by John Creasey
The village was just in sight, although the bungalow lay in a dip, perhaps half a mile away from it.
As Rollison wandered about he saw more sheds and poultry houses, a line of rabbit hutches, and five beehives, newly painted white. He looked towards Winchester, wondering how much longer Jolly would be, and heard his name called.
“Rollison!”
He looked round, to see Alec leaning out of the kitchen window.
“Hallo?”
“Do you want some lunch?”
“That’s a happy thought,” said Rollison.
Lettuce, tomatoes, and tinned salmon were on the kitchen table, with a clean cloth and glistening cutlery. Salad cream and French vinegar, olive oil, radishes, spring onions, and a crusty loaf of golden brown bread were also spread out in appetising array.
“Now this is a land of plenty,” said Rollison. “You’d make a good wife for some helpless man!”
To his surprise, the poor joke brought a laugh.
“You’re impossible,” said Alec. “If anyone else talked to me the way you have done, I would—” He broke off, and laughed again. “Well, I’d have a good try to throw him out, anyhow. I’ve been thinking, and I suppose you’d better know the whole story, although I don’t like the idea of telling you or anyone.”
“I won’t spread it abroad, unless it becomes essential.”
“Can I rely on that?”
“Absolutely,” said Rollison, picking up a salt pourer. “You’d be surprised how much I can keep back from the police.” He was cutting lettuce, and put the tip of his knife into the salt. He poked at the white crystals, frowning.
“What’s the matter?” demanded Alec.
“This salt is a queer consistency.”
“It looks just like salt to me.”
“A bit fine in places,” said Rollison. “It makes more of a paste than it should.” He peered, sniffed, touched it with his little finger and tasted it. Alec stared at him in astonishment mingled with impatience.
“Now, come—”
“I don’t want to raise a scare,” said Rollison, intently, “but if that salt isn’t mixed with white arsenic, you can call me a fool.” He looked at the little heap on the side of Alec’s plate. “Yours too,” he said, “so you’re not trying to do away with me!” He laughed, but there was a strained note in it. “Can you enjoy salad without salt?”
“It can’t be arsenic!”
“I wouldn’t like to eat it,” said Rollison. “Have you a new packet of salt, unopened and sealed?” He took the salt pourer and let a stream of salt pour on to the table; now they could see that with the tiny crystals there was a much finer powder.
Alec pushed his plate away abruptly, as Rollison asked in a curiously mild voice whether there was a telephone at the house.
“No, I can’t get one fixed. I have to use the kiosk in the village. Rollison, are you sure about this?”
“Reasonably sure,” said Rollison, and then raised his head, for he heard a motor-car engine. “Perhaps that’s Jolly,” he said, pushing his chair back.
Alec continued to stare at the salt. Rollison went into the hall and opened the front door. The car was pulling up outside, but the rear door was already opening and the khaki-clad figure of Wilmot appeared. Immediately behind him appeared Sheila’s red head.
Chapter Eight
Arsenic It Is
The grey-haired driver climbed from his seat and stared towards the house as if trying to make up his mind whether it was a normal habitation, while Sheila and Gerry Wilmot, Sheila rapidly gaining, hurried along the short drive. By that time Alec had joined Rollison in the porch.
“Why the devil did she have to come?” In a sharper voice, he asked: “Who’s that man?”
“He’s lending me a hand,” said Rollison, hastily, as Sheila came up with a rush. She spoke to Rollison breathlessly, but her gaze was on Alec, who stood quite still, averting his eyes. Gerry Wilmot came up more slowly, obviously a most bewildered young man.
“Rolly!” cried Sheila, “your man! He’s hurt!”
Rollison’s heart seemed to turn over.
“Badly?”
“I don’t know, he’s in hospital. He just managed to get to the hotel and then he collapsed. Rolly, someone had—had—” She drew in her breath, and looked round at Wilmot.
“He was knifed,” Wilmot said flatly.
“Where is he?” demanded Rollison.
“In Winchester Hospital. The hotel arranged it, he—he’s not dead, Rolly, but he looks so ill, I thought he was going to die when he reached the hotel—didn’t we, Gerry? We don’t know where he went, but persuaded your driver to bring us out here. I thought you ought to know as quickly as possible—didn’t we, Gerry?”
“We did,” agreed Wilmot, laconically.
Rollison said: “Ask the driver to turn the car, will you? Alec, are you coming with me, or will you wait here until I get back?”
“I’ll stay,” said Alec.
“Don’t change your mind again,” said Rollison.
He turned back to the kitchen and took up the salt pourer, made sure that there was some of the powder left in it, thrust it into his waistcoat pocket with the hole upwards, put on his socks and shoes, now quite dry, and went to the front again.
“Mr. Wilmot, try to make sure that nothing happens to either of them, won’t you? I’ll be back this afternoon.”
“But—” began Wilmot.
“Rollison! There’s no need for him—” This from Alec, who was obviously going to add ‘to stay’, but Rollison was already half-way to the car, which was waiting with the engine ticking over.
“Winchester Hospital,” he said to the driver.
“Don’t you mean the police-station?” demanded the driver, a fraillooking man. “I think it’s time someone talked to the police.”
“We’ll see them afterwards,” said Rollison.
Rollison did not glance towards the bungalow, where the trio were standing and staring after him. He lit a cigarette and turned to the hire-car driver.
“What happened after you left here?”
“I’ve had just about enough of this!” said the man, indignantly. “Don’t you make any mistake about it.”
Rollison let him complain for a while, and gradually the story unfolded.
A mile along the road, half-way between Bramley and Winchester, this man and Jolly had come upon the car which had rushed past, pulled up at the side of the road. The driver and his passenger were trying to fit a spare wheel, after a blow-out from running over broken glass. The passenger was not Lancelot Stewart, Rollison gathered. Jolly told his driver to drive straight past, and asked him to stop at the next turning off that road. The other car was in sight all the time, but instead of coming along the road it turned into a field, drove across, and disappeared on a by-road some way off. Jolly persuaded the driver to go in the same direction. They came across the other car, stranded at the side of the road near a copse. Jolly went into the copse, instructing the driver to wait; the man waited for over an hour, and then decided that he had been bilked. He had not enough petrol to get back to the bungalow and then to Winchester, so he started along the Winchester Road. On the outskirts of the town he caught up with Jolly, who told him to drive to the Royal Hotel, then left him outside. Soon after, Jolly was carried out by a porter and the American officer, with the ‘redheaded piece’ behind them. They drove to the hospital, and later the American persuaded him with a five-pound note to come back to the bungalow.
“But if you don’t report it now, I will.”
“I’ll report it,” Rollison assured him.
At the hospital, he faced the possibility that Jolly was severely injured. A small Sister and a large coloured doctor eased his mind. Jolly had received a knife thrust in the side, but it was not serious.
After some delay, Rollison managed to get into the public ward where Jolly was lying. Rollison was surprised by his man’s pallor, but relieved again by the smile which sprang to h
is face.
“I am very glad indeed to see you, sir,” said Jolly. “I did not feel that it would be wise to entrust a message.”
“Quite right,” said Rollison, “and don’t worry about passing on messages. There’s no hurry.”
“You will forgive my contradiction, sir, but there is great need for haste.” Jolly grimaced as he moved a little. “Doubtless you know what happened as far as the driver knows. Up to the time I went into the copse I was extremely cautious, as you can imagine. I went because it occurred to me that someone among Miss O’Rourke’s enemies lived in Winchester, and I thought I might discover where. I think I have.”
“Have you?” Rollison was eager.
“There was a house on the far side of the copse, and the man whom I followed was entering it. I was foolish enough to go rather too close, although I did not think I was observed. I kept watch for some time in the hope that the man would come out again, and was about to try to leave when I was attacked from behind. I make no attempt to disguise the fact that I took to my heels and ran.”
“So I should think.”
“I reached the road leading to the main road, sir, and then I became aware of a sharp pain in my side. You can imagine my dismay when I found—” Jolly moved his right hand gently—“the implement which you will find in the locker by the side of my bed.”
Rollison went to the other side of the bed, opened the door of the cupboard, and took out something which was wrapped in a handkerchief.
“I do not think it would be wise for you to unwrap it here, sir,” said Jolly. “I was able to wrap it up myself and persuaded the nurse that it must be placed by my side—the nursing staff is extremely considerate. I pulled the—er—implement from my side, and proceeded, in some alarm because I expected further attacks. However, none materialised. To my great relief, the car I had hired drew up alongside. I have no doubt that you know the rest.”
“I know the rest,” said Rollison, putting the handkerchief and knife into his pocket. “You’ve performed more miracles, Jolly. How are you feeling?”
“Acutely disappointed, sir!”
Rollison laughed. “You’ll do! Would you prefer a private ward?”
“I think I shall be quite happy here, sir,” said Jolly. “The beds are so placed that you and I can converse discreetly, if we need to, and perhaps the company will help to recompense me for my enforced inactivity. I would greatly like some reading matter, whenever it is convenient for you to arrange it.”
“I’ll fix it,” promised Rollison.
“How have you been faring, sir?”
“I hope to learn a lot more before the day is out,” said Rollison. “Is there anything else you want?”
“I don’t think so, sir, thank you.”
“I hope to be in again this evening,” said Rollison.
He waved to Jolly from the door, and was met almost immediately by a policeman who asked whether he had been to see the patient who called himself Jolly. On being assured that Jolly was a real name, he led Rollison along the spotless corridors, up a flight of stone steps, and to a door marked ‘Secretary’, vouchsafing no information but asking Rollison to go with him.
Rollison was not surprised to see two men in the secretary’s office. He presumed that the secretary was the one behind a large flat-topped desk, the other man sitting by his side. Both stood up.
“Mr. Rollison?” asked the secretary, a grey-haired, mellow-voiced man. “This is Inspector King, of the Winchester Police. I found it necessary to get in touch with the police when I heard the nature of the patient’s wound. I understand that you are his employer—is that right?”
“Yes.” Rollison smiled at King, who was a clean-cut, fresh-complexioned man, probably on the right side of forty, with good features and the expression of one who would not stand on ceremony.
The secretary found an excuse for leaving them together, and Inspector King smiled.
“The Mr. Rollison?” he asked.
Rollison laughed.
“Have it your own way!”
“When I heard the name, I thought there might be a connection,” said King. “I wouldn’t have if your name hadn’t been mentioned in a report from Scotland Yard.” He gave no other information about that. “Will you tell me exactly what happened? I have no wish to worry your man.”
“That’s thoughtful of you.” He gave an outline of Jolly’s story, without saying that he had the knife. King nodded thoughtfully when he had finished.
“I know that house, sir. We’ll get someone out there right away.”
“The occupants have probably gone,” said Rollison.
“They may not realise that Jolly was fit enough to talk,” said King. “The police-station isn’t far away—will you come along with me?”
“I think so,” said Rollison, “if only for the peace of mind of my driver.”
The Inspector and the driver proved to be acquainted, and King reassured the older man, who drove them to the police-station. Rollison waited in King’s office while arrangements were made for the house in the copse to be raided. Rollison accepted an offer to go with the raiding party, but before he left he handed King the salt pourer.
“Get your laboratory to find out what’s mixed with the salt, will you?”
“What’s this all about?”
“I’m not yet sure,” said Rollison. “Are you coming to the house in the copse?”
“I’m afraid I can’t, but you’ll be safe enough with my men,” King said slyly.
They laughed together, and Rollison hurried downstairs.
The house in the copse was a small suburban villa type, with a well-kept garden and a pleasing appearance. The front door and several windows were open. The drive showed the marks of several cars, and the porch had obviously been trodden by a number of men, for it was covered with little pieces of gravel from the drive.
Two policemen went to the back before the sergeant in charge knocked, somewhat self-consciously, on the open front door. There was no answer. He pressed the bell, but got no response, and then led the way inside.
The house was empty of people.
It was furnished pleasantly, in contemporary style. There were signs of hasty departure. In one bedroom two drawers from a dressing-table had been emptied, and the contents strewn on the floor, while in the same room was a wall safe with the door hanging open. It was empty, too.
Rollison went downstairs. There was a telephone in the hall, and he put a call through to Inspector King.
“Who is that?” asked King.
“Rollison, I wonder if you—”
“I was just going to call you,” said King in a grim voice. “Have you any idea what was in that salt pourer?”
“Some idea, yes.”
“It was arsenic.”
“Nasty murderous people,” said Rollison.
“This isn’t a laughing matter, Mr. Rollison!”
“None of it is,” said Rollison. “If we didn’t laugh sometimes, what a dull world it would be. I suppose you want to know where I got it?”
“I do.”
“I hate to say this,” said Rollison, “but the arsenic was in the salt pourer at the Bramley Poultry Farm. I’ve every reason to believe that it was put there to murder Alec Stewart. Do you know him?”
“I know of him.”
“And I’ve also every reason to believe that it would be much wiser for the police to show no interest in Stewart for a little while,” said Rollison, earnestly. “Have a talk with Superintendent Grice, will you? Tell him that I’m frightened of scaring our bad men.”
“I don’t know that the Chief Constable will be willing to defer action, Mr. Rollison.”
“He will if his Inspector advises it!” said Rollison, with a note of raillery.
After a pause, King said: “I’ll see what I can do, but only on the strict understanding that you come and see me again before the day is out. Wait a minute, though! I ought to have a man to watch the house.”
“
As soon as I’ve left, send someone,” said Rollison, “but give me a little while on my own, will you?”
“Oh, very well,” said King.
“Just one other thing,” said Rollison, urgently. “Do you read Dickens?”
“Dickens?” echoed King. “Yes, sometimes, why?”
“If you could let Jolly have a copy of Pickwick Papers or Nicholas Nickleby or—”
King laughed. “I can send something over from the station library.”
“Now that is very handsome of you,” said Rollison.
A police car took him to the chicken farm.
When he walked up the drive towards the bungalow, he whistled, but he got no response. The front door was open, but there were no sounds of movement. He called out, and waited. When no response came, he looked in every room. Everything looked as it had when he had first entered. Some salad was still on the table, there were signs of a hasty meal. He was beginning to think that he should not have let the policeman go when he heard a frantic squawking, followed by a laugh in Shelia’s unmistakable voice.
Before he went into the garden he examined the knife which Jolly had given him. It was a silver handled dagger, small, well made, but not remarkable. He put it into his pocket again, and went out.
Standing by the side of a poultry house some distance off Sheila was hugging a struggling chicken to her once spotless dress. Her hair was dishevelled, but her laughter was so unaffectedly gay that Rollison’s frown melted into a smile. She turned back to the poultry house, hugging the bird, and Rollison caught a glimpse of an American forage cap. He walked towards the scene.
“I think he’s sweet!” said Sheila, obviously talking about the bird. “Don’t you, Gerry?”
“I guess it’s all sweet,” said Wilmot.
Rollison saw him, with a rake in his hand, crouching at the door of a chicken house, which was smaller than the big shed where the fox had been introduced. Alec Stewart was inside, with another rake. Miraculously, Sheila had avoided getting her shoes and stockings too soiled, and as Rollison came up she released the fowl which flew straight at him, squawking wildly. He dodged, and came into Sheila’s line of vision.