by John Creasey
“Bill,” said Rollison, “what’s this I hear about bedlam at the Yard this morning?”
“Whoever told you that was right,” said Grice. “We’ve been flooded out with calls from zanies and half-wits—half a minute.” His voice faded, and Rollison pulled the newspaper towards him and once again studied the photograph of Madam Melinska. She must have been a beautiful woman in her youth, he decided, noting the high cheek-bones, the long, lean jaw, the proud tilt of the head. Now she was probably in her early sixties—but she was still beautiful for those who had eyes to see it.
After a moment it dawned on him that he had paid little attention to her companion. Her name, he read, was Mona Lister, and she was Madam Melinska’s assistant. She had a pretty face, and fair, wispy hair hanging to her shoulders—but as he leaned forward to examine the photograph more closely, Grice came back on to the line.
“Sorry, Rolly—what is it you do want, anyhow?”
“I hardly dare tell you,” Rollison said. “What time is Madam Melinska due in Court today?”
“So you are interested in the woman,” said Grice, almost testily. “Around ten o’clock, I should say. But you haven’t a chance.”
“A chance of what?”
“Getting in. There’s a half-mile queue outside the Court already, stretching from both ends of Southcombe Street. Uniform’s had to detail thirty extra men to keep order. We’ve had twenty times the usual number of calls this morning, from threats of murder to threats of eternal damnation, as well as pitying souls who say we should know better than to try to stop the stars in their courses. You didn’t lose any money over Melinska, did you?”
“My sainted Aunt Gloria did.”
“What” There was a moment of silence, then Grice gave a throaty chuckle and laughter quivered in his voice as he went on: “That’s my best moment of the morning; I didn’t think I’d laugh at anything today. But seriously—you won’t get in.”
“Not even disguised as a policeman?”
“No,” said Grice firmly. “I shall not spirit you in. There simply won’t be room.” He paused for a moment, before asking in a puzzled way: “Did you realize what a fantastic public interest there was in astrologers and fortune-tellers?”
“I’m learning,” said Rollison. “Thanks, Bill. See you in Court.”
He rang off, and after a long spell of cogitation, went through a narrow passage and into the kitchen, where Jolly, resplendent in green baize apron, was neatly dropping crisp rings of onion into a flour-dusted dish.
“Ha, hot-pot,” said Rollison.
“As I am not sure what time you will be back, sir.”
“No. Grice says that Madam Melinska is attracting film-star crowds.”
“So I would expect, sir. Have you any special instructions?”
“Yes. Find out if anyone has been here in the past few weeks who knows Madam Melinska or Mona whatever-her-name-is, and who can count up to forty-nine. Some people are natural counters of heads and trophies. I knew a man who never addressed a public meeting without estimating the number of victims in front of him, and—”
“Quite so, sir.”
“It’s time I went, is it?” said Rollison. “Very well. Expect me when you see me.”
It was a rare, golden morning in May. The sun, bright and venturesome, found improbable gaps and cracks through which to penetrate. The milkman, the postman and somebody’s daily help wished Rollison the best of good mornings. A day, he reflected, when it was good to be alive. The West London Magistrates Court in West Kensington was too far away to walk to, but parking would be impossible, and he turned out of Gresham Terrace towards Piccadilly and hailed a taxi; it stopped.
“Nice morning, Guv’nor!”
“What a happy place the world is this morning,” remarked Rollison.
“For some folk,” observed the taxi-driver, sagely. “Where to, sir?”
“As near West London Magistrates Court as you can get.”
“I’ll do my best, sir,” said the taxi-driver. “But it may take some time. Just come from that direction, I have—never seen crowds like it, the streets are packed solid.”
The taxi-driver was right.
The crowds stretched all along Southcombe Street, people standing five and six abreast, filling every corner and doorway, blocking the pavements and overflowing into the road. Most were women, but here and there a long-haired, Edwardian-trousered youth waited with the soul-starved patience of the empty-headed. There was no forward movement in the queue, and there was likely to be none, for the West London Magistrates Court was no different from other London police courts; the public gallery was large enough to take only a handful.
Rollison saw the extra police—six were standing close to the entrance. As he made his way towards it, a plain-clothes detective from the Division approached him.
“You here on business?”
“Serious business,” Rollison answered.
“What business?” The detective, big and burly, drew closer, and said sotto voce, “Nip in quick, Mr Rollison.” Aloud, he complained: “Why don’t they tell me?”
Rollison went inside gratefully.
He knew the sedate manner of warders and policemen and court officials. It was traditional that there should be quietness if not complete silence. So it was now—except that by the door leading towards the public benches and the Press box an unusual crowd of eager-faced men and women muttered among themselves under the condemnatory gaze of two policemen and a magistrate’s clerk. Over their heads Rollison saw a solid mass of people inside the panelled room, and constant movement where usually there was dull sedateness. A red-faced court policeman was struggling to keep some kind of order. Catching sight of Rollison, he drew a hand across his sweaty brow.
“Ever see the like, sir?”
“No, Sergeant, never. No room at the Court, eh?”
“Take my tip, sir, you go down into the cells and on up that way. When his nibs comes in he’ll clear this mob away. Follow his nibs, sir, that’s the safest thing.”
“What it is to have friends,” murmured Rollison appreciatively.
“We owe you a turn or two when we think of the number of prisoners you’ve put in the dock for us, sir.”
Rollison thought: “It’s a rewarding world, after all.”
He went down the flight of steps the sergeant had indicated, and into the quietness of the room below. Here, a few prisoners and a few policemen sat or stood about, amongst them three solicitors of his acquaintance. One nodded. The third came up, a man whose name Rollison could not recall.
“Who’s your client, Rollison?”
“Just a watching brief.”
“Don’t say Madam Melinska fleeced you, too, she’s only been in this country a few months. Must be a quick worker, what?” The man laughed coarsely.
“Prejudgment?” murmured Rollison.
“Personal opinion. She’s a smooth-tongued bitch.”
“You’re not appearing for her, I trust? Nor against her?” Rollison added hastily.
“No,” the other answered.
“What do you know about the girl?”
“A chip off the old bitch.”
“Mr Godley!” a younger man called, and the man with Rollison turned away, with a grunt which may have been “excuse me.” Rollison watched him striding on stumpy legs towards the cells, and echoed in disgust:
“Godley, good God!”
Then an odd realisation came to him. He was angry with Godley for his condemnation of the two women.
As he assimilated this fact, a tall, grey-haired, austere-looking man came in at a side door: Nimmo, the stipendiary magistrate in charge. Ignoring everyone, he strode towards an arched wooden door marked: Magistrate. Private. Rollison watched it close behind him; then, feeling a rising curiosity, glanced round for a newspaper which might help him to understand more about the charge. He was beginning to thirst for knowledge of Madam Melinska and her assistant, Mona Lister.
Nimmo came out, weari
ng a gown; an M.A. gown.
Almost immediately, Rollison followed him up the steps, past the dock with its shiny brass rail, close to the bench to which Nimmo was climbing. The clerk to the Court had summoned everyone to stand, and a solid mass of people rose. Rollison was close to the dock and expected to be moved on at any moment.
Nimmo sat down; everyone sat down except the mass of people jammed in the doorway. Nimmo glanced across, and said:
“Those who can sit down may stay.”
So he was in a genial mood, thought Rollison.
There was much shoving and pushing and whispering; then surprisingly, a hush: and in the hush Nimmo looked down at the clerk, and said:
“I’ll take the first case.”
“Very good, your honour.” The clerk whispered to an usher, the usher whispered to a policeman, by some magic signal the door at the foot of the steps opened, and a wardress appeared; then a girl; next a dark, gypsylike woman; and finally a second wardress. The clerk was whispering to the magistrate, until quite suddenly formality took over.
“Prisoners in the dock—answer to your names, please. Mona Daphne Lesley Lister.”
The girl nodded. Her reply was almost inaudible.
“Madam Melinska.”
“I am Madam Melinska,” the older woman said.
She had a soft but carrying voice with a faintly foreign inflection; she might be Spanish, Rollison thought, or Italian, or Southern French. She glanced away from the clerk and then saw Rollison—and on that instant Rollison’s whole mood changed, from one of lively interest to one of absolute astonishment.
For she looked at him.
And she smiled.
And her lips formed his name with great, almost loving care.
“Mr Rollison,” she said.
Although Rollison heard no sound from her lips and no one else could possibly have heard, there was hushed silence in the Court, and everyone, from Nimmo down to the humblest usher, was staring at the woman.
CHAPTER THREE
The Charge
It seemed a long time before the silence and the stillness were broken by the magistrate, who shifted back in his carved oak chair and gave a deprecatory, almost apologetic, cough. The clerk to the Court came out of his spell, the men and women jammed tightly in the Press box and the public galleries relaxed and fidgeted. A faint hiss of sound came.
“THAT’S Rollison . . . Rollison . . . the Toff . . .”
A sturdy, youthful, puzzled chief inspector was approaching the witness-box. The clerk was reading out the charge.
“. . . did conspire together to advise certain persons to buy shares in a company known as Space Age Publishing, Limited, and did misappropriate the money so obtained . . .”
Rollison came out of a kind of coma. “She must have seen a photograph,” he muttered aloud. “She’s certainly never seen me.”
“Silence!” called an usher.
“Do the accused plead guilty or not guilty?” inquired Nimmo.
“Not guilty, your honour.”
“Not guilty,” whispered Mona Lister.
“Are they represented?” demanded Nimmo.
“No, your honour. I understand they wish to apply to the Court for legal aid.”
Someone at the back of the Court said clearly: “What a racket! She’s as wealthy as sin!”
“If there are any more interruptions I shall have the Court cleared,” threatened Nimmo. “Is there any evidence of means?” When neither the woman nor the girl spoke, Nimmo glanced towards the detective about to take the stand: “Can the police give us any information?” The man made no comment. “Very well, we shall hear the evidence of arrest and then consider the application for legal aid.”
The inspector took the oath.
“. . . and nothing but the truth, so help me God. On the third day . . . and warned them that anything they said would be taken down and could be used as evidence.”
“Did they reply to your charge?” asked Nimmo.
“Yes, sir.”
“What did they say?”
“The younger of the accused said it was a frame-up.”
“Indeed.” Nimmo’s voice was like ice.
“Yes, sir. The older of the accused said she didn’t understand.”
“Did she say what she didn’t understand, Inspector?”
“No, sir, she appeared to be very puzzled.”
“I see. Well, they have been charged and they have entered a plea of not guilty. Have you the necessary evidence to proceed?”
“No, your honour. We should like to apply for a remand so as to complete our inquiries.”
Nimmo’s eyebrows rose.
“Bail?” he inquired.
“We have no objection, sir.”
“Are there any sureties for the accused in Court?” asked Nimmo. No one replied. There was a sense of tension and of waiting, a look of pleading on the older prisoner’s face, and one of defiance on the girl’s. All at once Nimmo came to a quick, brusque decision.
“I bind both the accused over in sums of one hundred pounds each. Are there sureties?”
The magistrate was leaning forward to the dock.
“Can you find one hundred pounds each?” he asked in a clear whisper; and Nimmo, a stickler for the etiquette of the Court, did no more than look his disapproval.
Rollison said very clearly: “I will go surety in those sums, your honour.”
Nimmo, Madam Melinska, the girl, everyone else in Court, turned swiftly towards him. Then Madam Melinska smiled once again.
After that, it was simply a matter of formalities, answering questions from the Press and arranging for an eager-to-help woman journalist—Olivia Cordman, Features Editor of The Day, to see the two accused women to their home. Rollison suddenly realized that he had no idea where they lived; but doubtless Olivia, who was an old acquaintance, would get in touch with him, if not the women themselves.
At last, he was out of the Court.
At last, he was back at Gresham Terrace.
As his taxi turned in from the end nearest Piccadilly, he saw the small crowd gathered outside Number 22, where he lived. Several were young women, several were middle-aged; there were two or three elderly men as well as a young exquisite in a sapphire-coloured velvet jacket, green, cravat-type tie, and stove-pie trousers. He had long, silky, beautifully groomed fair hair. As Rollison got out of the taxi, it was this young man who held his attention, and although he was aware of the others he took little notice of them—not even when a small excited cheer rose up.
Rollison paid the taxi-driver, then turned towards Number 22. On closer inspection the young man’s face was long, thin, hollow-cheeked; he had dark-fringed lashes over disappointingly small and watery eyes.
Beyond him stood a policeman, there doubtless to clear a path.
A girl shouted: “Good old Toff!”
“You’ll be rewarded.”
“They didn’t mean any harm, Mr Rollison.”
“They—”
In a deep, throbbing voice a woman cried: “They killed my husband. And I’d like to kill you.”
As she spoke, she tossed what looked like a small glass ball towards him, and Rollison had a sudden, blinding fear that it might contain some kind of corrosive acid. He saw the liquid inside it, shimmering in the sunlight, ducked, but could not avoid the missile. It struck his forehead, burst with a sharp “pop!” and liquid began to spill down his face, ice cold, yet burning.
A girl screamed.
The policeman roared: “Hey!”
Sharp pain struck at Rollison’s eyes, but even as it did so, panic began to recede; this was ammonia, painful and unpleasant but nothing to cause permanent injury. Yet for the moment he was blinded—and suddenly he was in the middle of a surging furious mob. Above the shouts of anger came a woman’s sudden cry of fear, drowned by the policeman’s bellow:
“Let her alone!”
Car engines sounded, the screams and shouts merged into a dull roar, someone was sobbing
, and all Rollison could see through his tears of pain was a haze of light and surges of colour and movement. Helpless, he stood absolutely still until a familiar voice sounded close by—Jolly’s voice.
“Let me pass, please, Let me pass. Thank you. Let me pass . . .”
Then Jolly was at Rollison’s side.
“Is it—” he began, anxiety roughening his words.
“Ammonia,” said Rollison. “What’s going on?”
“If you’ll come with me, sir—”
“What’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you what’s going on,” drawled the young man in the velvet jacket. “The little dears are tearing the old darling to pieces. Preserve, I pray, from the fair sex.”
Jolly ignored him. “There’s no cause to worry, sir. The police have the situation well in hand.”
“I wish to heaven I could see,” Rollison said testily.
“Permit me to be your eyes,” said the youth, still with the same affected drawl. “Two policemen are now protecting the old darling, and several worthy citizens are grappling with the little dears as if it gives them great pleasure.”
“Please come indoors, sir,” pleaded Jolly.
“Did they attack the woman who threw the ammonia?”
“I think so, sir.”
“They did indeed,” murmured the young man.
“Perhaps you’d be kind enough to help me upstairs,” said Rollison. “Jolly, will you go and find that woman and bring her after us—I’d like to talk to her.”
“Very well, sir,” said Jolly, his voice dull with disapproval. He made his way towards the woman, who was leaning against the railing outside the house, hair awry, an ugly weal on her cheek.
Meanwhile the young man had taken Rollison’s elbow and was steering him through the front door of Number 22. Rollison touched the handrail.
“I can manage now, thanks,” he said. “Will you lead the way?”
The young man nodded and went ahead, his footsteps sounding clearly on the haircord stair-carpet. Rollison’s eyes, still stinging, were nevertheless much better than they had been, and by the time they reached his flat he could even make out the number on the door. Groping in his pocket, he took out a key and held it toward the stranger.