by John Creasey
Then something crashed behind him, and he swung round.
“Seen enough, mister?” asked a man.
It was Blane, his head and shoulders above a hole in the floor. He had an automatic in his right hand.
CHAPTER EIGHT
TWO-IN-ONE
BLANE did not appear to recognise Rollison; he had only seen him for a little while and then in electric light. The disguise might be good enough to fool him, although he would need all his wits and a modicum of luck to get away from here.
Behind Blane was a piece of flooring, pushed up from a hinge and resting against the wall that had caused the crash. He was obviously standing on some steps which led from Miss Dexter’s, below.
Blane rested his left hand on the floor and came up another step; the gun in his right hand didn’t waver.
“Well, have you?” he demanded.
Rollison spoke in a high-pitched, almost falsetto voice.
“I—I’m waiting for Mr. Merino.”
“You’re waiting for me, although you didn’t know it.” Blane came up another step, but he would have to mount at least two more. When he climbed into the room he would be off his balance.
Rollison stood with his mouth gaping and his hands raised as if in sudden fear.
“Get away from the safe,” ordered Blane, and came another step up. “And don’t try any tricks.”
“Tricks?” squeaked Rollison, moving forward. Between him and Blane was a footstool—a little nearer Blane than it was to him.
“Stand still!” snapped Blane.
“But you said——” began Rollison.
He dived forward, grabbed at the stool held it for a fraction of a second and heaved it as Blane fired; the shot rang out, but the bullet missed. The footstool struck Blane in the stomach, and Rollison managed to spring forward from his knees and hands. As he clutched Blane’s right wrist, another shot hit the ceiling; then the gun dropped.
“You——” gasped Blane.
Rollison hit him powerfully on the side of the jaw, then struck again. Blane’s eyes rolled. He slipped off the ladder and would have fallen, had Rollison not held his arm.
Rollison picked up the gun and brought the butt down on the side of Blane’s head, hard enough to knock him out.
He dragged him out of the hole, and across the room, on the alert lest the shots had been heard.
When he was in the doorway, with Blane at his feet, he paused and listened, but heard only a car starting up in the mews. He turned into the kitchen and opened the first drawer, finding what he wanted—a piece of parcel string. He hurried back, tied Blane’s hands and feet tightly, stuffed his own handkerchief into the man’s mouth, then dragged him into the kitchen and locked the door.
He slipped the key into his pocket and went into the drawing-room, tidying his hair, breathing heavily. Very soon he stood at the bottom of a flight of wooden steps. They led to a small passage, where there was only one door which led into another well-furnished drawing-room. It was not unlike the room upstairs—but smaller, because the little passage was taken out of it. He stepped inside and closed the door. It fitted flush with the wall, and the outline of the door was almost lost in the pattern of the wall-paper—modernist stuff with a series of straight lines and zig-zags. On the walls-were large, framed photographs, in colour, of film stars.
He went to the front door of the flat, shot the bolts, then looked for the electric switch. He found it in the kitchen; this one must serve the two flats; Miss Pauline Dexter and Mr. Oliver Merino were doubtless on the best of terms. He switched off the current, then hurried up the ladder to the larger room.
The knob no longer stung him when he touched it.
He might find the right combination quickly; equally it might take him an hour or much longer. He turned the handle right and left, and could just hear the tumblers falling. He did not try any particular combination for a few minutes, but got the feel of the knob and discovered the best angle for hearing the tumblers.
After ten minutes, he gave it up, and stood close to the wall, looking out of the window, feeling disappointed, and yet aware that he had learned much. Now, he faced unpleasant facts. He could keep turning the knob for hours without hitting on the right combination. He might find tools in the kitchen with which he could get at the safe through the wall, but that would take too long.
Better to search through the girl’s flat and see what he could find there.
The drawing-room held little of interest—except the photographs. Film stars had autographed these pictures, they were not just printed signatures; here the ink had smudged, there a pen had scratched the smooth surface. Some of the most famous English film stars were there, and all had “deared” Pauline or been otherwise affectionate.
The small writing-bureau was unlocked. Inside the top drawer was a memorandum pad and a desk diary. Rollison looked through the diary, and an entry for Saturday caught his eye. It said simply “Aeolian Hall, 3.45 p.m.”
“So she’s going there on Saturday, too,” mused Rollison. “But In Town To-night doesn’t start until six-fifteen.”
He went into the next room, expecting to find a dining-room.
Instead, it was very like a dressing-room back-stage. There was a long, gilt-framed mirror along one wall and a bench beneath it. Grease-paints and make-up material were spread out on the bench, with two bowls of red roses, one in bud, one in full flower. Inside a wardrobe with sliding doors were several costumes, some modern, some old-fashioned. There were wigs, powders, dozens of pairs of shoes and, in one section, hat was piled upon hat. The other two walls were adorned with more photographs of film stars, some famous, some much less well-known; all of them had signed themselves as if they were on intimate terms with Pauline Dexter, of whom Rollison had never heard.
In a waist-high cupboard, made of the same polished walnut as the wardrobe and the bench, were sheaves of papers—film scripts and one or two B.B.C. scripts. There was some correspondence, too, from the Meritor Motion Picture Company. He glanced through it and learned that Pauline Dexter was in the running for a leading part in a film shortly to go on the floor.
He found nothing else of interest, so took another look round the upstairs flat, but added no more to his meagre knowledge of Merino. He looked into the kitchen, where Blane started to struggle as soon as the door was open. So he was all right. Rollison walked quickly past the garage, where the garage-hand was bending over a small car.
He reached Gresham Terrace just after four o’clock, took off the beard and moustache and washed briskly. Then, looking and feeling more himself, he invited Jolly to take tea with him.
Jolly, recognising that as an olive branch, politely accepted.
“Shall I pour out, sir?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Rollison.
“Jolly, I’ve had a full afternoon and done a great number of things that I shouldn’t have done, and I also arranged for Perky Lowe to follow a cream Chrysler about London. Ask him to call back if he comes while I’m out, but get his story.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And we now know that a Mr. Merino, a cream-coloured Chrysler and a film starlet named Pauline Dexter—do you know Pauline Dexter?—are concerned. Have you ever heard of a Mr. Merino?” Rollison added.
Jolly considered.
“I only know the name in connection with wool, sir.”
“Wool?”
“Used, I believe, in the manufacture of underwear,” remarked Jolly. “A sandwich, sir?”
Thanks. I seriously doubt if there’s any connection between my Merino and underwear. Did you do all those jobs I asked about this morning?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get any good prints from the knife?”
“Very good ones, sir, and the photographs will be ready some time this evening.”
“Wonderful! As a reward, here’s another job. Get hold of Miss Caroline Lawley’s maid—do you know her?”
“Slightly, sir,” confessed Jolly.
“And find out from her if she’s ever heard of a man named Merino in the motion-picture business. He’s a handsome beggar with a swashbuckling air and a black beard which matches his hair and eyebrows, but all might be false. He wears clothes of American cut and likes Stetsons. Also—quite casually if you can—find out what you can about Pauline Dexter, who seems to be under contract to the Meritor Motion Picture Company. Miss Lawley’s maid is almost certain to know a little bit about Pauline, even if the man Merino is unknown in the film world. Any news from Snub?” he added.
“A telegram, sir, saying that he hoped to be here by seven o’clock,” Jolly said.
“The Aliens?”
“I telephoned twice this morning and once this afternoon, and understand that Mr. Allen is in bed and that Mrs. Allen hasn’t been out to-day. Sam Willis also telephoned, to say that nothing had happened—he seemed a little disappointed, sir.”
“That shouldn’t surprise you,” said Rollison. He finished his tea. “I must be at the Aeolian Hall at five o’clock,” he added. “When Mr. Wardle and I have finished a grand tour, I should know more about In Town To-night than I do now, and perhaps more about the mystery.”
“And what time will you be back, sir?” asked Jolly.
“I don’t know, but I’ll dine out.”
He broke off, as the front door bell rang.
Jolly got up and went out. Rollison filled his cigarette case from a box on the desk, and listened to the conversation after Jolly had opened the door.
“Is this the home of Mr. Rollison?” asked a man with a deep voice.
“Yes, sir.”
“And is Mr. Rollison in?”
“I’m not quite sure, sir,” said Jolly. Were he not sure that Rollison should see this man, he would have answered with an emphatic “no”, because he knew how eager Rollison was to leave for the B.B.C. “If you will please come in, I will find out.”
“Thank you.” The man’s voice held a hint of laughter.
“Your name, sir, please?”
“Just say a friend,” said the owner of the deep voice. Jolly did not press the point but came towards the study. Rollison, already sure who the visitor was, saw him as Jolly pushed the door wider open. It was Mr. Merino.
CHAPTER NINE
MERINO
“Yes, Jolly,” said Rollison, “I can spare a few minutes.
“Very good, sir.”
Merino had made no attempt to push himself forward, and waited in the hall. He sounded delighted when Jolly said:
“Mr. Rollison is in, sir, and will see you.”
“Why, that’s fine,” said Merino. “Fine!”
Jolly took his hat and led the way to the door.
Rollison, who loved the bizarre, moved swiftly, lifted the hangman’s rope from the wall behind him and put it on the desk; the loop was near one end, and it looked exactly what it was. Then he stood up, smiling. Merino made no attempt to shake hands, but his white teeth gleamed vividly against his black beard and moustache. Rollison was impressed by his size, his animal grace of movement, and by the gleam in his large, wide-set grey eyes.
“So you’re Mr. Rollison,” he said. “I’m very glad to meet you, sir.” He pronounced “very” as “vurry”, and Rollison guessed that he came from the Southern States.
“And you’re Mr. Merino,” murmured Rollison. “Won’t you sit down?”
Merino’s smile broadened as he sat down and stretched out his legs. He didn’t speak until he had assessed every feature of Rollison’s face, and appeared uninterested in the fact that Rollison was studying him just as closely—even to the small mole on his right nostril and a small scar, about half an inch long, above his left eye.
“Cigarette,” asked Rollison, sitting down and pushing a silver box across the desk.
“No thanks—I only smoke cigars,” said Merino.
That was a lie; unless someone other than he had smoked two of the cigarettes at the Lilley Mews-flat.
“I must say I’m very glad to know you,” Merino said, “because I think you and I can do business together, Mr. Rollison. I think I ought to make a start by telling you that I’m a very bad man.”
Rollison’s eyes twinkled.
“I can well believe it,” he said.
“And one of the reasons I want to see you is to find out what kind of man you are,” said Merino. “You’re quite smart in a kind of way, although I don’t know that I like that particular way.”
“Well, you started it,” murmured Rollison.
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning Byngham Court Mansions,” said Rollison.
“I suppose you can look at it that way if you want to,” agreed Merino. “Mr. Rollison, I’m not admitting anything. I’m not even accusing you of anything, although I will say that whoever came into my flat did a mighty good job. It’s a pity I didn’t leave the combination number in my desk. But that needn’t come between us, Mr. Rollison. I’ve come to show you something.” He put his hand to his inside breast-pocket and brought out a black jewel-case. He put this on the desk and pushed it towards Rollison. It caught against the rope; not once had Merino appeared to notice the rope.
Rollison asked: “What’s that?
“It’s just a sample from my safe,” said Merino. “Go on, open it. It won’t bite you.”
Rollison took a handkerchief from his pocket and held the case. He opened it by picking at the catch with his finger nail and, without once touching the case itself with his bare fingers, put it down, open, on the desk.
He did all this without a change of expression, a remarkable feat, because the sight in front of him was astonishing. There were three huge diamonds, stones which glittered and scintillated; beautiful things, worth a fortune.
“They would have been worth taking, wouldn’t they?” Merino asked.
“Perhaps your visitor only wanted to see what was there,” murmured Rollison.
“Perhaps.” Merino spoke more quietly, and his voice wasn’t so deep; it was the man who had telephoned the previous night and probably the man whose voice so frightened Barbara Allen.
“Maybe, too, he knows what he would have seen, now. There were several other cases; I just brought this along as a sample.”
“I’m not in the market,” murmured Rollison.
“Now that’s just what I want to find out,” said Merino. “Jewels fascinate me, I guess. And they’re big money. I’m used to big money in everything I do, Mr. Rollison, I’m not a chiseller. Big money speaks. You’re a good-looking man, aren’t you? And I guess you’ve a girlfriend tucked away somewhere, a girlfriend who would like to wear diamonds like these.”
Rollison said: “Ah.”
Merino had come to buy him off, and that in itself was a tribute. He showed no change of expression, but opened a drawer in his desk and took out a watchmaker’s glass and a pair of tweezers. Then he pulled the table-lamp nearer to him —it was a modern office type, which bent in all directions— and switched it on, although it was broad daylight. He picked up one of the diamonds in the tweezers and stuck the glass in his left eye. He was conscious of Merino’s steady gaze, but he did not hurry. He turned the diamond round and round, looking at the dazzling facets under the bright light, from all angles.
He put it down at last, let the glass drop and caught it.
“Sure, that stone’s real,” said Merino. “And it’s not so expensive as you might think. Say, Mr. Rollison, do you know the Riviera at this time of the year?”
“Yes.”
“Well, prices are inflated, I guess, but you could have a good vacation on the Riviera for six or seven hundred pounds. That would last you three or four weeks, if you didn’t have bad luck at the tables. That’s what this diamond would cost you—just six or seven hundred pounds !”
“And a trip to the South of France?”
“Why, surely. That goes with it,” said Merino.
Rollison put the diamond back in the case.
“Why have you come here in person
, Merino?” he asked.
“You don’t need to ask that,” Merino said slowly. “You’ve been to my flat, you know what I look like, you know Pauline —you’ve even met Blane twice. That means there isn’t any way of hiding myself from you, Mr. Rollison, and I always prefer to come right out into the open if I can’t stay out of sight I haven’t any quarrel with you, and I’d like you to have that vacation. Your man looks as if he could do with a holiday, too,” he added, and Rollison smiled faintly; no doubt that Jolly was listening at the door. “You wouldn’t take my advice last night, Mr. Rollison. Now you’ve another chance and you stand to gain something.”
“What will the Aliens gain?” asked Rollison.
“They’re outside this arrangement,” said Merino, with a slight hardening of his voice. “I don’t want to be misunderstood, Mr. Rollison, the Aliens are no concern of yours. I’m no concern of yours. Blane—well, I shall have to restrain Blane, he would like to have a crack back at you, but I won’t allow it—provided you take this vacation.”
Rollison leaned forward, placing his elbows just inside the noose of the rope.
There are other kinds of holidays,” he said conversationally. “Blane could tell you about that, I think. The kind I mean sometimes lasts for years. They cost nothing, except the loss of a little freedom.”
“That wouldn’t suit me,” said Merino.
“I didn’t think it would.” Rollison glanced at the telephone. “My man doesn’t look very tough but he’s stronger than he looks,” he said. “I can telephone Scotland Yard and have a detective here inside a quarer of an hour, and I can tell him just what you’ve offered, why you’ve come, what you’ve done to the Aliens.”
“You could, but you won’t,” said Merino.
“You sound very sure.”
“Of course I’m sure,” said Merino. “Because you’ve been foolish in some ways, Mr. Rollison. I could produce evidence that you’ve broken into my flat. I could produce more evidence that you attacked Blane and nearly killed him. That’s a criminal offence even in this country, I guess. And because you’re known to Scotland Yard, well, I guess it would go even harder with you than it would if you were a stranger to them.”