by John Creasey
‘Well, why did you ring me up?’ Horniman growled. ‘Mainly because if I had called on you,’ Rollison went on blandly, ‘I might have been charged with manslaughter.’
‘What—’ began Horniman, and then broke off.
‘Had we talked I might have lost my temper with you,’ Rollison said. ‘I was at the Norfolk, and heard—’
‘If you think I don’t know you’ve been watching me all the week, you’re mistaken,’ snapped Horniman, ‘but I’m not worried by you, Rollison. I won’t be pestered and I won’t have Susan pestered. If you don’t stop following us, I shall report the matter to the police. I’ve been able to help Susan to get over the shock of Drayton’s death. If she cares to marry me, that’s her business and not yours. Leave Susan alone.’
Rollison rang off, smiling. If Susan had lost no time, she would now be ready to leave her room.
She appeared at the foot of the stairs, carrying only a small case. Rollison joined her.
‘I’ve left my other things upstairs,’ she said, ‘will you arrange for them to go to the station for me in the morning? I’m catching the 10.12.’
‘I’ll see to it.’ Rollison took her bag, and they went out. A bus drew up as they reached the main road. Soon they were entering the Norfolk. Rollison took Susan upstairs and, five minutes afterwards, had packed all he wanted for the night in a small case. Susan stood by the dressing-table, watching him. He thought that she would talk freely enough the next day; just now she was too worked up, too uncertain of herself, to want him to stay. He smiled at her.
‘Good night, Susan,’ he said, ‘you can sleep soundly.’
‘Good night,’ she said. ‘And—thanks.’
He hurried out.
Twenty minutes later he let himself silently into Susan’s room at the Lorne Hall Hotel. The bed was turned down, and Susan’s other suitcase was on the luggage stool. It had Horniman’s initials on it. So he had lent her a case and presumably she had brought some clothes, though none had been missed from her flat.
It was then a little past eleven.
He undressed and got into bed. An hour’s sleep would be invaluable. It was a little before half-past twelve when he woke. The hotel was silent, and it was very dark. He stretched out his hand for a cigarette, then decided that he would not be wise to smoke. He pondered over the evening’s events slowly, testing each one. Always coming to the conclusion that the most important things he had seen and heard were Horniman’s expression outside Susan’s door and his ‘I’ll handle her.’ But was there any sound reason for thinking, as he had done, that there might be an attempt to murder Susan? Here, in the darkness, without a sound to disturb him, it seemed a remote possibility.
A clock struck one.
He hitched himself up on his pillows. If he were right, the attack would be during darkness. Dawn would break soon after six o’clock, and it was reasonable to suppose that the attack would take place between one and, say, five o’clock, so he might have a four-hour vigil.
He decided that he could risk one cigarette.
When it was finished, he wanted another, but resisted the temptation. Half-past one struck, then two o’clock. The darkness and silence were making it difficult to keep his eyes open. He longed to turn over and go to sleep. His imagination had cheated him this time, he should know better than to give way to such impulses.
What was that?
He stiffened, and stared towards the door. He had heard no footsteps, no warning note, only a faint, scratching sound, such as a key might make. He eased himself down in bed, still staring towards the door, where a faint line of light showed at the bottom. The scraping noise continued; he knew that someone was forcing the lock, using a skeleton key or some equally felonious tool.
A streak of light cut the darkness. The shadow of a man’s head and shoulder appeared. Rollison half-closed his eyes, but kept a lookout through his lashes to see what was happening. It seemed a long time before the door opened more widely. He tensed himself in readiness to make a sudden spring from the bed.
Then, from the passage, came a woman’s scream, sharp and clear
One moment there was the hushed silence, next the scream.
Chapter Six
Rollison Buys A Book
Rollison was out of bed in a trice, but the darkness hindered him. He fumbled for the light, switched it on and pulled the door open. He heard the sound of footsteps running along the passage. The woman screamed again.
One of the maids appeared to have fallen, or been thrown, to the floor. Rollison could just see the heels of the intruder rushing down the stairs. A door opened and a man in pyjamas cried out: ‘What the devil’s all this?’
‘Stop him!’ screeched the maid.
Other doors were opening by now, and people were calling out across the passage. Reaching the hall, Rollison saw the intruder trying to side-step the night-porter, who was brandishing a chair.
‘Throw it at him!’ shouted Rollison.
The intruder reached the door, Rollison a yard or two behind him. Rollison thought it was Welling, but could not be sure, for once in the street the man jumped into a small car, and was off in a flash.
‘He—he’s got away!’ gasped the porter,
‘Not our lucky night,’ said Rollison, regretfully. But he was cheered at the thought that Susan at least was safe.
The manager of the Lorne Hall Hotel had sent for the police and persuaded the guests to go back to their rooms. An alert inspector arrived, and asked innumerable questions. He appeared to be satisfied with Rollison’s answers. It seemed clear that Welling – if it was Welling – had come to murder Susan. It seemed equally clear that Horniman had decided on drastic measures to quell her revolt; but it was impossible to prove that Horniman was behind the attack.
The only real harm was a cut in the maid’s cheek, caused by the knife which the assailant had been carrying.
The inspector went off, promising to make sure that Susan’s room at the Norfolk was watched, and Rollison went back to bed.
He was up before nine o’clock, made arrangements for his luggage and Susan’s to be collected, and strolled to the West Station at ten minutes to ten.
The booking hall was deserted except for two ticket collectors, one of them counting tickets, the other chalking times of trains on a small blackboard.
Soon after ten o’clock, however, people began to stream on to the platform. Rollison stood by the bookstall, watching the doorway.
At ten minutes past ten Susan arrived.
A porter was carrying her cases; just behind him came Horniman.
Rollison backed into the bookstall, where he could see them without being seen. He heard Horniman say: ‘Susan, my dear, you must listen to me.’
Susan ignored him and followed her porter along the platform. Horniman paused, uncertain what to do, then he, too, turned to the bookstall.
Rollison slipped out one way while the Colonel entered by the other.
Horniman halted by a stand displaying a colourful selection of paper-backed books. Over their covers, in which he appeared to be absorbed, he watched the platform. Susan had disappeared, and her porter was coming back.
Rollison wondered if he, Horniman, intended travelling on that train or whether he only wanted to make sure that Susan was on it.
It was possible that someone else, perhaps the man who had used the knife, might be here. Rollison watched in vain for any glance of recognition between Horniman and those who passed him. Yet Horniman, still pretending to look at the books, was actually casting swift glances right and left, now quite obviously on the look-out for someone.
Was he watching for Rollison?
To test this possibility Rollison strolled quietly past the bookstall.
Horniman’s eyes narrowed when he caught sight of him, but he did not move away. People were hurrying past now; the train was due out in two minutes. Rollison decided that there was nothing to be gained from waiting any longer, and boarded the train several carriages
away from Susan. He could join her later.
He could still see Horniman.
Then suddenly, without warning, Horniman swayed. He struck against the stand of books sending them flying. Another convulsive movement and he fell forward, bringing the stand down with a crash.
Every eye turned towards him.
Chapter Seven
Quick Death
The guard’s whistle blew.
Rollison opened the door of his carriage and jumped on to the platform, then raced along towards Susan’s carriage. He could not leave Bournemouth now, but Susan must not be allowed to travel alone. He reached the door as a porter sped down the platform, shouting: ‘Hold it, hold it a minute!’ Another whistle blew and green flags waved. Further down the platform, the driver looked out to see the cause of the commotion. Then suddenly the guard’s flags seemed to change from green to red.
Rollison relaxed.
He did not see Susan, but hurried towards the bookstall where a crowd of people had gathered. Horniman lay amid scattered books and newspapers.
A man pushed through the silent crowd and went down on his knees by the body. A whisper went from mouth to mouth, muttering: ‘A doctor.’
A railway official edged up beside him.
‘How is he?’
The doctor glanced up. ‘He’s dead,’ he said, brusquely.
No one spoke. Men and women exchanged glances, one woman gave a hysterical gasp and a man by her side took her arm and led her away. Then, as if a spell had been broken, a dozen people began to talk at once. ‘Dead, how dreadful.’ ‘Poor chap, I thought he looked ill.’
Rollison felt no sympathy for Horniman, but he was shocked by the speed of his death; and the fact of it. It was Susan who had been in danger, yet Horniman who had been killed. For he was pretty sure that this was a case of murder. What did it mean?
A man touched his arm. ‘Aren’t you Mr Rollison?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I’m Rollison.’
‘I’m Superintendent Carr.’
Rollison smiled, a trifle grimly. ‘You people are so quick. Remarkably so. I feel out-matched.’
Carr gave a short, unmirthful laugh. ‘You gave us enough warning,’ he said. ‘We didn’t expect anything like this to happen, though, we were looking after the girl. Did you see what happened?’
‘The collapse. Yes.’
The Superintendent looked round as a railway official came up to him. ‘Ah, Mr Matcham,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry I’ve had to hold the train up, I suppose you’re worried about getting it away.’
‘I don’t want to hold it too long,’ said Matcham. ‘What are you going to do, sir?’
Clearly, Carr had not made up his mind. Rollison could imagine what he was thinking. Someone on that train might be responsible for the death of Horniman. True, there was as yet no evidence that Horniman had been murdered; had there been a shot, or had a knife been used, Carr would not have hesitated to keep the train until every passenger aboard had given his or her name and address. As it was, he was almost certainly asking himself if there were sufficient grounds for further delay.
Rollison murmured: ‘You could see if any of Horniman’s friends are on the train, couldn’t you? There’s Miss Lancaster, for one. There might be others.’
Carr said thoughtfully: ‘You mean the people who lunched and dined with him I suppose. The trouble is, I don’t know them.’
Rollison said diffidently: ‘I don’t want to butt in, but I’ve seen them all.’
Carr’s face cleared. ‘Then that’s all right! I’m sorry, Mr Matcham, but we’ll have to take a quick look at everyone on the train.’
Matcham shrugged his shoulders resignedly. ‘It would be my morning on,’ he complained. ‘It’ll take twenty minutes or more, but I’ll get the corridors cleared.’
Instructions were given quickly that all passengers were to take their seats.
‘You might try to stop anyone leaving the station for twenty minutes,’ Rollison suggested, as he and Carr made their way to the train.
‘I did that the moment I heard what had happened,’ said Carr, with a shrug, ‘although anyone could get out by half a dozen different ways if they really wanted to.’
The carriages were no more than half full, and they made good progress. Rollison remembered clearly all those who had dined with Horniman, but he saw no familiar face, excepting Susan’s.
She looked up sharply as they came into her compartment.
Rollison said quietly: ‘I’m sorry, Susan, we can’t travel by this train. Horniman—’
‘Horniman!’ There was a note of astonishment in her voice. ‘I heard that someone had been taken ill and died, surely it’s not—’
‘I’m afraid it is,’ said Rollison.
‘Oh,’ said Susan, blankly. ‘I—’ she broke off, and picked up a small case near her feet. Carr took her larger case off the luggage rack. She made no protest as he helped her out of the carriage. Rollison wished that it were possible to stay with her, but Matcham, in close attendance, was looking pointedly at his watch. They left Susan in charge of a porter, and hurried on their way.
‘We aren’t going to have much luck,’ Carr said, as they reached the end of the train.
‘Well, we tried,’ said Rollison. ‘Three more carriages.’ The first two were quite empty, in the third was one man. He was looking out of the window. Rollison said cheerfully: ‘Why, if it isn’t Mr Lenwell!’
The man started. ‘I don’t think I know you,’ he said doubtfully.
‘We nearly met last night,’ Rollison told him. ‘You were with your wife, Colonel Horniman and—’
‘Well, supposing I was?’ said Lenwell. He looked challengingly from Rollinson to Carr, who, apologetic but firm, said that there were one or two inquiries to be made; he was sorry but he would have to ask Mr Lenwell to catch a later train.
Lenwell’s face lost some of its colour. ‘But I can’t!’ he protested, ‘I’ve an appointment in London at two-fifteen. I must travel by this train!’
‘I’m sorry, sir. Colonel Horniman—’
‘Damn Horniman. Who are you?’ He had glanced at Carr’s card but the name had not, apparently, sunk in.
‘I’m sorry, sir.’ repeated Carr, ‘but Colonel Horniman’s death—’ ‘Death?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
Lenwell did not protest further, but took his suitcase from the rack. As soon as he was in the corridor, Matcham cried: ‘All aboard!’ while the few passengers who had jumped down to see what was on foot scrambled back. Before Rollison and his party were half way along the platform, the train was steaming out.
Horniman’s body had been moved. A man with a large camera was standing nearby, with several other policemen in plain clothes. Matcham joined them and offered Carr the use of his office.
‘I won’t trouble you for that,’ said Carr, ‘but I’d like to have the use of a waiting-room for half an hour.’ Matcham nodded, accommodatingly. ‘I wonder if you and Miss Lancaster will wait in there?’ Carr asked Lenwell, and the man nodded limply.
Carr turned to Rollison. ‘You’d rather come with me, I expect.’
Rollison agreed with alacrity. He liked and admired Carr, and had always been friendly with the station staff. Carr was anxious to try to find out who had left the station between the time of Horniman’s arrival and his death. Rollison was surprised at the men’s retentive memories; he had thought it likely that their job would be purely mechanical, not realising the need for a sharp eye on tickets and those who proffered them, the various tricks of the travellers’ trade. Patiently, Carr built up a list; there were at least a dozen people who had come on to the platform with platform tickets and gone before the discovery of Horniman’s death.
‘I’ll tell you what, sir,’ one of the porters suggested. ‘Give us a bit of time and we’ll write ’em all down.’
It seemed a satisfactory arrangement, and Matcham promised to arrange for the ticket collectors to have an hour off, in order to concentrate on the
ir task. Carr turned his attention to the bookstall staff, a man of the name of Arthur Goad, and his assistant Philip Taylor.
‘I suppose you’re too busy to notice much,’ Carr suggested.
‘Well, I see quite a lot that goes on,’ Goad admitted.
‘What about, you, young man?’ asked Carr, turning to the lad.
‘I saw the way the gentleman was looking: rather funny, I thought it was. And I recognised Mr Rollison,’ Philip added, with a quick, sideways glance. ‘I told Mr Goad that Mr Rollison was on the platform, didn’t I, Mr Goad?’
Rollison smiled affably. ‘What did you think was funny about the man, Philip?’
‘Well, the way he looked,’
‘Frightened?’
‘I wouldn’t exactly say frightened,’ declared Philip, ‘rather, sort of, savage, if you know what I mean,’
Goad said: ‘I’ll tell you what I did notice, Superintendent. Two or three people bumped into him, and he gave them a pretty nasty look’
‘Swore at one of them,’ volunteered Philip.
Goad said: ‘He was killed, wasn’t he, Super? That’s why you’re making these inquiries.’
‘It’s possible,’ admitted Carr. He glanced at Rollison. ‘These people who bumped into him, did you notice them?’
‘Yes,’ said Rollison., and added quickly: ‘If both Philip and Mr Goad noticed them, you might get their descriptions separately. We could then compare them with mine and get a pretty good picture. Agreed?’
Philip’s eyes shone with youthful importance. ‘I remember them clearly,’ he declared.
On the whole, their descriptions tallied fairly well. They were all agreed that one man had been small, rather humped backed, and with a thin face. The second, at whom Horniman had sworn, had been a plump man wearing a bowler hat and carrying a brief-case. He had fallen over someone’s luggage, and the brief-case had knocked against Horniman’s legs; both of the bookstall attendants were sure about that. The third man they could identify; he travelled to London on the 10.12 two or three times every month. He had knocked against Horniman’s elbow.