by John Creasey
Rollison drove along at a moderate pace.
At the far end several large houses stood in their own grounds. They looked dark and almost forbidding, with their weathered red brick walls, big windows and slate roofs, and each was surrounded by a high wall, as if to defy the encroaching bungalows. But these bungalows came up to the very walls, and above two of the gates of the old houses there were boards, saying boldly in red: FOR SALE.
Soon there would be a dozen houses in the grounds of each of these, and before long the other large private houses would fall, too.
Heath View was in the middle of this little group; the middle of seven.
It stood farther back from the road than the others, and Rollison thought that it looked smaller. Certainly the grey slate roof was not so high. The gate was closed, but freshly painted bright blue, as if the owner was determined to resist its puny neighbours, and meant to stay here for a long, long time. The gravel of the drive was clean and washed, a bright-ish yellow; the lawns were trim, well cut and well-watered; in flower beds asters and zinnias were bright and colourful, and the earth had been recently turned. The house itself stood, unexpectedly, in a shallow dip in the ground, as if to hide itself.
Rollison left his car a little way along, while he explored.
A notice on the gate, freshly varnished, probably meant exactly what it said: Fierce Dogs.
“Dogs in the plural,” Rollison said thoughtfully, and opened the gate. No dog barked, but he was some distance from the house, and there was nothing to suggest that either dogs or humans had yet seen him. He walked briskly along the drive, making no attempt to hide himself; time for concealment, if any came, would be by night, when he might come again if there was evidence that Higgs was right.
Higgs.
Rollison had half expected to see Higgs nearby, but the boxer was not in sight. He might be hiding behind some of the clumps of bushes beyond the lawns, for the shrubberies were thick and darkly green. As Jolly had suggested, it would be like Higgs to want to spring a surprise, it would tickle his sense of humour to fling a triumph at the Toff.
There was no sound from the house, and the noises from the colonies of houses and children faded, as if the wall shut them off from sound as well as from sight. This might have been a house in the country, with nothing but fields surrounding it.
The doors and the windows were also painted bright blue, there were some other colours, and as far as an old Victorian house could look bright and fresh, this did, as if someone with taste and a knowledge of colour had helped to paint and preserve it.
There was still no sign of a dog.
Rollison reached the front porch, stepped on to it, and promptly rang the bell. Now he looked round, but no one had followed him, any more than Mr. Smith’s men had followed him from London. No one appeared to have taken any interest in him at all.
There was no answer to his ring; and still no sound.
He looked at his watch, and saw that it was nearly half-past six.
He rang the bell again, but still there was no answer. He tried to persuade himself that in these days of scarcity of servants, that was not surprising; yet he was surprised. He stepped down from the porch and looked towards the right, where the drive ran towards garages which he had glimpsed on his way up. He went towards them, still making no attempt to conceal himself, and his footsteps sounded clear and sharp upon the gravel. The wall went right round these grounds, in all very nearly an acre. The back garden had a large lawn, once used for tennis if the shape was any indication, and beyond this a vegetable garden was trim and neat, and looking as if it had yielded well. Apple and pear trees, heavy with fruit, were at the far end of the garden.
It was quite a place to live.
Rollison found that the doors of the garage were open, and looked inside; both garages stood empty, and neither contained anything unusual. There were some tool sheds behind them. The back door had a small porch, and there was a covered way to the garages. Near it were two dog kennels, and if their size was anything to judge by, they usually housed big dogs. Rollison went to the kennels and knelt down. Inside were gnawed bones, straw, the odour of dogs; there was a kind of smelly warmth, too, as if the kennels had been occupied during the day.
He stood up, and looked at the windows at the back of the house; all of them were tightly closed. At the very top was one which made him frown, for it was barred. He could see nothing apart from the small windows, the bars which were painted bright blue, and the surrounding brickwork.
He banged on the back door.
There was no answer.
A house of this size simply couldn’t be run and kept in good condition without servants, this—
He heard a sound, at last, and was startled. It was very like a groan, and came from behind him.
He swung round, but saw nothing that he hadn’t seen before. He stood quite still, in case the sound was repeated, and it came again, quite unmistakably.
A groan, as of pain.
Undoubtedly it came from the far side of the garage, and there was a narrow gap between that and the wall. Rollison looked about him, but saw no one, so he ran across the gravel towards that gap. It was very dark there. The wall itself was almost as high as the garage, and it was hard to understand why one wall hadn’t been used for the two purposes, but it hadn’t.
The groan came again, more loudly, from inside that gap.
Rollison allowed himself time to get used to the darkness, and gradually picked out the shape of a man, lying on the ground. He saw no movement. He did see two shoes, glowing slightly with polish; it looked as if the man was lying at full length, and on his face. Yes; there was the back of his head.
The gap was scarcely eighteen inches wide, it would be impossible to get in there and lift the man, but he couldn’t be left there much longer. He might be desperately badly hurt.
Rollison squeezed into the gap, his shoulders tight against both walls, until he reached the recumbent figure.
It was a dark-haired man, and Higgs was dark-haired.
He couldn’t drag the man along on his face, but had to get him out. How?
“All right,” Rollison said sotto voce. “It’s all right. I’ll be back in two jiffs.”
He hurried to the garage, where he had seen several ladders, and selected one about ten feet high and narrow enough to go inside the gap. He carried this round, looking about carefully and still unable to see anyone else; nothing suggested that he was being watched, or that anyone was inside the house.
He heard the groaning again.
He reached the gap, put the ladder on the ground, pushed, and eased it beneath the victim’s legs. That wasn’t difficult. Then he forced his way into the gap, and found that he could stand with a foot on either side of the man, his legs pressed tightly against the walls. He reached down, and eased the man along from the waist, drawing him gently on to the ladder. The man’s groaning was neither better nor worse.
Inch by inch, Rollison moved him on to the ladder.
“That’ll do,” he said at last.
He rested, wet with sweat, gasping for breath. It was dark and dank here, and there was no room to manoeuvre. He began to edge his way back, and as he did so, heard a dog bark.
The sound went through him.
If a savage dog came at him now, he wouldn’t have a chance, for his back was to it, and the dog would have a freedom of movement denied to a man here.
The dog barked again, but it was some way off, and it didn’t sound like a large dog.
Rollison reached the end of the gap, and there was no dog in sight. He brushed his hair back from his forehead and then bent down, gripped the ends of the ladder on which the groaning man lay, and pulled it slowly.
Was this Higgs?
Rollison felt quite sure that it was. The man, still lying on his face, had Higgs’s kind of glossy dark hair, although there were dull patches now, and also had Higgs’s kind of figure, lean and supple.
Rollison saw the bump at the
back of his head; and soon saw more. There were scratches at the back of the man’s neck and scalp which might be the kind that a dog’s paws would make.
Now, the man was quite clear of the gap, and Rollison made himself go forward and, very gently, turn the head so that he could see the face.
He flinched.
This was Higgs.
And Higgs had been badly mauled by some big animal, his face was lacerated, there was a great deal of blood. One of his hands was mauled, too, and the sleeve of the coat torn to ribbons.
What Higgs needed was a shot of morphia, to put him out of his agony, and then expert medical attention. Nothing else mattered. Rollison felt his pulse, and found it fairly strong, took off his coat and put it over Higgs, then turned and hurried to the house. This time he didn’t lose a moment, but picked up a yard broom and cracked the handle against a small window. He knocked the pieces of glass out hurriedly, and climbed through. He scratched himself a little, but that didn’t matter. He listened for sounds, but heard none.
This was a scullery, beyond a kitchen, beyond that passages and a maid’s living-room, if he was any judge, pantries and, in a wide passage, a telephone. He picked this up, praying that it would be live; it was. He dialled Whitehall 1212, and Scotland Yard seemed to answer almost before he had stopped dialling.
“This is Richard Rollison,” Rollison said carefully, “and I am at a house called Heath View, Heath Rise, Hounslow.”
“I’ve got that, sir. How can we help you?”
“There’s a badly injured man in the grounds, just behind the garage,” Rollison said. “Send an ambulance and a doctor at once, will you?”
“How did he get hurt, sir?” The man’s voice sharpened.
“A dog mauled him. I mean really badly, it’s extremely urgent. Refer to Mr. Grice, if—”
“We’re calling Hounslow at this very moment, sir, someone will be there in two or three minutes.”
“They can’t come too quickly,” Rollison said. “Thanks.”
He put down the receiver, and found himself staring at a drop of moisture which had appeared on it, and which he hadn’t noticed before. Sweat. He dabbed his forehead as he moved out of the passage into another, carpeted, one which led to the front of the house. Here was a wide staircase, with a passage on either side, and several rooms, leading off, all the doors standing open. He glanced into each room, and saw no one, but there was a small library where a desk in one corner looked as if a hurricane had blown through it. Drawers were out, papers heaped up, others littered the floor. Two of the bookcases were open, and books had been taken off the shelves.
This told the same story as the silence.
He turned and hurried up the stairs. At the first landing, which was wide and imposing, there were two passages, and he saw several other doors, all but two of them open. Another, narrower flight of stairs was at the end of one passage.
When the police arrived they would take over, and he wouldn’t have a chance to do anything himself. There might just be a hope of finding something which would be of help to him, and not to the police.
These narrower stairs were fitted with a strip of carpet.
As he ran up, he heard the engine of a car, and looked out of a small landing window. A police car was already turning into the gate, and several children were standing around and watching.
Rollison went on.
He reached another landing, where the ceiling sloped, and where there were only two doors. He tried the one on the right, but it was locked. He knew that this faced the back of the house, and was the room with the barred windows, so he took out the penknife with the skeleton key blade, and worked on the lock. He could hear the sounds of the police car, and thought that he heard men talking.
He could see only the brown-painted door.
The key caught the barrel. He turned, cautiously, for if it slipped he would have to start all over again. It didn’t slip, but the lock clicked back.
He pushed open the door.
He had no idea what to expect, wasn’t even sure that he expected anything. He only knew that the people who had lived here had been caught with fierce alarm, and had left in a desperate hurry. He could guess that it was because they had caught Higgs, and Higgs had told them that he had named both Benjamin Allen and the house.
Yet he felt as if he was opening a door on to horror.
He widened it slowly. There was no sound. He looked about that part of the room that he could see, but the bed was behind the door; and someone might be lurking behind it, too. He peered round, but there was no one, and no danger that he could see; but when danger came from Mr. Smith, it was quite often invisible.
Then he saw the girl on the bed.
Her back was towards him. The bed was a single one, with iron ends and brass knobs at the posts. She lay on top of the clothes, wearing a green linen dress, and all he could be sure of at first was that she had quite beautiful legs.
Was this Rose Mary Bell?
Rollison went to the foot of the bed, without taking his gaze from the girl, and when he could see her face, knew that he had reached the end of one search.
Rose Mary Bell was almost unbelievably beautiful, as she lay there.
She might be alive or dead.
Chapter Fifteen
Rose Mary Bell
Rollison went nearer to the model who had been lost and was found.
He felt a strange, fast beat at his heart, had a feeling almost of suffocation. He had seen her photograph time and time again, knew her reputation, had even seen her at a distance, but this beauty was almost too superb to be real, and the thought that she might be dead had its own horror.
She lay quite naturally, one slim arm crooked at her waist, her auburn hair in close curls, which looked as if they had been combed quite recently. He couldn’t be sure whether she was breathing, but there was a glow of health at her cheeks and her lips were red; but for her stillness he would not have thought of death.
He bent down, and felt her pulse.
She was alive.
Her pulse beat steadily if a little faintly, and rather slowly. Now that he was closer, Rollison could see her breast rising and falling, but her lips didn’t appear to move. He stood quite still, only a foot or two away from her, as if he could not gaze upon such beauty long enough. The relief from the dread that she might be dead was so great that he felt almost dizzy.
He said: “Don’t be a fool, you’ve seen a pretty girl before.”
It was almost a sacrilege to call her “pretty”.
At least she wasn’t hurt, and at least she hadn’t been scarred. Realisation of that reminded him of Higgs, and he straightened up and went to the barred window. He could see the garden next door, and the roof of the garage, but it wasn’t easy to see the exact spot where Higgs had lain. He went closer to the window and stood on tip-toe; then he saw not only a police car and two policemen, but an ambulance and white-coated attendants lifting Higgs on to a stretcher.
The police would soon be up here.
If Rose Mary Bell were just asleep, if he could wake and question her before the police, he might learn something about Mr. Smith. But she was heavily drugged. That didn’t matter, provided she wasn’t badly hurt, unless —
He smiled, suddenly and tautly.
He heard movements on the floor below; it certainly wouldn’t be long before the police came up here. They would take over, and would want the girl moved to a place where they could question her as soon as she came round.
“I think Old Glory will lend a hand,” he said in a soft voice, and heard footsteps on the stairs just below. He took a last look at the sleeping beauty, then turned towards the landing, reaching it when two policemen were half-way up. They stopped abruptly, and one man said: “Don’t try any tricks.”
“I haven’t any left,” said Rollison mildly, “but there’s one in here for you. Ever heard of Rose Mary Bell?”
The spokesman cried: “Is she here?”
“She’s
here,” asserted Rollison. “Look after her, won’t you? I want to go downstairs and telephone Superintendent Grice.” He handed the nearer man his card, which had his name and address on one side, and the ridiculous pencil drawing of a man without a face on the other, a top hat jaunty, cigarette jutting in a holder, and a monocle somehow giving an impression of a shining eye. “I’m Richard Rollison.”
“You won’t leave until you’ve seen the inspector, sir, will you?”
“No, I certainly won’t,” said Rollison. “How many more of you chaps downstairs?”
“Two, sir.”
“Thanks,” said Rollison.
He went down slowly, hearing the two men go into the attic bedroom. When he reached the foot of the stairs he stopped and listened, but heard no sound at all. They would be standing and looking at the girl, probably feeling much the same as he, unless he was far more susceptible than he should be. He remembered what he had said to Jolly only this morning, and also remembered how sight of the girl upstairs had affected him. The possibility that she was dead had struck horror into him.
“Shake out of it,” he said, and ran down the rest of the stairs.
One constable stood by the open front door, and a car was coming along the drive. There was no sign of the ambulance, but the crowd had become much larger now, and some were trying to get inside the grounds, but two policemen at the gate held them back. The constable looked at Rollison uncertainly while he went to a telephone on a table near the stairs, picked it up and dialled Whitehall 1212, speaking the number aloud.
“No harm can come from that, can it?” he said to the constable.
“Pretty safe in their hands, sir!”
Bright man.
“This is Scotland Yard.”
“Superintendent Grice, please.”
“One moment, sir.”
Rollison leaned against the staircase, and wondered whether half an hour would have made much difference. Almost certainly an hour would have done. As certainly if he had told the police that he thought the girl might be at this address, they would have come at once to inquire.