by John Creasey
“It seems a possibility,” said Rollison. “But what makes you think so?”
“The man who telephoned tonight said she was,” answered Anne Miller, her voice dead, stripped of emotion. “And soon, soon, all the sluts and whores who lived here would be dead too.”
She tried to sip her brandy but her hand began to shake, and soon her slender body, until, inevitably, the tears began to fall.
And as she cried the door opened, and Naomi Smith came in.
CHAPTER 9
The Hammer
NAOMI seemed to draw back when she heard the girl crying, then moved quickly towards her. She glanced at Rollison, and he expected to see scorn or reproach; instead she gave him a flashing smile, of thanks or congratulation. She put an arm round the girl and led her towards a chair. Rollison had not realised how tiny Anne was. He felt for the girl; he could understand her bitterness and her fear, but he feared for Angela with a kind of desperate self-blame.
As he stepped into the hall, Grice appeared from the front door, and they stopped, a few yards separating them.
“So you know nothing about this affair,” Grice said, accusingly. “When are you going to stop trying to fool us?”
“The real question is the old question—when are you going to start believing the truth?” asked Rollison.
“Why did you come here?”
“You know why. And if I hadn’t come, Naomi Smith . . .” he told Grice all there was to tell, and before he was through, knew that Grice had not seriously believed he had arrived with foreknowledge. “Have you heard from Jolly?” he asked.
He hardly knew what answer to hope for.
“Yes,” said Grice.
“So—Angela wasn’t at the Corner House,” Rollison said heavily.
“He gave her fifteen minutes, then called the Yard,” said Grice. “We had four men there within five minutes and a thorough search was made, but she wasn’t in the place. Jolly went back to Gresham Terrace.”
“Have you put Angela on the missing list?” asked Rollison.
“Her description is with every division and every Home Counties force,” Grice replied. “Her picture will be sent round tomorrow.” He paused, and then asked in a wary way: “Do you want it to go to television and newspapers?”
“Of course. Why not?” asked Rollison.
“You must be very tired to ask that,” remarked Grice.
“Why should I—oh. The Press will know that she was a resident here, and do I want her picture to appear before the public gaze.” Rollison felt almost angry. “Bill, can you seriously think I care a damn about gossip?”
“Your family might,” Grice said.
“Damn my family,” growled Rollison.
“Including Lady Gloria?”
“She is the one person who won’t care a hoot.”
“Although if one of the family was in the—ah—was in trouble, surely the Marigold Club would be the first place for her to go,” said Grice. “This could look as if Lady Gloria will extend the hand of charity to strangers but not to her own family.” Grice spoke with unusual feeling, and Rollison realised that he was trying to be helpful, trying to make sure that Rollison, so deeply involved, was seeing this situation objectively.
“Bill,” he said, “arrange for the photograph in the newspapers and on television, will you. And—thanks.”
“Right,” said Grice. “I’ve a man waiting,” He strode to the front door and spoke clearly to a man whom Rollison could not see. “But all three pictures out to the Press and television, Soames.”
“Very good, sir.”
Grice turned back again, his manner easier, more matter-of-fact. He took a large wallet from his pocket, opened it, and took out a photograph which he handed to Rollison. Even though he first saw it upside down, Rollison recognised it at once : this was a photograph of a sledge hammer.
He turned it round.
“That was quick.”
“We can be quick,” observed Grice drily. “It’s probably the one with which Webberson was killed, too. There’s a chip out at one corner, and it appears to coincide with an impression on Webberson’s skull.” After a lengthy pause, Grice went on : “Did you get any kind of mind picture of the man who was waiting here?”
“No,” answered Rollison slowly. “Not of his face.” He considered, and then went on more briskly: “Mind you, it was a very broad face. The features were squashed down by the stocking, but if I saw him again as he was then, I would probably recognise him.” He paused, then went on : “He had little or no neck. I’ve never seen a man with broader shoulders and when he turned round on me I saw how deep-chested he was. A barrel-chested, bullnecked man at the peak of physical fitness, I would say.”
Grice was smiling.
Not a bad mental picture,” he approved. “I’ll get that sent round at once—why didn’t you get him? Distracted by Mrs. Smith’s danger, were you?”
Rollison shook his head, very slowly.
“No,” he answered. “He was too quick and too powerful, and I didn’t give myself enough time.” He allowed a few moments for that to sink in, and then added : “This man could crush one of the girls with his fist. Any sign of him?”
“None at all,” answered Grice.
“Footprints?”
“We’ve rigged up some floodlights but we’re not getting much co-operation,” said Grice. “We’ll have to wait until morning before we’ve much chance of finding out which way this man went. At least he will have mud on his shoes, he was standing where a garden hose had been leaking most of the day.”
“I wondered what made the grass so wet. What’s this about no co-operation?”
Grice, almost saturnine when he smiled in this dim light, said off-handedly:
“Sir Douglas Slatter does not approve of (a) the police and (b) the residents of Smith Hall. If he’d had his way our chaps would be driven off his grounds. As it is he won’t allow us to use the mains electricity from his house for the floodlighting—we had to send for more cable and run it off the supply here. Some of these old men are so prejudiced it’s hard to believe.”
“Well, well, well,” said Rollison.
“What strikes you as so remarkable about that?” asked Grice.
“Sir Douglas doesn’t approve of the place,” remarked Rollison, almost to himself. “And he’s not simply non-cooperative, he’s actually obstructive. We’re looking for a motive for the threats and the attacks, Bill. How is this for a motive : psychopathic disapproval of ..”
Grice stopped him, abruptly.
“That’s the wildest jump to a conclusion I’ve ever come across,” he rebuked. “He’s an old man, he’s bad-tempered, he’s not well and he was awakened out of a deep sleep. He’ll be a different man in the morning.”
“Bill,” urged Rollison, “have a look at the doorsteps leading into the back or side entrances of the house next door. If there are any footmarks, don’t leave them to be brushed off in the morning.”
Grice contemplated him thoughtfully.
“That won’t do any harm, anyway. I’ll fix it.”
“Thanks,” said Rollison. “Do you want me here for anything else?”
“No,” said Grice. “Just one piece of advice, though, before you go.”
“I’m in the right mood to take advice,” said Rollison heavily.
“You’ve very strong personal reasons to stick your neck out,” said Grice. “I’ve seen you before when you’ve a guilt-complex working like a computer in your mind. Don’t stick your neck out too far, even for Angela. Think three times before you do anything off your own bat—and use us as much as you can. You may not believe it, but I’m as anxious to find Angela as you are.”
For the second time, Rollison warmed to the police-man.
“I believe you,” he said. “And you’ll watch this house closely, won’t you?”
“A mouse won’t be able to get in or out without being seen,” Grice boasted.
Rollison nodded, turned to the study d
oor, which was closed, and tapped. There was a muted call of ‘come in’. He found Naomi sitting behind the desk and Anne Miller lying back in a small armchair in front of her. She appeared to be all legs and long, loose hair, and had the face of tragedy.
“You needn’t have any fear of being attacked,” he said. “The police will make sure of that.”
“Yes, I suppose they will,” said Naomi, as Anne Miller looked up at Rollison from those sombre dark eyes. “And there will be no way of keeping this out of the newspapers, will there?”
“Absolutely no way at all,” said Rollison.
Momentarily, Naomi Smith closed her eyes. Then she seemed to make a physical effort to pull herself together, braced her shoulders and spoke more crisply.
“Then we shall have to try to turn it to advantage. I’ve asked those of our sponsors who are free to be here at twelve noon in the morning, Mr. Rollison. I will be most grateful if you will join us.”
“I’ll be glad to,” Rollison accepted. “One question. How do you get on with your next door neighbour?”
“We don’t get on,” answered Naomi Smith.
“That old lecher!” exclaimed Anne Miller with sudden venom. “He used to think that all he had to do was open his window and beckon, and when he learned that we’re in the baby business strictly for love, he started a virtueand-hate campaign. Laughable, really. But—hateful.”
* * *
Rollison pulled up outside his house in Gresham Terrace, and decided to leave his car there. He did not feel like taking it to the garage and walking the five minutes back. A light was on in his living-room, and he saw the curtain move and a brighter light appear for a moment : Jolly had heard the car.
It was a little after two o’clock.
Jolly, dressed as if it were mid-day but looking very grey and tired, was at the flat door.
“This won’t do,” said Rollison, with forced jocularity. “We can’t have you losing your beauty sleep.” Then he saw Jolly’s expression, a warning in itself, and realised that someone was in the flat. Inwardly, he groaned, for the last thing he wanted was another argument . . .
Unless this were news of Angela.
“Good evening, sir,” said Jolly. “A Miss Gwendoline Fell called about an hour ago, and insisted on waiting.” There was a world of resentment in that insisted. “I told her that there was no assurance that you would see her.”
“And I said you’d better,” declared Gwendoline Fell, from the inner door.
Rollison went in and looked across at her levelly. Her golden-brown hair was tumbled, her big blue eyes were tired, but she looked ready enough for battle. She also reminded him, rather strangely, of Angela.
“And what makes you think I wouldn’t be happy to see her?” he asked lightly. “Some coffee and sandwiches, Jolly.”
“At once, sir.” Jolly disappeared by the alternative route to the kitchen, and Rollison beamed down at Gwendoline.
“Come and sit down.” As they went into the big room, he added : “Are you old enough to be offered a drink?”
“You really do have the most execrable sense of humour,” she remarked.
“Yes, I know. I’m sorry about that. What will you have?”
“What are you going to have?”
“I might have a spot of brandy in my first cup of coffee, to make it interesting and to wake me up’ “May I have that, too?”
“Yes, of course.” Rollison looked at his large armchair longingly, and sat on a corner of his desk, with the Trophy Wall behind him. He did not need telling that the girl had come with serious purpose, and his respect for her had risen the moment he had seen her, for many a young columnist so disrespectfully treated would have assuaged her dignity by a vitriolic attack in print.
Perhaps she had done so.
“What brought you?” he asked.
“I heard about the trouble at Smith Hall and that you saved Naomi Smith from having her head bashed in.” She spoke as casually as if she were recording the buying of a penny stamp. “So I put in my stand-by column and postponed the one on you.”
“Pity,” he said. “I was looking forward to reading about my parasitic and anachronistic way of life.”
“You might still do so.”
“You mean, if I do what you want me to do, you won’t write scurrilously about me?”
“I never write scurrilously about anyone. And in any case, your background and your innate sense of superiority—of being untouched by such things as public comment—would protect you. No, I mean—I might change my mind about you.”
“Oh. Why?”
“You might get Smith Hall and Naomi Smith off the hook.”
“Oh,” said Rollison, and resisted a mischievous impulse to ask whether she was qualified to reside at Smith Hall. “So you now know she came to see me?”
“And that you promised to help.”
“Who told you?”
“I’ve a friend who lives there—Judy Lyons.”
“Scatterbrain,” remarked Rollison.
“Who on earth told you she was a scatterbrain?” asked Gwendoline, in astonishment. Her expression changed and she went on : “Oh, Naomi, I expect. Well, I talked to Judy on the telephone when the story came in about the trouble at Smith Hall, and she told me you’d made yourself quite a hero. And she said that Naomi seemed to think that you would and could help. So-—” Gwendo-line glanced up expressively. “I thought you and I might bury the hatchet, and work together over this.” She glanced at Jolly who put a laden tray down on the low table at her side, and went on : “The one certain thing is that you’ll never solve this case on your own.”
After a moment of startled silence, Jolly drew back, looked at Gwendoline with a withering dislike, and said : “I trust that will be all, sir.”
“Yes,” said Rollison. “You go to bed.”
“Thank you, sir. If there is any word of Miss Angela you will wake me, won’t you?”
“Yes,” promised Rollison.
“If you want to know where Angela is, don’t go to bed yet,” advised Gwendoline. “Because I’m pretty sure I know where she is.”
CHAPTER 10
True Or False?
ROLLISON moved from the desk, towards Gwendoline. Jolly, on his way back to the kitchen, stopped and turned round. The two men dwarfed the girl, and there was something almost threatening in their manner. Her eyes showed a sudden awareness of this.
“Where is she?” demanded Rollison.
“We have to make quite sure whether that statement was true or false, sir,” Jolly said, roughly for him. “This young woman is quite capable of proffering false hope in order to get the information and assistance which she desires from us.”
“Yes. Where is Angela?” Rollison repeated, in a steely voice.
“I—I didn’t say I was certain—I said I was pretty sure,” said Gwendoline, looking apprehensively from one man to the other.
“Where do you think she is?” demanded Rollison. “Next door to Smith Hall, in Sir Douglas Slatter’s house.”
“What!” gasped Rollison.
“I tell you that’s where I think she is. Oh, for goodness sake stop towering over me in that melodramatic manner!” exclaimed Gwendoline, straightening up abruptly. “Angela suspected that some rather unpleasant telephone calls came from the house next door, and she found out that they wanted a housemaid. So she took the job. It’s as simple as that.”
“Well I’m—” began Rollison, but his heart was lighter than it had been since he had first heard that Angela was missing. It was so like her—to pretend there was nothing to report while she was working ingeniously and desperately hard to prove her capacity as a detective. “When did you know about this?”
“Only tonight—from Judy Lyons. That’s why I decided to come here, I thought you and I might come to an arrangement. If I put your mind at rest about your niece, will you give me inside information which no other newspaperman or woman can possibly get? I suppose it’s too late to strike a bargain
now,” she added resignedly. “I—what on earth are you doing?”
Rollison turned away suddenly, and picked up the telephone and began to dial. He did not answer. His heart was thumping, and he was staring at the far end of the Trophy Wall, hardly aware of the old-fashioned cutlass or the bicycle chain in his direct line of vision; each had been used for murder.
“What are—” began Gwendoline.
“Please be quiet, Miss!” Jolly was sharp.
“This is Smith Hall,” a man answered Rollison.
“Is Mr. Grice still there?” asked Rollison urgently. “This is Richard Rol—”
“Hold on, sir! He’s just moving off !” There was a clatter of the telephone, and then silence, and at last Rollison turned to Gwendoline and Jolly.
“If she’s at Slatter’s place, I mean to find out. If the police won’t search his house, I will.”
“Oh,” said Gwendoline, in a small voice. And then, while Rollison was still holding on to the telephone and Jolly, also tense, was watching him, she asked almost petulantly: “May I have some coffee, please?”
Jolly opened his mouth as if in anger, closed it, relaxed, took a table napkin off a silver dish of sandwiches and poured out coffee.
“Hallo,” Grice said to Rollison. “What is it now?”
“Bill,” said Rollison. “I’ve just been told that Angela took a job as housemaid at Sir Douglas Slatter’s house. If she did and she’s there now, she might be in acute danger before the night’s out. Too many people now know who she is and what she’s doing.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Grice, slowly. “Hold on a moment.”
Rollison held on while Gwendoline, reaching for her coffee cup, stared at him; and Jolly, hot milk in hand, looked up from a half-stooping position over her.
“Yes,” repeated Grice. “We’ll have to find out. I wouldn’t mind having a look round there, I’ve been thinking over what you said.” A chuckle fluttered his voice. “I’ll need a search-warrant, though and that—” Grice broke off, only to go on more decisively. “I’ll go and ask him to let me search and see what happens. If I have to get a search-warrant, what evidence do you have?”