by John Creasey
Russell stopped.
The dark-haired man said: “He pretends not to know, but he knows. I tell you he gave me instructions; he ordered Beryl to be killed, who—”
He broke off in the middle of a sentence, then jumped up and leapt towards the door. Tiny Joe had come further inside the room, and Rollison was closer to Russell.
The man wanted just one thing: to get away.
Chapter Twenty-One
Empty Night
Tiny Joe, on the other side of the room, seemed not to have noticed what the prisoner was doing. But as the man reached his feet, Joe moved as swiftly as Rollison had ever seen a human being move. He reached the doorway ahead of the prisoner, then went for him with both fists. The rain of blows was quite merciless, and the victim cowered back, covering up as best he could, trying to get away from the awful strength in those spindly-looking arms.
Rollison grabbed Tiny Joe.
“Don’t stop me, just let me—”
“All right, Joe,” said Rollison. “Bill Ebbutt asked me to make sure you didn’t damage your hands, but I won’t worry whether you damage your hands or his face. Just wait a minute.” He shot out a hand and gripped the prisoner by the lapels of his coat, and held him upright. “Now you know what will happen to you if I let him loose,” he said. “In or out of the ring, he’s a killer. Who do you work for?”
“Russell!”
“I don’t believe you. Why——”
“If you don’t believe me, ask Rose Mary; she’ll tell you who frightened the life out of her! Or ask Zana; he’ll tell you that he’s been worried about Russell for a long time. It wasn’t Russell who made him come to you; he came because Russell had kidnapped Rose Mary. Zana didn’t want anything to happen to her. And if you still don’t believe me, go and see for yourself. You wanted to know where the Dennison girl is—well, I’ll tell you. She’s on Russell’s yacht. He keeps it at Richmond; you won’t have far to go. He keeps the dogs there, too. You’d better wear some armour.” Russell was on his feet again.
“It’s a damned lie, Rollison. Maude isn’t there, and the dogs—”
He broke off.
He closed his eyes again, and dropped back into his chair, as if the effort of speaking had been too much for him.
The other man sneered: “Who’d you want to believe: him or me? Why, I took the Dennison girl away tonight, and came here to report to him. And he says that I don’t work for him! Don’t believe me, though, just go and see for yourself.”
Rollison said very softly: “Russell, what about it? Still deny that you told this man to kidnap Maude?”
“Yes, of course I do,” muttered Russell. “If I didn’t feel so muzzy I’d come down with you and help you look. Why the hell should I do anything like this? Why—”
He broke off.
There were footsteps on the stairs, heavy and clear, and a moment later the outer door opened; Rollison heard the chair moving to one side again. There was something very deliberate about the approaching men, and although he dropped his hand to his pocket again, Rollison did not think that there would be any need to use his gun.
He was right.
Grice stepped into the hall, followed by Detective Sergeant Morgan.
Grice took one glance round at the four people in the room, then looked straight at the dark-haired man and said: “So you got him, Rolly.”
“Got who?”
“Don’t pretend that you don’t know,” said Grice in a bluff voice. “This is Benjamin Allen. I found his photograph in an album at Beryl Ward’s flat. Neighbours at Hounslow are quite sure: he’s the man who calls himself Allen. He had the dogs there, and was there this afternoon. All we want to know is who employs him.”
“Perhaps you’ll listen to reason, Rollison won’t,” said Benjamin Allen viciously. “There’s the Boss. Russell. I’ve done everything on his orders. And the Dennison girl is at his yacht, all cosy with his man-eating dogs. If you don’t believe me, why don’t you go and see?”
Rollison went down the stairs and into the street. The night air was chilly and there were no stars. A freshening wind blew from the corner, and was welcome against his forehead. Tiny Joe had come down ahead of him, and was standing by Lady Gloria’s car. Two uniformed men and one in plain clothes were standing about, too. Grice, who had stayed behind for another word with Russell, came hurrying after Rollison, and when they met he drew Rollison out of earshot of the others.
“Charged Russell?” asked Rollison bleakly.
“I’ve asked him to go to the Yard for questioning, and he’s agreed,” said Grice. “That’s as far as I want to go at the moment. I’ve charged Allen, of course. I can tell you one or two other things.”
“What?”
“Allen and the man Harrison are really brothers. The man Holden is a cousin.”
“All in the family,” Rollison said heavily.
“Beryl Ward was married to Allen, but left him two or three months ago,” Grice said. “We don’t know exactly why, but neighbours say she suddenly became very nervous and edgy. She left Allen and went to this flat where she was eventually murdered. She seldom left the place, just stayed there as if she was frightened of being seen. As far as I can trace, she didn’t go back to Heath View until this past week-end. Rose Mary saw her there.”
Rollison said: “I wonder what made her go back. Not that it makes much difference now. What about going to Richmond?”
“We’re going at once. I’m sending for a search-warrant for the yacht.”
“Do you think Allen told the truth?” Rollison asked sharply.
“You mean do I think Allen is fooling us by sending us on a wild-goose chase out to Richmond while Lady Maude’s being taken somewhere else?”
“That’s what I mean.”
“I suppose it’s a fifty-fifty chance,” conceded Grice. “We can’t do any more in a general sense than we are doing, anyhow. But before we head for Richmond – I can call for squad cars on the way, and get some Surrey police on the spot, too – there are two other things for you.”
“More trouble?”
“It could be.” Grice was speaking flatly, as if of something he hated to admit. “We made a thorough search of the house at Hounslow. There isn’t much doubt that Allen knew that Higgs had spotted Rose Mary there, and knew Higgs had telephoned you. That’s why Higgs was attacked and why the men ran away from the house. They destroyed most things, but there were some that they didn’t destroy and which we’ve found.”
“Let it come.”
“We found one or two oddments belonging to the models who’ve left Zana over the past twelve months, and were supposed to have gone abroad,” said Grice bleakly. “The initials in several monograms make it clear. Compacts, cigarette lighters, that kind of thing. No doubt about it. So we had a look round the grounds.”
Rollison caught his breath: “No.”
“Yes,” said Grice. “You obviously suspected something like it. We’ve found three bodies in advanced stages of decomposition, each of a young woman. No doubt about the identity of one of them: she wore a ring. Zana’s models didn’t go abroad.”
The night seemed very cold.
“And Maude Dennison might be murdered, too,” Rollison said at last, and his lips seemed stiff. “What have we struck, Bill? Some monster–”
“That’s the word,” Grice growled. “Now let’s go to Richmond. I’ll have Russell’s yacht surrounded at a safe distance so that no one on board suspects that we’re on the way, and no one will be able to get away.”
“River watched, too?”
“Yes,” said Grice, and got into his car. A driver was already at the wheel. Grice lifted the radio walkie-talkie and gave instructions to the Yard. Rollison heard every word, knew that Grice was leaving nothing undone, and yet … was it possible that they would be in time?
That depended on why Maude had been kidnapped.
That also depended on what had happened to the dead models: whether they had been murdered, and if
so, why.
They drove through the empty night.
There was not much traffic even near London, and few lights. It was a little after midnight, and this might be a city of sleep, or a city of the dead. Rollison sat at the back of Grice’s car, and tried to think clearly. It wasn’t easy, because his thoughts were so confused by Rose Mary. She was safe now, but—why?
Some of the models had been kidnapped and were dead.
Why had Rose Mary Bell been left alive?
That question was in his mind all the time, but there was another, deeper, fiercer. Where was Maude? Was she at the yacht?
Was she still alive?
Rollison thought over everything he knew, time and time again. He felt sure that the police would not be able to shake Benjamin Allen’s story. If Allen could give evidence to condemn Russell he would; just as Harrison had been eager to give evidence which would have damned him, the Toff.
Rollison wanted to believe Russell.
He liked Russell.
He could not see why a man who would inherit millions, to whom money did not matter at all, should do what Benjamin Allen had accused him of doing.
There was the ugly question: Why?
In all that he had seen and heard, Rollison was sure there was a clue which would lead to the answer. At moments it seemed like a word on the tip of his tongue, which he had only to find. At others, all that he had heard, all the contradictory evidence, all the gruesome facts which Grice had told him, seemed to point to nowhere.
Why had anyone lured those models to the Hounslow house and killed and buried them?
Why had Rose Mary been left alive?
Was Maude still alive?
They swept through the silent streets until they reached a road where street lamps shimmered on the dark surface of the Thames. Grice’s driver slowed down. The car turned right, towards a narrow road which led to riverside bungalows, each with its little jetty, and to several large houses and to a river yacht club. Rollison did not know where Russell’s yacht was moored.
He said abruptly: “Do you know if Zana’s still at his flat?”
“As far as I know. Just before I left I had your message from Lady Gloria and sent a man to Zana’s place. Why?”
“I’d like to be sure he’s safe in bed.”
Grice said: “Wait a minute.” The car had slowed down, and a man appeared out of the shadows, coming close and saluting as the car stopped. Grice wound down his window. “Everything quiet here?”
“Yes, sir,” the man said, “and we’ve confirmed that a man went on board tonight with a girl, but don’t know whether they’re still on board or not.” The speaker seemed to sniff. “Not exactly unheard of along here, sir, these days.”
“Or any days,” Grice said. “Any reports of dogs?”
“Some Alsatians often go aboard one of the yachts, but we haven’t been able to find out which one,” the Richmond policeman said. “Haven’t had long.”
“No. Is Russell’s yacht surrounded?”
“Yes. One thing’s certain, sir: no one can get away from there, even if they swim,” the man said confidently. “Superintendent Fison’s handled it in person.”
“Fine,” said Grice. “Thanks.” He switched on the walkie-talkie and said: “Hallo, Information Room? Superintendent Grice here. Is there any word from Hugo Zana’s apartment? … There is? … Yes, put him on.”
Rollison sat tensely in the gloom. Nearby the dark water rippled, and he could hear its gentle whisper. The lights reflecting on the surface were some way behind. He could just make out the shape of two small boats, close to the bank, one near, one across the river. Soon he was able to make out the shape of men in them: these would be the police, making sure that no one swam past here, or came in a dinghy.
Was Maude here?
Why had Rose Mary been allowed to escape alive?
Grice was listening intently, and then suddenly turned and looked at Rollison.
“Zana’s still there,” he said abruptly. “The forewoman, Mitzi Henkel, left him some time ago, looking very agitated. My man has no idea where she went.”
“I don’t see that it helps,” said Rollison. “Mitzi always gets the rough edge of Zana’s tongue, I gather. Anything else?”
“No one’s gone aboard Russell’s yacht in the past three-quarters of an hour, sir,” the Richmond man declared. “You can take that for gospel.”
“No reason to assume anyone will come here,” Grice said. “And anyone going aboard will be challenged as well as anyone coming away. I–”
He broke off.
The policeman jumped at a new and unexpected sound just along the river bank. Rollison felt himself go tense, and the sound came again.
It was a dog, barking on a loud, fierce note.
“That’s from Russell’s yacht,” the Richmond man breathed. “It’s moored by itself; that can’t be coming from anywhere else.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Quiet
The dog barked again.
There was nothing ferocious in the sound, but the deep roar told the waiting men how big a beast it was. Rollison got out of the car and went to the edge of the parapet. He could just make out the white shape of the yacht which was moored by itself a little way down the river. There were no lights on board, but the barking came from there.
Suddenly the barking stopped.
They waited, tensely, expecting more; but it did not come.
Rollison said: “Someone went aboard, and the dogs welcomed him.”
“It’s impossible!” the policeman exclaimed. “I just don’t believe—”
He broke off. Another man came up on a bicycle, tyres whirring on the gravel, the only noise in the quiet. This man dismounted close to the car, and came up smartly.
“Mr. Grice, sir?”
“Yes.” Grice was also standing by the side of the car.
“Message from Superintendent Fison, sir. A person has just climbed aboard the Flinden III. Both approaches have been covered, sir, as well as the jetty, and no one was seen to approach, but this person climbed on board. It was just possible to see him, sir. That’s what disturbed the dogs.”
The other Richmond man was saying under his breath: “It’s impossible.”
It had happened.
Grice wasn’t the man to lose his temper, but he was hard-voiced as he said: “I’d like to know how he managed to slip through. Where is Superintendent Fison?”
“At a small boat opposite the Flinden III. He asked me whether you would care to join him, or whether he should come and see you, sir.”
“I’ll come along—” Grice began.
Rollison said sharply: “Don’t!” He was standing very straight and staring across the water at the yacht. “Don’t!” he repeated. “Bill, get everyone off the water. Tell Fison to get out of that boat, too. Send everyone well away from Russell’s yacht, the farther away the better. Warn other people in yachts or houseboats nearby.”
“What the hell’s got into you?” demanded Grice. “If we do that—”
“Do it,” Rollison urged. “You know what’s been done already; you know how they nearly turned me into little pieces. If I’d been blown up, dozens of others might have been. If they’ve nitro-glycerine to spare for a job like that, they’ll have it for this.”
“There’s no reason at all to believe—” began Grice.
“No reason,” Rollison barked. “Just logic. Bill, we were sent here. You didn’t like it and I didn’t like it, but that’s what happened. We came here because Allen deliberately told us to come. He’d know that we would take every precaution, and yet he told us about the yacht. Now, someone’s gone aboard. There was only one way: to swim under water for a hundred yards out of sight of your men. That’s what happened. There isn’t any other way.”
“You may be right,” Grice conceded tautly.
“One thing’s certain,” Rollison said. “They meant to kill me. From the time I started on this job they decided that. I’m here. A
llen knew I’d come, and whoever employs him knew I would come, so we can be pretty sure that I was the victim. For God’s sake get everyone away.”
“You must have taken leave of your senses,” Grice exclaimed. “If Lady Maude is on board the yacht—”
“I’m going to find out,” Rollison said. “Bill, there isn’t much time. Curse me afterwards if I’m wrong, but get everyone away.” He moved towards the river, taking off his coat.
Grice moved.
“If you’re right, you can’t save her,” he said, and gripped Rollison’s arm.
The listening men stared at him in the dim light, most of which was reflected from the dark surface of the Thames. Now there was hardly a sound except the lapping water; it was so quiet here.
“Bill, this is my job,” Rollison insisted. “Get your chaps away, and let me go.”
“I’ll get the men away,” Grice said, “but you’re not throwing your life away.” He moved, Rollison felt something cold on his wrist, and heard a sharp click.
Grice had handcuffed himself to Rollison, who could not get away.
The police were withdrawn quickly, and in five minutes the small boats were some distance away from the Flinden III, and Fison and two other men were out of their boat. Two families had been evacuated from houseboats. Grice, Rollison and two Yard men, still within sight of Russell’s yacht, were standing by. The handcuffs still held Rollison to Grice. The seconds ticked by. A long way off a clock boomed one. It was like a death-knell, and far away though it was, the booming note reverberated.
“If they’ve slipped away—” Grice began.
Then the explosion came.
It filled the night with awful suddenness, although Rollison had been expecting it for so long. It set his teeth on edge. It turned the night into day in one great white flash, and in this light they could see the water, churning to wild fury, the trees, the shapes of boats and yachts, the bungalows, the wooden jetties. It showed up the bungalows on the other side of the river, and in front of their eyes one of them suddenly broke into pieces, as huge debris from the yacht struck it. Now debris was crashing into the water, great spouts were sent up, the lapping at the sides became a surging, tumultuous wave which smashed above the banks, swept almost waist high at Rollison and Grice, and shifted the car several feet. Men cried out in this mighty deluge, while the light had vanished; the darkness seemed greater now. The river seethed and hissed, even when the last of the debris had fallen. Then, suddenly, there was light; light in the yacht, deep red and angry, where the fire had taken a hold down below, and fire in some of the bungalows.