by John Creasey
Lt Colonel d’Arcy Bimbleton uttered a deep, rolling chuckle and followed with an unequivocal ‘no’.
‘Thanks,’ said Rollison sardonically. ‘In that case, don’t come in and gloat because you’re just going home and I shall be in this benighted sarcophagus for the next four hours.’
Bimbleton sat on the corner of Rollison’s desk, his smile disappearing.
‘I’ve often wondered just what is a sarcophagus,’ he said earnestly. ‘You don’t happen to know, do you?’
‘It’s a coffin,’ declared Rollison ghoulishly. ‘Made of a stone that eats your flesh away as you lay in it. Don’t stay here too long, Bimble, or you’ll have to be refitted and refurnished.’
‘Is it, by Jove!’ exclaimed Bimbleton, sticking to the point. ‘Interesting ideas some people have. Seriously, will you be late tonight? I thought you might like some snooker.’
‘I shall be very late,’ said Rollison firmly.
‘It’s partly your own fault,’ Bimbleton told him. ‘I know you weren’t back from lunch until after three o’clock. I was here about three. Nothing that mattered, your girl fixed me up. Useful little girl, by the way, she—’
‘Has no time for affairs of heart,’ declared Rollison. ‘She’s already engaged to a handsome young Flight Lieutenant.’ He leaned back in his chair and put his head on one side before he added thoughtfully: ‘What chance do you think I have of getting a week’s leave?’
Bimbleton started, aghast, considered for a while, then very slowly and deliberately declared that Rollison would probably get it if he asked for it; only a lunatic would ask at the present juncture and lunatics were not in demand. Bimbleton continued in that strain until a typist brought in letters for Rollison’s signature. When she had gone he removed his bulk from the desk and said offhandedly: ‘As a matter of fact, Rolly, I looked in to ask you why you were at the Yard this morning. Saw you go in. Any connection between that and you wanting to leave? No? I’m not curious,’ added Bimbleton hurriedly, seeing the gleam in Rollison’s eyes. ‘I just wondered, that’s all. Cheerio, old man, I won’t delay you. So long!’ He raised a hand, and inserted himself into the narrow aperture to which he opened the door and then peered smilingly back. ‘You know where to come if you want any help.’
‘I wonder how many others saw me go there?’ murmured Rollison as the door closed and he pulled the sheaf of letters towards him.
Just before ten o’clock his desk was clear and the typists were dabbing powder on their faces before venturing into the blackout. They stopped as Rollison entered the ante room but he signalled to them to go on; they finished sketchily as Rollison said: ‘If everyone here did as good a job as you two, we’d have a lot to be thankful for. Good night.’
He did not hear their flattering remarks as they hurried together along the passages but sat back in his chair and deliberated on the wisdom of going to see Grice. He was tired and his eyes were heavy. He locked his desk, deferring a decision on whether to go to the Yard or to the flat; eventually the flat won but he felt too jaded to wonder seriously whether Jolly had had a fruitful morning at Chiswick, deciding that in all likelihood it had been a waste of time. Stripped of irrelevancies, adornments, romancing and improbability, the situation resolved itself to elementary simplicity. Young Jameson had been scared of returning to his unit, had drunk himself to a state of dt’s, gone berserk, realised and repented it and also recovered sufficiently to present a good story.
When Rollison learned from Jolly that the mission to Chiswick had indeed been fruitless and that the man Ibbetson had added nothing to what the papers reported, Rollison decided that the elementary simplicity was on the mark, consoled himself with a weak whisky-and-soda and regaled Jolly with the story of the midday adventure, followed by his conclusions.
Jolly heard him out, kept silent for some seconds afterwards and then declared flatly: ‘You’ll feel better in the morning, sir. Do you think an early night is advisable?’
Rollison eyed him severely.
‘And just what inspired that remark, Jolly?’
‘It was just a passing comment,’ Jolly assured him smoothly. ‘Your eyes look very heavy, sir; I think perhaps you’re sickening for a cold. Shall I put a hot water bottle in your bed?’
‘Not tonight, nor any night,’ said Rollison roundly. ‘What you mean is that if Jameson is the man it’s all too simple. I suppose it is. See if Grice is in the office, will you?
Jolly telephoned the Yard and then Grice’s Fulham home; the Superintendent was at neither place. Dissatisfied with himself, disgruntled and at heart wondering whether a hot water bottle would not have been a good idea after all, Rollison was in bed by half-past eleven and asleep before midnight.
He was aware of a disturbance in the flat some time afterwards but so long had passed since disturbances necessarily meant trouble that he did not force himself to wakefulness until there was a tap on the door and Jolly asked in a whisper: ‘Are you awake, sir?’
‘Er—just about,’ mumbled Rollison. ‘What’s the matter? Can’t we have some light?’ He saw a glow from the other room but Jolly went softly across the bedroom, closed the window and then drew the blackout curtains before returning to the door and switching on the light.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but nothing I could say would satisfy Mr. Grice.’
‘Grice?’ Rollison exclaimed. ‘Here?’
‘No, sir. At the Yard. He telephoned and asked if you could go over to see him at once.’
‘Confound the man!’ exclaimed Rollison. ‘He would choose the middle of the night. Did he say why?’
‘No, sir. And it’s nearly seven o’clock. I’ll make some tea,’Jolly added hurriedly, ‘and a little toast might be acceptable, in case you don’t have time to get back for breakfast.’
Jolly closed the door with a snap while Rollison hitched himself up on his pillows, frowned, grew rapidly more curious about the summons from Grice and dressed quickly.
It was cold in the small alcove in spite of an electric fire glowing; the cold spell showed no signs of slackening. Rollison noticed it more because he had climbed out of bed too quickly and had not yet warmed through. Before putting on a collar and tie he shaved and washed in the radiator-heated bathroom.
Jolly had prepared scrambled egg and toast and apologised because the egg was powdered. Rollison nodded, still feeling jaded and conscious of a cold nearer development than it had been the previous night. When he had finished eating he glanced at his watch, then glared at Jolly.
‘Confound you, it’s only a quarter to seven now.’
‘Is it, sir?’ asked Jolly, concerned. ‘Something must be the matter with my watch. I quite thought it was much later. These dark mornings make it so difficult to estimate the time,’ he continued glibly. ‘Why, it must have been nearly six, not seven, when the Superintendent telephoned.’
‘I’ll deal with you later,’ said Rollison heavily, annoyed with himself because a triviality loomed so large. He lit a cigarette and Jolly reappeared with his greatcoat, hat and gloves: the hat was a different one from that damaged in the canal. Rollison donned the greatcoat gladly and looked forward to walking to the Yard; nothing would warm and freshen him more than that. He nodded to Jolly and went out; Jolly, smiling paternally, closed the door as his footsteps echoed down the stairs.
At the foot of the stairs Rollison paused.
A moroseness and a lack of enthusiasm, greater than the mild deception really deserved, possessed and puzzled him. He felt that something which he had not seen should be obvious, that there was a piece in the puzzle clearly out of place. Indeterminately he stood in the porch and peered into the darkness of the morning. The lights of a milkman’s van passed and he heard the rattle of bottles.
Abruptly he snapped his fingers and turned about.
He re-entered the flat, surprising Jolly
at clearing the breakfast-table but too full of the fresh idea to take pleasure out of Jolly’s surprise. Stepping to the telephone, he asked: ‘What time did Grice call us, Jolly?’
‘Well, sir, in view of my error, it must have been in the neighbourhood of five-forty-five.’
‘Call it that,’ said Rollison, dialling a number. ‘He wasn’t at home or at the Yard at half-past eleven, which meant that he wasn’t likely to be in bed before one o’clock. More or less,’ added the Toff hastily, to prevent argument. ‘He went to bed too late to be up and bright soon after five o’clock but must have been up in time to get to the Yard and telephone us when he did.’ He explained no more but dialled again, this time getting a response from the Yard. ‘Give me Superintendent Grice, please.’
‘I don’t think he’s in yet, sir,’ said the operator. ‘If you’ll hold on a moment I’ll find out. Is that Colonel Rollison?’
‘That’s right,’ said Rollison and covered the mouthpiece with his hand. ‘Jolly, I remembered only just in time that telephone calls are always open to question. Hallo … you’re sure he’s not in? … all right, find out for me whether anyone from the Yard telephoned me about an hour and a quarter ago, will you?’ He waited again while Jolly approached and stood silent with obvious concern, until the operator said convincingly: ‘No one has called you from here, sir.’
‘Right-oh, thanks,’ said Rollison and replaced the receiver. As he regarded Jolly there was a fresh light in his eyes and he was no longer conscious of depression or moroseness. ‘Jolly, we nearly fell for it. Get a hat and coat and follow me at a reasonable distance.’ As he spoke he dialled another number, this time waiting much longer for a reply which came with the sleepy voice of a man just awakened.
‘Grice speaking,’ announced the voice.
‘The last thing in the world I want to do is to disturb you,’ Rollison assured the Superintendent with relish, ‘but do you use telephones in your sleep?’
Grice grunted and over the line there came creaking noises as he turned over in bed and straightened up. Then he demanded to know what Rollison meant and finally said emphatically that he had not put through a call.
‘That’s all I want to know,’ Rollison assured him. ‘Go back to Morpheus and give him my apologies and regrets.’
Jolly, clad in a black overcoat, a muffler and a bowler hat, was waiting when he finished. Rollison lit another cigarette and said lightly: ‘Somewhere between here and the Yard things should happen. Keep at least twenty yards away from me but not much farther.
‘Very good, sir,’ said Jolly inadequately.
Rollison’s heart was beating fast with excitement as he stepped from the porch of the house and entered Gresham Terrace. This time no milk-van passed and there was silence in the street; no chink of light showed and it was too early for even the faintest trace of dawn. The air was piercingly cold and a keen wind was blowing from the north. Rollison clenched and unclenched his fingers inside his fur-lined gloves to keep them warm and supple. He walked cautiously at first, because of the blackout, but deliberately eschewed a torch for it would betray his presence too easily and, in his mind, there was the possibility of a shot being fired at him out of the blackout. No one would set such a trap without being ready to turn it to full advantage.
His mind roamed. Someone knew of his interest in the affair and wanted him to leave the flat, baiting the trap as a message from Grice. One question raised itself above all others: who knew of his interest?
The Jamesons all knew, of course; and possibly Bimbleton. Beyond that, no one could have an opportunity of knowing and he had little doubt that the news had been circulated through the Jamesons; it was too early to decide how it had been done; there would be time enough to learn that later. One fact did evolve; the ‘someone’ knew enough about him to fear that his intervention might lead to unwanted hindrances. He remembered how young Jameson had recognised him after a few minutes and knew that many others, familiar with the more sensational stories of crime in the Press, either remembered his photograph or could call it to mind. That was one of the penalties of his earlier enthusiasm, a youthful longing for publicity which had been amply satisfied but had become a disadvantage.
He shrugged the thought aside and continued to walk slowly along the dark streets, turning into Piccadilly and keeping to the buildings opposite Green Park. A few taxis, buses and other vehicles were on the move and the steady tramp of feet came regularly. He heard people hurrying, often the light tap-tap-tap of a woman’s heels. His eyes grew accustomed to the darkness and he could see vague shapes a yard or two away from him but recognised none; no one could possibly recognise him.
He wondered whether Jolly was following satisfactorily and, outside the Piccadilly Hotel, paused long enough for the bowler-hatted figure to loom in ghostly silhouette against the insufficient lights of a bus.
‘Close up a bit,’ said Rollison.
‘Very good, sir,’ whispered Jolly.
The presence of so many unseen people, the sound of movements divorced from sight of those who were making them and the awareness of the trap which might be sprung at any moment gave an eeriness to the walk which began to play on Rollison’s nerves. Near Trafalgar Square he paused again on the pavement of Whitehall and waited for Jolly who appeared rather clearer for the early dawn was lessening the blackness of the eastern sky.
The one place where I’m sure to go is the Yard,’ said Rollison. ‘Whatever is coming will happen there.’
‘Very likely, sir.’
‘Look here,’ said Rollison with a touch of irritation, ‘I may like an automaton to work for me but I don’t like one following me about. Be human. Five yards,’ he added and started off again with an echo of ‘Very good, sir,’ from his man. He smiled wryly at his own touchiness then drew near to the gates of Scotland Yard.
He took off his glove from his right hand and gripped his service revolver inside his greatcoat pocket, keeping his left hand about his torch, still switched off. He reached the gates and grew aware of two dark figures, standing side by side, both wearing steel helmets and blocking his path.
The policemen on duty, of course.
A rustle of movement ahead of him preceded a respectful inquiry: ‘Who is that, please?’
‘Colonel Rollison,’ said Rollison and shone his torch fully into the man’s face. The other went back a yard, blinking and surprised, but Rollison recognised the features of a constable whom he had often seen before; the other man was also familiar.
‘And a friend,’ put in Rollison hastily, to explain Jolly, who had hurried up at the hint of a disturbance. He apologised for his clumsiness with the torch and with Jolly passed between the iron gates. The dark and empty courtyard yawned before him and he said bewilderedly: ‘Can anything happen here? Or …’ He paused and then exclaimed: ‘No, confound it! They wanted us out of the flat! I’ve been too clever. Come on!’
For the first time since leaving Gresham Terrace he hurried, surprising the constables and escaping collision with them only by a hair’s breadth. The glowing silhouette of the word ‘taxi’ in front of a vehicle passing by made him call out and the cab drew into the kerb.
‘22G, Gresham Terrace,’ said the Toff hurriedly and bundled Jolly in.
He wasted no time in saying what he thought of himself and they sat in silence for ten minutes until they reached the flat in the increasing light of dawn. Rollison jumped out before it stopped moving and hurried into the house and up the stairs, convinced this time that he would make discoveries of importance. The sight of a crack of light beneath the door confirmed this and made him stop abruptly.
Jolly joined him, sedately.
‘We’ve visitors,’ whispered the Toff. ‘Go to the back door. I’ll give you three minutes. Then wait unless I shout for you.’
Chapter Five
Lady Forlorn
T
he illuminated dial of his wrist-watch told Rollison when the three minutes had passed. For that time he had waited without making any movement, his ears strained to catch sounds inside the flat. Whoever was there was as careful as he for there was no sound. Once he saw a faint shadow darken the sliver of light but it disappeared quickly. It confirmed that someone was inside and quickened his pulse.
On the tick of three minutes he inserted his key in the lock. It made a faint scratching sound but not one likely to be audible inside. Cautiously he opened the door, as cautiously pushed it wider.
No sound came through.
He stepped over the threshold with his gun in his right hand. His eyes narrowed against the light coming from the lounge which he also used as a study. The small foyer, itself furnished as a lounge where Jolly kept casual callers, was in perfect order except that the drawers of a small bureau were half-open; they had been closed when he had left.
Soft-footed, he crept towards the lounge proper.
The absence of sound was uncanny, unless it meant that he had been heard and the uninvited guest was waiting to strike. Rollison drew near enough to see inside the room then stopped and glared at four easy chairs, their short legs poking towards the ceiling, the light gleaming on the castors. The webbing beneath each chair had been ripped open and the springs revealed in all their nakedness. Against one wall he saw his desk, littered with its contents; the floor was strewn with papers and souvenirs, little things he treasured. Behind it there should have been two etchings in black frames; they had been taken down.
‘All in half an hour!’ he said inaudibly. ‘All right, my fine gentleman.’
Then he heard a movement.
It came from the lounge, a shuffling sound which puzzled and yet made him act swiftly. He pushed the door wider open and covered the room with his gun, saying sharply: ‘That’s enough!’
Then he peered at what seemed an empty room, chaotic with upturned chairs and emptied drawers and bureaux. Even the long wall opposite his desk, usually filled with souvenirs of cases in which he had been concerned, was stripped; an assortment of curios was piled on the floor. But despite the movement he saw no one and there was no other door in the lounge.