by John Creasey
“Thank you very much.”
His smile faded and his face became grave as he looked at her. She felt that he was assessing every feature of her face in his calm appraisal. Then he moved, easily and swiftly but without fuss and, before she had started to close the door, he was at the window, looking out. She had a feeling that he had forgotten her—put her out of his mind because he wanted to give his attention to something else. She never got over that feeling with him; she never forgot the way he looked while standing close to the wall. If ever she wanted a model for a gay, gallant adventurer, this was the man. The features were finely chiselled, the preoccupation in his gaze was something quite new to her. His eyebrows were dark and clearly marked, the corner of his mouth that she could see was turned down.
She felt instinctively that it would be a mistake to disturb him. The pause seemed unbearably long, although it could have been only two or three minutes, perhaps not even that. Then he relaxed and turned from the window, taking out his cigarette-case as he approached her again.
“Are the police still watching you?” he asked.
The question shattered the atmosphere of calm which he himself had created and her hand poised motionlessly above the cigarettes in the gold case. He stared into her questioning eyes and this time he was smiling.
“They were, weren’t they?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Are they doing so now?”
“I don’t think so.” She took a cigarette and he lit it for her. “Why?”
“I wanted to be sure whether you were being watched or I was being followed. Now I think I know.”
She said: “Are the police following you?”
He looked startled and then laughed.
“No. They don’t waste their time.”
It was nonsensical to think that he was like Jim. He was half a head taller, his hair so dark that it looked nearly black. Jim’s face was rugged and plain, made attractive by his eyes; this man was handsome; and yet—something about him reminded her vividly of Jim. Her glance strayed to the photograph and he didn’t look round but said:
“Is it a good likeness?”
“Yes, it is. But what do you want?” Her voice sharpened. “I’m busy, Mr—”
“Rollison,” he reminded her. “Why were you downstairs just now?”
She felt inclined to ask him what business it was of his but didn’t. She walked to a chair and sat down, smoothing the skirt of the long, green smock which she always wore when working. She was suddenly conscious of being untidy. Jim always said he preferred her fair, curly hair that way; he thought a conventional set spoiled it. She hadn’t made up that day because she hadn’t been out of doors; she must look dreadful. Her fingers strayed to her hair.
“Don’t bother,” said Rollison and his eyes sparkled, like Jim’s when he had first called her “Punch.”
“Why did you go downstairs? Please tell me.”
She was tempted to say “For a breath of air” but she didn’t; yet she couldn’t think how to tell him why without sounding foolish and perhaps giving something of importance away.
That letter was important. So she said:
“I thought I heard the postman.”
“Expecting a letter from Jim?”
She flared: “What are you getting at? Who are you? I’ve every right—”
But her voice trailed off because he was smiling at her, not mockingly or to make her feel foolish but as if he were amused and asking her to share the joke.
“I’m Richard Rollison, and I’ve heard a lot about you. I wanted to find out what you really looked like, what way you did your hair, whether you cared a hoot about Jim or whether he had almost faded out of your mind—all that kind of thing. You see, I’m interested in Jim Mellor’s disappearance. Not in Jim himself—we weren’t even acquaintances, I’m not a long-lost friend. It still gets you badly, doesn’t it? You can’t believe he ever killed a man, yet the evidence has piled up against him. To make it worse, he hasn’t written and hasn’t telephoned you. That’s almost as bad as a confession.”
She said: “He didn’t kill that man!”
“Do you know for sure or is that just wishful thinking?”
“He couldn’t have done. Not Jim.”
“Why did you look up and down the street?” asked Rollison.
“That’s nothing to do with it!”
Rollison went to the desk and picked up the photograph. She saw him glance at the sketches which were so stiff and wooden but his gaze didn’t linger for long on them. He studied the photograph and spoke while he was doing so.
“You know, I’ve a feeling that your jaunt has something to do with Jim. If you ask me why, I couldn’t tell you. But Jim’s very much on top of your mind just now—more even than usually. He’s always there, ready to pop out at a moment’s notice, but this afternoon he’s in complete possession. Why?”
He put the photograph down and looked at the letter which lay in her lap.
“Is that from him?” he asked gently.
Then suddenly, for no reason at all, hot tears stung her eyes and she turned her face away hastily. She hadn’t talked freely about Jim to anyone for twenty-nine days. She hadn’t met a soul who really understood what was in her mind, how Jim was with her so often, ready to smile at her or sing “Charles, Peter and Anne.” Or, if there were a gloomy headline in a newspaper, how he was likely to frown and become earnest and say that, hell, he didn’t know what the world was coming to.
She blinked away the tears, sniffed and faced Rollison.
“I wish I knew why you’ve come,” she mumbled.
“I want to find Jim.”
“Are you—a policeman?”
“I don’t want to find him so that he can be handed over to the law for what they call taking his medicine. I think there’s real doubt whether he killed that man and the police don’t think there’s any doubt at all. I’d like to know the truth but even that isn’t so important as finding Jim.”
“But—but why, if he’s a stranger to you?”
“I’ve been looking for him for some weeks. Before he disappeared.”
“Why did you want him?”
“I didn’t want him,” said Rollison and paused, as if weighing every word. “His father did. His father is a sick man and by way of being a friend of mine. Let’s say a friend, anyhow.” His eyes were very bright and he seemed to be challenging her to reject all this. “And yet, I do want to find him for myself because I made a shocking mistake over him. I talked too much to his father. Ever paused to think you can never take back any word you’ve said? Trite but true and worth remembering.”
Until Rollison said “his father,” Judy had felt more relaxed than she had for twenty-nine days. From then on she had started to tense up again and now her nerves and her muscles were taut and her hands were clenched; she still held the letter.
She said: “Will you please go, Mr Rollison?”
“Not yet.”
“Then will you tell me the truth.”
“I have.”
“That’s another lie. Jim had no father.”
“That’s an illusion; he didn’t know he had a father living.” Rollison smiled faintly. “There’s something wrong about that “a father”, isn’t there?”
“You mean—” she was baffled.
“His name wasn’t—isn’t—Mellor. It’s the name of the family which finally adopted him. Oh, he was known as Jim Mellor, in the eyes of the law he was Jim Mellor, but his real name is Arden. You know it as his second name. His father came to me some time ago and asked me to find him and to prove his identity and afterwards I talked too freely. When I thought I’d found Jim I told the old man and mentioned what name he was living under. There’s quite a story. The family who looked after him for the old man passed him on to these Mellors. After I’d talked, there was a story in the newspapers about the murder and the hunt for Mellor. There was also panic among the old man’s friends for, as a result, he had a seizure. He’s
over it now— or as much over it as he’ll ever be. He has an odd notion: that his son isn’t a murderer. He’s as stubborn and illogical about it as you are, with even less reason, because he hasn’t seen his son for twenty-six years. He wants to find him and prove himself right. Old men are like that. So, for different reasons, you and he are after the same thing. As I’m helping him, I don’t see why I shouldn’t help you.” He smiled again and leaned back against the desk. “Why did you go downstairs?”
* * *
Judy told Rollison, and showed him the letter, and explained about “Punch and Judy.” It was surprisingly easy to speak freely, to pour out the whole story. He was a good listener, intent on every word; and he let her finish before making any comment. She felt more relaxed than she had for nearly a month; this man’s visit was good for her. She wasn’t wholly convinced that he’d told her the truth because the story seemed fantastic: but she was glad he was here and that she could talk.
She said: “I’d just realised that Jim would never have written “Judy” when you rang the bell. There isn’t any doubt, he didn’t write that letter.”
“It looks like their big mistake; bad men always make at least one! Did you see the man who delivered the letter?”
“I only caught a glimpse of him, I didn’t see his face. I was at the top of the stairs, he was in the hall. He didn’t look up but—” she broke off.
“Yes?”
“It can’t help but he had a bald patch—very dark, oily hair and a small white bald patch right in the middle. He seemed short and dumpy, too, but that may have been because I was looking down on him.”
“You have a nice, tidy mind,” said Rollison. “Short, dumpy, oily hair and a bald patch. It’s a small world. Did you notice where I stood when I went to the window just now?”
“Yes.”
“I wanted to make sure I couldn’t be seen from the street. Have a look for yourself, will you?”
Judith went towards the window. She moved without any feeling of tension or listlessness, only a quick stir of excitement. She stood close to the wall, very conscious of Rollison’s gaze, and peered into the wide street. Some way along, on the other side of the road, a man sat at the wheel of a small open car and read a newspaper. She couldn’t see a bald patch but his hair was dark and looked very shiny; as it would if it were heavily oiled or greased. Her excitement quickened, became almost unbearable.
“Same man?” asked Rollison.
“I can’t be sure but—”
“I think we’d better make sure. Come away from the window, will you? still taking care that he doesn’t see you.” She obeyed; it felt slightly ridiculous to move back towards the corner and then approach the middle of the room from the fireplace. But Rollison’s manner removed all qualms and her excitement became so intense that she felt suffocated; as if she couldn’t breathe freely because of some impending sensation. “If Jim didn’t kill that man, the murderer wants to frame him. Frame—blame—please yourself. That means an ugly business, Judith, perhaps with more than a little danger. There’s nothing ordinary about all this and, if murder’s been done once, it might be done again. What worries you most? Danger or having Jim damned and consigned to the gallows?”
“What do you want me to do?” she asked.
Rollison laughed.
“Just stay exactly as you are. Jim would hate to find you changed. I’ll be back.”
He moved across the room with the swift ease with which he had moved before and the door closed softly behind him. Judith held her breath. He had braced her, given her new hope, presented her with a picture of a glorious future. It wasn’t just what he had said or how he looked; it was as if a keen, invigorating wind had swept through the room, blowing away dark fears and dread and lethargy.
She went back to the window so that she could see outside without being seen.
CHAPTER THREE
The Man With Oily Hair
Rollison let the street door bang behind him and lit a cigarette as he went towards his car. He glanced at the two-seater incuriously, paused and smiled when a puppy came frisking along the road at the end of a long lead attached to a staid and stately woman. Then he got into the driving-seat and pressed the self-starter. The engine purred and the car slid towards the near corner and swung round it.
He didn’t glance up at Judith’s window.
He turned left and left again and yet a third time so that he was back at the far end of Knoll Road. The man in the two-seater still sat at the wheel reading his newspaper and didn’t look round. Rollison slowed down until the Rolls-Bentley was crawling along at ten miles an hour. As he drew nearer he saw the bald patch in the man’s head; it was clear and white, quite unmistakable. He put the brakes on gently. The nose of the big car drew level with the nose of the small one, passed it, then stopped.
The two drivers were alongside each other.
“Good afternoon,” said Rollison.
The man put his newspaper aside and glanced at him uninterestedly. He had a pale square face with high cheekbones, red lips and a flattened nose. The shoulders of his coat were thickly padded, giving him a squat and powerful look.
“What is it?”
“I thought we’d have a chat about Judith Lome,” said Rollison. “Charming girl, isn’t she?”
The dark eyes, fringed with short dark lashes, narrowed a fraction but the man gave no other indication that he knew Judith Lome or was surprised by this encounter.
“Who?”
“Judith Lome—Jim Mellor’s Judy. Remember Jim?”
The man turned back to his newspaper.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “I’m waiting for a friend.”
He pretended to read the paper but shot a swift sideways glance at Rollison.
“I’m the friend,” said Rollison.
He eased off the brakes, slid his car in front of the two-seater, well aware of the other’s gathering tension; but the other made no attempt to start his engine and go into reverse. Rollison jumped out, getting a clear view of the man full-face. The broad, square features weren’t typically English; the clothes seemed to be of American cut. He saw the other’s right shoulder move, as if the driver had shifted his arm, as he drew up by the nearside door.
“Yes, I’m the friend,” he repeated. “Shall we go and see Judith together?”
“You’re crazy,” the man said. His voice showed no trace of an accent; it was hard, rather deep and, now that his lips were parted they revealed small, white, wide-spaced teeth. “Clear out.”
Rollison opened the door of the two-seater.
The man now had his right hand in his coat pocket and the newspaper spread over his lap. The expression in his dark eyes was both wary and aggressive.
“Take a walk,” he said. “Don’t try—”
Rollison drove his fist into the powerful biceps and, as the man’s muscles went limp, pushed the newspaper aside and grabbed his forearm. He jerked the hand out of the pocket and glimpsed the automatic before it slid down out of sight. He jabbed the man’s chin with his shoulder and snatched the gun, all apparently without effort. Then he slipped the weapon into his own pocket and backed away. He pulled the newspaper, rustling it past the driver’s face, half-blinding him and adding to his confusion, screwed it up into a ball and tossed it into the back of the car.
“Shall we go and talk to Judith?” he suggested mildly.
He slid his right hand into his pocket and poked the gun against the cloth, near the big shoulders.
There was a moment of stillness, of challenge. Then the stocky man relaxed and leaned back in his seat. His eyes were dull and his mouth slack.
He said: “You’ve asked for plenty of trouble.”
“I don’t want to have to deal out any more yet,” said Rollison. “Come along.”
He half-expected the man to cut and run for it; but after a pause the other gave way and climbed out of the car. Rollison gripped his arm tightly; he felt the powerful, bulging m
uscles and knew that it would be no fun if this man turned on him. He kept half a pace behind, still holding the arm, and they crossed the road in step and walked towards Number 23. Outside were two cement-covered posts where a gate had been fixed before scrap iron became a weapon of war. As they reached these Rollison felt the muscles tense, knew that the escape attempt was coming and pulled the man round. At the same time the man back-heeled. Caught on one leg, he stumbled and nearly fell. Rollison stopped him from falling, pulled him upright and bustled him into the porch. The front door was unlocked. Rollison thrust it open and pushed the man in front of him.
He said: “Don’t do that again.”
Keeping his hand in his pocket, he jabbed the gun into the small of the other’s back. They went upstairs slowly, footsteps firm on every tread. A door on the first landing opened and a faded-looking woman appeared, carrying a shopping-basket. She stared into the glowering face of Rollison’s prisoner and started back.
Rollison beamed at her. “Good afternoon!”
“G-g-good afternoon, sir.”
There were three floors. At the top, Judith’s door faced the head of the stairs and, as they reached the landing, the door opened.
“Lock the door when we get in,” said Rollison.
He gave his prisoner a final shove into the room and followed him. Judith closed and locked the door and slipped the key into a pocket of her smock. She looked at Rollison, not at the prisoner who stood with his back to the desk, his hands bunched and held just in front of him. He was shorter than Judith and very broad. The wide spaced teeth showed as he breathed heavily, his nostrils moved, the dark eyes proved to be deep-set and the thick eyelashes gave him an unnatural look. He was spick-and-span: his shoes were highly polished, he wore a brightly coloured tie and a diamond tie-pin. The long jacket of his suit confirmed Rollison’s impression that it was of American cut.
“You’re asking for trouble,” he said again, thickly.
“We won’t go into that again,” said Rollison. “Sit down.” The man didn’t move. “I said sit down.” He didn’t raise his voice but something in its tone made the other shift to a chair and drop into it. “Judith, go and take his wallet out of his coat pocket.”