by John Creasey
‘He was murdered last night, sir,’ said Allen.
Rollison strolled to the edge of the gardens, which led to the top of the cliffs, through a wicket gate and then along the cliffs. The little sandy bays and inlets looked perfect in the sunshine. Two small yachts, white sails moving like patches of snow against the blue, sailed sluggishly across the bay – one of them disappearing beyond the promontory where the current was so dangerous. Below, a few families were gathered on the sands with their children; this was an isolated spot, and only the discerning came here. He turned a corner and the hotel was out of sight.
He stood watching the horizon.
Superimposed upon it, there seemed to be the round, pale, and freckled face of Harry Keller, alias Eddie Marvel – with the sandycoloured hair and the innocent, baby-blue eyes. Then over that there came another picture – in which the sandy hair was smothered with blood, for Eddie-Harry’s head had been battered and his throat cut.
Allen had told Rollison all that he would be likely to find in the evening papers; nothing more. At Hexley, a small village on the coast thirty-two miles from this spot, Eddie-Harry’s body had been found at six-fifteen that morning. He had been seen in the village inn, where he had booked a room, at half past eight on the previous night, and had died about an hour later. That explained Allen’s disappointment over Rollison’s story, because if the girl had been with him at half past eight, she couldn’t have been at Hexley.
He didn’t know why the police had suspected that she might know something of the murder. There were many things he didn’t know – the police, as represented by the stolid Allen, would keep much to themselves. But he did know one thing; had he been anyone but Richard Rollison, Allen would have doubted his story.
He might still doubt it; might think that Rollison was protecting Marion-Liz, for reasons of his own.
Rollison didn’t feel sorry for Eddie-Harry; the man had been a nasty piece of work. It was easy to believe that he had drawn the girl into his racket – if Rowse’s story about her were true, then she would have been ripe for that. Was there any reason why Rowse should lie?
He could see none.
Why had Eddie-Harry been murdered?
It didn’t matter to Rollison, nothing in the case was of interest; Marion-Liz was a nice girl gone wrong, but she had her eyes wide open. He was not a reformer, there was no reason why he should exert himself for her, offer Reginald Rowse advice, or stir himself out of the laziness which was induced by this lovely spot. London in an August heat-wave would be abominably hot; he had no business to beckon him, he was on holiday. Let it stay that way. Forget—
‘Rolly!’
He swung round.
Marion-Liz, fifty yards away, came hurrying. She was carrying a suitcase, wearing a light coat over her linen dress, her lips were parted as if she were out of breath.
‘Rolly, will you help me?’
‘Now what? Running away?’
‘Yes, I can’t stand that man Rowse. He’ll hang about all the time I’m here and make a nuisance of himself. I must go. I slipped out of the back way, and he didn’t notice me. If you would help—’
Was she running from Reggie Rowse or from the police? Could she have any reason for wanting to run from the police because of Eddie-Harry’s murder?
‘How can I help?’ Rollison asked.
‘Take me to the station. My other case is in the room, packed. I’ve left some money in an envelope, to pay the bill – I’m not welshing. Rowse won’t know you’ve my case in the car. I can walk from here to the cross-roads, and you can pick me up there. Will you?’
He could say no.
‘It’ll take me twenty minutes or more, you needn’t hurry,’ he said.
‘Bless you!’ cried Marion-Liz.
He smiled and walked off, moving fast without appearing to hurry. Scepticism came up and walked by his side, but he didn’t discuss the situation with it. The girl went on, still burdened by the suitcase. He sauntered towards the hotel, and went in the back way. From the landing window, he saw Rowse walking about the rose-garden, and then moving towards the yew-hedge – where he could see the girl’s window.
Marion-Liz’s case was ready; an envelope addressed to Proctor was on the dressing-table. He opened it; there were ten pound notes inside. He sealed it again, took the case and went downstairs – and met Proctor coming out of the office.
Proctor’s eyes fell on the case.
Rollison smiled.
‘Yes, it’s Miss Lane’s. She’s leaving. You’ll find everything you want on the dressing-table, and if it’s short, call on me. Don’t talk about it yet.’
He took his car from the thatched garage and drove through a beech-copse towards the cross-roads. His gaze roamed over the oddments in his dashboard pocket, and he frowned; a knife was missing. It was an all-purpose knife with one stout cutting blade and several tools, too large to carry in his pocket.
Someone had taken a fancy to it.
It annoyed him, but he pushed the thought out of his mind, for Marion-Liz stood on the grass verge near the cross-roads, beauty against the green of oak and hawthorn, her eyes bright when he drew up. She sat beside him, as he put the case in the back. She didn’t glance right or left, and Rollison didn’t appear to; but he saw the man among the trees.
It wasn’t Rowse.
It wasn’t Inspector Allen, but it was probably a detective, watching the girl.
V
LONDON
Rollison neared the station. A few cottages were grouped about it, but there was hardly a village worthy of the name. He pulled up outside the little booking-office.
‘Have you a ticket?’
‘Yes. Rolly, thanks. For everything. Don’t lecture me.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it. Did you know that I’m a prison visitor?’
‘They’ll never send me to prison.’
‘They will, Liz,’ he said lazily, ‘if you go on as you are.’
‘I’d kill myself first,’ she said. Then words poured out of her, hastened because a train was rumbling in the distance. An old porter with drooping moustache came up and Rollison motioned him away. ‘I expect Rowse told you something about it. I hate the police, the law – people! My father was as good a man as you’d find anywhere, and he’s living in hell. Hell!’ she repeated fiercely. ‘When he comes out, I’m going to have a decent home for him, and I’m going to make plenty of money. He’ll never be in want. That’s all there is to it, you can’t stop me, Rowse can’t stop me.’
She opened the door and jumped out.
Rollison drove to London. It was worse than he had feared. Heat rose from the pavements and the roofs, sticky, oppressive – threatening thunder that wouldn’t come. Londoners drooped, the women in flimsy cotton dresses, a few of the men in sensible linen coats, but most in suits which were much too hot and heavy. A few daringly carried their coats over their arms, but looked as hot as the others. Taxi-drivers were in their shirt-sleeves, commissionaires outside the hotels could hardly have been hotter in Turkish Baths, but kept on their thick uniforms. The parks were crowded with people seeking the air.
All this Rollison saw when, a little after six o’clock, he turned off Piccadilly and drove to Gresham Terrace. His flat was on the top floor of Number 22g. The houses in the terrace were tall, narrow, and grey-faced; they had neither the beauty of the Regency nor the ugliness of the worst Victorian period; they were just houses, approached by two steps and with an area in front of each. He went upstairs slowly. He wore Palm Beach suiting, and could not have been dressed more suitably, but the heat gathered on the staircase and in the passages – it was like walking through steam. He took out his keys as he reached the front door.
His man, Jolly, was away; and would be away for another week. That was at Rollison’s insistence, because Jolly had worked with few holidays for far too long. He had gone with some reluctance to spend a month at the sea with relatives whose children called him Uncle.
Jolly, at home, wo
uld have had the door open before Rollison reached it; Jolly made the home. Rollison slid the key in and stepped inside. The flat seemed hotter than the landing – all the windows were closed and the blinds drawn. He took off his coat and made a quick tour of the rooms, pulling up the blinds and opening the windows wide; it didn’t make the slightest difference.
The flat had been empty for nearly two weeks; there was dust everywhere, a thin film that would have shocked Jolly. But it was perfectly tidy. In the living-room, which he used for a study, Rollison stood contemplating the wall behind the large walnut pedestal desk; and he smiled faintly. On that wall were the trophies of his hunting – and the most precious prize was a hangman’s noose, which had hanged a murderer whom he had helped to catch.
Such a noose would hang Eddie-Harry’s murderer.
Would it?
There were too many unsolved murders, and it was no one’s fault. The Yard was overworked and under-staffed; while that was so, there would continue to be too many unsolved murders. He didn’t know whether the Yard experts had been consulted by the Devon police; if they hadn’t, they soon would be, because they could give a lot of information about Harry Keller.
He turned away from the trophy wall, poured himself a drink – as always, Jolly had left whisky and soda on a table, ready for him to help himself if he should come back unexpectedly. Rollison left the door leading into the small hall open; and could see the letter-box.
There was a note in the wire cage beneath the box. Yet his post had been sent on.
He took his drink with him when he went to the door. It was a square, cream-laid envelope, and his name was scrawled in pencil: Mr. Rollison – Urgent. He tore it open. There was no way of telling whether it had been delivered by hand the first day he’d left or a few hours ago.
Inside was a single sheet of folded paper and a scrawled message – in an easy, flowing hand.
Mr. Rollison, I must see you, it’s urgent. You’ll find me at Benny Low’s. You know me. Don’t forget the Hexley pub and our Liz, will you. And don’t make any mistake, I mean business. H. Keller.
Rollison glanced at the message again, then walked into the living-room and dropped it on to the desk. Until then, there had been logic in most of what had happened; there was none in this. The problem was to find out when it had been delivered? Surely not before Eddie-Harry had gone to Devon, he could have had a word with Rollison there without difficulty; that suggested it had been dropped in after Eddie-Harry had left the hotel and—obviously!—before he had returned to Hexley, a blunt instrument and a knife.
Yet Eddie-Harry had known he was in Devon. Why should he have to come here? The telephone bell rang.
That startled Rollison; everyone likely to call knew that he was out of town. The bell kept ringing. The pencilled message stared up at him from the paper, which was smeared as with damp fingers. That was another indication of the time it had been delivered; according to the newspapers, the heat-wave had hit London on Sunday, until then the sun had stayed in the south-west. Yet when this had been written, it had been sticky hot, and Eddie-Harry or the writer hadn’t worried about leaving fingerprints. The bell kept ringing.
He strolled across to the telephone, which was on a corner of the desk, and lifted the receiver.
‘Rollison here.’
‘This is Scotland Yard. Just a moment, Mr. Rollison, please. Superintendent Grice would like a word with you.’
So the Yard hadn’t lost much time in discovering that he was back in London.
VI
ACCUSATION
Rollison knew Grice well, but could never be sure what line the Superintendent would take. They were friends; at times close friends, although at others relations were somewhat strained. It was true that the Yard occasionally consulted Rollison; but Marion-Liz had omitted to add that more often than not he worked without them, and as often angered the Powers That Be.
He held the line for several seconds, sitting on the edge of the desk swinging his leg.
Grice said, ‘Rolly?’
‘Hallo, Bill.’
‘When did you get back?’
‘Ten minutes ago.’
‘Stay there, will you?’ said Grice. ‘I want a word with you.’
He rang off.
Rollison put back the receiver, rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and picked up Eddie-Harry’s note again. If ever there were a case for telling the police everything he knew, this was it.
There was not the remotest reason why he should play poker with Grice or sell a dummy to the police. It was all open and above board – and yet the pencilled note introduced a faintly disturbing element.
His lips quirked as he dropped the note and dialled Scotland Yard, asked for Grice, and held on. Grice was still in his office.
‘Yes?’
‘Bring me a present, Bill, will you?’
‘Don’t fool, I’m in a hurry.’
‘Never more serious. I just want a set of Harry Keller’s fingerprints.’
’What?’
‘You heard,’ said Rollison.
He put the receiver down and went out of the room, through the kitchen and into Jolly’s bedroom. This had been partitioned off, so that Jolly’s sleeping-quarters were little more than a cubicle. Beyond the wooden partition, installed at Jolly’s earnest request, was a small laboratory, and even a tiny darkroom, for Jolly was a devoted camera fiend and also loved to dabble in criminology. Here was a microscope, tiny filing cabinets for keeping specimens, magnifying-glasses, a few simple chemicals – a laboratory in miniature, but everything was good. Rollison opened a drawer in a small bench beneath the window, and took out a bottle of grey powder and a camel-hair brush. He went back to the living-room, and brushed grey powder over the prints on the pencilled note.
The prints showed up clearly.
He blew the loose powder away, went back to his drink and lit a cigarette – and the telephone bell rang again.
‘Now, Bill,’ he said reprovingly, and went across and lifted the receiver.
‘Rollison here.’
‘Rolly! You’re back!’ cried Marion-Liz. There was only one voice quite like that.
‘And I had a nice journey, too,’ said Rollison cheerfully. ‘A little company would—’
‘Roily, listen. I’m in terrible trouble, and you are too.’
‘I’m often in trouble.’
‘But this time it’s deadly,’ she said, and caught her breath. ‘They think you and I killed Harry Keller. I’ve just been interviewed by the police, they as good as said I was lying about last night, and that means they think you’re lying too. Rolly, be careful.’
‘Don’t worry, Liz.’
‘I can’t help worrying. Murder is …’ She caught her breath. ‘They can’t prove that I did what I didn’t do, can they?’
‘They won’t seriously try.’
‘Listen, Rolly,’ she said desperately, ‘you mustn’t make light of this. They mean business. I could kill myself for having got you into such a mess. If you hadn’t helped me and tried to give me a good time, it wouldn’t have happened. Tell them—tell them everything.’
‘About what?’
‘About me. What I told you. I—I don’t see any other way out. They probably know about me, anyhow, and probably guess you do, too. I think that little rat Keller must have squealed. But don’t get yourself into trouble because of me, I shall be all right.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Never mind.’
‘Liz,’ said Rollison, ‘I want to know where you are, and I want you to stay there. No more running away. If you do a flit, the police will really have reason to think you’re mixed up in this. Understand?’
‘They’ll never catch me,’ Marion-Liz said, and rang off.
Rollison put the receiver down, looked at the trophy wall. Small automatic pistols which were deadly, phials of poison securely locked in small cabinets fitted with toughened glass windows, cracksman’s tools, ingenious weapons of all kinds – and all
used in cases on which he had worked. Murder was not new to him. Above all the other trophies was a top hat with a bullet hole in the crown. He touched his forehead to that – and the front-door bell rang.
It was Grice.
Superintendent William Grice was a tall, well-built, rangy man, with a bony face and square shoulders. He had a sallow complexion, brown eyes, and wore a brown suit; his hair was brown where it wasn’t turning grey. His skin had a peculiar clearness, almost transparency, stretching tightly across his nose. There two little white ridges showed at the bridge, as if there weren’t enough skin and it had been stretched to make do. His hair was sleek and brushed straight back from his forehead, with a centre parting. On the right side of his face and temple was an ugly scar; Rollison had been with him when he had been gravely wounded in an explosion.
He was a quiet man, by nature, but could be brisk and aggressive.
‘Drink, Bill?’ asked Rollison.
‘No, thanks.’ Grice seldom drank alcohol. ‘What the devil have you been doing?’
‘Having a nice restful holiday.’
‘Don’t try to pull that one,’ said Grice, standing with his back to the trophy wall. ‘I wondered why you’d decided to go down to that out-of-the-way spot on your own, I thought there was something behind it. You’ve got yourself mixed up with a pretty fine bunch.’
‘Accidental, Bill.’
Grice raised a hand impatiently.
‘Rolly, listen to me. I know you pretty well, and I know you can’t keep out of a nice little mystery. I know you do everything you can to help us, but cheerfully lead us up the garden while you’re doing it. I usually give you all the rope I can, because I’m fool enough to believe in your goodwill and that kind of nonsense, but there are limits. You told Allen that you were with the girl all Wednesday night. You weren’t.’
‘But I was, Bill.’
‘Nonsense!’
This wasn’t like Grice; nothing in the way he was behaving was like Grice. His agitation was only just beneath the surface, and must have a deep-rooted cause. ‘I want to know the truth about last night. How long were you with Elizabeth Lane? Did you let her use your car? Just what time was she away from you? The whole truth, and let me have it fast.’