by John Creasey
‘Give him some water to drink,’ said Ibbetson.
One man held his head back, the other forced a little water between his lips. He choked on it but swallowed enough to refresh him. With that came the knowledge that he was being given a rough-and-ready first-aid that he might be a better subject for questioning. Now that it was over he realised what a fool he had been to make the attempt; before he might have bluffed his way out, now they would wreak vengeance for its own sake. As his vision steadied he saw the plump face of Ibbetson, livid with rage; Ibbetson was still crouching forward a little to ease his discomfort.
‘You’ve asked for it,’ he said softly. ‘You’re going to get it. But, before that, where’s the box?’
Facts began to register on Rollison’s mind, obvious ones, although they had been vague and half-formed until that moment. Primarily, they wanted the box about which June Lancing had told him; above everything else they wanted it and they put its possession above the simple matter of revenge for his violence. They were convinced that he had it or knew where it was; unless that were so, they would not have made the exhaustive search of the flat.
There must be a way to force them to wait and hold their hand.
‘The box,’ said Ibbetson. He pushed his face close to Rollison’s, keeping it not six inches away. His eyes were smaller, his sandy lashes sparse and coarse. ‘Where’s the box?’ he whispered and as the question was repeated someone Rollison could not see gripped his wrist and began to force it back. ‘The box,’ repeated Ibbetson hoarsely. ‘We’re going to get it.’
Rollison said with an effort: ‘You won’t get it this way.’
‘Oh, we won’t, won’t we? Back a bit farther, Mike; we’ll teach the runt.’ Mike obeyed and the pressure at Rollison’s wrist increased, grew as excruciating as the hammer-lock. Perspiration gathered again and he felt the pulse beating in his neck but forced his voice to keep steady.
‘I can get it—in person,’ he said. He had to fight to keep his eyes wide open: Ibbetson’s pupils seemed to get larger every moment.
‘Ease off a minute, Mike,’ said Ibbetson, after a pause. ‘What’s that you said? No tricks now, no tricks.’
The easing of the pressure caused a pain so great that Rollison gasped; then relief flowed through the wrist and he contrived to answer.
‘I said that I can get it in person.’
‘And what about sending a messenger,’ demanded Ibbetson, in the same soft menacing tone. ‘What about signing a little note saying I can get it for you? Where is it?’ he snapped.
‘If anyone gets it, I will,’ said Rollison.
They stared at each other for what seemed an age; Rollison’s eyes matched Ibbetson’s, who was trying to out-stare him and wear down his resistance; with the pain at his wrist again, Rollison knew that he might falter and confess that he was lying, begin the trail of denials that would get him nowhere. But suddenly Ibbetson blinked and stood back a foot; the movement eased the strain at Rollison’s eyes and he lowered them without completely closing them.
‘You’ll get it, all right, because I want it,’ said Ibbetson. ‘Come on, where is it?’
‘I’ve said all I’m going to until your ape releases my wrist and I’ve had a rest,’ said Rollison thickly. ‘You damned fool, do you think I’d put that where anyone can walk in and get it? If I don’t collect it myself, it won’t be collected.’
‘So that’s your angle,’ said Ibbetson softly. ‘Let his wrist go, Mike, we don’t want to hurt the poor fellow.’ Rollison felt all pressure go from his wrist and hitched himself more comfortably in the chair. The few moments of respite were precious but, having gained them, he could see no way of turning them to full advantage. If he knew what was in the box, if he could talk on terms with the men, he might make progress. As it was he assumed the contents were of immense value and talked as if he knew that and also just why it was wanted.
Ibbetson backed farther away.
‘Listen to me, Rollison.’ His voice grew stronger. ‘Maybe you don’t think I’m serious but there’s no kidding. There’s four of us here and we can kill you a lot of different ways. We don’t want to but we can, see—show him your gun, Fred.’ The stocky man took an automatic from his pocket and kept it in his hand. ‘Show him your knife, Charley.’ One of the others slid a clasp-knife from his belt, opened a blade and whetted his thumb on it; it looked razor sharp. That’s just two ways,’ said Ibbetson. ‘No one knows we’re here and no one will know who croaked you, Rollison. If you don’t show me the way I’m going to get that case, we’ve got to use some way or other of finishing you, see? The case is important but maybe you’re working that angle too much. It’s not so important as us getting away and we aren’t staying more than another five minutes. Now, open up and no kidding.’
Chapter Eight
No Kidding
In the immediate past, minutes had been of vital importance, now seconds counted almost as much. Rollison eyed the little plump man, trying to estimate his chances of a further bluff and thinking desperately. Had he possessed the case he might have deposited it with his bank, or in a safe deposit at his office.
At his office, in the heart of Whitehall. He felt a spasm of relief and gratitude for the idea, straightened his shoulders and said slowly: ‘It’s at my office.’
‘You heard me say no kidding,’ returned Ibbetson. ‘Soldiers don’t have offices. If you think you can—’
‘I’m not thinking anything,’ snapped Rollison. ‘I’ve a staff appointment at Whitehall and I’ve put the case in my office safe. No one can get in the building without a pass and no one can open the safe without a chit from me.’
Ibbetson’s eyes narrowed.
‘Say, that’s smart,’ he admitted. ‘That’s smart, Rollison, but it’s tough on you. If we can’t get it out it’s no use chin-wagging with you, is it? Your knife won’t make so much noise as a gun, Charley, make it quick.’
He waved a hand, urging Charley forward.
Rollison did not turn his eyes towards the knife but spoke quietly to Ibbetson.
‘Put your head in a noose, if you want to.’ He paused, seeing the man’s eyes narrow a fraction, not certain whether Ibbetson was really proposing to do murder or whether it was a further stage in the interrogation; he leaned towards the latter theory but the four men were crowding too close, the knife was too sharp, for him to feel any confidence. ‘You might get away from here without me and without having the police after you but it isn’t likely.’
‘What’s he say?’ demanded one of the men.
‘Doesn’t he understand plain English?’ asked Rollison, with every appearance of contempt.
‘He understands plain English,’ breathed Ibbetson softly. ‘But he doesn’t get you. Nor do I, Rollison. You’re forgetting what I told you—no kidding.’
Rollison shrugged. He was feeling easier at the wrist and arm but his head was throbbing and his eyes felt hot and prickly; little grains of sand seemed to be beneath the lids. He was in no shape to make another attempt to force his way out and he wished he felt more capable of outwitting Ibbetson.
He did not answer immediately and Charley made an impatient movement with the knife; on Rollison the conviction that they were prepared to kill was growing. It made his heart beat fast and his mouth feel dry.
‘Open up, Mister Rollison,’ said Ibbetson.
Rollison said: ‘I’m trying to find the short words you can’t fail to understand. You know that I work with Grice.’
‘So what?’ asked Ibbetson.
‘Grice is a nice fellow but he doesn’t always trust me,’ said Rollison. ‘He thinks I might put something across him. He doesn’t know about the box, for instance, and he doesn’t know whom I’m contacting. So he has me watched.’
One of the quartet drew in a sharp breath.
‘If this were af
ter dark he couldn’t do much,’ said Rollison, ‘but he’ll see you go and he’ll have accurate descriptions of you. If the police come here and find me dead, they won’t be long putting the descriptions out.’
Another man breathed sharply inwards.
‘Go on, go on,’ urged Ibbetson. ‘You can talk, I’ll grant you that. But be careful, no—’
‘I know, no kidding,’ said Rollison testily and then burst out as if his temper was getting beyond control, although he felt cooler than at any time since they had arrived; he had them guessing. ‘Do you think I want that knife in my ribs? I’m in a spot and I know it. You’re in one, too, but you don’t realise it. If I leave here with you the police might notice you and send a report but they won’t know why you came. And if I got to the office with you, I can take you up to the safe. You certainly can’t get in the building without me.’
‘So you’re going to be a guide for the tour, are you?’ sneered Ibbetson. ‘I don’t think! If we let you out of here you’ll run yelling for the dicks.’ He moved forward so suddenly that Rollison was taken by surprise and put his hands about Rollison’s throat. The pressure was tight and firm and Rollison gasped for breath. The man’s eyes grew larger, the pupils seemed to be distending as he stared. Rollison’s breathing grew laboured and there was a constricting band about his chest.
For that one moment he thought that the man was calling his bluff but then the pressure relaxed and Ibbetson said harshly: ‘Take a load of this, Rollison. You’ll bring that box here at twelve o’clock. Twelve o’clock on the dot. You’ll be watched all the time and if you don’t hand the box over to my man waiting here, if you have the police on your tail or try to pull any fast ones, you’ll be shot up. I’m not fooling; this is more than a game to me.’ He released Rollison and pushed him backwards and then motioned his head towards the door. ‘Out, boys,’ he said. ‘I’ll watch him.’
One by one they left the flat.
Rollison watched them, breathing heavily and finding it hard to believe that they were really withdrawing. Mike, Charley and Fred left and he saw each of them step through the door to the landing. Ibbetson waited until they had gone and the front door was pulled to but not closed. Not once did he remove his gaze from Rollison’s; he seemed to be trying to hypnotise his victim.
‘You heard me,’ he said at last. ‘No tricks. Twelve on the dot or you’ll be shot up. And if you see that skirt, tell her to keep her nose out of this business or she’ll get what she doesn’t like.’
‘That’s clear enough,’ said Rollison thinly.
‘Don’t forget it,’ said Ibbetson. ‘Don’t forget any of it.’
He backed to the door and went out quickly; Rollison heard him turning the key in the lock.
Rollison made no effort to move, not even as far as the window. A cold sweat of relief damped his forehead and the nape of his neck and he found breathing difficult. For a long time he stared at the door, expecting it to open again and Ibbetson to reappear – or Charley, with the knife.
It was a bad five minutes but it dragged by without incident and although he heard no further sound, he felt sure that Ibbetson had gone.
‘No kidding,’ breathed the Toff and rose unsteadily and went to the door.
It took him five minutes to pick the lock, although in his key case there was a skeleton key in the use of which he was no tyro. By the time the door was open his hands were steadier and he felt much better when he went into the bathroom and washed first in hot and then in cold water. After that he went into the kitchen and began to run cold water into the kettle. Abruptly he stopped, turned off the tap and went to the dining-alcove. From a cabinet he took whisky and soda, mixed himself a moderate drink and drank it in two gulps.
He glanced at his watch; it was twenty-five past nine. There was little he could do amidst the chaos of the flat and he found it difficult to decide on his best course of action. He should see Grice, he should be in the office, he should make some plans for midday. The nightmare of the past hour was receding slowly but its effect was still sobering even though, in retrospect, the fears of Charley’s knife faded and it was hard to believe that murder had been contemplated.
‘Unless,’ he said slowly, ‘unless Ibbetson really thinks he’s a big shot, above the law. Can the little swab think that?’
After another five minutes, while he tried foolishly to straighten the furniture and stopped to contemplate the confusion ruefully, he felt much better. He found that the beds had been ripped open to the springs and that the kitchen was also untidy; the door of the frigidaire was standing open; they had even looked there for the case, the little black case he had never seen and with which “June Lancing’s” prospective father-in-law had entrusted her. What was the man’s name? Brett, yes, Brett; he was something to do with big business and was on his way to America for discussions. He had a son named Lionel in the Army in the East.
‘And two and two make four,’ said Rollison aloud. ‘I must get a hold on myself. I’m going to pieces. Brett, father and son, might know something more than June does. Then there’s the temperamental Mr. Peveril whom she thought might live here.’ He rubbed the back of his head and eyed the whisky bottle thoughtfully. ‘And the box or case is connected with Ibbetson who was the owner of the car which the crazy Commando used after his murder mania. Everything ties up somewhere but I don’t remember being more rattled than I am now.’
That confession off his mind, he straightened his clothes and rubbed some embrocation into his right wrist. His elbow was sore from the hammer-lock but he could not get at it effectively and he postponed treatment. Straightening his tie in front of the bathroom mirror, he confided: ‘The office first, I think; they’ll certainly watch me go. There’s nothing I can do about this mess until Jolly gets back.’
Five minutes later, at a quarter to ten, he left the flat and walked slowly towards Piccadilly. He did not appear to be followed but did not believe that he was unobserved. He made no effort to evade pursuit but continued his walk to Whitehall and was later acknowledged cheerfully by the guards at the doors of the big building and the commissionaire inside. Several members of the staff who knew him exchanged breezy greetings and there was a general buzz of excitement, even elation, which puzzled him. Although it was his rule to be at the office by a quarter to nine and he expected some evidence of disgruntlement amongst the staff, he was received with wide smiles and gay good mornings; the girls looked fresh and pretty, if business-like, in khaki blouses and skirts.
Comparison with them made him feel more jaded.
‘Good morning,’ he said gruffly. ‘Is there any post in yet?’
‘Very little, sir,’ the senior girl told him. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’
‘Is it?’ demanded Rollison. ‘What’s wonderful?’
They stared at him, patently puzzled. Neither of them spoke for a moment and then both burst out together: ‘Why, the news.’
‘I haven’t heard it,’ said Rollison.
Thereupon they burst forth with good tidings. The eight o’clock news had announced that the onslaught on the Continent promised more than well and behind it there was more than the anticipatory exultation which had been noticeable in some military spokesmen since the beginning of the war. The Americans had earned their share of the general laudations with another smashing blow at Japanese naval and air strength and reduced the Japs to squeal of retaliation and unparalleled ferocity in defence where they were being attacked.
Sitting back in his chair, Rollison nodded slowly.
‘That’s fine,’ he said. ‘Even though I’ve got a headache and a cold in embryo, that’s fine.’ If they were puzzled by his reception of the news they were too content to comment upon it. He pulled the telephone towards him. Although he did not fully realise it, the secondhand reports had cheered him and were fast colouring his own mood.
Grice was on the othe
r end of the wire a few seconds later.
‘This is Rollison again,’ said the Toff, very much more himself.
‘You got some more sleep, I hope? … Oh, too bad! but you’ll get over. Now, I’ve got a job that will test your ingenuity. Can you get into the building here without being seen? … wear disguises, if you want to, but I need to talk in strict confidence and I don’t want to come there … good man, yes, half an hour will do fine.’
Finished, he went out of the office to that of his CO, an officer of personality and efficiency who had been on the retired list but was fast convincing those who knew him that youth had no copyright of vigour and driving force. A broad-shouldered, red-faced man who looked the typical pukka sahib, few belied their appearances more effectively.
‘Hallo, Rollison,’ said the CO. ‘Better news this morning, eh? We need a bit of something like this.’ Leaning back in his chair behind a vast glass-topped desk with maps all about the walls of a large, airy room, he frowned a little. ‘You’re looking under the weather, he declared. ‘Sickening for a cold?’
‘Bless this cold,’ thought Rollison and contrived a smile.
‘Outside influences are worrying me more than a cold,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what you’ll think of this but I’d very much like a few days off.’
The CO’s mouth positively dropped open.
‘Leave? Now! ‘
‘Well, if not leave, an arrangement by which I can come in at odd hours,’ said Rollison desperately. ‘I haven’t gone mad or become obstructive, I—’
‘Now, look here,’ said the CO firmly and uncompromisingly. ‘I know that you were at Scotland Yard yesterday, one of my orderlies saw you go in. And I also know that you’d rather be working with the Yard than sitting on your fanny and doing what you do but we can’t help that just now, Rollison. In a week or ten days, perhaps, we can arrange something. Sit on your hopes firmly and forget whatever’s interesting you now.’