by John Creasey
By half past eleven he was in Hersham.
He drove slowly past Mr. Meer’s shop, and he saw the venerable antique dealer standing in the doorway of his shop, and smiling benevolently at the passing world. Rollison went into the post office, almost opposite, and watched Mr. Meer for nearly five minutes.
He was very thoughtful as he came out of the shop and drove towards Lowerby’s house.
From Mannering he had learned that Meer had been in Hersham for some three years, although he had spent much of his time in the South of France, where he fondly imagined that he was improving his health. There was nothing physically wrong with the man, but he was convinced that he was delicate. His main characteristics, as far as Mannering knew them, were generosity towards the poor, absent-mindedness, lack of will power, and a love of gossip. He was certainly not commercially minded.
The Toff, partly in consequence of that summary, wondered whether Mr. Meer did go to the South of France, and if he did whether it was because he was careful of his health.
Meer disappeared from his mind as he neared the pleasantly situated house of Dr. Vincent Lowerby. The house was ideal for a retired man of moderate means, a smallish place built within the past ten years, but on old-fashioned lines, helped by a delightful background of trees and gorse-covered hillsides. The Toff could not properly understand, however, why a practising doctor should select a house some three miles from the town itself. The nearest neighbour was nearly half a mile away.
He soon learned why.
Lowerby obviously practised a measure of vivisection, judging from the pens with rabbits, mice and guinea-pigs which were set up in the back garden. Vivisection often meant noise that neighbours did not approve of, but was that the only reason?
Rollison shrugged as he walked from his car, which he left in the road, along the short gravel drive to the front door. He rang the bell, to be answered by a middle-aged light-lipped woman who did not receive him with any warmth.
‘I’d like to see Dr. Lowerby at once, please.’ Incisiveness was obviously to be the method with her.
‘The surgery hours—’
‘The matter is important and private,’ said the Toff sharply. ‘Tell him I have a message from Mr. Chamberlain.’
The woman sniffed, and went into a room leading from the hall. A moment later she reappeared, to ask him to go in. Rollison entered – and Lowerby, dressed in a white smock as he sat at a big desk, started up in alarm.
‘Rollison, what—’
‘Wait until the door’s shut,’ said the Toff. The woman went out, sniffing audibly, and Lowerby gulped twice, revealing a prominent Adam’s apple. ‘Well, Lowerby, the time for fooling is over. I’ve come for a showdown.’
‘What—what are you talking about? I—’
‘Don’t be a fool,’ said the Toff, and he did not look amiable. ‘Chamberlain’s wanted for murder and the police are searching the whole country for him. Not only the murder of the tramp, but other, more crazy ones.’
‘I—I don’t understand—’
‘You understand all right,’ snapped the Toff. ‘You’ve got just a chance of coming clean, Lowerby, giving me the whole story of your association with Chamberlain. Oh, I know you distribute snow for him, I know you test the consignments he gets from abroad for strength, I know you dilute it when supplies aren’t free …’
He did not know.
But it was the obvious thing a doctor would do, and as he saw Lowerby’s expression he knew that it had hit the truth. He felt an inward exhilaration as he stepped towards Lowerby.
‘Not a nice thing for the police to learn, but better than being an accessory to murder. I—‘
Lowerby was crouching back, half on his chair, half standing. He looked away from the Toff, his tongue darting along his lip, and he looked towards the window.
Rollison did not know what he saw.
But it was obvious from his expression that someone – something – was there. And in that moment the Toff moved as fast as he had ever done in his life. He reached Lowerby, gripped the man’s right wrist and swung him round so that he was between the window and his visitor.
He heard a soft zutt! and he knew it was the noise of a silenced automatic.
He felt Lowerby’s body sag, heard the gasp that sprang to the doctor’s throat. He released the man and dropped to one knee behind the shelter of the desk, and as he went he saw Hi Ling outlined against the window, while two bullets hummed over his head.
Lowerby fell to the floor with a thud that shook the walls.
Hi Ling stepped swiftly to one side, but not swiftly enough, for the Toff fired from the end of the desk, and his bullet struck the Chinaman’s gun-arm. It all happened in a few seconds, the crisis which the Toff had deliberately precipitated, and less than a second more passed as he moved across the room and grabbed at Hi Ling before the Chinaman had recovered from the wound in his arm.
Hi Ling struggled, his lips set tightly, his eyes showing a malevolence that spelt murder.
‘Don’t waste your time,’ growled Rollison. ‘I knew that a visit here, alone, to Lowerby would bring results, and McNab will love to see you. I—’
He heard a crack! from somewhere not far off.
It was a sound unmistakable to the Toff ’s ears – that of a rifleshot. He knew in that moment that someone else was watching the house, and he flung himself to one side. But he need not have worried, for the bullet struck Hi Ling between the shoulder-blades and the Chinaman coughed sickeningly as he staggered forward.
Rollison stopped him from falling.
He was afraid of another shot, but none came as he lowered the wounded man to the ground. Hi Ling was coughing horribly, and there was a speckle of blood on his lips, but he was trying to speak. The Toff put his ear close to the twisted lips, but he heard only an incoherent muttering, and quite suddenly Hi Ling stopped moving.
Which meant that Hi Ling was dead.
With Lowerby.
Both men had been prevented from talking; neither man could ever give evidence.
Chamberlain was fighting a brutal battle to save himself, and Chamberlain was somewhere nearby.
The Toff stepped to a telephone, called the Hersham police and then put through a call to London, for in his mind there was an idea which he believed could and would finish Chamberlain completely.
Chapter Nineteen
Blow For Brendon
‘It’s all so damned silly,’ snapped Frank Brendon, ‘looking at a lot of empty houses in the hope of finding the one that Mr. Sanderson might have had in mind. Does Rollison expect him to have written his name on the front door?’
Jolly might have shown annoyance in different circumstances, but he restrained his feeling.
‘Hardly, sir. But I have known Mr. Rollison for a long time, and he rarely fails to have an excellent motive for everything he does. And, after all, we have seen only two houses. The third is quite near—I imagine that is the gate.’
It was the gate leading to Wyndham Manor, the gate through which James and Sylvia Sanderson had passed nearly a week before. It was looking as friendly and inviting as it had done to the Sandersons, and the surrounding countryside was as beautiful in the warmth of the June sun, the trees and shrubs that bordered the long drive were green and restful to the eye.
They came in sight of the house itself.
‘An excellent property,’ said Jolly in an almost professional manner. ‘I—’
‘What’s the matter with you?’ demanded Brendon.
‘It would appear to be empty,’ said Jolly precisely, ‘and the agents suggested that it was occupied, or at least let to a tenant on a short lease.’
‘Then what’s the use of coming?’ Mr. Sanderson wouldn’t be interested in an occupied house.’
‘No-o,’ said Jolly slowly. ‘It is unusual, sir, and Mr. Rollison believes in investigating the unusual.’ He pulled the car up outside the front entrance, and both men climbed out.
The windows were without curt
ains, and two panes of glass were broken. There was a vague air of dilapidation about it which told its own story – and Jolly wished that the Toff were with him instead of Brendon.
‘I’ll try the door, sir …’
He did so, but it was locked. The windows were fastened and the broken panes were set too high to be of service. Jolly interested himself in the lock of the front door while Brendon went towards the rear of the house, smoking, his hands deep in his pockets and a scowl on his forehead. In his heart he believed Rollison was trying to help him, but all the time there was a heavy weight of fear – fear for Sylvia and Sanderson.
He was sure he had seen Jim the previous day – but if he had, if Sanderson had had free entry into 29a Queen’s Road, then there was ample evidence that he was associated in Chamberlain’s vicious game.
Not a pleasing thought.
More by habit than in hope, he tried the handle of the back door, and he stood back startled when it opened. He hesitated for a moment, looking behind him to find that Jolly was not in sight, and then scowled and pushed the door wider open. He went through, and as he entered a small scullery he fancied that he heard the sound of movement ahead of him.
‘Anyone there?’
He did not know that he was experiencing just the same qualms as Sylvia had done six days before.
No answer came.
Brendon hesitated, and then pulled a second door wider open. It led to a kitchen, and on a deal-topped table was bread, butter, dirty crockery – and the smell of cigarette smoke. Brendon felt a flush of excitement course through his veins, and he turned to call Jolly.
He did not turn far.
For the third time in his life he saw Nigger Dougall. Nigger was just behind him, and he was not grinning. Brendon drew back, clenched his fists and prepared to rush at the giant, but he might as well have rushed at a brick wall. Dougall flung him back savagely, and then clouted the side of his head, making his ears ring, sending him off his balance. As he staggered the negro leapt at him again, and put one great hand over his mouth to prevent him shouting. Brendon retained consciousness for less than thirty seconds, for a vicious blow from a blackjack struck the back of his head.
Dougall stopped him falling and lifted him as easily as a normal man would have lifted a child. He kicked the door open with his foot, carried the unconscious youngster through the kitchen quarters and towards the stairs. As he began to mount the stairs, footsteps came from behind him.
He stopped, but Chamberlain’s voice reassured him.
‘All right, get him upstairs. I saw it.’
‘Okay,’ said Dougall. ‘Where’s Ling?’
‘Watching Lowerby,’ lied Chamberlain, who knew that Hi Ling was dead. He was carrying a rifle and he stood it in one corner. ‘Did Brendon come alone?’
‘I think so, Boss.’
‘All right; but do more than think in future.’ Chamberlain followed the negro up the stairs to an attic room, and outside a closed door Jaggers was sitting, opposite a little wizened man who might have been a brother of the fellow who had trapped Rollison at Queen’s Road. They were playing cards, but gathered them up as the newcomers arrived.
‘You got him?’ Jaggers exclaimed.
‘He was snooping around,’ Dougall said. ‘Open de door.’
The door opened, and from a camp-bed in one corner of the attic room a slight figure moved. Sylvia …
Sylvia stared at the negro, and bit her lips. She remembered with even greater vividness the horror of the moment, now nearly a week old, and she started to tremble. And then she saw Brendon.
‘Frank!’
The single word seemed to break a spell which had been on her since the visit to the house. She forgot everything in a sudden fear for him, and as Dougall lowered the youngster not gently into a chair she flew towards him and went on her knees.
‘Frank! Frank! …’
Dougall went out, and the door closed, the key turned in the lock. Chamberlain grinned.
‘That’s most of it, anyway. Brendon didn’t know enough to make Rollison dangerous now. We’ll get away with it, Dougall.’
‘Sure, sure; but how long’ll we be?’
‘A couple of days,’ said Chamberlain harshly. ‘Don’t you start getting worried about that. It’s going to work out. This is one place Rollison won’t find.’
‘Brendon did,’ snapped Dougall.
‘Surely, I know, but—’ Chamberlain broke off and hesitated. In the satisfaction of getting Brendon he had forgotten that Rollison might have sent the youngster here. He saw again that Dougall would present complications; Dougall knew a lot too much for his safety.
‘That’s okay,’ he said. ‘I can handle it all right, Dougall. You and Hi Ling won’t have to worry. I’ll be waiting on the next floor; you three can play cards. Don’t forget I’m expecting a visitor, but I’ll let him in. You three stay here.’
The men nodded, and Chamberlain went to a bedroom on the next floor, which was partly furnished. He stood by the window, looking over the drive. He was going through the affair as far as he could, recalling the long chain of circumstances that had started it. Nearly thirty years before, on an arid Australian plain, when he had committed murder …
Now he had the girl where she couldn’t talk; Brendon – who might have been dangerous; and Sanderson, who was dead. Chamberlain chuckled, but his expression altered when he caught a glimpse of something moving along the drive. At first all he could see was the glitter of the sun on a polished surface, but after a few seconds he saw and recognised the small car coming to the house.
He hurried downstairs.
Two minutes later he opened the door to admit the man whom Brendon had seen on the previous day – a man who looked for all the world like James Sanderson, particularly from a distance. Brendon would have recognised a difference at close quarters, and so would Sylvia. But casual acquaintances, and James Sanderson had few others, would take it for granted that it was the Australian.
The man like Sanderson smiled.
‘Howdy, Chamberlain. Things okay?’
‘Working well,’ said Chamberlain. ‘We’ve got all the real danger over. I can scram in twenty-four hours and you can take over. I won’t,’ he added meaningly, ‘be going far. Don’t kid yourself about that.’
‘Me and double-crossing don’t go together.’ The other man chuckled. ‘You don’t have to worry; you’ve got too much on me. Where’s the Chink?’
‘Where he can’t talk, and the nigger’s going that way soon. We’ll have a clean-up upstairs before we go; put them all right out. Brendon is there, the girl, Jaggers and that little runt Ling gave us for a caretaker. We’ll sit pretty, Matthews; it’s okay by us.’
‘That’s dandy. Seen more of Rollison?’
Chamberlain grinned.
‘He’s around, but that’s no worry. Lowerby’s out, too; we’ve had a good clean-up.’ The callousness of the words seemed natural, and the other man merely shrugged. ‘We just stay here,’ went on Chamberlain, ‘until later in the day.’
Matthews rubbed his chin. His likeness to Sanderson was uncanny, but his manner was altogether different.
‘I wish Rollison was looked after. Can’t you work it?’
Chamberlain hesitated.
‘There’s maybe one way. Yes, one way. I’ll try, Matthews—it’s safe enough to try, anyway.’
‘There is no doubt about it at all, sir,’ said Jolly. ‘Brendon completely disappeared, and a few minutes afterwards I saw Chamberlain enter the house. I had been fortunate enough to leave the car where he could not see it as he approached from the rear, and as soon as he was out of sight I coasted down the drive, which has a slight decline, and was able to start the engine out of sight and earshot of the house.’
‘It’s our spot,’ said Rollison slowly. ‘No doubt about it. And we need to move fast, Jolly. And if the gang’s there, or what’s left of it, we need men. In a hurry.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Rollison said: ‘Joll
y, this game of cricket today is going to be interrupted. It’s been started half an hour, and Mannering’s in the field, but he’ll come out. Telephone the police—Dawbury’s the man you want—and tell him I’m sending the cricketers to Wyndham Manor, all armed with guns of some kind—Mannering has a gunroom full—with instructions to cover all possible exits. That means we won’t be working unofficially. You might even say that it is Sir George’s idea.’
‘An excellent one, sir, if I may—’
‘Get to the phone.’ The Toff hurried towards the cricket field, seeing the white-flannelled figures moving slowly across at the end of an over, and he startled them with a cry that made every eye turn his way. Mannering glared.
‘Sorry,’ said Rollison. ‘Gather round, folks—’
‘Rollison, this is going too far!’
‘And I’ve hardly started. George, half a dozen more or less of the tramp murderers, plus young Brendon, possibly plus the girl, are at Wyndham Manor. Suggest that you put a shotgun or a rifle into each man’s hand and fling a cordon round the place. No one to go in or out. I’ve told Dawbury,’ he added cheerfully, ‘that it was your idea.’
‘Good Gad!’ gasped Mannering. ‘I—Rollison, it’s a stroke of genius! I—’ He turned sharply to the others. ‘This might be dangerous, but all who will help …’
A moment later twenty-two white-clad men hurried towards the gun-room at the Ridings, with Mannering at their head. Rollison was with him as far as the door, and then said: ‘No one in, no one out, old man. I’ll be along soon.’
‘What? Aren’t you coming?’
‘No; I want to talk with Mr. Meer,’ said the Toff. And he lifted a hand and hurried away.
Chapter Twenty
Of Mr. Meer
Mr. Augustus Meer had been out most of the morning, but when the bell at his shop door rang he was in the gloomy recesses and apparently working on some figures. He hurried forward, paused when he saw a tall man enter the shop, and spoke affably.