by John Creasey
‘June?’ said Paterson in a low voice. ‘Do you mean June’s been attacked?’
‘I do. I’ve just come from her. I persuaded her to tell me all that she could and it included the story of Brett’s black case and its contents.’
‘You’re sure June’s all right?’
‘She’s in no immediate danger.’
‘What do you mean by immediate danger?’ snapped Paterson.
‘I mean that she’s being watched by the police and that there aren’t likely to be any more attacks,’ said Rollison bluntly. He saw the man’s lips tighten, his hands bunch together. ‘Paterson, June’s been trying to get at that box and as a consequence she’s implicated in a dangerous business which doesn’t exclude her from suspicion of murder. She tried to avoid telling the truth and I’ve had the devil’s own job to make her promise to repeat it to the police. She’s told me most of it and made me promise to see you before I pass the whole story on. Trying to keep your name out of it she’s gone near to getting herself killed but the case has reached a stage where you can’t be kept out. I want you to come down, tell me your story on the way and then come to the police with it. We can arrange details later.’
Paterson eyed him steadily for some seconds and then glanced up at the clock on the wall.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We’ll only just get that ‘plane.’
He led the way out of the room and Rollison caught him up outside, where he was shouting for a car. One was brought immediately and they climbed in as Rollison said: ‘Take it easy, Paterson. I want to know something more about that telephone call you had.’
‘Oh, that,’ said Paterson disparagingly. ‘As you say, someone wanted to prevent you and me getting together. Now, when did it start? Just what’s happened?’
Rollison said: ‘It’s too long a story to be told just like that but there are one or two things we can handle right away. But first, I’d like a direct answer. Is it true that Lancelot Brett’s case contained the evidence that you killed his secretary?’
‘Yes,’ said Paterson briefly and, after a pause, went on: ‘I suppose I seem to take this damned coolly, Rollison—your name is Rollison?—but I’ve been worrying about it night after night as I’ve been out on operations. It’s got into me. I’m nervy and irritable, life’s just not worth living. I’d pretty well made up my mind to tell the police and get it over. You came just at the crucial moment. Of course there isn’t a ghost of a chance of my proving anything against Brett and they’ll think it’s all a tissue of lies but at least I’ll have it off my mind and if I’m hanged—’
‘You won’t be hanged,’ said Rollison with brusque confidence. ‘And no man’s proof against the law, you know, not even Brett. But
I wish I could understand more about the telephone call,’ he added slowly. ‘I’m not too sure that we’ll get by without trouble.’
‘Trouble?’ asked Paterson.
As he spoke two figures loomed out from the darkness of the side of the road, so close to the car that the WAAF driver pulled up sharply, shooting the occupants forward in their seats. The men who had caused that reached the tonneau doors and wrenched them open while Rollison and Paterson were recovering from the jolt. A torch shone into the tonneau, and one of the men said: ‘That’s him!’
And he pointed an automatic towards Paterson as the pilot steadied in his seat.
Chapter Twenty
Rough Treatment
The Toff had been half-prepared for trouble and caught a glimpse of the two men before the girl driver. Consequently he flashed his hand to his holster when the car jolted to a standstill. The jolt forced his hand away but he was steadier before the doors were opened and had the revolver ready. He saw the vague shapes of the two men and even caught a glimpse of the gun. His own revolver was pointing towards the other door but he did not let that interfere with his shooting.
He fired twice; the reports were deafening in the confines of the car.
The man outlined against the door gasped as the bullets entered his chest and the second gasp rose to a scream. The shooting and the gasps affected the other man so sharply that his finger stiffened on the trigger.
Paterson, recovering with commendable speed, leaned forward and punched at the pale blur of a face. His man sprawled backwards. The fall made the fellow pull the trigger but the bullet wasted itself in the air and the field beyond.
‘Why, you rudd …’ began Paterson.
It was impossible for Rollison to see what happened, except that there was a flurry of arms and legs. Then he felt the springs of the car relax as Paterson leapt into the road. He had not realised that Paterson could see in the dark much more clearly than he but he heard scuffling and a shout.
Paterson reached the hedge as his assailant bounced against it and gripped the man’s wrist. The gun sent another bullet, this time into the road, and then Paterson twisted the wrist so that his victim emitted a single agonised gasp and the gun dropped to the ground.
Then Paterson went for him.
Rollison, climbing out that side for fear the man proved too much for Paterson, was just able to see the movement of the two men, to hear Paterson’s grunting and the squelching noises as his punches went home. Gradually, as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, Rollison saw that the airman was punching at the other’s face with a ruthless energy and precision which soon reduced the man to impotence and gurgling, decapitated appeals for mercy.
A small, scared voice next to Rollison asked: ‘Can I help, sir?’
Rollison turned and saw that it was the driver. Her face was lower than his shoulder and he could not see her expression.
‘Bless your heart, not yet, but probably later. Just stand by, will you?’
He left her and Paterson, who still wreaked vengeance, and went to the other side of the car. There was no movement from the man he had shot and he bent over him, shining his torch into a pale face. It was also unfamiliar, although he had been prepared to see one of Ibbetson’s men. Frowning, he knelt down and explored the man’s chest.
The bullets had entered low down on the right-hand side and were not likely to prove fatal, although the man would be in no shape for talking for a long time while, unless he had medical attention quickly, he might die from loss of blood. Rollison made pads of two handkerchiefs to do all he could to stop the bleeding and thought swiftly as Paterson came to join him.
‘That swab won’t come round for a while,’ he growled.
‘Mine wants a hospital quickly,’ said the Toff and straightened up. ‘They must have come by road. I think we’ll go on in their car, if we can find it, and send this fellow back to your place with the girl. They can give him the attention he needs there and we needn’t miss that ’plane.’
‘Good idea,’ said Paterson, ‘if they’ve got a car.’
‘They have,’ said the WAAF in a stronger voice. ‘I’ve just seen it, sir, inside that field.’
‘See if you can get it on the road, pointing the way we’re going, will you?’ asked Rollison. ‘Give me a hand, Paterson.’
Between them they lifted the wounded man into the car which they had just left and then the Toff re-fixed the pads to do all he could to make sure that the bleeding was kept to a minimum. As they worked, the engine of the other car hummed noisily and the girl brought it into the road, turning it without difficulty. She came to report and Paterson, who had learned exactly what Rollison proposed, gave her brief instructions. She was to return to Bedloe Station with the wounded man and arrange for him to have prompt medical attention. The police were to be advised and asked to get in touch with Scotland Yard, mentioning the Jameson case.
The girl repeated the instructions promptly and accurately, saluted, turned the big car and started off with her unexpected burden.
‘And she didn’t turn a hair,’ said Paterson. ‘You’ve got t
o hand it to the girls, these days. I say, what are we going to do with my man? We should have tied him up and sent him back with her.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Rollison. ‘He can travel with us. Do you think there’s even a half-chance of getting him on the ‘plane and taking him to London?’
‘I do not,’ said Paterson emphatically.
In fact there was some difficulty in arranging for Rollison and Paterson to travel south on the ’plane, in view of the battered condition of the man they brought with them. The Station Commander considered that, before going to London, they should interview the local police. Rollison contrived to dissuade him, received his assurances that Paterson’s man would be taken into custody as soon as the police could be informed and, after asking the SC to give the message about the Jameson case to the local police, Paterson and the Toff entered the machine which took off for the South soon afterwards.
On the journey the Toff told his story.
At times he had to shout because of the noise of the engines but Paterson heard everything and made little comment. When Rollison had finished, the airman inclined his head a little and said, after a long pause: ‘June would try it on her own, of course. She’s always advised me against it, bless her. She—’ he broke off abruptly. ‘You won’t want to hear that,’ he went on gruffly. ‘You know how things are between us. And she’s told us the truth, Rollison; there isn’t a lot you don’t know now, except for the details that make little difference either way.’
‘Let’s have some about the trouble between you and Brett’s secretary,’ said the Toff.
‘Oh, that.’ Paterson drew a deep breath. ‘My God, it’s been a nightmare! I always suspected Brett of being a pretty nasty customer and then when I met June and learned that he was victimising her and her family pretty badly, I decided to have a shot at finding out more about it. I was working for Lancaster at the time and Lancaster was a business associate of Brett’s.’
‘Were they good friends?’ asked the Toff.
‘I don’t think there was much love lost between them,’ said Paterson. ‘They would have cut each other’s throats if they’d had the chance but they found it paid better to work together. Actually, Lancaster’s all right. He may have put over one or two shady deals but what big business man hasn’t? Brett was the rogue. I did a damn fool thing and broke into his office one night. Oh, it’s two years ago now. It was fairly easy and I was often there—I managed to nip the key out of the door one day and make an impression. I felt pretty shady, I can tell you!’ It was easy to imagine that Paterson was smiling with a touch of bitter ruefulness as he went on: ‘Well, I got in. It wasn’t Brett’s regular office but a place at Chiswick he used for his dirty work. Ryson, Brett’s personal secretary, turned up. He was a slimy, soft sort of customer and started bleating about what he would do when the police arrived. I knew damned well that he wasn’t going to tell the police but would pass word on to his boss and that between them they would have me pretty well where they wanted me. I knew that Brett and Ryson were blackmailers on a large scale. Following me, Rollison?’
‘Clearly,’ admitted the Toff. He knew, now, the explanation of the unsolved murder above the furniture shop in Chiswick. The scene of the second crime was not a coincidence.
‘Well, he started his beastly hints about this and that and then he said that it would be very useful to know what manner of man I was. He needed a little information which would make June Lancing come to heel. Words to that effect, you know. He had a gun but I don’t think it was loaded. He didn’t think I’d put up much of a fight, being caught red-handed. Probably I wouldn’t have done if June hadn’t been dragged into it but I saw red and had a stab at him.’
‘Literally a stab?’ asked the Toff sharply.
‘Good Lord, no! I mean I jumped at him and let him have a right swing. I’ve done some boxing and I know how to put my weight behind a punch,’ said Paterson. ‘I wish I could make you see him.
He was a thin, scraggy customer with sneering eyes with the lids half-covering them and a long, thin neck with a great Adam’s apple which seemed to move up and down in the slime that the fellow mouthed. He was pushing his head forward when I jumped at him and I caught him when his neck was twisted. It was a pretty hefty punch,’ added Paterson abruptly. ‘You may have read about it. They found him at the office next morning with his neck broken.’
‘Phew!’ whistled the Toff, involuntarily.
‘Well, that’s what happened,’ said Paterson. ‘You can see what kind of a spot I was in, can’t you? I’d broken into the place and I knew that if I admitted it and tried to explain what had happened, it wouldn’t have convinced a jury of stage-strucks. I mean, look at the case for the prosecution. All my talk of suspecting blackmail and trying to implicate Brett would have looked like so much cheap talk to try to cover myself and there wouldn’t have been a recommendation to mercy. Anyhow,’ went on Paterson quickly, ‘nothing happened—I’d worn gloves, you see, I was pretty careful—and I thought it would die down. Then Brett sent for me. D’you know what that swine told me?’
‘Not yet,’ said the Toff.
Paterson’s voice was thin but it sounded clearly above the noise of the engines.
‘There was a recording apparatus at the office and he removed it before the police arrived. So he had a record of all the conversation and could do just what he liked with it. He made me sign a statement which included a verbatim account of what had happened and he used threats against June which made me sign it without a squeal. It was then that I told her what had happened.’
‘And you’ve sat on this for two years,’ said Rollison.
‘What else could I do?’ demanded Paterson hotly. ‘My case stood or fell by proving that Brett’s the swine that he is and I knew I couldn’t do it. Then I heard about the black case. June had heard of it—apparently her father and Brett had done “business” together, much the same way that Brett did business with me. The case almost certainly contained my statement. I did manage to get into his office one day and destroy the cylinders on which the voices were recorded and I destroyed a lot of others, too,’ added Paterson. ‘Anyhow, I felt that I was stuck and it got pretty bad. Brett’s bled me of close on ten thousand altogether and—oh, well, it had to come out sooner or later. I only wish June had told me what she was going to do. I would have got leave somehow and gone down to help.’
‘You’ve been better out of it so far,’ said the Toff with assurance but there was a worrying thought in his mind: Paterson had been to London on the night of the Commando murder. ‘Did you interview Brett personally?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Paterson. ‘No-one else was hiding behind him, if that’s what you mean; it was Brett in person. Then he and Lancaster fell out and I fancy Brett had something on Lancaster that made him anxious to get hold of the case. I know there was some trouble, anyhow. As far as I can see, Lancaster has employed Ibbetson and his men to get it. Of course, it doesn’t cover Peveril.’
‘Did you know Peveril before?’
‘Only casually,’ said Paterson. ‘Not a man I wanted to cultivate. What a solicitor! I wonder who he’s working for?’
‘Ye-es,’ admitted the Toff. ‘It’s a question that needs answering but I don’t think we’ll be long before we get the answer. Did you know that Brett left for America on Government business a few days ago?’
‘I read something about it in the papers.’ said Paterson, ‘but it didn’t mean much. He’ll come back—he always comes back.’
‘I’m not so sure that he will, this time,’ said the Toff.
Paterson turned his head abruptly. There was little light in the cabin of the ‘plane and he could not see Rollison properly; that may have helped to give the edge to his voice.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve just remembered a cryptic phrase of Peveril’s,’ said the Toff. ‘It m
ight explain a lot. In fact it might explain everything. And there was something false about Peveril’s talk with Ibbetson. It might explain the remark from another angle. The case is working out and I don’t think it will be long before we get to the end of it. The one explanation I don’t see yet is why on earth Jameson was implicated. And yet—’ he paused, and rubbed his chin. ‘I suppose it’s obvious enough.’
‘What the blazes do you mean?’ demanded Paterson.
The Toff did not enlarge because he was too busy trying to fit in the odd pieces of the puzzle, pieces which he believed fitted in to make the whole picture. He was still thoughtful and reflective when the ‘plane landed at Hendon just after eight o’clock. By then dawn was spreading over the eastern skies and it was possible to see the outskirts of the sprawling mass of London as they lost height. It was also possible to see cars which were drawn up at the aerodrome and, when Rollison and Paterson stepped out, Rollison was not wholly surprised to see Grice and two sergeants standing by the side of one of the cars.
Grice nodded to him. His face looked drawn and his eyes were red-rimmed but tiredness alone did not explain his curtness as he turned to Paterson and said: ‘Are you Gerald Charles Paterson?’
‘That’s right,’ said Paterson, stretching himself after the constriction of the tiny cabin.
‘I am a police officer from Scotland Yard,’ said Grice, ‘and I am charging you with the wilful murder of Mr. Lancelot Brett. Anything you say may be used in evidence.’ He finished and the plain clothes men ranged themselves on either side of Paterson who stood quite still without speaking, as if stunned. ‘Well, Rollison,’ Grice went on in the same lifeless voice, ‘you’ve made one of your major mistakes this time.’
‘Did you say the murder of Brett?’ demanded the Toff.
‘Yes,’ said Grice, and went on: ‘Brett did not leave for America. He was to have done so but was detained and I was not informed. He was killed outside a shop in Green Street, Chiswick, three nights ago, by a man dressed as a Commando sergeant. I needn’t tell you much about that but you may not know that two years ago Brett’s private secretary was killed on the same premises.’ He turned abruptly to Paterson. ‘Where did you put the Commando uniform, Paterson?’