by John Creasey
“Anything from cutting someone’s throat to beating him to pulp,” stated Smith hoarsely. “If he finds anyone he thinks responsible, he’ll murder them. That’s my opinion, Bill – he’ll murder them. He doted on his Daisy.”
“If we watch him closely enough he won’t be able to do much harm,” Grice said.
“To watch him, you’ve got to find him,” Smith retorted.
“Yes,” Grice admitted. “Yes.” And he put down the receiver.
He drew a hand across his damp forehead, and shivered involuntarily. It was two hours, perhaps nearer three, since he had left Rollison, and a lot could have happened in that time. If Bell had reason to suspect that Rollison had been partly responsible for his daughter’s death, anything might happen. He called the West End Division and arranged to have Rollison’s flat watched back and front, then settled back again, wondering whether he should telephone the Gresham Terrace flat. Was he making too much of the threat? And was Smith? There was one thing neither of them had taken into account, and that was the human side of the tragedy. If Bell had really doted on his daughter, then he was a man to be pitied and to be helped.
Smith could see only the danger that he might go berserk, of course; and Smith was not an easy man to frighten. On that thought, Grice put in a call to Rollison, and held on; almost at once, Jolly answered in a quiet voice: “This is Mr. Rollison’s residence.”
“Jolly,” Grice said, “the father of the dead girl is a Ding Dong Bell who once served a sentence for robbery with violence, and who’s heard of what happened and appears to be on the loose, seeking vengeance. Keep an extra careful watch, won’t you?”
“I will indeed, sir. Thank you very much.”
“I’ve put men on guard,” Grice went on. “If there should be any trouble, we ought to be able to cope.”
“Thank you indeed,” Jolly said, and rang off.
Jolly stood looking down at his employer, whom he regarded as his master as in the days of long ago, and also his friend. Grice’s voice lingered in his ears, and Grice had been so troubled, even fearful despite his reassuring words, that Jolly had felt impelled to come and make sure Rollison was all right. Absurd, since the flat was empty but for them.
Rollison was breathing evenly, and looked much better; his colour was much nearer normal. He lay back in the easy chair, and had not moved. Jolly turned away from him and, as was his wont when he was emotionally stirred, he paused to study the Trophy Wall. He smiled at the recollection that when Rollison had first hung a hammer there - a blood-stained one used as Exhibit A in a murder trial - he, Jolly, had strongly disapproved. Now there were fifty-four trophies, each in some sense a lethal weapon, and Jolly was curator and caretaker, dusting each exhibit at least once a week and always with great care.
What would the trophy be after this case, he wondered. An income tax demand – or better still, receipt? Anything was possible. Jolly went quietly out of the big room into the bathroom to check that he had cleared it up properly after administering first aid, picked up a piece of the adhesive plaster protective tape, and went into the kitchen. It was now nearly three o’clock, time to start dinner. For tonight, something light and plain, if he judged Rollison’s likely appetite aright. He turned to a larder, in a corner of the long, narrow kitchen which overlooked a fire escape and a stone courtyard with a big modern building beyond. He opened the larder door, smiling reminiscently, without the slightest inkling of impending disaster.
A man, inside the larder, shot out both hands and clutched Jolly round the throat. Jolly had no time to shout, to struggle, to defend himself in any way; he had hardly time to breathe and so his lungs were half-empty as those rough, hard fingers bit into his throat, crushing his windpipe, making it impossible to draw breath.
The man was in the shadows of the larder. Jolly could see only his broad face and his bright eyes. And as seconds flew, Jolly knew that the man was going to squeeze and squeeze, until he lost consciousness; perhaps until he died.
Chapter 7
To Die or Not to Die?
Rollison was aware of sounds; and was aware of pressure at his shoulders. He was in the depth of sleep, coming out of it with great reluctance; but coming out. The pressure increased. It was very hard and painful. He felt other pain, in his leg – it was that which first made him alert. He heard the growling voice, then began to distinguish the words.
“Bloody Toff – killing’s too good for you. Bloody murdering Toff. I’m not going to kill you in your sleep, don’t you worry. I’m going to hang you up by the thumbs and then I’m going to kick you to death.”
Now, Rollison was awake; fully awake, because he had the wit not to open his eyes wide; only to listen. The pressure of fingers at his shoulders was like the pressure of steel claws. The muttering went on until suddenly the man snatched one hand away and struck him savagely across the face, roaring: “Wake up, you killer. Wake up!”
The man was no longer clutching him but a clenched fist was swinging towards the Toff’s face as he opened his eyes. He did two things: moved his head to one side like a boxer, and doubled his right leg and brought it up into the other’s groin. The man, thinking his victim barely aroused from sleep, had not dreamed of a counter-attack. There was a curious squelch of sound. The victim drew in a searing breath and began to double up like a knife, hands dropping protectively to his groin. Rollison simply pushed him with outstretched hand and he toppled backwards and then half-fell, half-rolled over to his side. He lay there doubled up, his breath catching as if he could only get air part of the way to his lungs.
Rollison placed his hands on the arms of his chair and slowly levered himself to his feet. When he stood upright he was a little dizzy, but not enough to worry about. His assailant was breathing more deeply but the breath seemed to be drawn, wheezing into his lungs. He would be helpless for minutes, perhaps as long as five. Rollison stepped over him. His left leg was stiff, but not really painful, and he trod lightly as he reached the passage leading to the bedrooms and the domestic quarters.
“Jolly!” he called.
There was no answer.
“Jolly!” Alarm seared through Rollison as he called: and a swift, savage thought – If you’ve hurt Jolly ... He reached the little hall in front of the kitchen and Jolly’s other rooms, and then stopped short.
Jolly was on the floor in front of the larder, on his side, knees bent, one arm covering the lower part of his face, unmoving: looking dead. Rollison gritted his teeth and the word “No!” was a refrain in his mind. “No, no, no, no!” He reached Jolly and bent over him, stretching for the limp arm and limp wrist. “No, no, no, no, it can’t be!” He placed his forefinger on the spot where the pulse should be and felt no movement. “My God!” he said in a strangled voice, “if he’s killed him—” He moved his forefinger a fraction, and felt a stirring. The pulse. He shifted again, pressing a little less. The pulse was slow but quite steady. Jolly wasn’t dead, there was no need for that terrible dread. He straightened Jolly out and turned him on his back, pulled a cushion from the kitchen chair and placed it carefully beneath his head.
“I’ll be back,” he said, as if Jolly could hear him.
He turned away, and went to the study through the lounge-hall.
It was just possible that the assailant had recovered enough to return to the attack, but not at all likely. Standing in the doorway, Rollison saw the man trying to get to his feet. He was grey-haired, hard-looking, and blue about the mouth and green-tinged about the cheeks. He was pulling himself up by the front of Rollison’s chair but the going was not easy. He was sideways to the Toff, and he did not look round. His breathing was laboured and did not seem to improve. Rollison waited. The man got to his feet, and Rollison moved so that he was less likely to be seen.
The attacker looked towards the Trophy Wall. It attracted him like a magnet. He reached his feet, supporting himself against the
chair, doubled up again as if to squeeze pain away, then straightened up and took a faltering step towards the desk.
He reached it.
He still had to round it before he could reach the wall and the weapons, but obviously that was not what he wanted to do. So, presumably, he had no weapon in his pocket. Who is he? wondered Rollison. The man edged towards one corner, leaning all the time against the desk. Still in pain, he grunted with each movement, but there was a single-minded determination to get towards the wall and to take a weapon. Now and again he glanced towards the passage, obviously not dreaming that Rollison was behind him.
He reached and rounded a corner, profile towards the Toff. He had a rugged yet chiselled face, as if hewn out of granite; a rock-made robot. His eyebrows jutted out, and in spite of a broken nose he was handsome; the kind of man many women swooned over.
“Don’t you think you’ve gone far enough?” asked Rollison mildly.
The other spun round on his heels. Surprise and physical effort combined to make him lurch forward, and he grabbed at the desk, touched, lost his hold and staggered away from it. Rollison simply stood staring at him. He swayed and gyrated in the middle of the room, and somehow kept his balance, standing upright but helpless. Full-face, he was less handsome and even more rugged. His eyes were the same violet blue as the girl who had died.
Realisation of who he was shot through Rollison. There was a facial likeness at eyes and eyebrows, at the mouth and chin which betrayed the truth. This man was the dead girl’s father.
“You—bloody—murderer,” Bell gasped.
Rollison said quietly: “I’m no murderer.”
“You murdered my daughter!”
“No,” Rollison said. “It wasn’t like that at all.” He moved slowly towards the other and went on: “But I would have killed you if you’d hurt my man.”
“I’d kill the pair of you!” cried Bell.
“Yes,” Rollison said, quietly. “I believe you would. But it wouldn’t get you anywhere if you did.”
“At least Daisy would be avenged.”
“Vengeance?” Rollison echoed. “Vengeance? Isn’t that an empty thing?”
“You don’t deny you had something to do with it!”
Very slowly, Rollison replied: “No, I don’t deny that. And I shall be haunted by it to my dying day.”
“That won’t be long coming,” sneered Bell.
Rollison was startled into a kind of laugh: more, a snort of understanding of the speed of this man’s thinking, and his repartee. He sensed a change of mood without being sure what it meant. The other now seemed simply to stare at him, and not to glare with that wild rage; as if something Rollison had said had made him think. Rollison moved still further forward, and motioned to a chair.
“Why not sit down?”
“I bloody well won’t.”
“Then I will,” Rollison said, and dropped into the armchair, leaned back, placed his leg carefully on the pouffe, guiding the movement with his hands, and leaned back. Now, of course, he was vulnerable again. Every time the other moved, he could draw nearer those lethal weapons; this was asking for trouble. But the man stood still.
“You killed her,” he stated. “I had it from a newspaperman, he got it from a rookie copper. So I came straight here before the cops arrived. They’re in the street now, a hell of a lot of good that is.” He drew in his breath again and repeated flatly: “You killed her.”
Rollison said: “If I had held her tighter she might not have died.”
The other roared : “You admit that?”
“Yes,” Rollison answered. “What is the use of trying to evade the truth?”
“Then you did kill her!”
“I don’t know who you are,” Rollison said. “I don’t know whether you have any ideas what she was doing. I can tell you she eavesdropped when I was talking to an Inspector of Taxes, and I wanted to make her tell me why. So I held her. She kicked me and got free and rushed into the road. If you are her father” - he raised his hands and dropped them in a helpless gesture - “then I can understand why you’d like to cut my throat. In a way, I’d like to help!” He waited just long enough for the other to open his mouth as if in surprise, and went on: “It was a hell of a thing to happen.”
“It was a hell of a thing to do!”
Rollison returned the wild gaze with a cool, resigned one. He leaned further back in the chair, resting his hands in his lap. He did not attempt to turn away as he said: “I didn’t have any choice, you know.”
“You bloody liar, you didn’t have to touch her!”
“What would you have done?” Rollison asked quietly.
“You were having a highly confidential conversation with an official. You discovered that someone was listening-in. It happened to be your daughter but as far as I could know it might have been anyone, even you. Would you have just shrugged it off and forgotten it? Or would you have given chase, wanting to know what it was all about?”
The man offered no answer.
He stood only a few feet away from Rollison, apparently recovered from his pain. He looked very powerful, not large but broad and strong-looking. Rock-like, Rollison thought again. He held his clenched fists in front of his chest, as if he wanted to launch himself forward in assault. He was the man who had nearly choked the life out of Jolly, who had intended to beat-up the Toff.
“I’ll tell you who really killed her,” Rollison said, and he saw the other’s lips tighten, his whole body flinch. “Whoever was paying her to spy on me or the income tax man I was with.”
“Tax man!” breathed the other.
“That’s right,” said Rollison. “No more, no less. Do you know who employed your daughter?”
The man said harshly: “No.”
“Well, she wouldn’t spy for herself, would she?”
“Not bloody likely.”
“So someone either paid or put her up to it,” Rollison said. “And I can tell you one other thing, too.” He paused but when the other did not speak, went on in the same quiet voice: “I think she was scared out of her wits by him.”
“You fool,” the man said, in a helpless voice. “She was scared in case you handed her over to the cops.”
“Oh,” said Rollison, slowly. “Was she?” He broke off, aware that the other was near breaking point, had passed through an emotional crisis which would take him to the point of collapse. His hands were clenched less tightly now and his body seemed to sag. By now, Rollison had recognised him, and even marvelled that he had not recognised him on sight, although it was a long time since he had seen Ding Dong Bell at Bill Ebbutt’s East End pub, the Blue Dog. He had never known him well; he did remember Ebbutt saying one day when Bell had left the pub: “That man can be like a wild dog, Mr. R. I wouldn’t ever like to get into a tangle with him.” And Ebbutt had told him a little which had gone into one ear and out of the other; but some had stayed behind, including this man’s almost pathological hatred of the police. So, danger might spring from what he wanted to say. Without any outward sign, he flexed his muscles and prepared for an onslaught as he said: “What would make an attractive girl like that so scared of the cops?”
The other drew in a hissing breath, his hands tightened, he actually moved one foot forward as he rasped: “She hated the sight of them!”
“Why should she?”
“Because they would never leave her in peace.”
“Wouldn’t leave her in peace?” asked Rollison gently, and after a long time he added: “Or you?” And at that moment he prepared for an attack.
It didn’t come.
Instead, the man’s lips worked and his body sagged. One hand dropped to his side, with the other he wiped his forehead. He was trembling, too. Rollison got up very slowly and crossed to the William and Mary chest and opened it. Many years ago
some vandal had taken out the centre drawers and turned it into a kind of cellaret, with glasses along one side, bottles on the other, including whisky and a syphon of soda water. Rollison took these out, with two glasses, carried them all to the desk, poured a finger of whisky in each glass, and then looked up to Bell, who had not moved.
“How much soda?” he asked.
Bell didn’t speak.
“Or would you like it neat?” asked Rollison. He took one glass over so that the man could see it; and he saw as well as sensed the anguish in Bell’s mind. He simply waited.
After a while the other man stirred, and focussed his gaze on Rollison, and then on the glass. He took it, almost with a reflex motion, and tossed it down; he did not appear even to gulp. Rollison moved back to the desk and fetched the other glass. This time, Bell took it at once but only sipped a little. And he said: “Ta.”
“You need it as much as I do,” Rollison said. “You’re Ding Dong Bell, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And Daisy—” Rollison broke off, unable to finish. “Daisy Bell.” After a pause he asked: “Was Daisy your only daughter?”
Bell’s jaw muscles worked, and he took another sip of the whisky, then said hoarsely : “She was one of twins. The other’s Violet. She—” He broke off, finished the whisky at a gulp, and rasped: “Oh hell, bloody bloody hell. She’s dead, my Daisy’s dead.”
And then, as if unbidden and yet beyond control, tears began to flow. He put the glass down, and covered his face with his hands. He moved towards the window, dragging his feet, reached the window but did not take his hands from his face. His shoulders shook but no sound came. Rollison gathered up the glasses and went into the kitchen, where Jolly lay just as he had been left. But as Rollison’s fingers touched his forehead his eyes opened with a start, and his body went rigid.
“Take it easy, Jolly,” soothed Rollison. “Everything’s all right.”
“But—but a man—” Jolly croaked.