by John Creasey
The darkness, breathed Rollison, if only there were light in the darkness. He was treading on soft soil and movement was difficult. He heard blundering footsteps and then an oath, presumably as a man struck against the garden fence. Another bullet, heralded by a flash of flame which only revealed the gunman momentarily, hit the earth yards from the Toff who drew a deep breath and switched on his torch again, knowing that it would give the sharpshooter a much easier target.
The man with the girl was climbing over the fence: Ibbetson was behind him and the third man was standing by the fence with a gun in his hand. His shot and the Toff’s were simultaneous and both missed. The Toff moved to one side, leaving the torch on the ground. It shone slightly upwards because it rested on a pile of earth and cast a pale glow about the fence; but it no longer meant danger to him. Making a sweeping movement, he approached the fence while keeping out of the radius of the light.
He reached it as the man carrying the girl threw her into the canal.
That eerie scene, with the figures shown as dark silhouettes in the faint light of his torch, was vivid and macabre. He saw every movement of the man who lowered the girl so that, for a moment, he cradled her in his arms then tossed her forward. The light was just sufficient for Rollison to see a flurry of arms and legs but he did not catch a sight of the surging water, although he heard the splash which half-drowned another shot from the gunman by the fence.
‘Come on!’ howled Ibbetson. ‘Hurry!’
The plump man took to his heels, the others followed him and in a moment they were lost in the darkness. Rollison fired in the direction of the running footsteps three times, less in the hope of wounding them than of making sure that the neighbourhood was thoroughly aroused and would rapidly investigate. Then he vaulted the fence and shone his torch on to the water of the canal.
At first he saw nothing.
His heart was beating fast enough to threaten suffocation: he did not think that there was much doubt about the identity of the girl whether she were, in fact, June Lancing or Patrushka. The fact that she appeared to have gone beneath the surface was a frightening thought and he moved the torch so that the light bathed the surface of the water for several yards. Then he saw her face, sideways towards him, and could even pick out her mop of hair which was floating on the water.
‘Hold on!’ he shouted. ‘Hold on!’
It was a wasted exhortation for she was unconscious, floating sluggishly and going farther under with every passing moment. Rollison put the torch carefully on the cement edging of the bank, fearful lest it should roll into the water. Every moment was agonising but he had to have some light. He put his hat by the torch, to prevent it from rolling, and stripped off his greatcoat and tunic while kicking off his shoes.
The girl had floated out of the radius of the torch before he was ready.
He heard confused sounds not far away but did not think of them, did not even assume that they were made by people from the row of houses in the road where the taxi was waiting. He moved the torch gently, holding the hat in position all the time, then picked out the girl’s face again. It was half-submerged; he thought that her mouth was under water. But he was satisfied that he could reach her and took a racing dive.
The shock of the immersion in the icy water stung him so much that his head reeled and he felt himself going stiff; he was surprised by the sharpness of it. He did not fight against it but continued to follow through, coming well up within the radius of the light. The girl was floating two yards away from him but he could only see her hair.
Two strokes took him to her.
By then he was shivering; the cold bit to his bones after the few seconds of his immersion but he clenched his chattering teeth, kept his eyes open and stretched out a hand to clutch her hair. It slipped from his fingers but he tried again and pulled her to the surface. As she came up he caught one glimpse of the pallor of her face and then their movement took them outside the light and there was only darkness.
His shivering increased.
He kept afloat with one hand while manoeuvring with the girl with the other. Movement in the water was difficult but she was soon floating on her back: he could feel her face, turned towards the stars, with his free hand. He turned over slowly and cautiously, frightened all the time lest he should lose control of her, but contrived to keep her face upwards and to get himself into a position where he could support her while swimming, also on his back, towards the bank. He remembered the little iron rings built into the concrete for barges and boats to tie up and wondered vaguely whether he would be able to reach one. The cold was growing worse, almost paralysing his legs and arms. Movement was difficult and painful and there were moments when he seemed not to be moving at all but merely trying to, as if he were in the grip of a nightmare hold which would not relax. Mechanically he fought against it, his teeth chattering like castanets. The girl stayed in front of him, her head close to his chin, making no movements of her own volition.
Only then did he try to shout for help.
It was difficult to make his lips form the word and when he uttered a cry the sound was so faint that he knew it could not travel far, even along the surface of the water. Taking a deep breath he tried again; this time the volume was better but he had no idea whether it travelled far enough.
He was fighting a losing physical and mental battle against the cold, so much worse because he had been immersed so suddenly, but the fears of cold and of having to struggle on without assistance faded suddenly into one much greater.
Something clutched at his leg.
He kicked out but his movement was slight and he did not release himself. For a moment he thought that it was a hand and imagined that another would be pressed over his head, forcing him down. Then the truth came to him; weeds were entwined about his legs, holding him.
The darkness about him was impenetrable and the glow of his torch seemed a long way off.
He shouted again, no longer struggling against the weeds with his fast leg but using his arms and his free leg to try to get nearer the bank; reaching and holding one of the iron rings grew all-important. His breathing was short and laboured, even his lungs seemed frozen. He knew that he was growing weaker and that the paralysis of cold which had threatened was becoming a growing menace; he even doubted whether he could reach safety.
Then a light shone on the water near him.
For a second he was so startled that he did nothing but watch it. Then his body twitched and he opened his mouth to shout again. Vaguely, as if from a long way off, voices responded. He thought he heard someone say: ‘There he is!’ but could not be sure. He kept still and the light moved until it shone into his eyes, blinding him.
‘Hold it!’ a man exhorted urgently.
‘Where’s that hook?’ another called.
‘Comin’, George,’ said a third man breathlessly.
To Rollison they seemed a long time, although he knew that they would be in time to reach him. Of greater urgency was the increasing weight of the girl. He put his hand to her chin and found that the water was lapping up to her mouth. He eased her further above the surface and then was seized by a cramp in his right arm and leg. He gasped in pain and did not see the boat-hook which moved gropingly towards him. Another torch was switched on and the hook caught in his shoulder. Tight-lipped, and with increasing spasms of pain coming from the cramp, he could do nothing to help himself but the men on the bank were on their knees with outstretched hands, risking a ducking to bring him and the girl to safety.
They took her first.
One man lay full length on the bank and, leaning close to the water, put a rope about the girl’s arms and then slowly hauled her until other hands could reach and lift her to safety. The boat-hook kept Rollison close to the side; without it he believed he would have gone under. He felt an easing of the pain as he was lifted but did not feel the h
ands gripping him; when at last he was stretched out on the bank he was numbed from head to foot except for the shooting fires of the cramp.
‘We’ve got to get them into ’ot barves, an’ quick!’ a man declared. My missus ’as got the water ’ot, one of ’em can go there. What about yours, George?’
‘Soon get it ’ot,’ declared the ubiquitous George. ‘We could do wiv’ them stretchers, wot’s Bert thinking of?’
‘We ain’t ’ad a raid fer so long they’ve got rusty up at the post,’ declared the first speaker with a ghost of a chuckle. ‘Wot they reely wants is a nip o’ somefink. Wot about ’opping over to The Bargee and getting’ a quartern, George?’
‘Not me,’ said George. ‘Mean! They wouldn’t squeeze yer a teaspoonful o’ gin if you was dying. I never did like that pub an’ I never will.’
They were working as they talked, giving the girl artificial respiration and massaging Rollison’s stomach and arms. He felt a little warmer while thoughts filtered more coherently through his mind. If he could only get really warm he would be much better; they must not be long taking them to the hot baths. But he was a fool, he had a whisky flask in his hip pocket. He swallowed hard, and then croaked: ‘Pocket—flask.’
‘What’s that, guv’nor?’ asked one of the men promptly. ‘Eh … oh, that’s the ticket!’ He found the flask and in the light of a torch unscrewed the stopper. A spot of whisky was put to the girl’s lips first and then a trickle into Rollison’s mouth, biting him but bringing a fiery warmth as it began to course through his veins. In a few minutes he felt much better and by then also they had stopped working on the girl, one man declaring with profound satisfaction that she was breathing like a good ’un. Relief helped to improve Rollison’s own condition while stretchers from a nearby first-aid post were soon at hand. Men lifted him gently on to one, although he thought that he was in a good enough condition to walk, and he was carried along the narrow path to the row of little houses.
By then other men had arrived, amongst them a sergeant of the police.
In the front room of a house a large fire was burning and there, for once in his life, Rollison really enjoyed a fug, as he said urgently: ‘Sergeant, my name’s Rollison. I’m helping Mr. Grice—’
‘Mr. Rollison!’exclaimed the sergeant sharply. ‘Oh, yes, sir. Can you tell me—’
‘Three men, including Ibbetson,’ interrupted Rollison, drawing a deep breath. ‘Remember that name—Ibbetson. They threw the girl into the water. Now—can you send someone—to the cottage? Canal Cottage. There might be more trouble there.’ He paused at an expression of surprise on the man’s face and added more sharply: ‘What’s the matter?’
‘The Superintendent’s left a man there,’ said the sergeant slowly. ‘I wonder if—but I’ll check up, sir. Anything else?’
‘Yes,’ urged Rollison. ‘Send a man to The Bargee. Ask for a man named Jolly—don’t mention my name, just ask for Jolly. If he’s there, bring him here at once unless he has any other suggestions to make. Can you—do all that?’
‘I’ll get started right away, sir.’
It was mortifying to be so useless but the cold was still in the Toff and only a twenty minutes’ soaking in a steaming hot bath brought comfort. After the first ten minutes he felt that he had nearly thawed out and even summoned the energy to call to a man waiting outside the bathroom door for a cigarette. He finished it while laying there then towelled himself vigorously and began to wonder why he had felt so weak and helpless for, by then, he was glowing with warmth and felt fit enough to tackle any eventuality. If he were anxious about Jolly and the news from The Bargee he concealed it and thought more of the girl in the next house, hoping that she was being as well cared for as he. He was not yet sure that it was ‘Patrushka’ but he did not dwell long upon doubts. Dressed in borrowed clothes that were a little too small and tight for him, and wrapping a blanket about him for extra warmth, he left the cottage and went next door. His own clothes were drying in front of a fire tended by the friendly little wife of George.
In the hall of the next house he found a tall, thin, melancholy-looking man with grey beard who eyed him without interest and continued to speak to an angular woman who had opened the door.
‘Keep her wrapped up and warm for the night, Mrs. Mee, and she will probably be all right tomorrow. Give her that sedative in half an hour and let her sleep as late as she wants to.’ He looked away from the angular Mrs. Mee and eyed Rollison. ‘Do you want me?’
‘No thanks, doctor,’ said Rollison. ‘But I want a word with the young lady upstairs.’
‘Is it necessary?’ asked the doctor.
‘I would say vital,’ Rollison assured him.
‘Oh, all right, but don’t worry her too much.’ The doctor, who looked harassed and tired and was almost certainly overworked, let in a blast of cold air as he left the house.
Mrs. Mee regarded the Toff, still wearing the blanket about the borrowed clothes, and asked with a touch of sarcasm whether he was going to stop the night too. Rollison judged quickly that, although she had been quick to offer hospitality and help to the girl, she was worried lest she were called upon to do more. He assured her that he would make sure that she was amply compensated for her trouble. Talk of compensation brought about a change in her manner; she was just going to take a cup of coffee up to the poor young lady, would the gentleman like one, too?
‘No, thanks,’said Rollison. ‘I’ve had one next door. Which is the room?’
‘I’ll show you,’ said Mrs. Mee.
She led the way up the narrow stairs and into a room leading to the right of a small landing; the lights in the room and the passages were shaded. The girl was lying against pillows, on a bed in a room with a small gas fire burning. Her cheeks were flushed and her blue eyes open very wide, looking a little too brilliant as if she were running a temperature.
It was June-Patrushka.
Rollison waited for Mrs. Mee to go while the girl stared at him without speaking. The door closed and Rollison approached the single bed standing against one wall of the room which was high enough only for that, a dressing-table and a small chair. Smiling crookedly and looking down at her, knowing that it was hardly fair to take advantage of her weakness and shock, Rollison dared not miss the opportunity of turning the situation to his advantage.
‘Hallo, Patrushka,’ he said. ‘We both got wet.’
The way she started and moved back against the pillow at the name ‘Patrushka’ satisfied him that he had made a good start.
Chapter Fifteen
The Truth, Insists Rollison
She did not ask how he had heard of the name but recovered a little from the first shock and raised a right hand from the bedspread; the shaded light glinted on the three diamonds of her engagement ring. He thought that her cheeks were flushed a little more than when he had first entered.
‘You’ve been making inquiries, have you?’
‘They seemed to be necessary,’ said Rollison drily. ‘And I’m not alone, Patrushka. The police are as interested and they’ll be here before long to find out what they can about the attack on you. You haven’t overlooked that, have you?’
‘No,’ she answered.
‘And you haven’t forgotten your fears of what will happen if they know that you’re a Rumanian subject,’ continued the Toff. ‘Or has that obsession left you?’ He paused but as she did not speak went on: ‘Who told you that Patrushka was a Rumanian name?’
She said: ‘Why, it—’
She stopped in confusion and this time there was no doubt that her cheeks were more flushed. That did not rob her of her attractiveness and, by some miracle, her hair was smooth about her head, fluffy because of the wetting but not greatly out of place. Her eyes looked enormous and her lips were parted a little, showing a glimpse of white teeth. She looked half-afraid of him.
‘It isn’t Rumanian, it’s Russian,’ said Rollison. ‘Any Rumanian should know that. Patrushka, you lied convincingly to me this morning but I told you at the time that I wasn’t deceived, although I was nearer to it than you thought. You’re as English as I am. That covers the first direct lie you told me. Yes?’
She swallowed hard. ‘I—’
‘You wanted to give me a plausible reason for keeping free from the police while searching for the black case and, knowing through the Red Cross that aliens are always in trouble and likely to suffer a lot of inconvenience over here, you put that up as an excuse. It might have served but your English is a little too good, and you use colloquialisms too freely, to be really convincing. But as an alias for the benefit of Peveril you chose a name at random that sounded foreign and you thought it would serve your purpose. Perhaps it did but it didn’t stop Lie Number 2 when you denied knowing Peveril.’
She said in a low-pitched voice: ‘I had to tell you something.’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said the Toff. ‘Tonight you’re going to tell me the truth. Probably you’ll just have time before the police arrive and I can help you with them if I’m sure that you’ve been frank with me. But if you try more evasions, I’ll just give them my blessing and stand aside.’
He thought that she was scared of the prospect of police interrogation and he wanted her to be. But he was by no means certain that she would submit to his persuasion and could think of no yardstick by which he could measure her sincerity: her ability to tell a plausible story had been ably demonstrated that morning and he was in no condition to judge the truth of what she told him; that would be difficult enough in normal circumstances.