by John Creasey
It was very quiet. Only the panting of the men could be heard. Mary lay inert; the top of her head crushed in.
Lorne hurled himself forward again.
Rollison shot out a leg, and Lorne, not expecting so simple a move, tripped over it. Had he been fresh, Rollison could have gone in and finished it then, but he was out of breath, and the pain in his head and in his stomach was agonising.
Suddenly he realised that they were not alone, that there was a third man present. Through the red mists he saw the little man with a hooked nose. He held a gun.
The little man said: ‘Come on, Lorne.’ Nothing else, nothing to Rollison.
The voice came again: ‘Come on, damn you!’
Lorne pointed a trembling hand at Rollison, and croaked: ‘We can’t leave – him.’
The little man said: ‘The police are outside.’
Lorne took a step forward, staggered, and nearly fell. Rollison moved forward, but his head was swimming and he could barely see.
There was a shuffle of sound; then the door closed.
Chapter Sixteen
Bleak Morning
Rollison opened his eyes cautiously. His head was aching badly, and he did not dare to move it. He closed his eyes again, carrying a picture of a billowing curtain and feeling the wind on his face; then suddenly, superimposed upon the curtain, was Grice’s face as he had reeled back from the basket of flowers.
‘Jolly!’ he croaked.
The name hardly seemed to be uttered before Jolly was there.
‘Good morning, sir.’
‘Grice?’
‘His condition is the same as when you inquired last night, sir, and I have arranged with Scotland Yard to telephone immediately there is any change.’
‘Good,’ said Rollison. ‘I’ll have some tea.’
‘Is it wise to move just yet?’ asked Jolly, anxiously. ‘You’ve taken rather a bashing – I mean, a certain amount of violence has been used. No doubt on both sides,’ conceded Jolly tactfully.
‘Not for the first time,’ said Rollison grimly. ‘No, no tea. I’ll get up.’
‘In that case I’ll bring something a little stronger than tea,’ Jolly told him, ‘and I will not be many minutes, sir.’
When Jolly returned, Rollison was asleep again. He slept for nearly two hours, and when next he opened his eyes, his head felt clearer and he sat up without discomfort. He felt his throat and neck experimentally. Some parts of it he could touch, some he could not.
‘I’m very glad you are feeling better, sir,’ said Jolly. ‘You had dropped off again when I returned, and I thought it wiser not to disturb you. Mr Grice is no worse, in fact there is some indication of a change for the better.’
‘Thank God for that!’ said Rollison, fervently.
‘Mr Tippets rang up several times, sir, and said that he was anxious to see you as soon as possible. I asked him to come at two o’clock. It is now nearly eleven.’
‘Did he say what he wanted?’
‘No, sir, but he said you would know.’
‘I see. What about Mr Morral?’
‘I telephoned him at ten o’clock,’ said Jolly, ‘and he had nothing to report, sir, he said that—er—the situation is unchanged.’
‘Well, it couldn’t be much worse,’ said Rollison.
‘As you say, sir,’ said Jolly suavely. ‘I have arranged for a masseur to be here at twelve o’clock, perhaps you would like to dress after he has been.’
‘A masseur for what?’ asked Rollison.
‘Your neck, sir, and I think it would be wise to have a little massage for your knee and ankle, you tried them rather severely last night. A soft, boiled egg is on its way, sir.’
A little before twelve o’clock the masseur came, and for a while Rollison’s neck was even more painful; but soon after the man had gone he was feeling easier and quite clear-headed. His spirits were low; but that was less important than the feeling of grim ruthlessness with which he regarded the future of this case.
At a quarter to one, dressed in flannels and a Norfolk jacket, he went into the kitchen, where Jolly was hovering over a casserole. Rollison sniffed appreciatively, and Jolly said that lunch would be ready at one-fifteen.
‘Lay the table for two,’ said Rollison. ‘I want to talk to you. I’ll go out for a breath of fresh air first.’
The morning was bleak, like Rollison’s thoughts, but the blustering wind held no more chilliness than his own reflections. London had a savage, embattled air that left no mark on Rollison, carefully going over in his mind all that had happened, testing each thing, trying to find its weakness or its strength. That Lorne was not the leader of the people who were still safe from the police was now established. The little man with the hooked nose appeared to be more important, though he was not a killer for killing’s sake, while Lorne was.
Rollison tried to blot out his last view of Mary Henderson. She had been killed instantaneously: the inquest would be held on the following day, and the verdict would be murder against Lorne.
Where was Lorne?
Why had he killed her? Had it been in a fit of rage because he thought she had betrayed him? Or had it been just an outlet for the wild fury which took hold of him and turned him into a beast? Or had he feared that she would talk, and so had killed her deliberately, only pretending to go berserk?
‘I doubt that,’ said Rollison, aloud.
He was back at the flat promptly at one-fifteen, and Jolly immediately brought in the chicken en casserole. Rollison ate with relish, and for the first part of the meal said very little. Then Jolly produced a strawberry flan, topped with cream, and Rollison said with a crooked smile: ‘A celebration, Jolly?’
‘Well, sir, you could so easily have come out of it in a worse state, if indeed, you came out of it at all. I thought an exceptionally good lunch might be in order.’
‘I’m touched,’ said Rollison humbly. ‘Well, did I tell you anything coherent last night?’
‘I think that you gave me a fairly accurate summary of the situation, sir,’ said Jolly. ‘That Lorne has known Mary Henderson for some time, and that she gave him some assistance, for which she was very poorly rewarded. It follows, sir, that her curious manifestation of low spirits was a pretence, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes. Other things also follow. She came here after I had stolen Lorne’s wallet to give someone else the opportunity to get it back. I was completely taken in.’
‘Anyone would have been,’ murmured Jolly.
‘I doubt it. Presumably she brought Lorne to the party.’
‘I did take the liberty of speaking to Mr Morral on the telephone about that,’ said Jolly, ‘and he questioned Mrs Morral, who denies it was she who invited him. She was surprised and upset to see him, I understand.’
‘Yes. I should have made sure of that before. Sweet, pretty Mary!’ Rollison said bitterly. ‘I was too late, Jolly. I’ve been too late in seeing the obvious in all these things.’
‘I doubt if anything has been very obvious so far, sir,’ said Jolly, ‘and I doubt whether anyone would so quickly have realised that Lorne’s companion at Kundle’s was Mary Henderson.’
‘I should have taken the police with me,’ Rollison said.
‘Hindsight, sir, can be very illuminating,’ murmured Jolly judicially.
‘Well, we haven’t made much headway,’ Rollison declared, finishing the flan. ‘We go from bad to worse. When I think of Grice—’
‘He was very foolish indeed to ignore your warnings, sir,’ said Jolly, ‘and you cannot blame yourself for that. You told me last night that he would not take the matter of the flowers seriously, and it was entirely his own fault. And there is another thing which you must not overlook, sir. Had you not removed those flowers, the explosion might have occurred in the Oak Room. That wo
uld have brought distress and disaster to many, including Mrs Morral. You have no cause to reproach yourself.’
‘I wish I thought so,’ said Rollison. ‘Warning Grice wasn’t enough. If I’d made myself unpleasant he would have taken notice. He always does.’
‘Plastic surgery is a miraculous thing,’ said Jolly, a little ponderously, ‘and I understand that there was no serious injury. Mercifully, his eyes were spared. I do hope you will not unduly distress yourself.’
‘Mary Henderson is dead,’ said Rollison bluntly.
‘You can hardly be blamed because Lorne had a brainstorm,’ said Jolly.
‘Was it a brainstorm? Nothing in this affair suggests that it’s being directed by men who suddenly take leave of their senses. It’s being done coolly, deliberately, with devilish thoroughness, and it isn’t over yet. They still want to kill Katrina Morral.’
‘Who is under constant police surveillance.’
‘That isn’t enough,’ said Rollison, and then he laughed mirthlessly at Jolly’s expression. ‘You’re probably right,’ he added, ‘I am being a Jeremiah over this. What time is Mr Tippets coming?’
‘At two o’clock, sir, in a little over ten minutes. I will get the coffee now.’
Tips arrived at five past two. He came into the room, a well-knit, impressive-looking young man, nodded to Rollison and said ‘hallo’, but did not offer to shake hands. He sat down in an easy chair, settled himself comfortably, refused coffee, and then surprised Rollison by the twinkle in his eye.
‘Thinking of me as the nigger in the woodpile?’ he asked.
‘Not yet,’ said Rollison.
‘Why not be frank?’ asked Tips. ‘That brooch. It meant something to you. What?’
‘Can’t you guess?’ asked Rollison.
‘Never any good at riddles, let’s stick to facts,’ said Tips. ‘Jewels have been stolen – right? Well, do you think the brooch was made up of some of those jewels?’
‘Yes,’ declared Rollison bluntly.
‘Pity,’ said Tips. Rollison made no comment, and Tips went on: ‘Pity you didn’t say what you thought last night. About the jewels, I mean. You see, I bought them from Mary Henderson.’
‘Good lord!’
‘Good lord indeed,’ said Tips with a grin. ‘But does the expression mask withering scorn? You need not believe me. Easy enough for me to say that I bought the cluster from a girl who is dead. Immediately I read the news this morning, I tried to come to see you, but your man proved more than a little obstructive.’
‘I wasn’t in a fit state to see anyone this morning,’ said Rollison. ‘Can you offer proof that you bought them from Mary?’
‘No,’ said Tips, briefly.
‘Then the police will be sceptical, even if I’m not.’
‘But you are, so that makes no odds. Who’s the policeman to see, now that Grice is out of action? How is Grice?’
‘He may pull through.’
‘Very glad to hear it,’ said Tips. ‘Well, who’s the Johnnie to see?’ He put his hand into his waistcoat pocket, and brought out a small leather case. ‘Here is the exhibit,’ he said, and handed it to Rollison. ‘Borrowed it from Florence. Told her the whole story. Willing co-operation, but she hopes she will get it back.’
Rollison opened the case.
The brooch lay against black velvet, and even in that dull light the beauty and brilliance seemed to bring brightness into the room. There were four diamonds, each set in a tiny platinum leaf, and the setting itself was a work of great beauty. Rollison studied it for some time, turning it over and looking at the back. After a while Tips said: ‘Well, who is the policeman to see? Not the heavy-footed chap who has been following me about since last night, I hope.’
‘No,’ said Rollison, ‘and I don’t know who has taken over the case yet. I’m expecting to be invited to the Yard at any time.’
‘Glad to come,’ said Tips. ‘I want to get this settled.’
‘Did you buy the brooch as it is, or did you buy the diamonds and have them reset?’
‘I bought it just as it is.’
‘And the price?’
‘Two thousand guineas,’ Tips said, calmly. ‘Expensive present, of course, but I’m not short of money. Inherited wealth. What is it worth?’
‘Five thousand,’ said Rollison, ‘and that would be on the wholesale market, in the open market it would fetch nearly twice as much. You got a bargain.’
‘Meaning, I ought to have known that it was worth much more, and should have been suspicious,’ said Tips. ‘Well, I didn’t know. Bought girls a few baubles, but never anything on the grand scale before. Never met a girl like Florence before.’ The faint gleam of humour showed in his eyes again. ‘I seem to be in for a sticky time, don’t I? As a matter of fact I’ve bought other pieces of finery from Mary. She did a certain amount of trade abroad too, I fancy.’
‘Are you sure of that?’ asked Rollison, his interest quickening. He put the brooch down and gave Tips his whole attention.
Tips crossed his legs and took out a gold cigarette case.
‘Sure enough,’ he answered, ‘and here’s a sample.’ He handed it to Rollison, who looked at it with cursory interest and handed it back. ‘Mary said that her parents were in that line. Gold, silver, jewels. No reason to disbelieve her. Asked her before your party whether she could find me something exceptional, and she promised. This brooch turned up two days after the jewel robbery, but you can hardly blame me for not thinking it had anything to do with that, can you?’ He smiled again, and pressed the cigarette case, to open it. ‘Can you?’ he repeated, and leaned forward as it opened. ‘Cigarette?’ As he finished, he winced and shook his hand. ‘That’s odd,’ he said, ‘something pricked me.’
Rollison stared at Tips’ thumb, and the tiny spot of blood that already showed; and then he saw a needle, fastened inside the case between the cigarettes.
Chapter Seventeen
Hollow Needle
For a couple of seconds they sat staring at the blood, Tips bewildered, Rollison fascinated by the needle. Then Rollison leapt to his feet. Seizing Tips by the arm he dragged him into the bathroom, yelling robustly for Jolly. He flipped open a first-aid box and took out a scalpel. He took Tips’ wrist, turned the thumb upwards, seeing the blood smeared now, and then used the scalpel. Tips winced.
‘Strong antiseptic at once, Jolly,’ Rollison said as his man came into the bathroom, and then added to Tips: ‘I’m sorry about that. Do you feel all right?’
‘Good Lord, yes!’
‘I don’t think you would have, for long,’ said Rollison. ‘I hope I didn’t overdo it. You took it well.’
‘You’re no fool,’ said Tips. ‘Oddly enough, I trust you. Pity it isn’t reciprocated!’
‘Perhaps it will be,’ said Rollison. ‘I’ll leave you to Jolly for a minute.’
He went into the other room and picked up the open cigarette case. It was filled with cigarettes. The needle had been cunningly placed and fastened down by a piece of sticking plaster. The tip just showed beyond the fastening clip. Rollison took a pair of tweezers from a drawer in his desk, pulled off the sticking plaster, and extracted the needle. Then he held it under a magnifying-glass, examined it intently for several minutes, whistling faintly under his breath.
Tips came in, with his thumb neatly bandaged.
‘Your man knows all about first-aid,’ he said, appreciatively. ‘Thanks, Jolly.’
‘That is perfectly all right, sir,’ said Jolly, and turned towards the kitchen.
‘Don’t go,’ Rollison said to him. ‘Have a look at this.’ He pointed to the needle, and Jolly, also using the tweezers, examined it. He looked up, and said without expression: ‘I think it is a hollow needle, sir.’
‘It is,’ said Rollison. He looked thoughtfully at Tips, an
d asked: ‘How does the thumb feel?’
‘It’s throbbing a bit.’
‘Well, yes, that’s to be expected, but I don’t think any poison could have got through in the time,’ said Rollison, ‘but we’d better make sure. Take the needle to Professor Lowry’s laboratory, Jolly, ask for an immediate analysis of the contents and find out its antidote. You can tell the Professor exactly what has been done so far.’
‘Immediately, sir,’ said Jolly.
Tips raised one eyebrow as Jolly left the room, and said in a thoughtful voice: ‘Do you think they tried to kill me?’
‘Of course I think they tried to kill you,’ said Rollison, and added with a bland smile: ‘Unless, of course, you filled the needle with water and tried to impress me with the fact that you are a victim! In which case Professor Lowry will report that it is only water, and you will immediately become high on the list of suspects.’
Tips grinned.
‘What a mind you’ve got! Well, I didn’t put the needle in there, I assure you. And I hope most sincerely that I’m not poisoned!’
‘I expect you do,’ said Rollison, drily. ‘Sit down, and relax. Would you like a drink?’
‘No thanks,’ said Tips. ‘I don’t drink much. I don’t smoke much either, luckily. If I’d opened that case in the street it would probably have been curtains for me!’ He wrinkled his forehead. ‘I’m trying to think who could have fixed the needle there.’
‘When did you fill the case?’
‘Immediately after lunch.’
‘Where did you lunch?’
‘Kundle’s.’
‘Oh,’ said Rollison, thoughtfully. ‘Were you alone?’
‘Good Lord, no! Florence was with me. She had an appointment – hairdresser, I think – and left about a quarter to two. I bought some cigarettes, filled the case, and went to have a wash.’
‘At Kundle’s?’ asked Rollison, quickly.
‘Yes. Cloakroom. Took my coat off,’ said Tips. ‘I wasn’t there more than ten minutes, and wouldn’t have been that long, only the attendant was very talkative. Nothing surprising in that. He’s got the mien and manner of a bishop.’