by John Creasey
Rollison said: “Now be reasonable! I gave you good warning. I don’t want you to make a fool of yourself and the police force, and when this affair really breaks you’ll agree that it was a good thing. Er—seriously, now.”
“Well?” said Grice.
“What happened at the nursing home?”
Grice said, grudgingly. “Phyllis Armitage went to see the matron, at the matron’s request, and she found the matron dead.”
“By poisoning?”
“Yes.”
“Is Phyllis under suspicion?”
“No. The poison must have been taken an hour before she arrived. Barrington-Ley is under suspicion. He was there.”
“Poor David!” said Rollison. “Well, old chap, I don’t want you to feel that you’re not welcome, but I’ve a call to make. Stay here if you like, of course, I’ll trust you not to worry the Countess.”
“Where are you going?” demanded Grice.
“To see Phyllis Armitage?”
“Why?”
“Because I think they may have wanted to kill her for more reasons than one,” said Rollison, “and because she may know why, without realizing it.”
“I hope you don’t make a mistake,” Grice said. He followed Rollison out of the room, and they went to the front door. Before Rollison opened it, Grice turned and said with unusual seriousness: “Rolly, did you know the Countess before this started?”
“Great Scott, no!”
“Are you sure?” demanded Grice.
“I am quite sure,” said Rollison. “What makes you doubt it? I had her photograph, but I’ve told you about that.”
“I don’t mean her photograph,” said Grice. “I can’t believe that a woman whom you’ve known for such a short time would affect you like this.”
Rollison said: “Odd, isn’t it? I can hardly believe it myself! And that reminds me, I must tell her that I’m going out.”
He felt not only less on edge but possessed by an almost feverish excitement. Nothing seemed quite normal—except the smile with which the Lady of Lost Memory greeted him when he opened the door. She was sitting by the window, reading; the “maid” was opposite her, sewing.
“Are you better, so soon?” she asked.
“I was never really ill.” said Rollison. “Don’t get up.” He stepped across the room as she stood up, and shifted her chair. “But don’t sit so that you can be seen from the street,” he said. “And remember this—if anyone, any one asks you questions, even your maid, don’t answer. Don’t answer any kind of question put to you by anyone except me.”
“If you insist upon it, I will not,” she said, but she was puzzled and no longer smiling. “What troubles you, Mr. Rollison?”
“Unpleasant people,” said Rollison.
Downstairs, actually in the hall of the building, one of Grice’s men saluted him. In the street were two other men, and to one of them Grice, leaning out of his car, was talking earnestly. Rollison went the other way, soon found a taxi, and within twenty minutes he was walking up the stairs leading to Phyllis Armitage’s flatlet. The painters had finished, and the new paint was already scratched in places.
Phyllis herself answered his knock. She did not look particularly surprised, but asked him in.
“I suppose you’ve seen the police,” she said.
“Yes, and we’re not friends,” said Rollison. “Miss Armitage, I haven’t much time and I must have the answer to a single question before I go.”
“If I know the answer, I’ll tell you,” she promised.
“Think back to the afternoon when you left the nursing home.”
She frowned. “Yes.”
“The matron had tea with the patient, and the poison was administered before tea—that’s right, isn’t it?”
“Yes, so I was told.”
“You left the room about half-past three.”
“It was a little earlier.”
“Who came into the room before you left? I don’t mean Marcus Shayle, I mean who else on the staff or connected with the nursing home.”
“No one,” said Phyllis, eyeing him steadily.
“Are you quite sure?” demanded Rollison. “I mean, someone who had every right to be there, whose presence you would not perhaps notice specially, who always came about that time, who” He broke off, and there was a glint in his eyes. “Ah, you’ve remembered! Who was it?”
She said slowly: “Dr. Renfrew came in.”
“Did he send you out at all?”
“I had to take a message to the matron, yes.”
“So Renfrew was with her alone,” said Rollison, and there was a great relief in his mind. “That’s splendid! You’re prepared to swear to it?”
“Of course. He came every afternoon about that time, I didn’t really notice it. I am quite sure there was no one else.”
“That’s fine,” declared Rollison. “I think I’ll call that a day. Will you write that statement down and sign it?”
“Of course,” she said, now really puzzled, “but what has Dr. Renfrew to do with it?”
“More than we realize yet,” said Rollison.
He watched her as she wrote swiftly, signed what she had written, blotted it and handed it to him. He tucked the statement into his wallet, and turned to go. She followed him, and said in a low-pitched voice:
“Mr. Rollison, is my sister in serious trouble?”
“I don’t think so,” said Rollison. “Why?”
“If the police thought she deliberately refused to tell them where Marcus Shayle could be found, they might—well, they might do anything.”
“They won’t do anything about that,” said Rollison.
He smiled reassuringly and hurried out; and outside was one of Grice’s men.
Rollison stopped by his side, and said: “Be very careful of Miss Armitage. If anyone goes to the house, follow close on their heels.”
“I have my instructions, sir,” said the man.
“Are they the same as mine have been?”
“Pretty nearly.”
Rollison had kept his taxi waiting, and returned to Gresham Terrace, where he left it waiting again, and hurried upstairs. He was not surprised when the door was opened by Jolly before he reached it, nor that Jolly looked as if he had great news.
“Shall we go into your bedroom, sir?” asked Jolly, in a whisper.
“All right,” said Rollison, and once they were there, asked eagerly: “Well. Jolly?”
“I thought it better to return before I made inquiries about Miss Janice Armitage, sir.”
“What news about Renfrew?”
“He is very heavily in debt, sir.”
“Splendid! How did you find out?”
“From his receptionist. It is apparently an open secret to tradespeople and the like—I called prepared to ask indirect questions, and—ahem—I was taken for a bailiff, sir.”
“It can’t be as bad as that!”
“It is very bad, I assure you—the receptionist, a rather garrulous lady of middle age, has not been paid her salary for over three months. What is more, sir, much of the equipment at the surgery is not paid for, the receptionist told me that several of the firms who supplied it have threatened to take it back unless payment is made. Apparently Dr. Renfrew has lived on a very expensive scale.”
“The simple things!” exclaimed Rollison. “It couldn’t be better. Did you get anything else?”
“One or two other things, sir. The receptionist was quite an intelligent woman, and she was quick to recognize the description which I drew for her—of Pomeroy.”
“Is he a frequent visitor?” demanded Rollison.
“Less frequent than a few months ago,” said Jolly. “And the other thing is perhaps the most significant of them all. The receptionist, with whom I got on very well indeed, confided that she knows that everything stands or falls—I use her own expression, sir—by his relationship with the Barrington-Ley family. The strong impression which the receptionist has is that he hopes to m
arry Miss Gwendoline and so solve his financial difficulties.”
“Yes,” said Rollison. “Yes, he would.”
“I hope it helps a little, sir.”
“It helps a lot, for Renfrew probably poisoned Lady Lost. Stay here, Jolly. The police are watching the flat, as you’ve doubtless noticed, but I don’t want to take any chances with her.”
“I will be at hand for any emergency,” said Jolly. “Are you likely to be long, sir?”
“I hope not,” said Rollison. “I’m going to see Renfrew.”
“May I inform Mr. Grice, if he should inquire?”
“Provided I’ve first had half an hour with Renfrew on my own,” said Rollison.
He left as hurriedly as he had arrived, and gave the taxi driver Renfrew’s Wimpole Street address. Renfrew had been left out of Grice’s calculations, but that was a mistake. There had been other mistakes, not least his own, but he believed he had come to the end of them now.
The middle-aged receptionist, a neat, prim woman, opened the door, and when Rollison said that he had no appointment, said that she was afraid that Dr. Renfrew would not be able to see him. He was with one patient, another was waiting, and he had urgent calls to make after that. The woman looked fretful, as if she were very disillusioned of the young and handsome Dr. Renfrew.
“Take him my card,” said Rollison.
“I will give it to him when he finishes his present appointment,” said the woman. “But I think for a moment that it will be of any use your waiting. He is very busy to-day.”
“AH the same, I’ll wait,” said Rollison.
She shrugged her shoulders resignedly and then opened the door of the waiting-room. It was a long, impressive room, with a cold atmosphere perhaps suggested by the highly-polished Sheraton furniture. A long narrow dining-table held a dozen shiny magazines, dining chairs were pushed beneath the table and chairs with wooden arms were dotted about the sides. The sun shone through the fine net curtains at the windows and on the head of a man who suddenly hid his face behind a magazine as Rollison entered.
The receptionist went out, closing the door with a decided snap.
Rollison picked up a magazine, without sending more than a cursory glance at the other “patient”, but the quick movement had caught his eye. He glanced over the top of a Sphere, and the other looked furtively over Punch. When he realized that Rollison was staring at him, he averted his eyes and tried to hide his face again, but he was too late, and Rollison recognized Farrow the footman.
Slowly, and without speaking, both men stood up.
CHAPTER TWENTY
MOTIVES
THEY stood quite still, staring at each other. Rollison expected Farrow to show some sign of fear, but now that he had been recognized, the footman seemed prepared to put a bold face on it.
Rollison said: “I suppose you know that you are wanted for the murder of Mrs. Barrington-Ley.”
The footman said, sharply: “Is she dead?”
“There isn’t much hope for her,” said Rollison. “You know what happened, don’t you?”
“What?” Farrow did not seem unduly alarmed.
“She was given two injections of adrenalin, which affects the heart, and you had the opportunity each time. There is a warrant out for your arrest.”
“I didn’t do it,” said Farrow. There was no bluster about him, only a quiet and impressive confidence. “I think I know who did, though.”
“So do I,” said Rollison, and, moving towards the other, went on very quietly: “Why have you come to see Renfrew?”
“Why have you?”
“I don’t think we’re going to get much further if we keep talking at cross purposes,” said Rollison. He felt a quickening sense of urgency, and he glanced over his shoulder, half afraid that Renfrew might come in. “I don’t think you gave her the injections, but appearances are against you, and you are a sitting bird. If you know anything about this business, you probably know that already several people have been cleverly framed and blamed for crimes they did not commit. Barrington-Ley is among them, and might still pay for another man’s crimes. If you can give him the slightest help, you’ll also help yourself.”
“I wonder,” said Farrow.
“You haven’t much time to decide,” Rollison said. “Why did you go to work at Barrington House?”
“Because I was paid for it,” said Farrow. He gave a quick, mirthless smile. “I didn’t know what I was letting myself in for!”
“What inquiry agency did Mrs. Barrington-Ley hire you?”
For the first time he really surprised the man, who moved back a pace, and stumbled against a chair. For a shot in the dark it was an achievement, and with its success many other things fell into their right perspective. Rollison hardly heard Farrow’s astonished: “Well. I’m damned!” but realized for the first time something of the depth of Hilda’s mental torment. She had suspected David of wanting to be rid of her, suspected him also of fraud, and to try to find out the truth she had employed a man from a private detective agency. Pomeroy had raised no objection, had probably give his outward support, for such a man as Farrow was a ready-made victim for the frame-up which was planned.
“I didn’t think anyone would spot it,” Farrow said, in a wondering tone. “I’m from Morgan’s Bureau. I’ve heard of you, but”
“Let’s cut out everything that’s irrelevant,” urged Rollison. “Renfrew may come in at any moment and we want to get this ironed out quickly. Mrs. Barrington-Ley employed you to watch her husband, did she?”
“Yes.”
“For what reasons?”
“She was pretty vague. She said she thought he was worried and being blackmailed, but I soon found out she was afraid he was having an affaire and planning to murder her,” said Farrow. He joined Rollison and spoke in a low-pitched voice, glancing at the door from time to time. “I haven’t found a thing against Barrington-Ley. Absolutely nothing at all. The little fat swab, Pomeroy, has fooled B.-L., I know that, but I don’t know what he’s after. I do know that Renfrew tried to do away with Mrs. B.-L. I went into her room soon after he’d come out, after the first attack, and if I hadn’t made it plain that I had suspected him, I think she would have died. He pulled her round, and I let him think that I would keep my mouth shut for a share of the spoils. I’m here to collect— information, not spoils! I’ve made a full report in writing to the office, I’m not putting anything across you. I’ve come across a lot of people in my time, but I’ve never met a woman with more guts than Mrs. B.-L. That’s the truth, Mr. Rollison, and if I can put this clever doctor on the spot, that’s where he’s going.”
“He’s on it,” said Rollison.
Farrow snapped: “Are you sure?”
“Yes, quite sure. Have you got anything else?”
“Renfrew’s up to his neck in debt,” said Farrow. “He thinks he can put himself right by marrying Gwendoline. She’s lent him a small fortune already, but he just can’t hold money, his fingers are greased. His only hope is to get a bumper marriage settlement, and he’ll get a better one if Mrs. B.-L. is dead. The daughter will inherit all there is, then, and Renfrew will be on a good thing.” Farrow scowled. “I think he’s going to have a cut at polishing off Barrington-Ley when Mrs. B.-L. is dead and buried, but I can’t be sure of that. What are your ideas?”
“Not far removed from yours,” said Rollison, softly. “I didn’t see that motive, but I certainly should have done. Do you know anything about Pomeroy and the Yugo-Slav Relief Fund?”
“Not much,” said Farrow. “Pomeroy’s as slippery as they come. All I know is that he’s an outsize crook, and Barrington-Ley has been taken in by him—and I don’t mean maybe! Does that Fund matter?”
“Yes,” said Rollison. “And I think I see where it comes in. I”
He broke off, for Farrow, looking at the door, suddenly backed away and sat down. But it was only the receptionist, who looked even more sour.
“Dr. Renfrew will see Mr. Farrow,” she said,
with a sharp glance at Rollison, “and you afterwards. He says he may be some time.”
“I think we’ll see him together,” said Rollison. He took the receptionist’s arm and she resisted in a flurry of alarm. “We’re on police business.”
“Police!” she gasped.
She stared at them, white-faced, as they crossed the hall to a room marked Dr. Renfrew—Surgery. But she made no effort to interfere, and Rollison, with a detaining hand on. Farrow’s arm, waited until she had disappeared through another door. Then he said softly:
“Go in and leave the door ajar, will you?”
“Any special questions?” asked Farrow.
“No, but speak clearly.”
Farrow was as helpful now as he had been hostile before, and he managed to leave the door unlatched without it being noticed, so that Rollison could hear every word that was said. He realized that someone else was in the room besides Renfrew, but did not yet know who it was.
Renfrew said: “I told you to come to-morrow, Farrow.”
“It wasn’t soon enough,” said Farrow, “I’m taking enough chances as it is.” He played up well, adding nervously: “How do I know I won’t be arrested for that murder?”
“She’s not dead yet,” said Renfrew, damning himself utterly. “I’ll see that you’re all right, Farrow, but not now. Did you see Rollison in the waiting-room?”
“Yes.”
“Did he speak?”
“No, but I don’t like the way he looks at me.”
“You fool!” came a woman’s voice, with a note of searing contempt which probably made Farrow flinch. You don’t like the way he looks at you! Why”
“Be quiet, Gwen,” said Renfrew, nervously.
Rollison, standing quite still, was aghast at the truth which was now all too evident. Gwendoline was in that room. She was a party to all that Renfrew had done, was in his full confidence and intent on keeping Farrow quiet.
So many puzzles were solved with that realization. Gwen’s manner before the attack on her; she was afraid he suspected the truth and in a mad moment, had thought of killing him. Her lies about seeing the Lady of Lost Memory, her hatred— to provide grounds for her behaviour—her anxiety to keep the a” air from the police, her complaisance with Pomeroy, who was a party to the plot; all those things fell into place.