by John Creasey
‘Did either of the unknowns leave the station, I wonder,’ murmured Rollison.
The ticket collectors and a porter remembered a plump man who had carried a brief-case. They also remembered Welling. ‘He spoke to the gent,’ the porter declared.
‘Which gent?’ asked Carr, quickly.
‘The dead gent. I was walking past at the time, I heard what he said. It wasn’t much. “She on?” he said, and the gent said “Yes, so’s he.” I remember it clear,’ said the porter with relish. ‘Funny, the way I remember things, always have done, since I was a boy. “She on?” asked the little fellow, “Yes, so’s he,” said the gent. Then the little man hurried up the train.’
Carr turned to Matcham. ‘Where does the train stop?’
‘Bournemouth Central, Southampton and then right through.’
Carr said: ‘Let me use the telephone, will you?’
He instructed someone in his office to telephone the Southampton and London station police, and gave a description of Welling. When that was done, Rollison said: ‘He’s probably the man who broke into my room last night, so we might have some luck. What are you going to do with Miss Lancaster and Lenwell?’
‘Get a statement,’ Carr said, ‘I don’t see that I can do anything else. I’ll have a watch kept for the plump fellow, too.’
‘Odd about that brief-case,’ said Rollison ruminatively.
Carr stared.
‘Well, isn’t it odd?’ asked Rollison. ‘The porter nearly touched it, and brought down the man’s wrath. Then he himself, with great carelessness, knocked it against Horniman’s legs. I mean, it would be a neat plan, to have a hypo fastened in the bottom of a brief-case, with just enough needle sticking out to puncture the skin of anyone it knocked against. The case would have to be closely guarded, for fear it touched the wrong man by mistake. I’m only making a suggestion,’ he added, hastily.
‘Well, it’s good enough to follow up,’ said Carr handsomely. ‘You’re staying in Bournemouth, I suppose?’
‘Until Miss Lancaster’s free to leave,’ said Rollison.
Half an hour later, Rollison and Susan returned to the Lorne Hall Hotel for coffee. Carr was still talking to Lenwell, who had lapsed into a kind of stupor and took a long time to answer the simplest question. It could have been shock at Horniman’s death.
Susan had recovered quickly, and seemed, if anything, more at ease. She told Rollison frankly that the murder made no sense to her whatever.
‘Well, you can help to make sense of it,’ Rollison said a trifle sharply. ‘But before I press you for a story of Horniman’s baleful influence, we’ve got to have one thing clear.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Susan, her grey eyes widening.
‘Briefly, this: you are known to have quarrelled with Horniman last night, and he has died a violent death. I think he was poisoned. I have suggested to the police that it was administered at the station by an injection, but it might not have been. It might have been given to him any time in the last twenty-four hours. The authorities might find out, too, that you have a motive for murdering him, mightn’t they?’
Chapter Eight
Susan’s Story
Susan accepted the idea calmly. There was no suggestion now of temper or hysteria. Watching her, Rollison reflected that she was quite lovely enough to have turned Horniman’s head. That he could understand. What he found almost impossible to believe was that a man could cold-bloodedly plan to murder her.
‘They might think I have,’ said Susan, ‘but I haven’t.’ She paused. ‘You were listening near my door when I talked to him last night, weren’t you?’
‘Well, yes I was.’
‘Then you know he told me that Bruce is still alive,’ she said. Her eyes sought the window, noting as in a trance the splendid colour of the flower beds, the trimly cut grass. It was peaceful enough, but there was no peace now in Susan’s heart.
‘Yes, I know,’ said Rollison.
‘I didn’t like him at first, but when he told me that Bruce was all right, I believed him. Even after the fire and the inquest, I believed him.’
‘Of course you did,’ Rollison murmured.
‘And he was convincing enough,’ Susan went on. ‘He came to my flat. I remember it because it was a terrible evening; there had been a violent thunderstorm. It was the middle of September, just after that terribly hot spell, and I felt as if life just wasn’t worth living.’
She paused, but Rollison did not interrupt her.
‘If you’d really known Bruce you would understand,’ she went on slowly. ‘I felt quite sure that he had been murdered on account of his inventions. At first I wanted vengeance, then … well, it didn’t seem to matter what happened. He was gone, nothing could bring him back. Then Horniman called. He told me that Bruce might be alive, that the dead man had been someone else. Was I crazy to believe him?’ she asked.
Rollison smiled. ‘Well, maybe,’ he said. ‘The state of being crazy comes to us all at times.’
‘But he made it sound so plausible. He said that Bruce had known for some time that his life was in danger, because of his inventions. And he said that as large commercial interests were at stake, Bruce had decided to go into hiding until his latest invention was finished. It’s the kind of thing Bruce might do, Rolly. There was only one odd thing: he hadn’t told me anything about it. But Horniman explained that. He said Bruce thought that if I knew where he was someone might get it out of me. It was rather weak, I suppose, but I wanted to believe it. Since last night I’ve been thinking that Horniman probably lied from start to finish. But I did ask all the reasonable questions.’
‘Such as?’ encouraged Rollison.
‘Well, why had Bruce left the cottage, and who was the other man? I thought that if Horniman could explain that, then he must be telling the truth. Everything seemed to hinge on it. I can remember him now, as he sat opposite me. The day had been stormy, and there was a roll of thunder in the distance, as Horniman leaned forward and took my hand. He said: “That is very easy to explain.” I waited, absolutely on edge. “But you must understand that Bruce is in danger,” he went on. “He arranged for another man to impersonate him, so as to confuse his enemies.”’
She paused, and Rollison nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘plausible enough to anyone whose nerves were already on edge – but a little frightening.’
‘Of course it was frightening! I knew that Bruce was still in danger, if he were alive. Horniman convinced me that I must make it seem, outwardly, as if I’d put all thought of Bruce out of my mind. I would make Bruce’s enemies think they had got the right man, and so make Bruce safer. I was quite prepared to do anything. There was one worry. Horniman told me that I was being closely watched by those people, and that I might be questioned.’ She caught her breath. ‘I was,’ she declared.
‘By whom?’ asked Rollison.
‘It was nearly a week afterwards. I had been out to dinner with Horniman, and when I came back a man was waiting for me. A rather frightening little man. He was very round shouldered, almost a deformity, though not quite. He scared me, Rolly. He said that he was from an insurance company and wanted to know whether I had any idea that Bruce was alive. Of course, I denied it. He kept pressing me with questions. Any doubts I might have had of Horniman’s story quite disappeared then.’
‘Yes,’ said Rollison. ‘That was clever.’
Susan did not heed the interruption.
‘I felt absolutely convinced, after that. Horniman told me that Bruce might be away for several months, but that he would send a message whenever he could. A week ago, he suggested that we should spend a few days in Bournemouth. He wanted me to meet people, he said, friends of Bruce’s, people who had worked with him and were convinced that he was still alive. I certainly didn’t object. Then a note was slipped under my door. It said that I would see Bruce if I caught the early train and went to the Leas Hotel.’ She raised her hands, helplessly. ‘I flung on my clothes and rushed off. Was I a fool, Rol
ly?’
‘A little over eager, perhaps,’ said Rollison.
‘I ought to have made sure where the message came from,’ said Susan, ‘but I didn’t think about anything except seeing Bruce. Well, I got to the Leas Hotel, only to be told by Mrs Lenwell that Bruce hadn’t been able to come. Horniman sent down some of my clothes, and said he’d told my maid where I was.’
It seemed clear that Horniman had tricked her out of her flat and probably searched it himself, thus accounting for the disorder. He had taken some of her clothes, too, so that she would not worry about getting in touch with her maid for a few days. Thus, to get her away and to gain access, he had risked attracting the attention of the police; but probably he had not expected the maid to raise the alarm so quickly.
‘I stayed at the Leas for two days,’ Susan went on. ‘Then Horniman arrived and said that Bruce had been able to see his mother for a few minutes, and that she was staying at the Lorne Hall Hotel again. Of course, I went to see her.’
‘Had you met her with Bruce?’
‘No. I knew she’d been abroad. She was very charming,’ Susan went on, ‘but she was frightened, Rolly, and she frightened me. She said that Bruce lived in continual fear of his life. He had told her that but for Horniman he would be dead. She begged me to do whatever Horniman told me, and it was that night that Horniman said that the people who were threatening Bruce were still convinced that he was alive. They wanted some kind of proof that I was sure that he was dead, and he suggested, quite casually and rather apologetically, that if I became engaged to someone else, it would be pretty convincing. ‘I don’t think I would have agreed, but for Mrs Drayton’s plea. I did agree, and yet—well it was the first thing that really worried me about Horniman. He had always been very attentive, he became even more attentive then. He even suggested that we should put it about that we were married. Of course I refused. Then last night, he told the Lenwells that we were.’
‘Did he, by Jove!’
‘He knew she was a gossip-writer,’ Susan said, with a catch in her voice. ‘And I knew, after that, that he wasn’t worrying about me or about Bruce, he simply wanted something for himself. I’ve never been so frightened. That’s why I locked myself in my room and that’s why I didn’t argue much when you asked me to go to the Norfolk,’
She paused, and then said rather desperately: ‘Rolly, you do believe me, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do my dear. I think the police will, too. They might be annoyed, you know. With such a story, you should have gone to them at once. But that would have been discounting the emotional stress and strain. Horniman persisted that the only way to keep Bruce safe was to keep silent, I suppose,’
‘He was always rubbing that in.’
‘The problem is, to find out what he most wanted. To marry you by hook or by crook or to convince you that Bruce was alive. Are you sure that this Mrs Drayton is Bruce’s mother?’
‘Well, she said she was.’
‘Yes, it’s been very neatly contrived,’ said Rollison. ‘And the arch-contriver apparently now lies dead.’
Susan said in a husky voice: ‘Is Bruce dead, that is what worries me.’
Rollison looked at her gravely.
‘I wouldn’t like to say one way or the other,’ he told her.
‘Rolly, do you mean that, or are you just saying it? Do you think there’s a chance that he’s alive?’
‘Well, there’s a very good reason why he should be,’ said Rollison. ‘And it’s this: killing Bruce would be killing the goose that lays the golden eggs.’
They stayed at the Lorne Hall Hotel for lunch. Carr came, heard the story, and left saying that he hoped to call on them again a little after two o’clock.
It was actually on the stroke of two when he came into the room his eyes bright, his mien jaunty.
‘Good news, I hope,’ said Rollison.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ said Carr with a grin. ‘I think they’ve got the round-shouldered man. A man answering his description was intercepted at Waterloo.’
‘Who’s got him?’ asked Rollison.
‘The Yard. As Miss Lancaster may be able to identify him, I said that you would both be travelling up to town on the 2.20. It doesn’t give you much time, but you’re already packed, aren’t you?’
Susan jumped up. ‘There are always last minute things to stow away.’
Carr watched her as she ran up the stairs. He looked, thoughtful. Rollison brought him back to the present with a gentle cough.
‘So you’ve passed her back to Scotland Yard?’
‘There was nothing else to do,’ Carr asserted. ‘I’ve let Lenwell go, too. He wasn’t seen near Horniman today, and apparently he was one of the first people to get into the train. He says that his wife caught the 8.35 from the Central and was to have met him outside Swan & Edgar’s soon after two o’clock. He seems scared of her,’ added Carr, thoughtfully.
‘Have you seen her?’
‘No.’
‘You’d be scared!’ Rollison laughed. ‘I suppose all you have to worry about now is finding the plump man with the brief-case,’ he said. ‘Any puncture?’
Carr looked startled. ‘Didn’t I tell you? Yes, just behind the right knee. I’ve practised with a brief-case,’ Carr went on, ‘and it would be about the right height. A casual swing, a prick … no more than that. It would hardly be noticed in one’s surprise at nearly being knocked over. You’re an astonishing man, Mr Rollison.’
Rollison’s eyes held a puzzled expression.
‘Astonishing is the word,’ he said, ruefully, ‘How else could I have overlooked the remarkable feat that nothing has appeared in the gossip columns about Susan’s engagement, or, rather, her marriage.’
‘I was puzzled about that, too,’ Carr said. ‘It looks as if Mrs Lenwell changed her mind, or else that the news wasn’t considered important enough to be published.’
‘Oh, it was important enough. No paper would have refused it. Drayton’s death caused a stir, you know, and Susan was quite a figure of tragedy at the inquest. Odd business. Very.’
Rollison and Susan caught the 2.20 with no time to spare. Goad and his assistant waved from the bookstall, and the youth came rushing up as the final whistles blew. He flung the evening paper into the compartment. ‘All the best, sir!’ he cried, ‘all the best!’
‘That was rather sweet,’ said Susan.
‘Very,’ smiled Rollison. ‘Feeling easier in your mind?’
‘Much!’
‘You won’t know yourself in a few days,’ Rollison promised her. But he wondered.
The journey to Waterloo was uneventful, and they steamed into the terminus on time.
Quite a few people were leaving the train and they had to wait their turn for a porter. One came to their assistance at last. Susan pointed to their cases, moving out of his way as she did so. At the same time a plump man walked briskly along the platform, swinging a brief-case.
Chapter Nine
Brief-Case
A surge of alarm shot through Rollison. The plump man was horribly familiar, the swing of the brief-case also; it was this man who had knocked his case against Horniman’s legs. He was now striding along the platform as if in a great hurry; and Susan’s back was towards him.
Rollison jumped forward and made a grab at the case. It swung wildly, one corner coming perilously towards Rollison as he dodged back. Never had he felt so scared of anything as he did then. Susan, startled, picked up a hold-all from the luggage trolley and flung it at the man. He staggered backwards, waving the brief-case wildly. Rolly braced himself to try again. He felt the corner brush against his arm, then wrenched the case from the man’s grip. It slipped to the ground.
‘’Here!’ exclaimed the porter.
‘Don’t touch that case!’ snapped Rollison.
‘Police!’ cried Susan, at the top of her voice. ‘Police!’
Rollison blessed her, and sprang at the plump man, who, kicking out wildly, caught Rollison an a
gonising blow on the shin. By then people were hurrying towards them, but there was no sign of the police.
With a flying leap the plump man jumped on to the track.
Rollison limped after him. Two men from the crowd reached the edge of the platform first, but hesitated to jump, fearful of an incoming train.
Rollison jumped, regardless.
The plump man was now running along the line, Rollison behind him. Sleepers and flints made the going hard; he had expected to gain but soon found himself losing ground. Not far along, the platform sloped downwards to the permanent way. He leapt on to it as the plump man raced across the tracks towards the side of the station.
Someone yelled: ‘Mind the electricity!’
‘Fool,’ thought Rollison, making good speed. ‘What’s the electricity to do with—’
He stopped abruptly. Not far away were the electrified suburban lines.
Then the plump man turned back towards the platforms. Rollison turned in his wake. Some thirty yards separated them. Suddenly there was the sound of an approaching train. One moment it was a hundred yards away, the next no more than fifty.
The plump man reached the track along which the train was running. He still had a thirty yard lead.
The rumble of the train seemed deafening.
Rollison stood still, watching his quarry.
The man reached the platform and began to haul himself up. He slipped. The train was no more than twenty yards away from him. It happened in a flash. He clutched the platform again, and Rollison’s last sight of him was as he made a desperate heave to throw himself out of danger.
Then the train cut him off from view.
A porter clambered to Rollison’s side from the permanent way behind him and muttered: ‘Poor devil.’
Rollison hurried along the platform, sick at heart. The man was either dead or free. After taking a chance like that, he almost deserved to be free.
When he learned that he really had escaped, Rollison was tempted to change his opinion.
Jolly opened the door of the Gresham Terrace flat as Rollison and Susan reached the top of the stairs.