by John Creasey
He didn’t close the door immediately, but no one approached. The door wouldn’t latch until the lock had been repaired. Rollison waited for a minute, to get used to the gloom; faint light came from the first landing. He groped for the stairs and went up cautiously. There was light beneath a door of the second floor flat, and the faint sound of music, then of voices. Television. He went up the stairs to the next floor, took out a pencil torch, and shone it about cautiously. The stairs were carpeted, and there was a hint of luxury even out here.
He reached Russell’s front door, shining the torch on to a small brass plate which gave the man’s name, and promptly rang the bell. There was no answer, and the flat seemed to be in darkness. He tried again, and when there was still no reply, worked on the lock of this door as he had on the one downstairs.
It opened.
Darkness lay beyond.
Rollison stepped inside and pushed the door, but it swayed open. He switched on a fight, which revealed a small hall, with some good French paintings on the walls, a thick carpet, some odd pieces of furniture which looked as if they were worth a fortune. He pulled a chair to the door, and stopped it from swinging open, then looked about the flat.
There were four rooms. One of them was turned into a studio, there were canvases and sketches, mostly of portraits, here and there of groups; Russell had always gone in for figure painting. On an easel, close together, were some sketches of Rose Mary Bell, and Russell had caught her almost hurtful beauty.
Rollison found himself gritting his teeth.
There was a bedroom, a living-room, and a small study-cum-library. Everywhere, there was evidence of wealth, and everywhere evidence of Russell’s taste in art; a catholic taste, too. Most of the paintings were collectors’ pieces.
That didn’t matter.
Rollison went into the library. Two walls were filled with books from floor to ceiling, but he was interested in books only if they offered him some clue. He didn’t try them first, but pulled at the drawers of a small pedestal desk.
The drawers weren’t locked.
“That’s a help,” he said, and sat down and took out the contents. Nothing he had found at Beryl Ward’s flat had really helped, and the first thing of interest that he came across was a picture of Beryl Ward, just a publicity photograph.
Rollison seemed to see the small hole drilled in her forehead by the bullet which had killed her.
There were business papers, some files which showed that Russell spent some time on the Flinden Line affairs, and that he wasn’t likely to refuse to take over control, if his father retired. A few letters from his father suggested that they were on good terms. These might have interested Rollison earlier, but now they hardly mattered.
Rollison opened another drawer, and found only one thing in it; a spring folder filled with several hundred typewritten sheets. Was Russell bitten by the writing bug also? A letter from Zana to Russell was slipped in the front, and Rollison read:
“Here is the life story, as you wish to see it.”
Rollison thumbed the pages, then found that there were photographs among them. One was of a concentration camp, and there was a mass of barbed wire round it. His mind flew to Zana’s story of his escape, and to the sight of Zana’s scarred arm. Another picture showed Zana with Mitzi; another with Rose Mary Bell. A third showed Zana with two Alsatian dogs, huge, magnificent beasts, which stood as high as his waist.
This was Zana’s story, mostly the story of his life. It was a carbon copy, and might repay reading, but Rollison couldn’t bring himself to sit and read it now; so he glanced through it, picking up odd passages, oddly impressed by their vividness. The personality of Hugo Zana seemed to come through every paragraph. There was one vivid passage which told Rollison how little Zana had told him, as if he was ashamed of his own courage. For he had escaped from the prison camp with the woman, Mitzi; had nearly been caught because he had helped her. The story of what followed, as they had crossed hostile land in dead of winter, swimming icy rivers, climbing snow-clad mountains, was an epic.
Now such a man was being persecuted.
Why?
Rollison put the book aside, and tried the third and last drawer. It was locked. He took out his knife again, and was bending over it, when he heard a slight sound inside the flat. He listened intently, and heard it repeated.
Someone was inside.
Someone had a key.
Rollison did not turn round, but stayed there as if oblivious; but he worked the unsheathed knife down his forearm as he did so.
There came a sharper, nearer sound.
Now, Rollison glanced round, as if taken completely by surprise, and saw a man in the doorway, covering him with an automatic.
Chapter Twenty
Truth?
Rollison was turned sideways towards the man, and his own left arm and hand was towards the desk. Clipped about the forearm was that knife, unsheathed and at hand. He could move that arm slowly and cautiously, without being noticed. He didn’t move abruptly, but looked into the narrowed eyes of the man, who was short and dark-haired and swarthy, and yet in his way quite handsome. He had moved stealthily, and believed that he had taken Rollison completely by surprise.
That might make him over-confident and careless in what he said.
“So you’re a thief, Rollison.” That was sneered. Rollison didn’t answer.
“A thief found on the premises of a house he is robbing, how’s that for a story?” the man went on. Then he added viciously: “Who’ll be surprised that he was shot … dead.”
Rollison was flexing his arm gently, and he felt the handle of the knife at his wrist.
“Don’t move,” the other said. “I can shoot where it will hurt, or where it will be over quickly.”
He wasn’t English, but he hadn’t an accent like Zana’s. His voice was quite smooth, and his phrasing natural as if he had been used to speaking English for a long time. Rollison said: “Tell me just one thing.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Why are you so anxious to kill me?”
“That’s a poor attempt to make a fool of me” the man said, and his gun moved forward threateningly. “You know as well as I do.”
“I don’t know.”
“You know,” the other insisted, and then grinned: “Yon must know, but what a joke if you didn’t?” There was a moment’s pause before he added: “Stand up and face the wall.”
Rollison moved his fingers, and felt the handle again. The knife was free of its clip, now. He got a firm grip as he began to straighten up. He could believe that this man would shoot him in the back, felt sure that there would be no reprieve if he once turned round.
Death had never been closer.
“Get a move on?”
Rollison straightened up with a jerk, and flung the knife. He saw the flash of the steel in the fight, and saw the other start, saw his gun come up. Rollison darted to one side, and flung himself forward. He saw the knife stick into the man’s gun hand, and heard the sharp report of a shot. A bullet thudded into the floor as Rollison reached the man and carried him back; the gun fell, heavily.
He struck with all his power at the man’s chin, and his fist connected. As the man staggered back, Rollison stooped down and picked up his gun. It was a small automatic, the same size as the gun used to kill Beryl Ward and to shoot at Hugo Zana. He was breathing hard, but picked up the knife, clipped it on again, and didn’t lose any time stepping to the door.
He reached the front door and closed it again with the chair against it. There was a sound outside, as of someone staggering.
Rollison went back into the library, where the man he had hit was trying to pick himself up. He hadn’t a moment to spare, so he struck two powerful blows on the jaw; the stranger groaned as he collapsed.
Rollison lowered him, and hurried back to the front door.
It was still closed. He heard a sound of heavy breathing, and couldn’t understand it; it was almost as if someone was
trying to mystify him. He crept closer to the door, and as he did so, a man said in a clear, Cockney voice: “Strewth, you’re a weight, you are, wouldn’t like to ’ave to carry you to your coffin. Take it easy, chum, where’s yer key?”
That was Tiny Joe.
Rollison stepped forward very quietly, and stood the chair aside. The door swung open an inch or two, but Tiny Joe didn’t appear to notice that. He was supporting Charles Russell, and was so small that it looked as if he would collapse under the artist’s weight. It was hard to believe that he had carried Russell up the stairs, but the man was draped over his shoulder, and Joe was trying to insert a hand into one of Russell’s pockets.
“Don’t worry about the key, Joe,” said Rollison, “just walk in.”
Tiny Joe jerked up his head.
“Cor, strewth!” he ejaculated. “You didn’t ’arf give me a turn, I didn’t know anyone was waiting. Evening, Mr. Rollison, ’ow’s tricks?”
“They could be better. What happened?”
“To tell you the truth,” said Tiny Joe, straightening up and coming forward, while Rollison opened the door wide, “I don’t exactly know, and I’m afraid I’m for the ’igh jump when you ’ear about it. Mind you, my job was to watch Russell, and I did, didn’t I? But I’ve a notion you’d rather ’ave ’ad the lady back than Charley Boy.”
“Let’s hear it all,” Rollison said, and lifted Russell off the boxer’s shoulders. It was much more effort for him than for Joe. He went into the library, where the light was on, and lowered Russell into an armchair. Just behind this was the still unconscious dark-haired man, but Tiny Joe didn’t know that anyone else was there.
“Well, it was like this,” he said earnestly. “I was trying to ’ave eyes at the back of me ’ead, watchin’ back an’ front, so to speak. I knew there was a rozzer at the back and I didn’t see ’ow even a rozzer could let anyone escape from the back of that place. I’d ’ad a dekko, to see wot it was like. So I put my money on the front of the Orange Club. When Russell and Lady Maude didn’t turn up by nine, I said to myself, Tiny, I said, this is a rum do, this is. So I went to ’ave a look at the back. Cor lumme, wot a sight it was. There was the rozzer doubled up like a fresh-pickled corpse, and Russell sitting on a barrel and leaning against the wall as if he wouldn’t never see the night through. Groaning something awful, he was. So what did I do? I ’elped to bring him round, and when he was able to stand on ’is own two feet, I brought ’im away. I was going to ’phone the Yard, truly I was, but a coupla dicks came nipping rahnd just arter I’d gone, so I decided there was nothing to worry about, they knoo the worst. So I got me a cab. Cost me a quid,” added Tiny Joe, a little warily, “’ad to ’ave ’elp with Charley Boy, didn’t I? Said ’e was sozzled, and I sprinkled some whisky over ’im to make it smell right, good thing I carry a flask. I got ’im to the corner, but didn’t give the address away, my Ma always taught me to be careful. And ’ere we are, Mr. Rollison. But I don’t fancy carrying him up no more stairs.”
“No, I don’t suppose you do,” said Rollison, softly. “Very nice work, Joe, and it’ll be worth fifty pounds at least. Like to do something else for me?”
“Fifty?” echoed Tiny, and his small, almost midget face looked bewildered; then he broke into a broad grin. “I’ll run up and dahn stairs wiv’ ’im for a fiver a time, Mr. Ar!”
“I’ll help you into the bathroom with him, and you bring him round. When he’s round, let him do what he likes except leave the flat.”
“If you ask me, ’e’s ’ad a dose ’o knock-out drops,” said Tiny Joe, “but I’ll bring ’im rahnd if anyone can, Mr. Rollison, just got to bring me old ring technique into service. Goodness knows I ’ave to bring mesself rahnd often enough!” He grinned. “Don’t chew worry, I can manage.”
He hoisted Russell to his shoulders, as he might a pillow. Rollison went ahead, opened the bathroom door, and stood aside for him to pass. He saw that Russell’s eyelids were flickering; it wouldn’t be long before he had come round.
The dark-haired man was coming round, too.
Rollison went through his pockets, and had an unpleasant shock. Except for a few pound notes, some silver and some keys, there was nothing in them. The man had emptied his pockets, to make sure that nothing in them could give him away.
He began to groan.
Rollison sat him in a chair, and then went into the kitchen and came back with a big jug of water. He splashed the man’s face, and the eyes opened almost at once; he didn’t want any more of it. He tried to cringe away from Rollison, but couldn’t get far.
Rollison stood over him, massive and grim.
“Now we’ll see how it works on you,” he said roughly. “You’re the one who’ll be found dead if you don’t come across. Who do you work for?”
The man didn’t answer.
“Who do you work for?” Rollison stepped nearer, with his right fist clenched. “Why did you come here?” He was desperately anxious to ask where Maude was, but this man might not know that she had been kidnapped; if he didn’t, it would be folly to tell him yet! In ten minutes’ time, when he had been softened up, he could be asked about Maude.
Unless minutes mattered …
“I’ll give you one more chance before I start working on you,” Rollison said in a hard voice. “Let’s have the simple truth. Who do you work for?”
“Who—who’d you think I work for?” the man asked in a scared voice, and seemed to be looking over Rollison’s shoulder towards the door. “I work for Russell, don’t I? Russell’s the guy you want.”
Was the answer too slick?
Rollison said flatly: “I don’t believe you.”
“If you don’t believe me you’ll be crazy,” the man burst out. “We all worked for Russell; it was Russell who told Harrison to kill Beryl Ward; it was Russell who told me you and Lady M. were at the tea-shop, I passed it on to Holden. It was Russell who told me to fit that nitro-glycerine on your car. I wouldn’t have done it otherwise, but Russell—”
He broke off.
There was a short, sharp whistle from outside the room, and Rollison turned round abruptly, dropping his hand to his pocket for his automatic. But he didn’t draw it. The whistle was from Tiny Joe, and had been to warn him that Russell was on his feet again.
Russell stood in the doorway, holding on with both hands. His eyes were bloodshot, and his body sagged, but somehow he kept himself upright.
“There he is!” the little dark-haired man exclaimed. “He’s behind it all, he—”
“Rollison,” Russell said with an effort, “that’s—that’s a lie. I don’t know—”
“So it’s a lie,” the other screeched. “You going to deny you’ve been trying to ruin Zana? You trying to deny that because Zana took your girl away from you, you haven’t hated his guts? Why, you’re crazy! That’s what he is, Rollison, he’s crazy! I realised it soon after I started working for him, but I’d done too much by then. I couldn’t get away, or he would have stopped me.”
He stopped, but was gasping for breath.
Here it was, thought Rollison bleakly, the mixture as before. Every trick known was being used, even the excuse that a man committed crimes because he was under threat from another, unknown, man. It might be true, too.
Russell still clung to the door frame.
“Absolute—lie,” he managed to say. “I’ve never seen him before. I was in love with Rose Mary for a year, but she preferred Zana, because she thought Zana held the moneybags. Her mistake. But I got over that six months ago.”
“You got the nerve to say you haven’t seen me?” cried the dark-haired man. “Why, anyone could tell you that—”
He broke off.
Russell said in a steadier voice: “I don’t know why he’s doing it, but he’s lying, Rollison. If I was behind this thing, would I have sent for you? I made Zana come and see you. I made him tell the police, but they wouldn’t listen, so I told him that I thought you would. I told him what terms to put up, too. Does
it make sense that I’d do that if I had anything to do with it? I’d be inviting you to prove that I was a criminal.”
He stopped and looked as if he would fall. Tiny Joe moved, took his weight, and helped him into the room. Russell closed his eyes and shook his head slowly, as if to fight off the faintness; as soon as he was sitting down he seemed to get steadier.
“Why, you flipping liar,” the dark-haired man rasped, “You told me to set the dogs on Rollison tonight! You telephoned and told me that the man Higgs was outside the house at Hounslow, and what more did you do? You told me to set the dogs on him. And you told Harrison to kill Beryl, you—”
Russell made a physical effort which startled Rollison, and took the dark-haired man by surprise. He hauled himself to his feet, then flung himself at the man. Tiny Joe, who had retired to the doorway and was standing and watching, leapt forward to try to stop him, but was too late. Russell’s fists crashed into the other’s face, and he looked as if he would kill … as Zana would have killed.
“That’s enough,” Rollison said, and yanked him off. He crumpled, and would have fallen but for Rollison’s support. But he hadn’t wasted his time, for the dark-haired man’s nose was bleeding, and the man was cringing away.
Russell said flatly: “I don’t give a damn whether you believe me or not, Rollison. But find Maude. Understand? They took her away before I could stop them. I thought the police—” He didn’t finish, but closed his eyes, as if he was near collapse and despair. “The only thing that matters is finding her before—”
He broke off.
“Before what?” Rollison demanded.
Russell didn’t speak. He leaned back in his chair, with his eyes closed, and his face so pale that he looked near death. His hands were limp on the arms of the chair, his legs stretched straight out in front of him.
“Before what?” insisted Rollison.
“I don’t know,” Russell said in a low-pitched voice. “I can only tell you that I’m scared. I thought someone was simply trying to ruin Zana when it began, but a week ago I began to get worried. I couldn’t understand it. I tried to get in touch with two of the models who’d been with us a year ago, and left. They’d gone to Paris, according to what I was told, but—they never went to Paris. Or if they did I couldn’t find any trace of them. I went there to look, and visited all the places they were likely to go. They just hadn’t been there. I’ve told the police already.”