by John Creasey
He could see Snub’s merry face in his mind’s eye. He remembered the speed with which Snub had acted on the landing and in the hall, his competence, his light-hearted gaiety.
‘I say,’ said Snub, in a whisper which Rollison could only just hear, ‘I think I’m on to something.’
‘And your skull’s still whole?’
‘Never mind my skull,’ said Snub. ‘I followed Bright-eyes and her first trip was to the home of the Lenwells. She didn’t stay long, and after that she indulged in a taxi. She’s now at the house of a Dr Finnigan, in Bray Street, Notting Hill. Frowsty-ish neighbourhood. Bray Street’s a bit above it. Brass plate and all that kind of thing. She went in, and I tried to follow, but the door beat me. Still, I heard yelling.’
‘Yelling?’
‘Not another hysterical attack.’ Rollison could almost see Snub’s grin. ‘A quarrel. Bright-eyes and a man, possibly the dear doctor. But the thing is, another customer went in three minutes ago. He took a long time opening the door, and as he wasn’t drunk, I should say that he used a skeleton key … if there are such things,’ added Snub, virtuously.
‘I’ll come at once,’ Rollison told him.
Chapter Twelve
Dr. Finnigan
Snub whispered: ‘The girl’s gone. The man’s still inside.’
‘Quiet,’ warned Rollison.
They stood in the porch of Dr Finnigan’s house, a tall, narrow building in a terrace which seemed to be unending. A faint light shone from inside the hall, but there were no sounds. Rollison tried the door, but it was locked. He examined the key-hole.
‘Easy one?’ asked Snub.
‘Fairly.’
‘Have a shot at it,’ urged Snub.
Rollison said: ‘Go into the street and walk slowly up and down. Keep a watchful eye on the doorways opposite and on either side of this one. I thought I saw a man in one of them when I came past.’
‘Okay,’ said Snub. ‘Are you going in?’
‘Probably.’
Snub slipped away, into the gloom. Rollison waited. The youngster seemed able to move with remarkable quietness, for he heard no sound. He sensed that Snub was peering into every nearby doorway. Rollison wondered whether he himself had really seen a lurking man, or whether his imagination had been playing him tricks.
He began to work at the lock. He had not the proper tools, and it would take him at least five minutes. He made hardly a sound, but his eyes and ears were alert for the slightest sign of trouble. He felt confident that Snub would give him warning of any danger from the street; if it came without warning, that would give point to Grice’s suspicions. Rollison thrust that barb of disquiet aside. He thought of Dr Finnigan; a doctor must have supplied the barbiturate drug to the Hammer, or to whoever had killed Horniman. This might be the man; and it began to look as if he had been wrong to assume that Ethel Kent had no real part in this affair.
The lock clicked back.
He waited for a moment, then slowly opened the door. The light came from a room a little way along the passage. He heard something fall, something light and brittle. There was a muttered imprecation. Then a shadow appeared opposite the open door.
Rollison pressed close to the wall, waiting; the man would be so surprised that he would have little chance to defend himself.
He came in sight.
A sibilant whisper from behind him. ‘There’s—’
It was Snub, but Rollison did not hear the finish of his warning, for the man who had come from the room heard the beginning and leapt forward. There was a gun in his hand. He smashed at Rollison, who avoided the blow and shot out his leg, but the man was ready for it and jumped clear. A backhander struck Rollison across the face, and made him lose a precious moment. The man reached the porch. There was a thud, as of bodies colliding, and then the roar of a shot. In the vivid flash, Rollison saw Snub’s face; and near him that of another man.
The gunman turned towards the main road, his footsteps thudding on the pavement. Snub shouted: ‘Police, police!’ and then began to give chase. Rollison followed, relieved to know that Snub could not be badly hurt. Yet the gun had gone off only a yard away from him; he must surely have been hit!
Rollison thought of the second man, that vague face behind Snub. He hesitated and looked over his shoulder. The man was running away in the opposite direction, and was now beneath a street lamp. One thing was clear; his right arm hung limp by his side. Rollison swung round. The gunman must be left to Snub, this runaway must be stopped.
Rollison overtook the man easily, as a middle-aged man came hurrying out of a doorway.
‘What the hell’s the matter?’
As he spoke, the running man faltered, then fell. Rollison waited only long enough to see other people coming from neighbouring houses, enough and to spare to make sure that the man did not get away, and then turned back in the other direction. He could see Snub and the gunman, not far from the main road.
A shot rang out.
Snub kept running.
‘He’s got plenty of guts,’ Rollison thought, and put on an extra spurt. Then he heard the welcome blast of a police whistle and saw a uniformed policeman turn into the street. The gunman was now between Snub and the policeman. He hesitated, then spun round. He was only a few yards from Snub …
Snub flung himself sideways. The gunman came running towards Rollison, who slipped into a gateway and waited. The pounding footsteps drew nearer, the policeman’s footsteps seemed like an echo of the gunman’s. Rollison prepared to put his leg out.
He heard the man’s breathing.
He shot out his foot.
The man ran into it and pitched forward, and the gun went flying from his hand. It passed dangerously close to Rollison’s head. The man picked himself up, but he was too shaken to put up much resistance, and soon the policeman, followed by others, came hurrying towards the scene. The passers-by had gained courage, and were pressing forward. Among them, Rollison saw Snub.
Rollison pushed forward and whispered: ‘Get away now, you’ve done enough.’
‘But—’
‘Hurry!’ whispered Rollison, and Snub gave a rueful grin and disappeared into the darkness.
Rollison went into the gateway where he had been hiding, searched for and found the gun. It was a heavy service revolver.
‘What’s he been up to, sir?’ asked the constable.
‘Doing what he didn’t ought,’ said Rollison, jocularly. ‘He used this.’ The revolver changed hands.
‘Thank you, sir, this man’s under arrest.’ There was a formal charge, during which Rollison’s thoughts roamed to Dr Finnigan’s house. What had happened to the man at the other end of the street, the fellow he first saw behind Snub? As he walked along with the police and the captive, he reasoned that there was a simple explanation of the fact that Snub had escaped being shot: the gunman had fired at the other fellow; and, if that limply hanging arm meant anything, he had scored a hit.
They were close to the doctor’s house when a man detached himself from the little crowd further along, and came hurrying up to the surgery.
‘Half a minute,’ said the sergeant easily. ‘What’s the trouble?’
‘A man along here is hurt,’ said the messenger, breathlessly. ‘It looks as if he’s been shot. The doctor—’
‘I’ll get him,’ said the sergeant.
Rollison thought: ‘Will he, I wonder?’
He followed the sergeant into the house. The sergeant reached the open door of a room which looked like the surgery. He stood on the threshold, blocking the way. Rollison looked over his shoulder, hearing the man draw in a deep breath.
A small, fair-haired man was sitting at a roll-top desk. His hands were stretched out in front of him. He did not move. The sergeant hesitated.
‘It—it’s Dr Finnigan,’ said the sergeant.
Rollison moved forward and touched Finnigan’s shoulder; and Finnigan toppled forward.
Rollison picked up the telephone.
; Grice was not in his office, and Rollison left a message. The sergeant, who had recognised him, said sourly that this was a matter for the divisional staff, not for Scotland Yard, and put a call through to the Notting Hill police station. Rollison said little, but thought the more. He saw it as more than possible that Finnigan had been poisoned in exactly the same way as Horniman.
Other thoughts conflicted. He wanted to see the wounded man, who had been taken to a doctor in a nearby street. As far as he had been able to find out, the man was not badly hurt, and quite fit enough to be questioned.
Meanwhile, the prisoner stood sullenly on one side.
The sergeant turned to him. ‘You know what this means, don’t you?’ he demanded.
The prisoner said: ‘I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you mean. You’d better look for his woman.’
‘A woman?’ asked the sergeant. ‘You mean to say there’s a woman in this?’
‘There was a woman with him before I came. She went out in such a hurry she left the door open. I was going to consult him about—’ he hesitated.
‘The right way to fire a revolver?’ asked Rollison, pleasantly.
The man glowered. ‘Very funny.’
The sergeant began to ask routine questions, but Rollison was on edge to get away. Soon an inspector from the station arrived. He at once telephoned for the police surgeon, who, after a brief survey, said that Dr Finnigan had been poisoned.
The words were hardly out of his mouth before a breathless young man appeared. At sight of Finnigan’s body he drew back with an exclamation of shock and incredulity.
Rollison watched him with keen curiosity.
The young man said: ‘What—what’s happened?’
‘I’m afraid it’s a case of murder, Dr Smith,’ said the inspector. ‘You’re Dr Finnigan’s partner, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. I was with friends, and was told—’ Smith broke off, looking towards a cabinet which was fastened to the wall. In it were several dozen small bottles, all neatly labelled. The door was swinging open. Smith moved towards it quickly, ran his gaze along the shelves, and then said in a tense voice: ‘The barbiturate’s gone.’
He looked down at Finnigan, and said helplessly: ‘It’s fantastic! Who on earth …’ then his voice trailed off.
There would not be a great deal to learn here, thought Rollison. The inspector asked him for a statement, and he gave it briefly. Higginbottom, he said, had followed a suspect to this house, seen a man break in, and had telephoned him. The inspector took his word for it, and asked whether he had anything to suggest.
‘I’d like to see the wounded man,’ Rollison said, promptly.
‘What’s this about a wounded man?’ The inspector was startled.
The sergeant interposed. ‘He’s being brought round, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen to it.’ There was a wealth of resentment in his voice. The prisoner, who had refused to give his name or to say anything except to deny that he had killed Finnigan, was searched. He had no papers with him, and nothing to identify him.
Then the wounded man was brought in.
He was a youngish, good-looking fellow, deathly pale now, his arm in a sling. He was trembling as he entered the room, and the inspector told him to sit down. He did so with evident relief. The inspector glanced at Rollison, then at the man, and finally asked in a friendly voice:
‘Now, what’s it all about? What’s your name?’
‘K—K—Kent,’ stammered the man. ‘J—J—Jim Kent. I—’
Immediately, Rollison seemed to hear a high-pitched scream, and to see a peroxided girl sitting against the wall. This began to make sense, and he listened intently.
Kent’s story was plausible enough. He had suspected his wife of having an affair with Dr Finnigan. Friends had told him that she often called on the doctor, and he had been waiting to confront her that night, but he swore that she had not been near the doctor’s house.
He must have seen his wife arrive and depart. Rollison thought, and he admired the man for his loyalty towards her. The story seemed to satisfy the inspector, who said briefly: ‘All right, Kent. We’ll have to hold you for a little while, but you know that.’
Rollison said briskly: ‘If there’s nothing else you want me for. Inspector, I’ll be off.’
He hurried to the end of the street, where he had left his car, and drove at once to Gresham Terrace. On the way, he found himself thinking about Kent’s story; he liked the man as much as he disliked the one who had fired the shots. There was now no doubt in his mind that the sullen prisoner had tried to shoot Kent, perhaps to prevent him from telling his story, perhaps to prevent him from mentioning his wife’s visit.
Had Ethel Kent poisoned Finnigan?
Rollison left the car outside his flat and hurried upstairs. He had a sneaking fear that Snub might not have returned, but there he was, his eagerness completely at variance with Jolly’s composure. He had been waiting on tenterhooks for an hour, he declared, and Jolly nodded confirmation. So Snub had come straight to the flat.
‘Well, what happened?’ asked Rollison.
‘I’ve told you most of it,’ said Snub. ‘Bright-eyes went to the doctor’s house after a visit to the Lenwells, but she wasn’t there long.’
‘How did she get in?’
‘She had a key. Trust Bright-eyes. No picking locks for her! What’s your report?’
Rollison laughed. ‘Interesting, but it can wait. This quarrel between the man inside the house and the girl: did you hear much of it?’
‘Nothing, except the raised voices,’ Snub said.
Rollison said resignedly: ‘I suppose we shouldn’t expect too much.’ Briefly he told them what had happened at Notting Hill, then added: ‘You go to the Lenwells’ house, Snub, and see the woman. Ask her why Bright-eyes visited her. Don’t threaten, but cajole. Let’s see what you can do when there’s some finesse needed.’
‘That’s me,’ said Snub. ‘Born to it!’
‘You got pretty close to a gun,’ Rollison reminded him.
‘Oh, I’m bullet-proof,’ said Snub, and hurried out.
Rollison looked into Jolly’s eyes, and then said slowly: ‘I think we’ll have to check up on him.’
It was disturbing to have to reckon with the possibility of betrayal in his own camp. He still thought it unlikely, but the uncertainty worried him.
He left the flat and hurried to Bethnal Green. After some difficulty, he found the Kent’s flat. It was in an old house, overlooked by the high, brooding chimneys of a factory. He rang the bell and prepared to wait.
At long last, the door opened.
‘Who is it?’ asked Ethel Kent.
‘I’m sure you remember me,’ said Rollison gently. ‘May I come in?’
It was obvious to him that she was frightened. Her voice, her manner, both told him that she did not know whether to let him in or not. He was prepared to be firm about it when a door opened upstairs and a woman called out fretfully: ‘Who is it, for heaven’s sake!’
The voice was Jane Lenwell’s.
Chapter Thirteen
Three Ladies
Rollison took Ethel’s arm and led her up the stairs. Jane Lenwell leaned over the banisters peering down on them. Not until they were on the landing did she recognise Rollison, and then she gave a dramatic gasp.
‘Good evening,’ said Rollison pleasantly. ‘Will you lead the way?’
Mrs Lenwell obeyed, walking unsteadily. There was about her a strong smell of alcohol, and on a table in the attractively furnished room to which she led him, a half empty bottle of whisky.
Mrs Lenwell went to a chair and collapsed.
Ethel looked hard at Rollison. If she had been frightened when at his flat, she was more frightened now, and not, he thought, because he had called. There, on the table next to the whisky, was a single sheet of paper. Rollison picked it up. There was no heading, no signature, only the hammer impression, and the words: ‘You know what to expect, don’t you?’
Rollison a
sked softly: ‘Do you know, Ethel?’
She shivered.
Mrs Lenwell sobbed: ‘Of course she knows!’
‘And yet the Hammer is well-liked down here, isn’t he?’
‘Not by—not by all of us,’ said Ethel, with a catch in her breath. She went to a chair and sat down, wearily. ‘Stop it, Jane,’ she said to Mrs Lenwell, ‘it won’t do any good going on like that, and you haven’t had the letter.’
‘He—might pick on me!’
‘And he might not,’ said Ethel. She looked at Rollison. ‘I was going to give you a ring,’ she said. ‘I got that note an hour ago, Mr Rollison. It scared the guts out of me. They must know I let you see that first message.’
Rollison thought of Snub. ‘Who could have told them?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know, but there isn’t much they don’t find out.’ She moved her hands restlessly, and went on: ‘But I don’t think there’s anything you can do. I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do. I wouldn’t mind so much if it was only me—’ she broke off.
‘Who else?’ asked Rollison.
‘It’s her husband,’ moaned Jane Lenwell. ‘He went out before dark and he hasn’t come back.’
‘You needn’t worry about him, Ethel,’ Rollison said firmly.
Ethel jumped up, and clutched his arm. There was a new hope in her eyes, and he knew that until that moment she had taken it for granted that her husband was in great danger, even, perhaps, dead.
‘Your husband’s quite safe,’ he assured her. ‘He was hurt a little but not badly. And, he’s very loyal to you, Ethel.’
‘What—what do you mean?’
Rollison said bluntly: ‘He saw you visit Dr Finnigan tonight. He did not tell the police. He was injured by another visitor, a man whose name we don’t yet know.’
Ethel’s face blanched.
‘He—he knew!’ screeched Mrs Lenwell.
‘That his wife often went to Finnigan’s?’ said Rollison. ‘Yes, he knew that, and wanted to find out why she went. Why did you go to Finnigan’s house so often, Ethel?’
Rollison wished that Jane Lenwell was not in the room; she might influence the other girl not to speak freely; but of the two, Ethel was the stronger character. The news had shocked her, but she was recovering. She said slowly: ‘I had to. The Hammer told me to take messages to him. I don’t know what was in them. I couldn’t help myself.’