by John Creasey
“Good lord and shades of shipping millions!” exclaimed Rollison. “When is this job going to stop turning me upside down?” He found himself lighting a cigarette. “That makes him a millionaire-plus.”
“It means that he stands to inherit about twenty-five million pounds, unless he gets it given to him beforehand to avoid death duty, and it also means that he’s likely to inherit one of the biggest shipping companies in the world,” Grice declared, and smiled wryly. “Yet he works as an artist for Zana. He always wanted to paint, from what I can gather. His father’s hale and hearty and the Flinden Line runs itself, so he was able to see if he could make a success in art. He’s had a few small exhibitions, hasn’t made much of a hit, but has a flair for this kind of drawing and for colour. Been suspecting him?”
“I wondered,” Rollison said, almost sadly. “One or two things pointed, but—oh, no, that couldn’t be it, could it? A Flinden Russell wouldn’t—”
“Unless he’s a psycho, it’s hundred to one against.”
“He doesn’t look a psycho to me.”
“They don’t all tell you about it on first meeting,” Grice said dryly. “Anyhow, we’ll soon know. Here’s Morgan.” Morgan was the sergeant, but he had no definite news. Nothing new had been received at the Information Room, and a patrol was going to make sure that Russell and Lady Maude were still at the Orange Club. Almost before Morgan had finished speaking, there was movement at the head of the stairs, and Lady Gloria appeared.
“I think she gets more like a ramrod every time I see her,” Grice whispered.
“If you’ve finished muttering,” said Lady Gloria, a glint in her eyes, “you might be interested to know what the young woman has said.”
“Yes, please,” Grice said, hurriedly. “Good evening, Lady Gloria.”
“Good evening, Mr. Grice.” Lady Gloria unbent, enough to smile at him, and to nod at Rollison.
Rollison felt his heart beating very fast.
He could not get the picture of Rose Mary out of his mind; even knowing that she had come round and had talked was less important than the fact that she existed. That was a fact. He wanted to go upstairs, wanted to see her again, wanted to see what she was like when she had come round. It might be crazy, but it was true.
“She tells a very straightforward story,” Lady Gloria said. “She reached her flat two nights ago feeling very tired and jaded. She had quarrelled with Mr. Zana: I gather that there are many such temperamental incidents at the salon. A friend of hers named Allen, Benjamin Allen, telephoned soon after she got home and invited her to spend the week-end with him and his wife at a house in Hounslow, the name of the house is Heath View. So she packed a bag and went. She spent a normal evening with Allen and his wife, went to bed quite normally, and doesn’t remember anything else. Presumably a sleeping draught was put in her drink or food.”
Lady Gloria stopped.
Grice said incredulously: “And that’s all?”
“Had you any reason to expect a more dramatic tale?” asked Lady Gloria.
“He could hope,” said Rollison, glancing up the stairs. “Did she say anything more about this Benjamin Allen?”
“She has known him for years.”
“How is she now?” Grice demanded abruptly.
“I think she is quite well enough to answer questions, within reason,” Lady Gloria said, “but I hope you won’t both go up together. I am bound to say, Richard, that I think this is a matter which you ought to leave to Mr. Grice.”
“Just this once, I’ll have to disagree,” said Rollison apologetically. “I think we’ll go together. Coming, Bill?”
Grice said: “If I ask you to leave me alone with her—”
“Out I go!”
They started up the stairs. Rollison felt a gnawing anxiety about Maude, but that was subservient to seeing the girl upstairs. It shouldn’t be. Beauty could blind, and beauty was blinding him … and beauty had talked. He let Grice go ahead. The police weren’t taking any risks at all, for another Yard man was just outside the door, and when Rollison went in he saw the little nurse sitting in a corner, not only able to hear and see Rose Mary, but able to watch the window, too. The nurse looked tiny and charming, and nothing at all like a policewoman. She sat just behind Rose Mary, at the head of the bed, and as Grice entered she drew a small notebook from her pocket, and showed it.
“I’ve got everything down,” she seemed to say.
Grice approached the girl on the bed.
Rollison stared at beauty …
She wore a pink bed-jacket, and the sheets, the bedspread and the pillow-cases were pale blue. He had never seen anything more lovely in his life. The bed-jacket wasn’t drawn tightly at the neck, and the low-cut pyjama jacket or nightgown she was wearing probably hadn’t met with Lady Gloria’s approval. There was the exciting swell of her breast; and all her beauty.
She seemed drowsy, but spoke quite clearly and rationally. She made no protest at being questioned. The questions and answers did not greatly help, except that she gave a description of a man named Benjamin Allen which might fit into the description of the driver of the Ford Consul, both in Mayfair that morning and at Chiswick this evening. The driver was a man about thirty, dark-haired, well-dressed; Mary Rose didn’t know what Allen did for a living, but she’d known him and his wife for some time.
There was nothing remarkable about it, apparently. She had often spent a day or two with them, and occasionally longer. They had a big house with plenty of room for guests, although the servant problem had made difficulties; she had always lent a hand. If one could believe Rose Mary, she was as domesticated as Jolly.
“Whom did you meet first?” Grice asked. “Mr. or Mrs. Allen?”
“Oh, Beryl,” Rose Mary said, at once.
Rollison caught his breath.
“Beryl Allen,” said Grice, very softly. “Do you know her maiden name?”
“I have heard it, but I don’t really remember,” said Rose Mary. “I really can’t see that it matters.”
Grice took a photograph of Beryl Ward out of his pocket, and showed it to the girl.
“Is that her?”
“Oh yes,” said Rose Mary, eagerly, “that’s Beryl. What a good picture! Where did you get it?” Although she asked the question she didn’t really seem to worry about Grice’s evasive answer, and she stifled a yawn. Her eyes looked heavy, there wasn’t much doubt that the drug still affected her. “I don’t want to be uncivil, but I’m so tired.”
“Just two more questions,” Grice said, quietly. “Did Mr. Allen keep dogs?”
“Oh, yes, several, all Alsatians,” she said. “They were beautiful dogs, too, he used to train them. Dog training was his hobby,” she added, and thought of the dogs seemed to have cheered her up.
“The other question is this,” said Grice, just as quietly. “A number of Mr. Zana’s other models have left him recently, and others won’t work for him. Do you know why that is?”
She knew; that was obvious in her expression. But she said that she didn’t know, and it seemed certain that nothing would make her talk tonight. She could take refuge in her tiredness, and feel sure that there was no way in which they could force her to talk.
“See that?” Rollison was almost abrupt as they left the room.
“You mean, she knows the reason and is terrified.”
“Yes.”
“We’ll break her down tomorrow,” Grice said.
“Bill, I don’t think I’d be too sure,” said Rollison. “If she’s as frightened as I think she is, she might hold out for a long time, certainly too long for us. Mind if I make a suggestion?”
Grice was surprised into a laugh.
“First time I’ve known you trouble to ask permission in twenty years! What is it?”
“There are about four of the models, all the stars, who have reputedly left the country,” Rollison said softly. “One went to France, one to the United States, one to Buenos Aires, one to Milan. Two cabled home, two lived al
one, and haven’t contacted their friends since they left. Trace them, will you?”
“What’s on your mind?” Grice was sharp-voiced.
“We’ve been able to find the lesser lights, who stayed in England and got different jobs,” said Rollison, “but we haven’t yet any proof that the others are where they’re supposed to be.”
“I can’t be sure what you know in this job,” Grice said, “but I’ll tell you this. Russell told me this afternoon that he flew to Paris to see the models there. They’d left.”
“Left,” Rollison echoed, and fear seemed to strike him.
“So he says,” said Grice. “Anyhow, we’re checking.” He turned towards the stairs and added abruptly: “I wonder if Lady Maude is back.”
They were half-way down the stairs when Morgan hurried in from the street, obviously agitated; that was almost the first time that Rollison’s thoughts were wrenched from Rose Mary Bell and the four missing models. For if ever a man was bringing trouble, it was Detective Sergeant Morgan. “What is it?” Grice rasped.
“Our man at the back of the Orange Club’s been found, badly hurt, sir. Russell and Lady Maude left the club nearly an hour ago.”
There was a moment’s pause, while this sank in, while all the dread possibilities struck home. Then Rollison turned towards the stairs again, and said between his teeth: “Now Rose Mary must talk, whether she likes it or not. Bill, find those other dogs, find this Benjamin Allen, find the missing models. Find them quickly.” He went racing up the stairs and was near the top when he stopped and turned round. Grice was already at the open front door.
“Bill!”
“Hallo?” Grice turned.
“Ebbutt had Tiny Joe Laws following Russell, so if you put a call out for Tiny Joe, it might help.”
“Right,” said Grice.
Rollison tapped briefly at the door of Rose Mary’s room, and thrust it open. Lady Gloria stood just inside with a finger at her lips. The “nurse” was standing up. Rose Mary lay there, a sleeping beauty who seemed to draw Rollison’s very heart out of him.
“She’s fallen asleep, I insist—”
“Maude’s missing,” Rollison said abruptly, “and this girl might be able to help us.”
Nothing he could do would wake Rose Mary. Anywhere else, without Lady Gloria and the nurse present, he might have managed to wake her, but here it was impossible. She slept as if she had been drugged again. Rollison felt sure that she was feigning sleep because she was too terrified to answer his questions, but there was no way to prove it.
He had to give up.
Now, the only hope was Tiny Joe Laws.
Chapter Nineteen
Tiny Joe
Charles Russell took Maude’s elbow half an hour after they had entered the Orange Club that evening, and shepherded her towards a door which she had noticed several times, but which no one except the staff had used. He leaned close to her, and said quietly: “This is the back way, I think it’s safer than the front. I don’t want to take any risks with you.”
“It can’t be as bad as that.”
“Can’t it,” said Russell, grimly. They reached the door and he opened it on to a narrow, concrete-floored passage; there were crates of beer and mineral waters on either side, and only just room for them to walk in single file. “I’ll go ahead,” he added, but didn’t draw far away from her. “I think this business is as deadly as anything could be, and I’m not simply trying to scare you. Zana’s about the most stubborn human being in the world, and he’s got more courage in his little finger than I have in my whole body, but he can be a fool. He’s being put right on the spot, and he’s tried to fight it alone. If I hadn’t told him I’d go to the police, and to Rollison if the police wouldn’t act fast, he’d never have gone. I don’t mind telling you it wasn’t easy to make him.”
They reached a narrow door.
“Anyhow, there were policemen behind us,” Russell said. “I don’t think we need worry now.”
He opened the door, and stepped outside. It was dark, although a beam of light shone out from a window above their heads. In this tiny yard there were few noises, and their footsteps sounded very clearly. The piles of crates and the barrels made shadows, and also made hiding-places, and Maude was glad that Russell had gone in front. He had scared her; and she knew that he intended to. She believed that in spite of all that had happened, he wished that she had not joined Zana.
Suddenly, she saw him stop.
She cannoned into him.
“Stay there,” he breathed, and as he did so, Maude saw a man lying behind a pile of crates, crumpled up in a grey shape against the pale of the yard.
Russell went slowly forward.
Then, a man appeared from behind Maude. She didn’t take much notice at first, her heart was already thumping, but suddenly the man whispered in her ear: “Don’t move, and don’t shout, or you’ll never wake up again.”
She swung round.
A man she had never seen before stood there with a gun in his hand. Then she heard a sharp exclamation from Russell, who had not seen or heard this man, but she dared not warn Russell.
A second newcomer appeared from the shadows, and stepped behind Russell, who had turned round. Maude saw the second man’s hand upraised, a weapon in it; she cried out, but a cloth was dropped over her head, smothering the sound. She felt the cloth drawn tight round her neck, and believed that they were going to strangle her; believed that death was near.
Grice and Morgan had gone.
Rollison stood by the telephone in the writing-room of the Marigold Club, feeling frustrated and quite helpless, knowing that his aunt was watching him with deep understanding, but that she could not help. He felt that he hated the sleeping beauty upstairs, but was quite sure there was no way of making her talk yet.
The telephone was ringing at his flat.
If Jolly was there, it might help. Ebbutt was good, but he was only a substitute, and—
“This is Mr. Richard Rollison’s residence,” said Jolly.
“Bless your heart,” Rollison said, fervently. “When did you get back, and how’s Zana?”
“I stayed until I felt sure that he had retired for the night, sir,” Jolly said. “The woman Mitzi left, and I called Mr. Zana, and spoke to his manservant, who told me that he was in bed. Then I telephoned Ebbutt, who has arranged for someone else to watch Mr. Zana. The police are also doing that.”
“He needs twenty, not just two,” Rollison said urgently. “Any word from Tiny Joe?”
“He was following Lady Maude, sir.” Jolly sounded aghast. “Surely she—”
“Missing,” Rollison said abruptly. “Telephone Ebbutt, have everyone look out for Tiny Joe, spread the word round that it’s desperately urgent.”
“I will indeed! Where can I get in touch with you?” Rollison didn’t answer at once.
He couldn’t do any more here. He couldn’t do anything at the Yard, except get in Grice’s way. He could go to the Orange Club and find out what had happened, or—
“Have we Russell’s address?” he demanded.
“Yes, sir, I have it. Flat 3, Jeremy Street, Mayfair.”
“If anything comes in before I’m back, telephone his place,” Rollison said, “I might be there. And Jolly?”
“Sir?”
“Sure about Zana?”
“I really don’t think I could have done anything more useful than I have.”
“All right, thanks,” said Rollison, “I’ll be seeing you.” But he didn’t move from the telephone, just looked at Lady Gloria, who had pulled up a chair and was sitting and watching him. “I’m not so sure Zana’s in bed,” he said gruffly. “Do something for me, Glory.”
“If I can.”
“Telephone and insist on speaking to Hugo Zana in person. He has a deep, penetrating, heavily-accented voice, you couldn’t mistake it. If this servant of his tells you that Zana’s in bed, and won’t call him, telephone the Yard and ask Grice to send someone to see Zana. I’d li
ke to be sure that he really is at the fiat. Jolly could have been fooled. Every trick known to crime has been used so far, I wouldn’t be surprised to find some secret doors. Will you do it?”
“Immediately.”
“Wonderful!” Rollison forced a smile. “Another thing: if Rose Mary should deign to come round—”
“Richard, I doubt whether anything short of physical violence would persuade that young woman to talk if she doesn’t want to,” said Lady Gloria. “I think you will have to accept that.”
“If necessary I’ll have to use matchsticks and thumbscrews to persuade her,” Rollison said with a bleak smile. “Keep at her, whenever you get the chance. Evil things could happen to Maude. No one told you about Higgs, but if you saw Higgs after those dogs had finished with him—”
“There is no need to try to frighten me, I shall do all I can,” Lady Gloria said stiffly.
Rollison’s smile became much less bleak.
“Yes, I know you will,” he said. “Another thing, Glory … is your car outside?”
“Unless Ethel has taken it to the garage, which I doubt; she’s been too busy,” said Lady Gloria. “I’ll fetch the keys while you make sure.”
Her car was a nippy little four-seater, for Lady Gloria Hurst had driven cars since the time when automobiles had first been made, and she had a great contempt for those who found London’s traffic trying. Rollison sat at the wheel, fiddled for a moment, and drove off as smoothly as if he had been handling the car for weeks.
Russell’s home was not far away.
It proved to be in a street not unlike Gresham Terrace, and less than half a mile away as the crow flies. Rollison pulled up near a corner, for there was good parking space, and got out. He had the gun, the knives and the little fountain pen tool-kit, as well as a penknife with ubiquitous blades, and these should be enough.
He went straight to the front door.
It was locked.
On the wall of the porch were three names, including Charles Russell’s. Three flats, then, with Russell’s on the top floor. Rollison backed into the street, made sure that no one was coming and that no one seemed to be watching, and went back. He used a steel blade of his penknife to force the lock, and it took only two minutes. He opened the door and stepped into a dark hall.