner you’ve ever been in.”
Rollison felt himself go very cold.
“Any supporting evidence?” he inquired, politely.
“I’m a policeman, not counsel for the defence,” Grice rasped. “There’s just one hope of leaving you free to run around and make a thorough job of getting yourself in dock on a murder charge. That’s if we find that Harrison has a record. We’ll have some excuse for refusing to believe the word of an ex-convict. You’d better pray hard, and tell me where you put the stuff you took from the girl’s flat.”
Rollison said: “No comment.”
“Don’t be a ruddy fool!”
“Still no comment.”
“I tell you that if I care to, I can hold you on a charge. You were seen breaking in, and when the A.C. knows about this he’ll change his tune.”
“So he was friendly,” murmured Rollison, and felt grateful for a crumb of comfort.
“He said I could give you your head,” growled Grice. “We thought you still had control of it.”
“Bill,” said Rollison in a deceptively soft voice, “who is this Beryl Ward? What happened to her? Was she shot, knifed, strangled—”
“She was shot with the gun used to shoot at Zana this morning. The rifling on the bullets is identical. The gun was on the floor wiped clean of prints. I’ve given Zana twenty of the most uncomfortable minutes he’s ever had in his life; he knows a hell of a sight more than he pretends, too.”
“Poor chap,” said Rollison, with gentle asperity. “He asks the police for help, they tell him to go and hide his face, they tell him that his favourite model has walked out on him for no reason at all, they even tell him that if he wants to waste anyone’s time he should waste mine. Then when they get proof that he was right and they were wrong, they bawl him out. No wonder he wonders if he’s in another police state.”
Rollison turned towards the door abruptly, and had actually reached it when Grice said: “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Home. I’ve had enough of this.”
“You’re not going home until you’ve told me where you put the stuff you stole from Beryl Ward’s flat, and until we know whether Harrison’s got a record or not.”
“Never heard of your Harrison, but I’ll bet he’s got a record as long as your arm, and you know it,” said Rollison icily. “You might spend some time looking for the man who was really at the girl’s flat. I’m going home; I’ll be there if you want me.”
He touched the handle of the door.
He had no way of judging what Grice would do; no way of being sure that he would be allowed to leave the Yard. If he was held on a charge, if anyone else had seen him near those fi
ats and could identify him …
The door opened, almost as if at a pre-arranged signal. Standing outside was a uniformed policeman, carrying a peaked cap. Rollison recognised him on the instant as one of the men who had passed him in the police car, near Beryl Ward’s flat.
Chapter Eight
Identification
“Just a moment, Mr. Rollison,” Grice said coldly, and turned to the uniformed man. “Come in, sergeant.” The sergeant came in and closed the door, moving in such a way that he kept Rollison between himself and Grice; almost as if he expected Rollison to make a dash for the corridor. “You were at 19, Hill Court today, weren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you were there when the body of Miss Ward was found, and when the man Harrison was found in the bathroom.”
“Suspended behind the bathroom door, sir.”
“Yes. What took you to Hill Court?”
“I was called by the Divisional Station, sir, and instructed that there had been a report of a breaking and entering, so I proceeded to the vicinity at once.”
“Did you recognise anyone near the flats while you were on your way?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who?”
“This gentleman, sir.”
“Positive?”
“I’ve known Mr. Rollison by sight for about fifteen years, sir. I wouldn’t be likely to make any mistake.”
“Was he wearing the clothes that he’s wearing now?”
“I couldn’t swear to that, sir, but he was wearing a suit of the same coloured material, and he was carrying a canvas and leather hag of the hold-all type.”
“All right, sergeant, thank you.”
The sergeant turned and opened the door. Rollison saw his powerful hand over the handle, dwarfing the key. The man would probably wait outside, on instructions already given. He went out and the door closed with a snap, while Rollison looked into Grice’s bleak, hostile eyes, and Rollison gave a gentle, forbearing smile.
But he didn’t feel like smiling.
Grice had shown him just how it would be. Question and answer in the magistrate’s court, question and answer later, at the Old Bailey. He couldn’t laugh off this kind of evidence. Grice knew how strong it was, and Grice hated the facts, but had to face and to deal with them.
“Now perhaps you see what a hopeless fool you’ve been,” he said. “All we’ve got about what happened inside that flat is your word against Harrison’s.”
“Hard,” said Rollison, “but inaccurate.”
“Don’t be funny.”
“Not even funny peculiar. There’s my evidence against Harrison’s and against your sergeant’s.”
“If you think you can persuade anyone that you weren’t near those flats a few minutes after it was entered by the police, you must be suffering from senile decay.”
“That wasn’t exactly what I was telling Jolly this morning,” murmured Rollison. “Bill, I wasn’t there. Someone must be wishful thinking or seeing double.”
“Listen, Rolly,” Grice said, and there was a change in his tone, almost one of pleading. “In a few minutes I shall know whether this Percival Harrison has a record. If he hasn’t, his word is quite as good as yours in our eyes. In fact it’s better, because there are plenty of instances where I can prove you’ve lied to us, even if it’s been in what you’d call the interests of justice. But get this perfectly clear. I’m going to have to charge you, if Harrison’s record is good. I must. I ought to charge you even if he has a record—has he?” Grice flashed.
“I haven’t seen him,” Rollison murmured, “but wouldn’t it show in his eyes?”
“And you sneer at us about wishful thinking,” growled Grice. “God knows I don’t want to hold you; I think you’ll do as much good as anyone in finding out what’s behind all this, but here’s the evidence and—”
There was another tap at the door.
Rollison moved a little to one side, so that he was close to the wall, and no one could easily put him in the middle of three. He continued to smile as if quietly amused, but his heart was thumping uncomfortably fast. He was in serious trouble, and could see only one certain way out.
Certain?
The door opened. A plain-clothes man named Kennett came in and closed the door automatically. He was big and powerful; and he was frowning. Grice looked at him almost helplessly, but one glance at Kennett’s face made his tidings pretty clear.
“Have we any record of this Percival Harrison?” Grice demanded.
“No, sir,” said Kennett, “none at all.”
Both he and Grice looked at Rollison as if they were seeing him for the first time. It was bitter-sweet, for Grice’s expression told Rollison how deep was his personal regard and distress. But Grice was a policeman, policemen used evidence, and the evidence pointed only one way.
Rollison looked positively harassed.
“It seems as if I’m in trouble, doesn’t it?” he said, and then moved forward, and appeared to trip over the edge of the carpet. He thrust out both hands to save himself, and pushed against Kennett and sent Kennett reeling towards Grice’s desk. In a trice he was at the door, had the key out, and the door open.
“… dy fool?” he heard Grice roar.
He slammed the door from the passage, and inserted the key; it turned as Kennett thudded against the door. No one was in the passage, but the thudding seemed to shake the walls. He ran towards the corner, turned round and saw several doors in a wide passage: here were two sergeants’ rooms, a stenographers’ room and a messengers’. The messengers’ was his best bet. He tapped and opened the door and nipped inside. Two uniformed constables were sitting at a table, one of them smoking, the other studying racing form. They jumped up in alarm.
Rollison beamed.
“Mind if I use your telephone?” he asked politely, and strode to the table and lifted the telephone as he spoke.
“Go ahead, sir.”
“Thanks,” said Rollison, and began to dial the number of his flat. He could hear the thumping sounds not far away, but nothing seemed to alarm the two messengers, one of whom had folded his racing form sheet and thrust it into his jacket pocket. Then there were hurried footsteps outside, and someone called: “What’s that banging?”
“Hear that, George?” the racing form man said.
Other footsteps sounded, and Rollison heard them and two other things; the thumping of his heart and the brrr-brrr of the telephone ringing. Why hadn’t Jolly answered at the first ting? He always did; he was the world’s best telephone answerer, and there were two extensions in the flat. Jolly should be within hand’s reach of one. Why didn’t he answer? The ringing sound went on and on; now there were several people hurrying outside, and one of the messengers opened the door. Rollison turned his back to it.
Could Jolly have gone out? He’d been told to stay in except in emergency, and there could not have been a greater one than this.
Brrrr-brrrr!
One of the messengers went out, the other stood at the door. Men were talking excitedly.
Brrrr-eck!
“This is Mr. Richard Rollison’s residence,” said Jolly in his most soothing voice.
“Jolly, listen closely,” Rollison said in a low-pitched voice, and gave his man scarcely a moment to grasp what he had said. “Ready?… I was at the Blue Dog, Ebbutt’s place, between one-thirty and two-fifteen, got that?… Find Ebbutt and as many others as he can get who saw me there … Understand, they’re to be ready to swear that they saw me in or near the Blue Dog. Tell Ebbutt to fix everyone whom he knows is reliable. All right?”
“Perfectly understood, sir, and Mr. Ebbutt is here in person. I was at the door when you rang.”
“Fine. He’s to spread it round near the pub. If fifty people are ready to say I was there, so much the better.”
Rollison rang off, and one of the messengers turned round from the door, his expression one of complete bewilderment.
So he hadn’t heard anything that Rollison
had said.
“Something’s going on out there,” he declared. “Everyone’s rushing to the stairs and the lift.”
“Why don’t you go and see the fun?”
“Must always be one messenger in the office, sir; that’s a rule. If we break it and Mr. Grice is about—”
“Bit of a terror, is he?”
“Strict, sir, but fair.”
“Nice tribute for a tombstone,” said Rollison, and dabbed his forehead, although it was not really hot. “I’m going to see him now, I’m on my way.” He lit a cigarette and went out. All the corridors were deserted. He strolled to Grice’s room, and the door was ajar, a most unusual thing. He opened it on to an empty room, slipped inside, closed the door firmly, and then sat down in the easy chair, turned so that he faced the door. He drew gratefully at the cigarette and listened to his own breathing becoming more steady. He wasn’t right out of the wood yet, but at least he could see the trees at the edges.
Two or three men hurried past, and then a telephone bell rang on Grice’s desk.
Rollison let it ring.
It stopped, as someone else came hurrying. The door burst open, and Grice stepped in – and drew up so abruptly that he seemed to sway.
“Hallo, Bill,” said Rollison, “looking for someone?”
“You—you imbecile!”
“Well, not all the time,” said Rollison mildly. “I was sorely tempted to try to get away. I’d like to find Rose Mary and look after Zana. But I had second thoughts, and decided it would be better to appeal to sweet reason and the evidence than to have half the coppers of London looking for me.”
Grice glowered: “I hope you get ten years.” He went to the desk and picked up the telephone. “Tell Information Room to cancel that call for Rollison, stop the squad cars or call them back …”
He rang off.
“I couldn’t keep you out of the dock tomorrow morning if it was the thing I wanted more than anything in the world, and it isn’t.”
“Well, why don’t you charge me and get it started?” suggested Rollison. “Because as soon as I’m charged I can send for my solicitor, and then—”
“There isn’t a solicitor in London who can help you.”