by John Creasey
The man looked up at him from dazed eyes—but he might not be so dazed as he pretended, reflected Rollison, keeping a careful eye on both him and his assailant, who, with the girl’s help was now sitting up. Rollison waited until he was on his feet, and then said:
“And after telephoning the police I’ll break your neck. Go and sit next to your friend. On the floor.”
The man’s hair was ruffled, and his tie askew. He was broad-shouldered, solid-looking, and appeared to be in his middle thirties. He began to speak, then changed his mind and did what he was told.
“You, too,” Rollison told the girl.
“But—”
“Do I have to make you?”
Meekly, she went to the wall and sat down beside the two men, while Rollison tried to decide the best way to handle the situation. An appearance of omniscience might make the men crack earlier than they would otherwise, but he wasn’t sure. Despite what had just happened, neither looked the type to use violence.
Or to do murder.
On the desk was a sheaf of papers protruding from a manilla folder which was tied around with a piece of pink tape. Until then, Rollison had shown no interest in it; now he moved towards it. The man like Lucifer Stride drew in a sharp, hissing breath. Rollison glanced at the folder and read a name, upside down: Abbott. H. J. His heart began to beat faster. These papers might have been taken from Mrs Abbott’s flat; if they had, then these men were obviously suspects for the murder. He turned the folder round and pulled the tape; the bow which secured it undid easily.
“Who killed Mrs Abbott?” he asked casually.
The man like Lucifer Stride gasped.
“ Killedr Jane echoed hoarsely.
“Oh, no!” Jane gasped. “Oh, no!”
The broad-shouldered man said breathlessly: “But I never saw her. The flat was empty. She wasn’t there.”
“My God,” said the other man, turning towards him, “if you killed her—”
“I swear I didn’t!”
“She can’t be dead!” cried Jane.
“The police are looking for her murderer,” Rollison said. “Or her murderers. And when they discover that you stole these papers from her bureau they’ll put two and two together, won’t they?” He spread the papers out. There were statements of accounts, share certificates, bank statements, some snapshots of the man whose photograph had been at the flat, one of Mrs Abbott, one of Mona Lister. Rollison moved back a pace, seeing that the broad-shouldered man was bracing himself, possibly in an attempt to spring up at him. But he appeared to notice nothing.
“Where are they?” he demanded.
“Where—where’s what?” That was the man who resembled Lucifer Stride. This must be Michael Fraser, reflected Rollison.
“I don’t know what you know about me, Fraser,” he said, “but it doesn’t seem enough. You are all three involved in a theft at Mrs Abbott’s flat and you could be charged with murder. And I’m impatient.” After a pause, he went on harshly: “I’m not here to find out who killed Mrs Abbott. That’s a job for the police. I am here to get the papers which were in this file and which you’ve taken out. Where are they?” A shot in the dark, he reflected to himself, but one which might well find its mark.
It did.
Michael Fraser swallowed. “If we give them to you, will—”
“Shut up!” rasped the other man.
Rollison stretched a hand towards the telephone. At this stage he had no intention of dialling Scotland Yard, but there was no way his prisoners could be sure of that. He actually put the instrument to his ear and dialled 2 before Jane cried out:
“Don’t let him!”
Fraser said chokily: “They’re in my brief-case.”
“You damned fool,” muttered the other. “He wouldn’t call the police. He’s bluffing.”
Rollison looked at him with raised eyebrows. “I can assure you, my friend, that I’m not.” He picked up the brief-case, which was black and very heavy. He hadn’t the faintest idea what papers it contained, other than that they had been taken from Mrs Abbott’s folder, but did not mean to find out while he was here. “One more thing: why did you suddenly stop your advertising campaign for Space Age Publishing?”
Fraser muttered: “We couldn’t pay for it.”
“We spent far more than we could afford on layout and artwork,” the other man said. “It was a gamble, but we hoped it would pay off. Then that infernal fortune-teller decided to use our name to swindle money out of her fool clients. We didn’t know anything about it, but mud sticks, and the public will never believe we didn’t. Oh well—” he shrugged— “I guess we’ll be lucky if we can hold out for another month—that’s what that damned fortune-teller did to us.”
“Mr Rollison,” Fraser said, “what’s your interest in defending this woman?”
“Her reputation,” answered Rollison.
“ That bitch! You don’t give a damn for her reputation!”
“As a matter of fact I do,” Rollison said, “and in the course of my trying to protect it, two people have been killed and attempts have been made on the life of another. So I’ve an added interest. What did you call her?”
“She’s a bitch and you’ll soon find out,” Fraser rasped. “Underneath that sweet and gentle manner of hers she’s a devil. Don’t make any mistake, she’s taking you for a ride.” Fraser was pale with rage, his voice quivering with repressed fury. “You can’t save her reputation, she hasn’t got one. She’s a phoney. All she wants is money. She’ll use anyone to help her— even you’ve fallen for it. That woman is a hell-cat. She ruins anyone she touches, anyone who’s influenced her. She’ll ruin Mona Lister, she’ll ruin you:
Anger still rasped in the man’s voice but it was a righteous anger. There was no doubt, thought Rollison, that Michael Fraser believed what he was saying.
“All right, I’m duly warned,” he said drily.
“Now tell me how you know all this, and what proof you have against her.”
“There’s your proof!” Fraser declared, and he pointed a quivering finger at the brief-case.
“He didn’t know,” the other man said in a strangled voice. “He was bluffing. And that’s the only real evidence we have. He’ll suppress it, destroy it; have you forgotten that he’s defending the woman?”
Making a tremendous effort, he sprang to his feet and launched himself at Rollison, roaring as he sprang:
“Hit him!”
He was roaring at Jane—and Jane snatched up the telephone to use it as a weapon. Rollison knocked it out of her hand, then, instead of dodging or ducking, met the other broadside on. His left shoulder thudded against his assailant’s chest. The man groaned and collapsed across a chair. Rollison spun round to meet an attack from Fraser, but Fraser was still sitting on the floor, looking up at Rollison with a strange expression in his eyes.
“Do something!” screamed Jane.
Fraser ignored her.
The man lying across the chair was groaning.
“Ted, he’s hurt you. Ted? She leaned over the stricken man, “Ted, don’t. You’ll be all right. Ted?” There was despair in her voice.
Still watching Fraser, Rollison said: “He’s winded, that’s all. Straighten him up.”
“Rollison,” said Fraser, “what would you do if you were convinced that Madam Melinska was a charlatan—no, by God, more than a charlatan—a criminal?”
“Make sure she couldn’t fool anybody else,” answered Rollison.
“If the charge against her is proved she’ll go to prison, won’t she?”
“She will indeed.”
“What about—what about the girl?”
“That depends on how deeply she’s involved.”
“She isn’t involved,” Fraser said. “She’s an innocent tool in the hands of that infernal woman. Mona’s a natural clairvoyante; sometimes she really can see into the future, and the Melinska woman uses her to win her victim’s confidence before she steps in and wrings every penny out of
them. If I can convince you of this, will you help Mona? And give up Madam Melinska’s defence?”
Rollison nodded.
“Michael, don’t trust him,” Jane called out.
“I don’t see what else we can do,” said Fraser. “If Mrs Abbott’s dead then we really are in trouble and we’ll need someone to get us out of it. Rollison, Madam Melinska is a confidence trickster on a big scale. She takes nothing for her readings, but by conning her clients into giving her large sums of money which she tells them she’ll invest on their behalf, she makes a fortune. She daren’t admit she has any money now because this would give the game away—so she’s relying on credulous fools—I mean good-hearted people—to put up whatever she needs for her defence. It’s all there.” He waved a hand towards the brief-case. “Mrs Abbott has it all down in black and white.”
Rollison frowned. “Why did you steal this “evidence” from Mrs Abbott? And how did you know Mrs Abbott had it?”
“I knew because she told me about it. Oh yes, I used to know the Abbotts quite well, and when Mrs Abbott came to London she looked me up. I lived in Bulawayo for some years, I—I was engaged to the Abbotts’ niece, Mona Lister. But then Mona left home and got herself involved with this Melinska woman, and somehow things started going wrong between us. Another reason I’d like to get my own back.” Fraser added wryly. “Mrs Abbott was so upset, both about Mona and her husband—” He paused. “You know about Abbott’s suicide?”
Rollison nodded. “Yes, I heard about it. Carry on.”
Fraser frowned. “Where did I get to? Oh yes, Mrs Abbott was so upset that she decided to collect sufficient evidence to prove that Madam Melinska was a fraud. And she collected it. But I was afraid of what she might say about Mona—when Mona left home and went to live with Madam Melinska Mrs Abbott turned completely against her, she seemed to hate the girl as much as Madam Melinska—and I was worried in case she implicated her in Madam Melinska’s swindles.”
“So you persuaded Ted to steal the evidence,” Rollison finished for him.
“Yes, I stole it, but I didn’t kill the woman,” insisted the man in the chair. He was looking better now. “I tell you the flat was empty.”
Rollison said: “You may have a lot of trouble proving that. Did you see anyone else near the flat?”
“No one I recognised.”
“Lucifer Stride, for instance?” Rollison suggested.
He expected the name to cause something of a sensation, but the two men took it without blinking.
“Oh, Lucy,” Ted said derisively. “He wasn’t there.”
“How well do you know him?” asked Rollison.
“He’s my brother—half-brother actually,” said Michael Fraser impatiently. “I gave him a job in the office here for a few months, but it didn’t work out. He certainly wouldn’t have anything to do with killing Mrs Abbott. He might ask for a little—more than a little— financial support but—oh, I’m sorry if I sound cold-blooded,” Fraser interrupted himself, “but my brother and I don’t have much in common. All the same, he wouldn’t hurt a fly, and as for murder—well, you can certainly rule him out. Rollison—will you help us expose Madam Melinska?”
“Yes—if she’s guilty,” said Rollison.
“We can’t afford to pay—”
“If Madam Melinska has fooled me I won’t deserve any payment,” said Rollison. He was aware of a growing uneasiness, a fear that these men might be right about the woman whom his Aunt Gloria trusted so implicitly.
He was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. Fraser hesitated, glanced at his watch in surprise, then picked up the receiver. A moment later, in even greater surprise, he said: “It’s for you, Rollison.”
As far as Rollison was aware the only person who knew that he might be here was Olivia Cordman.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Welcome Home
It was not the Features Editor of The Day, it was Jolly. The first syllable of his man’s voice warned Rollison that all was not well, and he steeled himself to receive bad news.
“Miss Cordman advised me where you might be, sir. I’m sorry to bother you, but I think you would be well-advised to come home immediately.”
“Why?” asked Rollison.
“The—ah—police are in possession,” Jolly told him.
“ What? ”
“They are in truth, sir. I tried to communicate with Mr Grice, but he is said to be out of town.”
“What are they doing?” inquired Rollison.
“Searching most extensively, sir. However, I am less concerned with the attitude of the police than with another situation which I think you should see for yourself.” Hurriedly, he went on: “Would you care to speak to Chief Inspector Clay, who is in charge here, sir?”
“Just tell him I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Rollison said.
He rang off on Jolly’s “Very good, sir.”
He was quite sure that Jolly would have told him more but for Clay’s presence. Rollison knew the man slightly—a shrewd and patient detective, but with little imagination and an unyielding faith in the rule book—exactly the type of man whom Grice would second to an investigation into his, Rollison’s, activities.
All three members of Space Age Publishing, Limited were watching him; his apprehension must have sounded in his voice. He looked at each in turn, and then said:
“Jane, let me have your own and the men’s home addresses and telephone numbers—I may want to get in touch with you. Fraser, I’d like you to send me a written report stating everything you know about Madam Melinska.” He turned to the man the others had called Ted. “What’s your surname?”
“Jackson.”
“I’d like you to send me a report of all your movements when you visited Mrs Abbott, everything you noticed, everyone you saw—a fully detailed description of exactly what happened at the flat.”
Jackson looked uneasy. “Do you think the police will get on to me?”
“They might.”
“You won’t tell them I was—”
“As long as you play ball with me I won’t tell the police anything,” Rollison said. He took a card from his pocket, with his name—The Honourable Richard Rollison, O.B.E.—and the Gresham Street address on one side, and a pencilled sketch of a top hat, a monocle, a cigarette and a bow tie on the other, and handed it to Fraser. Once, this had been used as a form of psychological terrorism, a melodramatic threat—The Toff’s on the trail. There were still times for melodrama, he believed; this might be one of them.
Picking up the brief-case with one hand and taking the slip of paper Jane held out to him with the other, he walked out of the room and across the outer office, leaving the three members of Space Age Publishing, Limited staring after him. Unlocking the passage door, he stepped outside. The automatic self-service lift was still working, and a small door in the large doors of the building had not yet been locked. Rollison stepped out, cautiously.
No one was in the street, but that did not mean that the police weren’t at either end, watching; or that the men who had killed Charlie Wray and attempted to kill Lucifer would not be lurking close by. He turned towards the Strand. The brief-case must not be taken to the flat while the police were there, nor must it be taken anywhere the police might search. His club, for instance. Hailing a taxi, he went to Charing Cross station, left the brief-case in a locker, pocketed the key and looked about cautiously, but no one appeared to be paying him any particular attention.
Outside, he bought a newspaper.
His own face, Madam Melinska’s and Mona’s stared up at him; and there were front page headlines.
TOFF TO THE RESCUE
£100 BAIL FOR MADAM MELINSKA
GALLANTRY IN COURT
The story, as a story, was factual enough; what Rollison hadn’t expected was the space and prominence the evening papers gave to it.
There was a long queue for taxis, so he walked down Villiers Street, and through the Embankment Gardens to his car. A ticket was we
dged under his windscreen-wiper and he realised that he had only put two six-pences into the parking meter. He drove off very thoughtfully, half wishing he had looked in the brief-case.
Half an hour later he turned off Piccadilly and was in sight of Gresham Terrace. The first thing to startle him was the sight of the policemen, three of them; the second, the stream of people; the third, the fact that the police were sending cars straight past the end of Gresham Terrace. His heart thumped. Had there been an accident, or—
A policeman came up to him.
“The street’s barred for the next hour or so, sir. You can only get into Gresham Terrace on foot. I—” the man broke off. “Aren’t you Mr Rollison?”
“Yes. I’ll get rid of the car and come back.”
“One of our men will look after the car for you, sir. Chief Inspector Clay would like to see you as soon as possible. He’s waiting at your place.”
Rollison looked along Gresham Terrace.
It was a seething mass of people, mostly women. At this end of the street they were fairly thinly spread but farther along they were packed so solidly that no one could pass. Two or three cars were completely hemmed in; until the crowd was cleared there would be no chance for them to move.
“That’s a welcome if you like,” the policeman said with reluctant admiration. “They’re waiting for you, sir. Lot of half-wits!”
Rollison chuckled and then said: “I don’t want to run that gauntlet, I’d better go the back way.” He opened the far door of the car and stepped out, but as he did so a middle-aged woman coming along the street cried:
“There he is!”
Someone else shouted: “There’s the Toff!”
“You haven’t a hope,” said the policeman, sotto voce.