by John Creasey
‘Daren’t is frank enough, anyhow,’ conceded Rollison.
‘I’m being frank about everything. I—I’m not English. I’m an alien and I’ve no right in the country without registering with the police. I haven’t done so. Does that satisfy you?’ she added waspishly and then turned her head away, hiding the expression in her eyes but not before he had seen the hint of fear in them.
As she spoke he remembered Grice’s harassed comment: ‘Aliens, aliens, nothing but aliens.’ But her statement surprised him; she had no accent and if her appearance was not typically English he knew a dozen English ‘types’ who varied at least as much as she from the popular conception of blue eyes and golden hair. She was worried, though, and trying hard not to break down and implore him to keep away from the police; in her there was a pride which might one day fall but would sustain her through most eventualities.
‘June Lancing sounds English,’ he said quietly.
‘It’s an assumed name. At least,’ she corrected, ‘partly assumed. My mother’s maiden name was Lancing; she was English.’
‘That would help with the police and friendly aliens—’
She lifted a hand, long and tapering, the white palm turned towards him.
‘I’m not a “friendly” alien. She sneered the ‘friendly.’ My father was a Rumanian.’
‘There are even enemy aliens as free as the air,’ said Rollison mildly.
‘That’s the way an Englishman would talk,’ she stormed at him. ‘You don’t know anything about what happens in your own country! If I were to be detained now and examined, it would take weeks before the authorities were satisfied with my bona fides, even though
I was brought up in England and have spent years over here. Weeks? Months, more likely! Oh, they would treat me all right but they’d pen me up with hundreds of others until everything was “in order” and I can’t afford to be interned even for a few weeks. I’ve too much to do.’ She hesitated, then dropped her hands in a helpless gesture. ‘But you’ll do your duty like any stiff-necked officer and gentleman. I know your type.’
She turned and stood with her back towards him.
Rollison contemplated a wisp of hair at the back of her head; it was out of place, a faint blemish on the smooth, dark sheen. He pursed his lips and allowed the silence to be prolonged; a clock in the dining-room struck half-past eight. It was a signal for her to turn and her expression was dejected, her eyes tearful.
Slowly and sadly Rollison shook his head.
‘No, I’m not so soft-hearted,’ he said drily. ‘I’ve seen too many women pretending to cry. If I delay telling the police it won’t be because of the appeal in your lovely eyes, so you needn’t keep it up.’
Anger burned afresh in her eyes.
‘You pig! You—’
‘If I keep away from them pro tem it will be because I think whatever job you’re doing warrants it,’ continued Rollison, ‘and then not till I’m convinced that you’ve told me the truth and not pitched a beautiful fairy story. But we won’t argue about that now. I’ll let you stay here until I am satisfied and I’ll give you fair warning of what I’m going to do. That will have to be enough for the time being. Now—do you want to alter anything you’ve told me? This is the best chance you’ll have.’
‘You know the truth,’ she said stiffly.
‘Did your fiancé’s father know your nationality?’
‘He did not.’
‘Your fiancé?’
‘Yes,’ she said abruptly. ‘I’ve told him and he agreed that I ought to say nothing about it. No one suspects me of being Rumanian and my work—’
‘We’ll talk about the work later,’ said Rollison. ‘You’re quite sure that you don’t know what’s in the little black case?’
‘I’ve no idea at all.’
‘How many men were in the flat of the man who stole it?’
‘I don’t know,’ said June sharply. ‘Four or five, anyhow. I heard at least four different voices.’
‘Did you hear any names?’
‘Oh, what do names matter? I wasn’t worrying about names.’
‘Everything considered, you weren’t worrying about enough,’ said Rollison tartly. ‘The names are important. Do you remember any?’
She drew a deep breath.
‘I know one was called Smith.’ She uttered that challengingly, as if conscious of the fact that such a name might sound a deliberate fake. ‘There was another peculiar one, I don’t really remember it. Something like “gibbet” and the others called him ‘Ibby’ more often than anything else. I don’t remember the others, I’m not even sure that any others were used. I—’ She broke off and stared at him in astonishment. ‘What on earth’s the matter with you?’
‘The matter,’ breathed the Toff. ‘Nothing’s the matter, my sweet, except that you’ve really said something worthwhile. The name was Ibbetson, wasn’t it?’
‘Ibbetson! That’s it.’
‘And Ibbetson is the missing link, although he might not like to know it,’ said Rollison very softly. He felt as elated as he looked, standing up and thrusting his hands deep in his pockets as he regarded her. ‘I think I shall probably be glad that you came, after all. Was “Jameson” mentioned?’
‘I don’t remember it,’ said June.
‘What about “Tom”?’
‘There wasn’t anyone called Tom,’ she assured him. ‘I would remember a short name like that. But—look here, I must be going, I can’t stay away from the office this morning, we’re absolutely rushed off our feet. I promised to be there by eight o’clock.’
‘I think you’ll have to pretend a headache,’ said Rollison, regretfully, ‘and wait for a while.’ Before she interrupted he went on: ‘I’ll telephone a message for you, if you like. Where do you perform the slavery? He did not add: ‘Why do you need to work if you can so casually offer to pay for the damage here?’ but waited for her quick, sharp response.
‘At the Gower Street Red Cross Depot. I—oh, I don’t see why I should beg you to let me go but there’s a big consignment of mail in from German prison camps and another due in from the Far East today and one from Italy expected any time. We can’t let them accumulate; it’s too cruel to keep relatives waiting for mail a minute more than necessary.’
There was no faking; she was sincere, her plea was heartfelt; its genuine ring was not one which could be forced. For the first time he was tempted to let her go but he steadied himself, for she might be lying so easily.
‘Will you let me go?’ she demanded.
‘Just a moment,’ said Rollison. ‘Are you understaffed at Gower Street?’
‘Of course we are!’
‘Are there men as well as women working there?’
‘What difference does that make?’
‘Are there?’ persisted Rollison.
Yes, but—’
‘Then you can go,’ said Rollison, very amiably, ‘and you have a voluntary helper for the day. Or nearly voluntary,’ he added. ‘Jolly. Jolly!’
‘Coming, sir,’ said Jolly. He appeared promptly, his mournful face showing little expression. ‘Can I do anything, sir?’
‘You can join the Red Cross as a temporary helper in Miss Lancing’s office,’ said Rollison lightly. ‘Work diligently and go with Miss Lancing to the office, to lunch and escort her back here when you’ve finished.’ He looked at the girl, whose chin was thrust forward but who made no objection and added to her: ‘That’s the one condition. Will you keep it?’
‘Oh, I’ll fit him in somewhere,’ said June disparagingly. ‘He’ll be helplessly slow, it needs practice but—’ She stopped abruptly and surprised Rollison by the sudden warmth of her expression and her eyes. ‘But I’m being a beast; it’s really generous of you. Of course, he’ll be invaluable.’
‘
Thank you, miss,’ said Jolly. His eyes were pained as he regarded Rollison’s uncompromising face. ‘If you really require it, sir, I will get my hat and coat. I was about to prepare breakfast but—’
‘I haven’t time to eat,’ said June.
Five minutes later Rollison watched them walking along the street, the girl hurrying, clad in a mink coat which had been in one corner of the lounge and making Jolly lengthen his normal sedate stride. The sight of the precise, black-clad servant and the hatless, eager girl amused Rollison and yet his smile was tinged with uncertainty. Then it grew set, for he saw a man walk in the wake of the couple, a man who had been walking much more slowly a few seconds before.
‘This is going to be another unpopular day for me at the office,’ he said, sotto voce.
Grabbing his greatcoat he hurried out of the door with one arm in a sleeve and the other pulling the door to. Although he saw the man who sprang from the shadows of the landing, he could do nothing to save himself from a heavy blow on the side of the head which half-stunned him and sent him pitching forward. He banged his head again when he struck the floor and lost consciousness after another blow on the left temple. He had a momentary image of his attacker, short, dark clad, with an arm up raised, before everything faded.
Chapter Seven
Ibby On The Job
The thick-set assailant wasted no time in looking at the Toff but bent down and unceremoniously dragged him back into the flat, feet first. He returned to the passage and pulled the door to, waiting and listening. No doors opened below and there was no indication that the tenants of the other flats had been disturbed. The man went down the first flight of stairs to a landing window and glanced out. He raised his thumb and was seen by a man walking on the far side of the street. In a few seconds the second man had joined the first and in a space of three minutes two others also arrived.
Then the flat door was closed and locked.
Amongst the company was a small, plump man, dressed neatly in light grey. His cheeks were rosy and shining, his blue eyes smiled and he gave the impression of being in the best of good tempers. Removing a velour hat he ran a pink palm over dark hair lined with grey and said in a soft, persuasive voice: ‘Now boys, let’s get along with it; we haven’t a lot of time. Ibby’s on the job, remember, and we mustn’t fall down on it. What didn’t we do?’
The thick-set man said: ‘We were going to start on the arms of the chairs.’
‘That’s right, so we were.’ There was the faintest of lisps in Ibbetson’s voice. ‘Charley, you and Mike go into the dining-room; Fred and me will do the lounge.’ He sent the other couple into the farther room, large men, although neither of them would have been noticed in a crowd, and glanced down at Rollison. ‘We’d better take him with us, Fred.’
The thick-set man grunted and together they lifted the Toff and carried him to the settee where June Lancing had rested not long before. His head lolled backwards unnaturally and his lips were slightly open.
‘What a cinch,’ said Ibbetson, with a gentle chuckle. ‘I thought he was going to cause trouble but you never can tell. Now let’s get on with it, Fred.’
‘I’m waiting for you,’ declared the Toff’s assailant gruffly.
Using knives which ripped through the tapestry covering of the armchairs, they stripped the arms down to the springs and searched inside. Neither of them talked while they were working and there was no sound from the other room. The chairs finished, Ibbetson’s plump face and red lips set in vexation but, beyond uttering a mild expletive, he made no comment. Together they shifted the furniture to one end of the room and rolled back a colourful Mirzapore carpet; the floor boards revealed no hiding-place, even when they moved the furniture again and tried the other end.
Ibbetson bit his lips and went to join the others. They shook their heads at his soft-voiced question.
‘It must be somewhere.’ said Ibbetson. ‘He wouldn’t have kept it in his pocket, would he?’ He hurried to Rollison and searched him thoroughly but found nothing of interest except his revolver, which was removed. That finished, he went to each room, surveyed it carefully and nodded after a few seconds, as if deciding that nothing had been overlooked. Something under an hour after they had arrived the quartet gathered in the lounge and Ibbetson sat on an upturned chair.
‘We’ll have to make him talk,’ he declared roundly.
‘What, here?’ demanded Fred.
‘Yes, of course; we can’t take him through the streets of London like that, Fred. Where’s your common sense?’ The mild reproof administered, Ibbetson leaned forward and looked at the Toff whose head rested more naturally on the end of the settee, close to a spring which jutted though the covering and the webbing and canvas beneath. ‘He looks bad, Fred; you didn’t hit him too hard, did you? I wouldn’t like to think he wouldn’t come round.’
‘He’ll come round,’ growled the thick-set man. ‘Fetch a jug o’ water, one of you.’
Lying quite comfortably and with nothing the matter with him beyond an ache at either temple, the Toff heard the injunction, as he had heard everything which Ibbetson and the others had said since the gathering in the lounge; he had regained consciousness while the settee had been shifted for a second time and without opening his eyes had guessed what the others were doing. That the men had stayed within easy distance in order to finish their job did not surprise him; what angered him was that he had not thought of the possibility. The man who had started to follow Jolly and June Lancing had been a bait, just as the telephone call had been; and it had proved equally effective.
The prospect of being doused with a jug of water did not appeal to him; on the other hand, the cold water would be refreshing and by then the room was uncomfortably warm; the searchers had not switched off the electric fire. He stayed there without moving while soft footsteps sounded in the flat and then, abruptly and without warning, icy water splashed over his face.
He started and even opened his eyes; the impact came with such a surprise that he could not help himself. He recovered quickly, grunted and then settled his head down again. Through narrowed eyes he saw a man in light grey peering down at him; the next moment his head was pushed to one side as the man slapped him sharply across the face; there was no playfulness in the slap.
The Toff’s eyes widened.
‘That’s better, that’s better,’ said Ibbetson. His soft, lisping voice and plump face were at variance with the viciousness of the blow while in his voice there crept a note of harshness which alone told the Toff that it would be unwise to judge from appearances where the plump man was concerned. ‘Keep them open, Rollison, or you’ll get—another!’
A second slap, on the other cheek, pushed Rollison’s head to the opposite side.
‘That’s just a little warning,’ said Ibbetson softly. ‘Don’t sing out or make a noise or you’ll get a lot worse. And we won’t leave you here alive; we don’t like leaving men who can talk. Pull him up, Fred.’
Fred revealed surprising strength; he gripped Rollison’s lapels with one hand and pulled him to a sitting position. With his other hand he swept Rollison’s legs from the settee so that the victim was sitting normally, his cheeks flushed and his eyes a little bloodshot but otherwise looking quite normal.
‘We don’t want any misunderstanding,’ said Ibbetson in the same deceptively mild tones. ‘We want the box, that’s all. Just tell us where the box is and you’ll be all right. We don’t mean any harm to you personally, unless you get in our way. Now, that’s clear enough, and don’t—argue!’
He shot out his right hand for a third slap.
The Toff moved his head back so smartly that he felt a crick in the neck; but he had the satisfaction of seeing Ibbetson stagger forward when his blow missed and fall on to him. The Toff felt no qualms about raising his right knee and catching the man in the pit of the stomach. A gasp of sheer anguish follo
wed Ibbetson’s exclamation of surprise at missing his blow. He sprawled downwards over Rollison who put both hands against the man’s chest and thrust him backwards. Ibbetson staggered until Fred stopped his retreat; he would have slumped to the floor had the thick-set man failed to support him.
The other two stared at Rollison, momentarily so startled that they were inactive. The blow and counter-blow had happened so quickly that Ibbetson’s hand might still have been moving through the air.
Rollison knew that what chance he had of escaping without injury depended on his speed of action then but was not sure that he could trust his legs. He put them to the test, getting up in one movement. His right knee bent beneath him. He regained his balance and flung himself towards the kitchen door. The man named Charley shot out a hand to stop him but clutched only the sleeve of his coat. Rollison pulled it away. Only Mike stood between the Toff and the door; if he reached it he would surely get through. He swung his left arm, hoping to catch the man and send him off his balance; but Mike evaded it as easily as Rollison had evaded Ibbetson’s slap and pushed out his right foot.
The Toff fell over it.
The thud of the crash shook the pictures which remained on the walls, set glasses and vases quivering and the bared springs humming and twanging. It knocked the breath out of Rollison’s body and at the same moment a knee forced itself into the small of his back, stout fingers clutched his right wrist and twisted his arm in a hammer lock so excruciating that he bit his lips to prevent himself from crying out in pain. Mike muttered harsh obscenities into his ear and increased the pressure until sweat gathered in globules on his forehead and a vein rose out in his neck, the blood beating fast through it. He did not think that he could stand more of it without fainting and there was a red mist in front of his eyes, a loud drumming in his ears.
Through the drumming words forced themselves but he did not hear Ibbetson say harshly: ‘Go easy, Mike, we want the —d alive,’
The pain and pressure alike relaxed. Rollison went down on his face, turning his cheek to the carpet and gasped for breath. He felt the blood rushing to his head and was incapable of thinking, even of feeling afraid. Not until he was hauled to his feet and pushed into an easy chair did his head clear a little; even then he could not see the four men clearly; their figures swayed and danced in front of his eyes.