by John Creasey
The heavy curtains at the windows were drawn.
Rollison drew a deep breath and stepped farther forward, feeling slightly foolish. As he moved he saw someone behind a chair, someone who appeared to be kneeling. He moved closer to the chair swiftly, to avoid any shot which might be fired from behind it and said again: ‘That’s enough. Come out.’
Peering over the top of the chair, when there was no response except another faint shuffling movement, he saw a girl. He judged that from the long hair; she was kneeling, or in a similar posture, and he could not see her face. As she made no attempt to look up or to move, Rollison put caution aside and rounded the chair, worried then more than puzzled.
The girl was not kneeling; she was crouching against the open back of the chair and one hand was clutching a spring. Her head lolled forward and about her neck was tied a white scarf. Rollison exclaimed, bent down and raised her to a more comfortable position; relief followed that for the scarf had been used to gag, not strangle, her and her eyes were wide open. She had dark hair, waved slightly and dressed as a page-boy bob; her eyes were enormous, fringed with long dark lashes.
Her feet were tied together and there was a piece of cord about her right wrist; obviously she had freed her wrists and been trying to stand up.
Rollison lifted her to an easy chair and rested her in it. He did not spend time in unfastening the gag or the bonds at her ankles but said quickly: ‘I’ll be back in two minutes.’
He left the lounge, went into the kitchen and unlocked the back door, whispering: ‘Has anything happened there, Jolly?’
‘No, sir,’ said Jolly softly.
‘All right, come in. We’ve had our birds but they’ve flown, I think.’ He hurried into the living rooms again, switching on the lights of all of them. Three bedrooms were in the same chaotic state as the lounge and the dining room was in no better state. The wardrobes were empty and, after satisfying himself that no one lurked in any corner, Rollison went back to the lounge.
There Jolly had put a couch on its legs and rested the girl on it full-length; he was unfastening her ankles and the gag was removed. The girl was working her mouth to and fro and there were red marks at the corners where the gag had been drawn tightly.
‘I’ll get you some water,’ he said quickly.
‘I have a kettle on, sir, for tea,’ said Jolly. ‘I’ll go and make it.’
He finished his work on the bonds at the girl’s ankles then left the Toff with her. She was lying with her head on a cushion, staring up at him but not trying to speak. Instead she rubbed the corners of her mouth gingerly with her right hand; about the wrist, beneath the loose cuff of her black silk dress, the flesh was red and puffy except for a white ridge where the cord had been tied.
‘I’ll do that,’ said Rollison and smiled down at her.
As he massaged her lips he appraised her more thoroughly. Her dress and shoes were of good quality and good taste; she wore a single string of pearls and, although it was impossible to be sure without closer inspection, he imagined that they were real, not cultured. She had a three-diamond ring on her engagement finger and the man who had bought it had not been forced to worry about fifty pounds either way; her watch was of diamonds or diamante; if diamonds it was worth a fortune. Her stockings, laddered about her ankles, were of lustreless silk and the slim lines of her ankles made it plain that they had not been so cavalierly treated as her wrists.
After those things, Rollison studied her face.
She had a smooth complexion, the kind which no artifice could contrive in itself but could not be achieved without art. Her nose was rather short, her upper lip also short, the blue of her great eyes a deep, limpid blue. Her hair swept back from a high, broad forehead; but for the redness at her lips she looked perfectly groomed, a picture enough to make most men’s hearts beat fast.
Rollison stopped at last and asked quietly: ‘Is that better?’
‘Ye-es,’ said the girl after a pause and then more quickly: ‘Yes, oh, thanks so much.’ The trite words would have amused him in other circumstances but he saw nothing funny in them then. ‘Who are you?’ she went on urgently. ‘Do you live here?’
‘It’s my flat,’ Rollison assured her.
She glanced away from him and about the room. Then she shifted her position, sitting up against the end of the settee. The expression in her eyes puzzled him but he made no comment and she went on: ‘What a foul mess! But—they didn’t find it.’
‘That’s good,’ said Rollison heartily. ‘What didn’t they find?’
‘Don’t joke, please,’ said the girl and glanced towards the door as Jolly entered with a tea tray. He put it down on a table which had not been overturned, bowed and went out; Rollison knew that he would keep within easy hearing distance.
Rollison righted another chair and poured tea, deliberately eyeing the girl as he handed her a cup and she took it with a commendably steady hand.
The electric fire made the room so warm that he took off his greatcoat.
‘Oh, that’s good,’ said the girl when the cup was half-finished. Then she said again: ‘Who are you?’
‘Rollison,’ he said. ‘Richard Rollison.’
She looked clearly disappointed.
‘I haven’t heard of you,’ she told him. ‘I thought you’d be Peveril, but—’ She broke off abruptly and took another sip of tea while Rollison asked: ‘Who is Peveril?’
The girl finished drinking, put her cup down and returned his gaze evenly.
‘I don’t really know but I’ve heard him mentioned. He—don’t you know him?’
‘Not yet,’ said Rollison.
He found it difficult not to laugh at her expression; it was bewildered and just a little irritated. That in itself would not have been enough for laughter but the general situation, with all its inherent absurdities, struck him as comic. Thought of the long walk through the blackout expecting an attack to develop at any moment, while the flat was being ransacked and the girl left there, had its own peculiar humours. He repeated gravely: ‘Not yet but there’s time and I’ve a number of things that need clearing up. How are you feeling?’ He glanced at her long and shapely legs and added: ‘Can you walk, do you think?’
‘I—I expect so.’ She put her feet to the floor and he helped her to stand. She was a little unsteady but did not fall or lean upon him too heavily. She was tall, the top of her head on a line with his eyes. ‘Yes, I’m all right. I wish—I wish I knew what to say. You aren’t Peveril?’ When he shook his head she shrugged and added: ‘I was sure that was where they were coming, they were sure Peveril had it last night. I heard them talking, there isn’t any doubt about it.’
‘Of course not,’ said Rollison drily. ‘There’s no doubt about it at all. After all, it must be about somewhere.’ His eyes were smiling at her and for a moment she eyed him uncertainly, sober-faced and not catching his mood. Then she realised that he was laughing at her and her expression changed; the slightest upwards curve of her reddened lips brought a dimple in either cheek and her eyes held a gleam.
But she still sounded puzzled.
‘Don’t you know anything about it?’
‘I know that someone telephoned me to get me out of the flat and visited it while I was gone,’ said Rollison. That—and no more and it isn’t a great deal. Given time it will work itself out, I suppose.’ He pulled a chair towards her and grimaced when she sank low into it because of the damaged webbing. Sitting on the arm of another, he commented: ‘They forgot that it might have been hidden in the arms, didn’t they?’
‘No,’ said the girl. ‘They heard your taxi and hurried out the back way before you came. They were just going to start on the arms.’
‘Oh,’ said Rollison blankly. Then tentatively: ‘You heard them say that, too, of course.’
‘Yes, I—oh, you fool!’ She smile
d more widely and there was a measure of relief in her manner. ‘This isn’t half as bad as I thought it was going to be,’ she said. ‘I’d imagined Peveril coming in and shouting and bellowing right and left.’
Rollison put his head on one side.
‘You don’t know Peveril but you know his temperament?’
She frowned a little.
‘Yes, I’ve heard about it.’
She stopped abruptly for Rollison was chuckling and making no attempt to hide it. After a moment, she joined him. By then the constraint between them had quite disappeared and as Rollison leaned forward and poured out more tea he took his cigarette case from his pocket and proffered it. Smoking, he said: ‘Now tell me all about it, Miss—!’
‘Lancing. June Lancing.’
‘Thanks,’said Rollison. ‘Richard Rollison.’
She laughed again; it was easy to see that she had not suffered much more than inconvenience and her experience did not weigh heavily upon her. He even wondered whether it weighed too lightly and if she had been left at the flat with the sole purpose of confusing him. He did not set the thought aside, nor did he brood upon it. ‘Now let’s get started,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be easier for you to start at the beginning and tell the story, isn’t it? I hope you will. I’ve some right to know what it’s about, even though I’m not Peveril.’ He streamed smoke towards the ceiling as he waited for her reaction, seeing her frown with indecision and then nod abruptly.
‘Yes, you have, but—well, I was going to advise you to have nothing to do with it but if they searched your flat you must be involved somewhere, mustn’t you?’
He did not answer and she went on with sudden excitement: ‘Unless they came to the wrong fiat. Do you think that’s happened?’
‘No,’ said Rollison with emphasis. ‘They took too much trouble getting me out and they knew both mine and my servant’s name.’
‘Oh,’ said June. ‘That rather spoils the idea. I—I hardly know where to start but I’ll do my best.’
‘Supposing we start with the ‘it’?’ asked Rollison. ‘What is it?’
She eyed him blankly.
‘I don’t know. I only know they’re looking for it and thought Peveril had it. But as they came here they must think that you know where it is. When I say I don’t know,’ she added hastily, ‘I mean that I’m not sure what’s in it, in fact I haven’t any idea. It’s a black case, something like a jewel case. I’ve only seen it once and I didn’t look inside. There’s rather a queer story attached to it.’
‘Rather queer!’ exclaimed Rollison. ‘You beat the band on understatements! But we aren’t making a lot of progress and I have to be at the office before long. Can you give me just the essentials?’ He was no more interested in going to the office than he was with the eight o’clock news, which he had missed for the first time in weeks, but spoke casually to try to get her started. He had not yet tried to reconcile the visit and the guest who could not help herself with the affair of Jameson but it had not occurred to him that they were unconnected.
‘It really begins before I had the black case. My fiancé’s father owned it and whatever is in it. He sent for me a week or two ago and acted rather strangely.’ She paused and then lost herself in her story; Rollison could almost see her trying to read reason into what had happened while she talked. ‘He seemed rather scared, as if something might happen to him, and talked rather morbidly. Lionel’s out East and he said he didn’t think he would ever see his son again—you know the way oldish people do get, sometimes, don’t they?’ Rollison said that he did. He did not add that either June Lancing’s attitude towards ‘oldish people’ had more than the average heedlessness of youth, or else she had no great regard for her future father-in-law.
‘Well, he gave me the case and asked me to make sure that Lionel had it as soon as he returned to the country—if he did return, he had to say that. If not, I could open it myself and there would be directions inside saying what to do with it. I was tempted to look inside,’ confessed June frankly. ‘I thought once it might be some family jewel but I was so busy at the time that I didn’t get beyond being tempted.’ She smoothed her hair back and the electric light gleamed on the fire of the three diamonds of her ring. ‘I just locked it in a drawer in my dressing-table. Then the old man—I mean Mr. Brett, Lionel’s father—went abroad; he’s in the rubber business and was going to America for consultations on synthetic rubber, I think—and for a couple of days I practically forgot about it. It would still be locked in the drawer if—if it hadn’t been stolen.’
She meant, of course, that she had successfully overcome a temptation to investigate; it was easy to imagine that when she had reached a decision she would stick to it.
‘I thought it was an ordinary burglar. It was at night and I was lying down for an hour—I was on fire-watch duty and didn’t get undressed. The man came in the room and started searching and my heart was beating nineteen to the dozen. Then he found the locked drawer and took out the case. Most of my jewels were in the drawer but he didn’t worry about them. He put the case in his pocket and went out. So I—I followed him.’
‘Unobserved?’ queried the Toff.
‘I suppose so. He didn’t seem to notice me. I live in a block of flats at Putney,’ the girl explained, ‘and he only went up the next flight and into a flat there. Later I heard them talking; there’s an empty flat next to theirs and the walls have been cracked by bomb-blast—they don’t know that. I heard them talking about Peveril and what kind of man he is. Apparently the case was stolen from them and they thought Peveril had it. I had to go to the office and couldn’t follow them all the time but I kept watching the flat and tonight—I mean last night— I heard them planning to make another effort to get the case. I followed them,’ she said simply, ‘and we got here about four o’clock in the morning. They waited outside—it was freezing cold but I stuck it out somehow.’ She smiled a little vaguely. ‘Then I followed them up the stairs. I thought I wasn’t seen but one of them turned round and waited for me. I couldn’t even shout or put up a fight,’ she added ruefully. ‘They gagged and bound me and pushed me behind the chair; I heard them talking as they worked, as I’ve told you. Then one of them outside came in and said you were here, so they went out the back way. I was trying to get my hands free when you came,’ she finished simply. ‘That’s all there is in it as far as I can tell you. Except the frills and you asked me not to take too long.’
‘I did,’ admitted Rollison thoughtfully. A pause and then: ‘As a story it’s as plausible as any I’ve heard but it doesn’t ring all the bells.’
‘What do you mean?’ she demanded.
‘Item one: Why didn’t you go to the police? They’re quite used to dealing with burglars. Why did you take on the whole party by yourself?’ Rollison leaned back as he spoke but his expression left no doubt as to his meaning and for the first time the girl’s cheeks flushed hotly.
‘Put yourself in my position and ask yourself whether you’d believe such a story, ‘ said Rollison. ‘Now, supposing we have the real truth?’
Chapter Six
‘What’s In A Name?’
June Lancing rose sharply from her chair but stumbled, still stiff from her bonds. Her eyes were bright with anger, her hands were clenched, her attitude was one of belligerent hostility. She eyed the Toff without trying to hide her anger; but that emotion might well be feigned and in any case Rollison did not find it disturbing.
‘Before you get hot-headed, do as I say and put yourself in my position,’ he advised equably. ‘Well?’
‘You’re impertinent! I’ve told you what happened.’
‘Possibly,’ conceded the Toff, ‘but you haven’t justified your actions.’
‘Do I need to? To you?’
‘Well, out of gratitude you might,’ murmured Rollison. ‘Out of necessity you will; because if you d
on’t tell me the police will be interviewing you within thirty minutes and I don’t think you want to talk to the police now any more than you did when you elected to follow the thieves on your own. All normal and good-living citizens always go the police in times of trouble,’ he added lightly. ‘Even the most adventurous spirits don’t try more than once to investigate on their own. It’s an English characteristic,’ he added, ‘and it’s surprising how we run true to form. When we don’t we become suspect and therefore I suspect you.’
‘Don’t be small-minded! I’ve told you the truth, and—’ She paused. ‘Are you serious about going to the police? No, you can’t be. Why should you?’
Rollison put his head on one side and regarded her in marvelling silence for some seconds. Then with an expressive gesture he indicated the state of the room and murmured: ‘Another English characteristic is to go to the police when they have the kind of visitor I had today. There are exceptions,’ he added cautiously, ‘and provided I’m convinced that it’s necessary I could be one. Although there’s the matter of insurance, the company will want police testimony that the damage was done by thieves before they’ll repair it free of charge. The damage isn’t negligible,’ he added mildly.
‘Oh, damage. That’s what’s worrying you.’ She was contemptuous. ‘Send the bill in to me. I’ll pay it.’
‘Well, well!’ exclaimed Rollison. ‘The girl with the answer to everything. Now, do try to get this clear. People don’t do unreasonable things without a strong motive and your attitude is unreasonable. What’s the motive?’ He stood up and leaned against the mantelpiece, gazing down on her and appreciating the contours of her face and the agitated rise and fall of her breasts. He thought she would shout at him to do what he liked but she said tensely: ‘I daren’t go to the police.’