by John Creasey
Voices broke, incoherently.
‘What was it?’
‘Where is he?’
‘Is anyone hurt?’
There were a dozen useless questions while Rollison moved towards the wall and began to search the ground. There was so little light here. A policeman turned into the gate. As Rollison bent down, a young man joined him.
‘Looking for something?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve got a torch.’ There was a click, and a pale beam of light wavered over grass and the dark brick wall - and then shone on the heavy-looking head of a bricklayer’s hammer.
‘What’s that?’ the youth darted forward.
‘Don’t touch it!’ exclaimed Rollison, in time to make the other draw back.
Behind them, Naomi Smith was saying: ‘I’m all right, I am, really.’ On Rollison’s right the policeman was bearing down and a number of other people had gathered in the gateway. Why did people have to stand and gape and watch when others suffered? What sadistic streak lay buried in man?
‘Good evening,’ said the policeman. He was slight but quite tall and had a faintly Scottish accent. ‘What’s happening here?’
‘A man was waiting to attack whoever was coming out of the house, as far as I can tell,’ answered Rollison. ‘I happened to spot him. He dropped this.’ He pointed to the hammer, glad to notice that the policeman bending down, made no attempt to touch it. ‘The assailant got away.’
‘Was anyone hurt?’ asked the constable, practically.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Rollison. ‘Unless he himself was. This is a hostel for young women, and—’
‘I know what it is, sir,’ said the policeman, and lowered his voice. ‘Aren’t you Mr Richard Rollison?’
‘Yes,’ said Rollison simply.
‘Is this anything to do with what happened at St John’s Wood, sir?’
‘From the look of that hammer it wouldn’t surprise me,’ said Rollison. ‘Can you see that it’s left there until your CID men come and have a look round?’
‘I certainly can, sir.’ The policeman pulled out a knob in the transistor radio tucked into his tunic and began to report to his division with a lucidity which Rollison admired, and which gave him much relief: he did not need to guide this young officer into doing what he wanted. And other police were approaching, from the gate one spoke with the patient firmness of authority.
‘Move along, please, you’re causing an obstruction. Move along.’
‘Is anyone hurt?’ floated from the gateway.
‘Isn’t that the hostel where—’
‘Move along, now! I don’t want to have to tell you again!’
‘I’ll be inside,’ Rollison said to the constable near him, as the man pushed the aerial in.
‘Thank you, sir. We’ll have a car along in a very few minutes.’
Rollison looked towards Naomi Smith, who was now standing in the porch with the door behind her open and the light throwing her in dark relief. The policeman and the youth, seeing that they could do nothing more for her, turned towards Rollison.
‘Are you the Rollison?’ the youth breathed. ‘The—the Toff?’
‘Yes,’ answered Rollison, crisply. ‘Now I must look after Mrs Smith. Why don’t you telephone me later tonight or sometime tomorrow? You’ll find my name in the book.’
‘Oh—may I?’ There was tremendous excitement in the young voice.
‘I’d like you to,’ said Rollison. ‘And thank you for your help.’ He moved away, watched very intently now by everyone who was near, and joined Naomi Smith. ‘Let’s go in,’ he said, and took her arm leading her towards the hall beyond.
No one was there.
Rollison noted that the hall was pleasantly bright and much better furnished than might have been expected. There were oil portraits on the wall; the chairs, an oak settle and a big wardrobe were all old and well preserved. The parquet flooring was well polished and there was a big Indian square - Mirzapore, Rollison thought. A central staircase ended at a half-landing from which another flight led to the right and to the left.
Looking down from a wooden rail were three girls. In the shadowy light up there, each looked pale and nervous and dark eyed.
Why hadn’t they come downstairs?
He wished Angela was one of them.
Naomi led the way to a room on the right, and switched on ceiling lights revealing a room which was part office, part sitting room. The big square desk had a green leather top, so did a smaller desk near it, on the right. On the other side was a typing table. Here were two telephones, a terracotta jar filled with ballpoint pens, another with finely-sharpened pencils.
Naomi, her hair ruffled, turned and faced him, her expression one of dismay and distress.
‘I suppose you realise you might have been killed,’ Rollison said in a conversational voice: there was no point in hectoring her, that would only worsen her distress.
‘I—I do. I can’t—thank you—enough.’
‘You feared that two of your girls were dead, didn’t you?’ asked Rollison in the same, almost casual tone. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ When she didn’t answer, he went on: ‘I could forgive a lot of things, but not that kind of deceit. You reported the girls were missing to the authorities, yet you came to me and asked for help because you said you didn’t want to call the police.’ As he spoke, he knew that what she had done made nonsense. It wasn’t simply that she had fooled him - she had done something which was bound to come out, had lied knowing that the lie could not deceive him for long. What purpose could there be in such short-lived deception?
He was astonished at the change in her expression; agitation and a certain, unwilling deviousness could be read there.
She muttered: ‘But I did tell you! I wrote to you!’
‘You wrote?’
‘Yes, last week—last Monday. I telephoned twice and there was no answer, and I was distrait. I—I gave it to one of the girls to post. I was terribly worried because Iris, Iris Jay, hadn’t arrived at the address she’d given me. Didn’t you get the letter?’
‘I did not,’ stated Rollison flatly. ‘Did you write it?’
He remembered suddenly a vague remark over the telephone about having written to him. He had hardly taken it seriously, accepting it as a social insincerity leading up to the request for an interview.
‘Mr Rollison,’ said Naomi Smith, ‘if you can’t count on anything else, you can count on my absolute sincerity in wanting your help.’ She was speaking hurriedly, as if to lead him away from the subject. Though he said nothing, he was aware that she had not answered his question. Feeling came back to her voice and showed in her face again as she went on: ‘But what does matter now, obviously you know. I—I’m dreadfully worried about Angela.’
Fear like a knife stabbed through Rollison’s breast.
‘Why should you be?’ he demanded sharply.
‘She—she went out, after dinner tonight,’ Naomi told him. ‘There was a telephone message from her to say that she’d discovered something I ought to know - would I meet her at the Oxford Street Corner House, main entrance. She would wait for me until twelve. That’s where I was going, when—’
She caught her breath.
And Rollison stared at her, knowing exactly what was passing through her mind; the fear that Angela’s call had served as decoy, and that going out in response to it had led her near to death.
Chapter 8
DECOY?
Rollison was acutely aware of three things. First, that although she was outwardly composed, Naomi Smith was in acute distress, and her mood was worsening. Second, that Angela was missing. Angela, whom he had sent here. And third, the chance that one of the residents had been trusted with a letter which she had not posted - unless, by some freak of mismanageme
nt, it had been lost by the postal officials. He had to calm and reassure Naomi, and he had to find Angela soon. This was the only place to start.
He said: ‘I could do with a brandy and soda. While you’re getting it may I use your telephone?’
‘Of course.’
She moved towards a cupboard near the desk, opened it, and revealed a row of bottles and several glasses.
Rollison dialled his flat, hard faced. Jolly answered at once, and Rollison said: ‘Miss Angela may be at the Oxford Street Corner House, Jolly - and could be in very great danger. Go and see what you can find out, will you? Tell the police if she doesn’t turn up.’
‘Of course, sir. At once.’ Jolly certainly wouldn’t lose a moment.
Rollison rang off.
There was brandy, which he really wanted for Naomi Smith much more than for himself. He joined her, seeing her hands trembling.
‘Sit down,’ he said, and poured brandy and gave it to her. He carefully poured himself a little, then drank with her. Before long the police would be here, and he wanted to hear what had happened before they arrived. The best way to learn would be by quick question and answer.
‘Did Angela tell you she was going out?’
‘No.’
‘Who did?’
‘One of the girls - Anne Miller.’
‘Were they friends?’
‘I—I think they get along all right. But since we’ve realised that Iris was missing, everyone—everyone’s been nervous. I gave instructions that no one was to go out alone, and that their boyfriends must collect them and bring them back. That’s why Anne told me Angela had gone off by herself - it wasn’t simply breaking a rule to go out alone, it was walking into danger.’
It was so like Angela, too; she would be so sure that no rule applied to her, that she was free to come and go - it had probably not occurred to her that any risk might be involved.
‘Did Anne have any idea where?’ he asked.
‘Angela—Angela hinted that it was to see a boyfriend.’
‘Had she met any boyfriend before? Or gone out by herself before?’
‘No. She was the last person I would have expected to—’
‘I’m sure. You say she telephoned you?’
‘She telephoned but I didn’t speak to her. I was with one of the residents who’s been very distressed lately. I was trying to soothe this girl, and Anne took the message.’
‘Anne Miller?’ asked Rollison sharply.
‘Yes. Anne usually takes messages, she’s really my secretary, I find her invaluable.’
‘Was it Anne Miller who was supposed to post the letter to me?’ asked Rollison sharply.
‘No, that was Judy Lyons. Judy is a bit scatterbrained, she could have—oh, I hardly know what to say or what I’m saying!’ exclaimed Naomi, and she seemed almost in tears. ‘Don’t please start casting aspersions on the girls.’
‘Naomi,’ said Rollison quietly, ‘you nearly had your head smashed in. Two of the girls are missing and might be dead. Angela, who is missing, was used as a decoy. A few aspersions here and there really don’t matter. So you didn’t speak to Angela yourself?’
‘No—Anne did.’
‘I’d like to see Anne, at once,’ said Rollison.
‘But—but—’
‘Please send for Anne Miller,’ Rollison grated; he had to fight against losing his temper.
Naomi hesitated, then put her brandy glass down with an unsteady hand and moved to the telephone. She picked up the nearest one, pressing a button beneath it; and almost at once Rollison heard a click, and the distant sound of a voice.
‘Come into my study, Anne,’ Naomi said. ‘Hurry, please . . . I can tell you about that afterwards . . . Are they?’ She seemed startled and now troubled by some additional worry. ‘Very well, I’ll go and see them when you’re here.’ She rang off, pressing one hand against her forehead.
It crossed Rollison’s mind that this could be acting, but as she lifted her face and looked at him, he thought, no; she’s in deep trouble and distress. His heart went out to her, but he did not show his sympathy, as he waited, hard faced.
‘The girls are terrified,’ she said. ‘I must go to the common room and talk to them.’ She moved slowly away from the desk. ‘They know about the attack outside, one of their boyfriends saw it, apparently - the boy with the torch.’
‘Are there any other boyfriends here?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Naomi. ‘But Anne will.’ As she finished there was a movement at the door. It opened to admit a tall, thin, sallow-faced girl with high cheekbones. Her dark hair, falling untidily to her shoulders, drooped over one eye. She wore a very short miniskirt, emphasising slender but well-shaped legs. ‘Anne,’ went on Naomi Smith, ‘Mr Rollison wishes to ask you some questions. Give him all the information you can, please.’
Anne looked blankly - sullenly? - at Rollison, as Naomi went out, closing the door behind her. Anne did not move; the harder Rollison looked at her complexion the more like olive-coloured wax it seemed; and her eyes were the colour of dark olives, too.
‘Did you speak to Angela Pax-Elliott tonight?’ asked Rollison.
‘Yes,’ Anne said.
‘On the telephone?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She said she wanted to see Mrs Smith.’
‘Where?’
‘At the Oxford Street Corner House.’
‘When?’
‘She would wait until twelve o’clock.’
‘What else did she say?’
‘She said she was on to something.’
‘Were those her exact words?’
‘They were her exact words,’ asserted Anne Miller.
Not once as she had answered the swift succession of questions had her voice changed from a low, monotonous tone. And not once had she moved.
‘What time did she call?’ demanded Rollison, flatly.
‘At eleven-seventeen.’
‘How can you be so precise?’
‘Because I am a precise person by nature, and I have a watch.’
‘Did Angela sound alarmed?’ asked Rollison.
‘No.’
‘How did she sound?’
‘Excited,’ announced Anne Miller.
‘What was the name of her boyfriend?’
‘Who said she had a boyfriend?’ Now there was an inflection in the girl’s voice which made her answer very nearly insolent.
‘Didn’t she tell you she was going to meet one?’
‘She indicated it, yes.’ For the first time Anne’s expression changed and it was difficult to judge whether it was in a smile or a sneer. She had small but quite beautiful lips, spoiled with pale pink lipstick which jarred against the sallow tone of her skin. ‘All of us indicate our romantic conquests whether they are true or not.’
‘Lie about it, you mean?’
‘“Hint” is a pleasanter word, don’t you think?’ suggested Anne.
‘From what I know, delicate hints about boyfriends are hardly necessary here,’ said Rollison, bluntly. He knew that his words were cruel but he had to break through this girl’s resistance somehow, and it wasn’t going to be easy.
She narrowed her eyes, but did not speak.
‘Anne,’ said Rollison. ‘Do you know what’s going on here?’
‘No.’
‘Did you tell Mrs Smith that the other girls are terrified?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why are they terrified?’
‘Do you think we should welcome having our heads smashed in?’ demanded Anne, her voice rising to a cutting scorn. ‘Or don’t you think it matters, if such a thing happens to unmarried mothers?’
So he had hur
t her, and had also loosened her tongue.
‘I think it matters,’ Rollison said. ‘But weren’t they terrified before the hammer attack on Mrs Smith?’
‘Quite possibly,’ she said curtly.
‘Then, what was it that frightened them?’
‘Mr Rollison,’ said Anne Miller, as if suddenly overcome with weariness, ‘I don’t know what you’re doing here or why you came, but I can tell you you’re getting nowhere, fast.’
‘What terrified the girls?’ persisted Rollison, obstinately.
After a brief pause, Anne answered: ‘All right, then. There have been telephone calls from a man threatening to kill us. He always says the same thing – “just one blow will be enough, one blow on the back of your head”. And then he rings off.’ She half-closed her eyes but opened them wide again when he took a step towards her. ‘Wouldn’t you be scared?’
‘Anyone would be,’ Rollison answered gently. ‘When did this all begin, Anne?’
‘Three days ago.’
‘And you’ve each had a call in those three days?’
‘More or less. There’s a telephone in each room, and we sleep three or four in a room. Whoever answered the telephone got the same message.’
‘What has Mrs Smith had to say?’
‘She doesn’t know about the calls,’ said Anne.
‘You haven’t told the superintendent!’ exclaimed Rollison, in astonishment mingled with disbelief.
‘Can’t you see she has enough on her mind already?’ demanded Anne. ‘We agreed we wouldn’t tell her. She’s warned us not to go out alone or come back alone. And she’s called in the police. What more can she do? Of course we haven’t told her,’ she finished, in exasperation.
‘If you had done so, do you think she would have gone out alone tonight?’ asked Rollison, quietly.
‘No one thought she was in danger,’ Anne answered.
‘How could you be sure she hadn’t had a threat by telephone?’ demanded Rollison, and when Anne didn’t answer but looked appalled, he went on: ‘Anne, who is doing this? Do you know?’