by John Creasey
A taxi crawled along the street, with its driver looking at the numbers, and Rollison leaned forward to get a glimpse of the caller when he climbed out; the taxi passed, and stopped several doors away. Rollison frowned. A young man came walking briskly along the street, a tall, theatrical-looking individual wearing a broadbrimmed hat. He looked at the numbers, and turned into the house next door.
Rollison scowled.
He was still standing at the window at a quarter to three. At a quarter past the hour, he was sitting back in his chair, looking at least as morose as Jolly, who came to ask whether he would like a cup of tea. Rollison barked: “Yes.”
When tea was finished, there was a knock at a door.
“That’ll be our man!” exclaimed Rollison.
“I think it was the back door,” said Jolly, and called out a few seconds afterwards: “It’s only the laundry, sir.”
“All I’m doing is making a fool of myself,” growled Rollison, but he took up an ABC Railway Guide and looked up the trains to Winchester. There was one at 4.35 and another at 5.30. “I could catch the second one,” he said aloud, “but I want to see Sheila before I leave town. Confound this Stewart!”
He had considered the possibility of visiting the hotel where Bond had been found, and of taking Sheila with him, but the more he pondered over it the less he liked the idea of going on his own. By five o’clock he was immersed in darkling thoughts about the police, for he was in a mood when he would gladly have gone to seek out Babette Smith and her friends, and to question them with a directness which would horrify the police. Then the telephone bell rang.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, and lifted the receiver swiftly. He heard Jolly walk across the hall. “This is Rollison speaking.”
“I have a call for you, hold on, please,” a girl said.
“Where from?” asked Rollison, quickly.
“Winchester,” said the operator, and went away.
It seemed an age before she spoke again, and Rollison lit a cigarette one-handed, waved the lighted match about, and watched the flame die. He drew too deeply on the cigarette, and the paper became brown half-way down.
Then the operator said brusquely: “They appear to have cleared the line, sir. Please replace the receiver until they call again.”
Chapter Three
The Genial Gentleman With An Air
“Is there any way of finding out where the call came from?” Rollison asked.
“I’ll have to put you through to the supervisor,” the operator said.
“I will be told severely that there is no way,” said Rollison, sadly. “Could you just find out whether it was a call-box or a private house?”
“Well, I’ll try,” said the operator.
“Just one other thing,” said Rollison, hopefully. “I think I had a call from the same place this morning.”
“I’m afraid I wasn’t on duty,” said the girl.
At last she told him that the call had come from a call-box, and then said that she was sorry but other calls were waiting. Rollison replaced the receiver, and looked towards the door, where a tell-tale shadow gave Jolly away.
“Jolly!” he said.
“Did you call, sir?” asked Jolly, coming in after a tactful pause.
“It was from a call-box in Winchester. The only way of finding out more about it is to ask the Yard. Do you think we should?”
“Are they interested in Winchester, sir?”
“Grice doesn’t miss much,” said Rollison, “but I think the general assumption is that Bond was on the run and went to Winchester because it was some distance from London. I think you’d better go down there, and I’ll follow in the morning. You’ll find the hotel where Bond stayed, and book two single rooms—do you know the name of the hotel?”
“According to the newspaper report, sir, it was the Roebuck.”
“So it was!”
“Would it be wise to telephone for accommodation, sir?”
“Better to take a chance,” said Rollison. “You know, Jolly, this is a most peculiar business, and I very nearly missed it because I didn’t take to Danny Bond. It’s beginning to look as if Stewart planned to come to see me, and some pressure was exerted to stop him. When he realised that he couldn’t get here, he telephoned and—”
“Was subjected to further pressure, sir.”
“I suppose so. I’m always a little doubtful of pressure exerted in a call-box, but we’re only wasting time in guessing. Get packed, Jolly, there’s a train at half-past five.”
“Very good, sir. Have you any immediate plans for yourself?”
“No,” said Rollison, “I’m simply confused.”
Jolly was in his room, and Rollison was looking in an A.A. book, discovering that the Roebuck was in the list but could not boast a star recommendation, that it had eight bedrooms and garage for two cars, and that it had a licence. It was on the main Southampton Road.
Suddenly the quiet of the flat was disturbed by a rat-tat-tat on the front door. The knock had a flourish, a rhythm of its own, as if the caller had practised rat-tat-tat until he had become an artist.
“All right, Jolly,” called Rollison, and went to open the door.
Standing on the threshold was a man both tall and thin, dressed in a beautifully-cut suit of black-and-white check. He wore a black Homburg, and beneath it, at either side, were bushy grey curls. He gave a radiant smile which lit up his face, a handsome one with a prominent but narrow chin and cupid’s bow lips, clean-shaven except for curly side-whiskers cut on a slant with the lower point half-way down his cheeks. In his hand he carried hog-skin gloves and a gold-topped cane.
“Good evening, sir!” greeted the stranger in a mellow musical voice. “Have I the pleasure of addressing the Hon. Richard Rollison?”
“Yes,” murmured Rollison.
“I am glad to find you in,” said the stranger. He looked it. “I am so late, Mr. Rollison, that I was convinced that you would have grown tired of waiting, and taken yourself off to some favourite haunt.” He stepped past Rollison, taking off his hat. “My name is Stewart. I trust that you received my message this morning? I deplored the fact that I was unable to speak to you in person.” He looked anxious.
“My man did tell me that you telephoned, Mr. Stewart.”
Rollison had no doubt that the other was disappointed at so sober a reception – nor did he have any doubt that this man, whatever his name, was not the Stewart who had telephoned from Winchester. For one thing, his mellifluous voice did not sound young, and Jolly would not have made such a mistake. For another, he was convinced that the real Stewart had tried to telephone him from Winchester not very long before.
He took this man’s hat, stick, and gloves and put them on the hallchair, then led his visitor to the study.
The man looked about him freely and, seeing the wall adorned with the souvenirs, widened his amber-coloured eyes, raised his hands and exclaimed, and stepped towards them.
“An astonishing collection, Mr. Rollison. Astonishing!”
“Oh, a few odds and ends,” said Rollison. “What can I do for you, Mr. Stewart?”
But Mr. Stewart did not appear to hear him. Gingerly he picked up a small dagger, an Italian piece of the sixteenth century, balanced it on his finger, and drew in his breath.
“What an exquisite piece, Mr. Rollison! I perceive that it is jewelled. Look!” He pointed to the hilt, beautifully engraved and studded with tiny rubies.
“It’s not bad,” conceded Rollison.
“Not bad, Mr. Rollison! I trust I may be forgiven for saying that it is superb. Such balance!” He held it more confidently. “Perfect! Arc you a collector?”
“I’ve collected those,” said Rollison.
“Remarkable!” The caller replaced the dagger carefully, and let his eyes roam. He touched a flint-lock pistol and commented on the crudeness of firearms compared with weapons of steel a few centuries ago, and then touched a small glass case in which were three small phials of a greyish-white po
wder. “What a remarkable contrast, Mr. Rollison. May I inquire what is in them?”
“Arsenic,” said Rollison.
“Arsenic!”
“A man named Culver fed his wife with it.”
“Fed—” The visitor’s voice trailed off.
“He gave her increasing doses,” said Rollison, with gathering enthusiasm, “until she died. Now, you’ve commented on the difference in weapons, Mr. Stewart, but the difference in poisons is far more remarkable. Only a very second-rate murderer would use arsenic today—or any of the better-known deadly toxins. The barbiturate group is much more modern. If a man wishes to murder his wife, or his best friend, or a servant, then he uses—”
“My dear sir!” exclaimed Stewart, as if shocked. “I can understand a man using a knife or a gun in the heat of the moment, but poison—I have a great aversion to it.”
“So have most people,” said Rollison. “You’re wrong, you know, most murders are carefully premeditated, whatever the weapon. It takes a curiously detached mind to plan such a crime, doesn’t it?”
“So I should imagine, Mr. Rollison.”
“After all, no one is likely to murder a complete stranger,” said Rollison, warming up. “In fact, most murderers select someone whom they know well. A wife, a husband, a lover, or someone who has been a faithful servant for many years.” He looked smilingly into the other’s eyes. “I am quite a specialist in murder, Mr. Stewart.”
“A—specialist?”
“Oh, don’t misunderstand me,” said Rollison. “I don’t commit them, I only hunt the perpetrators down. Will you have a cigarette?”
Stewart looked at the slim gold case held out towards him.
“Er—no, thank you, Mr. Rollison, no, thank you. Perhaps you will join me in one of these most excellent small cigars?” He took out an enamelled case.
“I’ll stick to my own poison, thanks,” said Rollison.
“What an apt figure of speech.” Stewart accepted a light, and Rollison pushed up an easy chair. With great elegance and deliberation, the visitor sat down. He adjusted his trousers carefully, hitched up his coat, and fingered his tie. Rollison sat behind the desk. He got the impression that Stewart would have given a lot for a whisky and soda.
“Well, what can I do for you?” he asked at last.
“In point of fact, my dear sir, I do not think that you can do anything for me. On the contrary, Mr. Rollison, I hope that it is I who can perform the service! I have heard of your remarkable talents and your widespread interests, and a matter came to my notice a few days ago which gave me much food for thought. After due contemplation, I decided that it was a matter which would interest a man with such an inquiring mind, who laughs at risk and danger. With such a reputation as yours, Mr. Rollison, the matter will doubtless appear trivial. And yet, who knows? It might become a cause celebre.”
“I’m fairly busy just now,” said Rollison.
“I suppose one can hardly expect a man of your great interests to have time on his hands,” said Stewart, “yet this matter is so intriguing that I think you will be grateful to me for bringing it to your notice. It concerns a most charming young lady of my acquaintance. You may be surprised to learn that I am connected with the stage. I can even lay claim to having played many parts of great renown.”
“Hamlet,” murmured Rollison, unable to resist it.
“How remarkable you should say that. I have been told that my Hamlet is comparable with the finest modern-day performances! At Weston-super-Mare, last year, my Hamlet …”
At last he returned to the point.
There was a young lady who lived near him in Surbiton, a beautiful and charming young lady with aspirations for a stage career, whom he had tried to encourage and to help. Her parents disapproved, as parents so often did, and if that were all, naturally he would not have come to see Mr. Rollison. However, there were curious traits in the parents’ characters. They appeared to exert a malign influence over their daughter, and for some months they had kept her segregated, refusing to allow her to meet her own friends, on the pretext that she was ill. And – the man who called himself Stewart lowered his voice – now she had disappeared.
“Mr. Rollison, there is that child, young, beautiful, of no mean talent, refused all communion with her fellow creatures and taken from her home to some unknown destination where, I greatly fear, her illness will become far worse. However, you may say that it is a matter for her parents, and that no one has any right to interfere. But for one thing, Mr. Rollison, I would agree with you. In the course of my inquiries I made a most interesting discovery. She is an adopted daughter. On her death her foster parents will inherit a substantial sum of money. Now, I hope that I do not exaggerate, but I am afraid for that child’s life! I am afraid that she is the victim of a terrible conspiracy, that she is, in fact, being slowly—” He broke off, abruptly.
“Poisoned,” interposed Rollison.
“I dare not commit myself to such a phrase,” said Stewart, “and yet I am so dreadfully afraid. I cannot go to the police, for they would ask me what right I had to interfere. There is also the possibility that I am wrong. However, I have been unable to rest, and I came across your name and fame in a newspaper article. It occurred to me that I could perform a service for you by introducing you to a matter which has so many curious features, and for Deirdre Bryan, who is in such great trouble.”
“Deirdre Bryan,” murmured Rollison.
“That is the child’s name. She lives at Hill Rise, Surbiton. The name of the house is Frome. I am sure that you will act with the utmost circumspection, and that my name will not be mentioned in any inquiries which you may pursue.”
Rollison made notes on the blotting pad.
“So you wouldn’t want to be mentioned, Mr. Stewart?”
“Naturally not, my dear sir.”
“What about expenses, Mr. Stewart?”
Stewart stared. “Expenses? I understood that you—”
Rollison looked grave.
“I am not a professional inquiry agent, and I charge no fees, but there are expenses in connection with a matter of this kind, and you would hardly expect me to bear the brunt of them myself.”
“Well—er—no, indeed! Of course not, Mr. Rollison!” Stewart beamed. “I had not given the matter any thought, but I quite see the force of your argument. Then I will avail myself of the opportunity of further befriending that poor child. Dear, defenceless Deirdre!” He took out his wallet, and a cheque-book. “Name your price!” he cried, gaily.
“Shall we say a hundred pounds on account?” asked Rollison, soberly.
Stewart drew back, and his face dropped.
“A hundred pounds for expenses!”
“You don’t seem to value Deirdre Bryan very highly,” said Rollison, pushing the blotting pad away from him suddenly. “I—oh, I’m sorry!”
The corner of the blotting pad caught the side of the other’s wallet and pushed it to the floor. Rollison was on his feet in a moment; he rounded the desk and helped to collect the oddments which had fallen from the wallet.
“Clumsy of me,” he said when they were all back in the wallet. He had expected any name but Stewart; yet the cards were embossed: ‘Mr. Lancelot Stewart’ and the one addressed envelope was addressed to L. Stewart Esq. 21 Mayhew Street, Sloane Square. “What were we saying?”
“We were discussing expenses,” said Stewart, taking his chequebook firmly. “One hundred pounds it shall be.” He wrote out the cheque, signed it with a flourish, blotted it, and handed it to Rollison, who thanked him gravely.
“You will lose no time, I am sure,” said Stewart.
“None at all,” Rollison assured him.
When Stewart had gone, declaring himself for ever in Rollison’s debt, Rollison went to his desk, took out an envelope and, absently, addressed it to the Red Cross and St. John organisation, endorsed the cheque and sealed it in the envelope.
“Remarkable!” he said aloud.
Then he went int
o his bedroom and, on the dressing-table, saw another envelope, addressed in Jolly’s copperplate hand-writing:
“I had no opportunity of advising you earlier [Jolly had written], as I am most anxious to catch the train, but I must warn you that the gentleman who called is not he who telephoned this morning. I am quite sure that the voice is different.”
Chapter Four
The Return Of Sheila
“Now here is a funny thing and a very funny thing,” mused Rollison. “I wish Jolly hadn’t gone.”
He was always doubtful about the wisdom of sending Jolly away; there were times when the calm common-sense of his man put a brake on his own impetuosity, and there was no one, with the possible exception of Grice, with whom he could discuss a problem so freely.
He telephoned Sheila, but she was not in.
Why, he kept on wondering, had Stewart come?
He thought it likely that the story of Deirdre Bryan was deliberately concocted to divert him from the affair of Danny Bond. There was no doubt that Stewart believed he had aroused his interest; but there was nothing to indicate why Stewart had been so anxious to make him neglect Bond and Sheila O’Rourke.
He looked up ‘Bryan’ in the telephone directory; a J. E. Bryan lived at Frome, Hill Rise, Surbiton. He dialled the number, and a gruff voice answered him.
“May I speak to Miss Deirdre Bryan, please?”
“No,” answered the man with the gruff voice. “She’s away.”
“Away?” echoed Rollison. “I understood—”
The man at the other end hung up the receiver, and Rollison looked ruefully at his own. If he had been genuinely impressed by Stewart’s story, that gruff voice and abrupt ringing-off would have aroused his curiosity. Rollison looked thoughtfully at the name in the directory, then closed it, stood up, and crossed to the window.