by John Creasey
“So you meet one qualification,” Kimber went on. “Now match it with that penetrating wit and daring, and we shall know that your reputation does not lie.”
All this time, Rollison had been watching and listening with fascinated interest. It was hard to believe it was really happening, harder to see why – unless this man thought it possible to break his nerve and believed compulsively in the advantages of attack. Now, he sat upright, placed his glass on a small table, gripped the arms of his chair and stood up. Kimber, too close, had to move back a pace. He frowned, as if he disliked Rollison taking any kind of initiative.
“What about those questions you’ve come to ask?” he said sharply.
“But I haven’t come to ask any questions,” Rollison retorted lightly. “Why should I, when I know the answers? Do you mind if I smoke?” He drew a small packet of cigarettes from the pocket where he had kept the palm gun which was now firmly stuck to his palm.
“Then what the devil have you come for?”
Rollison lit a cigarette, blew smoke to one side, and then answered: “The kill.”
“What kill?”
“The kill in the case of the terrified taxman.
“You must be mad!”
“Don’t be silly,” Rollison said with a touch of impatience. “Your wife or an accomplice killed the driver of the sports car this morning. I suspect Daisy Bell rushed into the street because she was very frightened of failing you. I am reasonably sure you arranged to have Johnny P. Rains killed this evening because he had discovered too much about you. I’m as sure that you knew he had come to see me earlier. You will guess that he talked freely, and you will fear that I know as much as he did – which makes me even more dangerous to you than he was, as I know how to use my knowledge better. Now!” His voice had a decisive note. “I came into your parlour, Mr. Kimber, because I am quite sure I can walk out again whenever I wish.”
All this time, Kimber was staring as if unbelieving.
Lila Kimber had been out of the room, but she was back, standing just behind her husband, looking as if she, too, could not believe her ears.
Rollison was not sure what to expect next; not even sure of the situation. He felt better standing up than when sitting down, and he moved towards the door, although by no means sure that even if he started to go out, he would be allowed to. He did not think for a moment that he was alone in this apartment with the Kimbers. The palm gun gave him comfort, but he had a sense that he was the victim of a strange practical joke. He watched Kimber closely, tensely.
Suddenly, the man threw back his head and roared with laughter.
And Lila Kimber laughed on a low-pitched, happy note.
And other women laughed—
Not women, Rollison saw; not really women, but girls.
Four or five of them streamed into the room and brought new brightness and gaiety. They were dressed as modishly as fashion models, one with mini-skirt, two with midis, one in an ankle-length dress which, apart from two swathes half-covering her breasts, seemed to start from the waist. They moved about with curious flowing motions, all looking at Rollison, bright-eyed and eager.
“It is the Toff!” one girl cooed.
“Isn’t he handsome!” breathed another.
“And so elegant!” sighed a third.
The one in the long-skirted, near-topless dress slid her arm through his, and her hand slid down his arm, fingers perilously close to the palm gun. She squeezed, and looked round and up at him.
“You’re lovely, Toff. But you couldn’t have meant what you said, could you?”
Another girl, the top of whose red head came only as high as his shoulder, peered up at him; she had amber-coloured eyes; cat’s eyes.
“But you did mean it, didn’t you, Toff darling?”
“Oh, he meant it,” declared Adrian Kimber. “He always means what he says – don’t you, Mr. Rollison?”
“But he couldn’t think you’re a murderer, Adrian dear!”
Rollison hooked the palm gun into position with his thumb, then put an arm round each girl and squeezed them very tight. Both were looking up at him and clinging; lips parted. He kissed the redhead and kissed the near-topless, and one of the others called: “My turn!”
“Isn’t he darling!”
“Isn’t he precious!”
“But such a bad guesser,” declared Kimber. “And this time so hopelessly wrong.”
“Johnny P. Rains fooled you,” a girl declared.
“Johnny was always a great one for fooling.”
“I wish I could say he always would be,” said the Toff in a carrying voice, and for a moment they seemed shamed into silence. Kimber’s laughter faded, most of the girls looked shocked, but that lasted for a moment, and the redhead put her hands upon him, shamelessly again, and put her pert, pretty face up towards him, the cat’s eyes glowing.
“Take me to bed, Toff,” she pleaded. “I’ve a lovely one upstairs.”
“Don’t be mean!” cried Topless. “Take me!”
“Me!” another cried.
“Why not me?” a fourth pleaded.
Suddenly, they surrounded him, five young beauties in all, holding his hands, his arms, his waist, clinging, clutching. Beyond them Kimber, an arm about his wife’s waist, was smiling with great satisfaction. It could not have been more obvious that this had all been planned; it must have been arranged very quickly when Kimber’s wife had gone out of the room. Whatever the truth of that, here he was, surrounded. Even if he tried it would be difficult to shake them off. He felt a rare kind of breathlessness, and his heart began to beat very fast when one of them pressed his cheeks in with her forefingers and kissed him on the lips, while another slipped her hand into his trouser pocket and began to jingle his loose change.
Kimber called out: “See the great Toff.”
“Isn’t he darling,” Lila Kimber called.
“Why don’t you help yourselves to a souvenir?” Kimber suggested.
“His tie!” a girl cried.
“His shirt!” cried a second.
“His pants!” shrilled a third.
And they meant it.
Mrs. Kimber had most certainly put them up to this game and Kimber would see that they carried it out. Rollison did not wholly understand except that Kimber wanted to shame him, to mock his masculinity, to make him feel a fool. Two girls were already pulling at his jacket, and once the sleeves came off the knife would be revealed; and once they had his jacket, most of his weapons would be gone. Understanding stabbed through him. That was probably the basic idea: to disarm him.
But his cigarettes with the tear gas were in his hip pocket.
“Hold it!” Kimber cried, and Rollison saw him on a chair with a movie camera in his hand, focussing it. “Now take his pants!” he cried, and two of the girls pulled Rollison’s jacket off and another began to unfasten his belt buckle. “Won’t you be proud of this picture, Toff?” called Kimber. And then Rollison saw his wife with a still camera focussed on him. “What a headline!” Kimber went on. “Orgy for the Toff!”
“The Toff’s sex-life,” suggested the redhead.
“The Toff in his harem,” said Topless.
They appeared to be enjoying the game thoroughly, delighted with what they were doing. Even Kimber seemed genuinely happy, his wife gay and free and younger as she clicked away; and the camera whirred. They seemed now to take it for granted that Rollison knew that he was beaten and could do nothing to help himself. One curious thing was that the girls were so soft and pretty that he did not want to hurt them, although soon he probably must.
He thrust his left hand into his pocket as if to hold up his pants, and there were shrieks of laughter. Two girls snatched at his wrists to pull his hands out. He gripped the cigarette case, then let them pull his hand, and dropp
ed the case to the floor. One of them reeled backwards from the effort, and gave the Toff the chance he needed, for momentarily he had both arms free. He simply swept them round so that two girls went staggering away, and there were now only two in front of him. He swung his arms forward now and gripped their wrists and twisted. Each gasped in unexpected pain, and each went staggering.
Rollison bent down and picked up the cigarette case, as Kimber cried: “That’s enough!” As Rollison turned to look at him, he went on savagely: “Now they’ll really tear you apart! You’ll wish you’d never been born.”
Rollison simply opened the cigarette case and tossed it to the floor. The ‘cigarettes’ spread out, the tear gas billowed, suddenly the girls began to gasp and cry out, and Kimber was swearing on a high-pitched, venomous note.
He levelled an automatic at the Toff, who jumped quickly to one side.
Chapter 13
Vanishing Trick
Rollison heard the crack of a shot, but felt nothing.
He saw the gun waver in Kimber’s hand, then saw Lila, hands at her eyes, lurch against him. The other girls were reeling helplessly, tears streaming from their eyes, and the straps had slipped off Topless and she was wholly topless now. Rollison picked up his jacket, hoisted his pants and rushed towards the door, the tear gas biting at him although he had not once drawn breath since hurling the case.
He breathed at the door where the air was clear.
He went out, grabbed the handle, took the key and slammed the door. He turned the key in the lock and slipped it into his pocket, then hurried to the stairs. The girls were crying out and screaming, Kimber was yelling: “Open the windows!” The noise reached a high crescendo; if a window was opened alarm would be raised in the street outside.
Rollison fastened his belt and slipped on his jacket.
He was gasping for breath and his eyes were stinging, tears beginning to roll down his cheeks. The problem was to make the right decision and he hadn’t had much time to think. It would be useless to call the police, the only charge could be against him, each of the others would give evidence. Yet he wanted time to search this house, from the offices below to the attic. As he opened a window in a small room on the right these things were crowding through his mind. There was a baby grand piano in one corner and electric candles on each side of the music rest.
He could go downstairs and into the street and escape—
But this might be his only chance of searching the house.
He turned back to the landing. There was less noise now, and no sense of an alarm being raised. Kimber was saying something but Rollison could not hear the words. If he pressed closer to the door he would lose what precious minutes he had. It was possible, just possible, that Kimber would call the police himself – but if he had any sense he would keep them far away from the house.
Then what he, Rollison, needed was a reason for bringing the police here.
He moved away from the door of the locked room, and hurried through the rest of this floor. There were two bedrooms each with a bathroom leading off, a large kitchen and a small dining room; that was all. He ran up the stairs to the next floor, where surely the girls were housed.
Who were they? What did they do?
The landing had a dim light but seemed full of shadows. One seemed to move. He kept close to the side of the stairs, palmed the gun, and crept up. The shadow faded, it was a trick of the light. He reached the landing, aware of the odour of scent and powder, but puzzled. Did six girls live up here? What was the place? He half-laughed at the thought of a harem with Kimber’s wife as the harem mistress. Bizarre notion! The layout here was much as on the floor below, and he found a living room and a smaller kitchen. The other rooms were spare bedrooms, not simply empty but obviously for the time being unoccupied. They were too meticulously tidy to have been used by any of the girls now in the big room.
Then where had the girls come from?
Upstairs? There was certainly an attic floor.
Did they come from their own apartments, each day?
Could there even be a connecting passage with a house next door?
Rollison thought: I ought to get out of here.
At the same time, he thought: I’ll never have another chance to search.
He found the narrow staircase leading to the attic. There was a smell of dust; emptiness, and in any case there certainly wasn’t room for the six girls. He reached the landing. Straight ahead was a bathroom and on either side a bedroom; it was a pleasant little flat but dusty and unlived in.
So the girls must come from next door.
How could he get there?
He had not seen anything to suggest a doorway which couldn’t be easily explained, but there were blank walls which could conceal sliding doors. It shouldn’t take long to find out.
He felt under sharp pressure of time. It could not be long before Kimber and the others broke out of that room, and once they came at him he would have no chance at all. He could remember only too vividly how the five had set on him, and there was no doubt that they could have torn him to pieces.
He ought to get away from here.
Instead, he crept down the stairs to the first floor landing, listening intently. Last time he had heard the subdued voices; this, he heard nothing. That puzzled and troubled him. He moved closer to the locked door. This wasn’t imagination, and there were no muted sounds: only silence.
What had happened?
Could—could they have been too susceptible to the tear gas?
“Oh, nonsense!” he exclaimed aloud.
But his heart was thumping. The silence seemed absolute and oppressive, there was no sound from above or below.
He recalled the way the girls had suddenly appeared, as if out of nowhere. Obviously they could burst out of this silence with the same suddenness.
He had to find out what had happened to the seven people in that lovely room.
He listened more intently at the door and at the keyhole, as Daisy Bell must have done at Watson’s office door. If anything, the silence seemed more profound. The key was still in the lock. He turned it gingerly, half-expecting a great surge about him once the door opened, but there was still no sound. The lock clicked. His heart leapt. Silence followed. He waited a few seconds and pushed the door open gently. The light from the concealed lamps still glowed. A flashing neon light from the street spread a red glow – on, off, on, off, satanic, sinister. He pushed the door open wider.
No one was in sight; there was no movement.
He stepped inside and peered behind the door, but that part of the room was as empty as the rest.
The smell of tear gas had almost faded, and the windows were closed again.
The scent of perfume lingered in one corner, and the faint odour of cigar smoke; that was the only indication that anyone had been here in the past hour or so. He stepped further into the room, then thought he heard a sound behind him, and spun round. No one was there. He took the key from the outside of the lock and locked himself in; at least he could not be attacked from the landing without warning.
But from the room?
His glass, on the table by the frail Chippendale chair, was still there, with a little of the Tio Pepe left. The glasses which the Kimbers had used were gone. He moved about, discovering that ashtrays had been cleaned and the room tidied up. Chairs had been put back into their place. No handbag, no camera, nothing to remind him of what had happened remained – except his own glass. It was as if Kimber had whispered abracadabra and the whole place had emptied, and made to look as if everything that had happened in here had been in Rollison’s imagination.
He studied the room.
The common wall between here and the house next door had two Japanese paintings and the papier-mâché plaque, but no light fittings. He moved closer towards it. The su
rface, covered with a dull-finished, off-white paper, looked unbroken but at two places the joining line showed where different rolls of wallpaper had been used, showing more clearly than usual. There was a fractional gap in the corner; he was as nearly certain as he could be that this was the position of a sliding door. There was no need to look further for the explanation of the vanishing trick.
There would probably be another such secret entrance upstairs to the flat next door.
He stood looking at the corner, trying to see how the door was controlled; there seemed no blemish except a knot in the dark-polished wainscoting. He went down on one knee and examined the wood, and shone a pencil torch on the darker spot. The knot, at first apparently a natural blemish, was too clearly artificial; and there was a hair-sized circular gap surrounding it. He had little doubt that this was the control button but he did not want to test it yet.
He had wanted to search this house, but now that would probably be a waste of time; they wouldn’t desert it if there were anything worth finding.
From the moment he had been here, there had been anti-climax, but none so great as this. He simply did not know what best to do. He could send for the police. He could—
He moved swiftly back to the music room and the photographs and studied each one closely; without surprise he saw an excellent portrait of Daisy Bell in a feathery costume, as of a chorus girl in a musical. Of the other photographs he recognised Topless but not the redhead or the others. For the first time he had a reason for calling the police; they would come like a shot when they knew Daisy Bell had been here. He stretched out for the telephone on a wall bracket near the piano, actually touched the shiny black surface, and then nearly jumped out of his skin, for the voice of a man seemed to come from his side; Kimber’s voice.
“You don’t think I’d leave the telephone connected, do you, Rollison?”
Rollison spun round. No one was in sight, but Kimber uttered a droll kind of laugh; and the laughter seemed to be echoed by a woman; perhaps by several women. The sound came from above his head, but he could see no grating; and he could not imagine how Kimber knew he was at the telephone.