by John Creasey
“I have enough money,” said Rollison, slowly. “Haven’t you?”
“I had,” said Charmion. “There was a time when I expected to become a millionaire. A millionaire!” He raised his hands and let them drop to his knees; his movements were lifeless, a robot would have looked more human. “Oh, I was rich, Rollison. I thought, once upon a time, that there would be a fortune waiting for me when I came out, and that I would be able to end my life in comfort. That was after I’d grown tired of thirsting for your blood. Do you know what a few years in Dartmoor does to a man?”
“It does various things,” said Rollison, “and—”
“If you’re going to tell me that it makes him regret his past, fills him with remorse, makes him determine at all costs to live a highly moral life for ever afterwards, don’t waste your breath. It wastes you, Rollison; it wastes your body and your mind, it makes you into a machine, it lets you see yourself withering away, but it doesn’t kill the image of what you once were. My God! There was a time when I didn’t believe it possible to—”
Rollison said: “Is this getting us anywhere?”
He wanted to stop the torrent of words which were coming faster and faster from the man’s lips; they were words which reminded him of the embers of a fire, almost dead but suddenly flickering into brilliant flame. There was only a shadowy resemblance to the oratory with which Charmion had once moved thousands of people; it was grotesque.
Charmion drew a deep breath; then he coughed, took the cigarette from his lips and flung it towards the fireplace.
“I can’t even taste cigarettes,” he said. “I’m so used to being watched and harassed and confined in a cell that freedom frightens me, Rollison. It’s a new world. Do you realise how different it is today from what it was when I went to Dartmoor? The war wasn’t thought of then. It—I’ve never dreamed of anything like it. The black-out – it makes me want to scream! My nerves—” he held out his right hand; it was trembling, not violently but enough to impress Rollison, because it seemed genuine, a quiver which the man could not control. “Nerves! Me!” Charmion barked the words. “Do you remember me as I was, Rollison, or have you forgotten what I was like?”
“I haven’t forgotten,” said Rollison, with an effort. “And—what do you feel towards me?”
Rollison said: “What do you expect me to feel? Pity?”
“No,” said Charmion, softly, and then in a sharper voice: “No! I won’t have your pity! I came to show you what you’d done to me. I hope you’ll realise what it means, that you’ve seared my very soul, you—” he broke off, abruptly, and turned to look out of the window. “But this is madness. I’m sorry, Rollison. You see, I’ve had some unpleasant shocks in the past four days. I’ve been out for a week, but it wasn’t until four days ago that I reached London. My old flat has been demolished, but I knew that. The rest—” he turned and looked into Rollison’s face, his eyes glowing now; there was something that could make him feel. “There was a time when all I wanted was revenge on you and all those who had contributed towards what the pedants would call my downfall. I felt like that for two years, and then my mind became atrophied, and I had no hates, no emotions at all, only a great longing to live in comfort, to be rid of the past and the present and to get into the future. The future, Rollison, the only thing that gave me any hope, the only thing I dared think about. I had something like two hundred thousand pounds salvaged from the wreckage. I thought that would keep me in comfort and luxury for as long as I would live. You see?”
“Go on,” said Rollison.
“I left it in good hands—as I thought,” said Charmion, in a low-pitched voice. “Loyalty seemed to be a natural thing. I trusted them, they had the handling of the money and all my affairs. Now—”
Rollison said: “They’ve double-crossed you?”
“Oh, you can stand there and feel nothing and speak as if it were the most natural thing in the world!” cried Charmion. “But I trusted them, I believed in them! They’ve written to me, been to see me from time to time, they made me think that everything was in perfect order, that they would be waiting for me when I came out. When I heard that I’d earned a year’s remission I could hardly wait, it was an agony of suspense. I wrote and told them, three weeks ago, but there was no reply. Try to think what that meant, Rollison – no answer to a letter into which I’d poured my very heart! No answer—damn them! They were taken by surprise, they thought they had another year, and in that year they would have told me some plausible story about loss and misfortune, they would have pretended to be sorry. But I came out too early for them. They’ve got the money, Rollison, they’ve been living on it.”
He stopped; he was breathing in choking gasps and his face was turning grey with the anger which burned within him. Rollison stood regarding him, expressionlessly, wondering what would follow and just how much of this was true. At last, Charmion said: “Well? Isn’t it worth a comment?”
“Who are ‘they’?” asked Rollison.
“My brother,” Charmion told him, “My brother and his wife and my wife. You didn’t know that I was married, did you? No one knew. Had the fools who came to the meetings known that I was a married then half my appeal would have been nullified. I think every one of them had some sneaking hope that they would be able to marry me!” He laughed, harshly. “Laura knew little of what I did; she wasn’t very practical—or so I thought. Not practical! She’s robbed me of every penny I possessed. The three of them together—” he stared into Rollison’s face, his mouth working, his hands clenching and unclenching. “Rollison, I would kill them now if I knew where to find them. Hanging would be better than living like a pauper in a nightmare world peopled by fantasies—fantasies I’ve lived on while I’ve been away. But—I don’t know where they are. They’re too clever for me.
My mind’s gone; I feel bitter now, but in an hour’s time I won’t care. Nothing will matter, I just won’t care.”
“And they left you nothing?” asked Rollison.
“They left me the key of a furnished apartment in Shaftesbury Avenue,’ said Charmion. “Furnished! It has a bed and a table and a chair. They left my wardrobe – at least I can sell my clothes! – and that was all. The rent of the apartment is paid for a month. One month.”
Rollison shifted his position and took out his cigarette case. Charmion accepted another cigarette. There was silence for a short while, and then Rollison said: “Why did you come to see me?”
“I don’t quite know,” said Charmion, slowly. “And yet—I do. Rollison, when I knew you before, you had grandiose ideas of right and wrong. I didn’t agree with you. I don’t know whether you’re right or not, but I do know that you impressed me as believing in a square deal – for everyone.”
“Yes?” said Rollison.
“Including – perhaps – me,” said Charmion, hoarsely. “Rollison, much of the money, much of the property that I left behind, was mine, genuinely mine. Never mind the money those witless fools subscribed to the League. Set that aside – I was wealthy enough before that. These people – my wife, my brother, his wife – they’ve robbed me of more than money – they’ve robbed me of hope, Rollison. I want—” he broke off, and turned his head away. “Oh, what’s the use?”
“Why don’t you really say what you mean,” said Rollison, quietly.
Charmion said, while looking out of the window: “I’m wasting my time, I know that. There’s no sense in staying. I don’t know what got into my mind, but it was an obsession. Those whom I depended upon have betrayed me, Rollison. You—I thought that you might help me to find what was mine, to hound them down, to make them pay for what they’ve done. It’s illegal, isn’t it? It’s crime – you fancied yourself as an enemy of crime. But, of course, it’s absurd. Quite absurd. Yet—” he stood up suddenly and gripped Rollison’s arm. “Rollison! I’m absolutely penniless, I must have help! Will you—”
Then he broke off again, as if the expression in Rollison’s eyes had seared his lips.
&nbs
p; Chapter Eight
Rollison Answers
Charmion did not look into Rollison’s eyes again, but turned towards the door, clutching his hat. As he reached the door he squared his shoulders, as if making some effort to regain his composure.
“Charmion,” said Rollison, quietly.
The man put a hand on the door and began to open it. “Charmion,” said Rollison, “if you’re in urgent need of money, I’ll help you.”
Charmion turned on his heel, and stared as if he could not understand.
“What?” he said. “What did you say?”
“If you’re in urgent need of money,” repeated Rollison, “I’ll see you through for a few weeks. Shall we say a hundred pounds?” He eyed the man levelly, waiting for the reaction, alert for every movement and expression.
“Are you—serious?”
“Yes,” said Rollison. He put his hand to his pocket and took out his wallet; he extracted four five-pound notes and held them towards Charmion. “This is on account. You can have a cheque for the balance.”
“It—it’s unbelievable,” said Charmion, his voice faltering. “I didn’t seriously—” he stared towards the notes. “Rollison, why do you make such an offer? What are the conditions?”
“There are no conditions,” said Rollison. “I’d like some information. You can give it or not. I won’t make any stipulations.”
“What information do you want?”
“The names and addresses of the three people you’ve mentioned,” said Rollison, and went on deliberately: “Your wife’s. Your brother’s. His wife’s.”
“Why?”
“I want to find out where they are and what they’re doing.”
“You mean you’ll do to them what you did to me?” asked Charmion, hoarsely. “You’ll hound them down?”
“I want to find out where they are and what they’re doing,” said Rollison, “no more than that at first. And I’d like full particulars of what money and what securities you left behind you, and what power you gave them.” He put the notes on the bookcase near the door, and added offhandedly: “Please yourself. It may be just a waste of time.”
Charmion said, harshly: “You can have their names, and if you find them—” He stopped, shrugging his shoulders and seemed to sag. “I don’t quite understand you, Rollison. I remembered how you’d talked and what a high-minded hypocrite you liked to make yourself sound. I didn’t think you were serious.”
“There’s no need to go into that,” said Rollison. “If you’ve been tricked and cheated, and you’re up against it, I’ll help you financially. For the rest, that’s my affair.” Charmion stared at him for fully ten seconds, then stepped towards the table and said: “Lend me a pen, will you?”
Rollison took a fountain-pen from his pocket and a pad of notepaper from a bureau, and put them on the dining-table. Charmion wrote swiftly, apparently oblivious of his surroundings. Rollison went into the study, took his chequebook from a drawer and wrote out a cheque, using a desk-pen. It was for eighty pounds, made out to ‘Bearer’. When he returned to the other room, Charmion had finished writing.
“That’s what you want,” he said, looking up.
“Add your present address, will you?” asked Rollison.
“I have done.’
“What name have you gone under?”
“My own.”
“Charmion?”
“Gilbert Abbott Charmion,” said Charmion. “It was my real name, Rollison, I didn’t borrow it. At Dartmoor they warned me of the consequences of registering anywhere under a false name. Rollison, what is in your mind? What are you going to do?”
“I don’t quite know,” said Rollison.
Charmion said with sudden vehemence: “I suppose as soon as my back’s turned you’ll telephone the police and tell them that I’ve been begging!”
“Don’t talk nonsense!” snapped Rollison, surprised to find himself angry. “I won’t follow you, I won’t have you followed. I’ll take you on trust – up to a point. That’s all.”
“I still don’t believe it,” said Charmion, slowly.
He stood up, put his hand forward a few inches, then withdrew it hurriedly. He looked very pale, but there was more life in his eyes than when he had come. “I won’t try to say ‘thanks’,” he said. “My God, Rollison, it’s fantastic! The irony of it! The only man to help me is the man who damned me.”
He stopped again, and this time walked hurriedly to the door, his step brisk and his shoulders squared. He did not wait for Rollison to open the door, but let himself out.
Rollison watched him going down the stairs; he did not once look back.
Rollison closed the door softly, then stepped into the study. There was no sign of the bowler-hatted man in the street, nor of Sergeant Wilson. After a short while, Charmion appeared and walked towards the Piccadilly end of the Terrace.
Rollison watched him out of sight.
Then he turned and regarded the sawdust-filled effigy bag which had been the parody of the man named Guy. Next, he went into the dining-room and picked up the slip of paper on which Charmion had written the names and addresses. Charmion’s writing, with many flourishes and yet precise, was difficult to read, but he distinguished the names.
Charles Edward Charmion, 18a, Ryall Street, Chelsea.
Winifred May Charmion, 18a, Ryall Street, Chelsea.
Laura Charlotte Charmion, 41, Wilberforce Mansions, Putney Hill, S.W.
My own address: Flatlet 5, 217a, Shaftesbury Avenue.
There followed a list of securities, all of them in reliable companies, of cash balances on current and deposit accounts at various joint-stock banks, and the brief statement that he had given his wife and brother full power of attorney. The total value of the securities and balances was a little over two hundred thousand pounds.
“A very pretty list,” said Rollison to himself, “and a very pretty story, plausible and convincing. Either Charmion is an actor out of the ordinary or he’s had a very raw deal. Which deal,” he added, looking at the hole in the top of the bag, where the neck of the effigy had been fixed, “is just a preliminary effort. If he’s told the truth, then someone is setting a really ugly trap for Charmion.”
He wished that Jolly were back, for he felt the need for exchanging ideas with someone else. Charmion’s visit had an unreal quality which troubled him. Too much of the affair was unreal, he could not get his feet on solid earth.
“The odd thing is,” he mused, “that I feel sorry for Charmion. Sorry for Charmion! Jolly would say that they’re making a guy out of me!”
Except that he had Charmion’s address and had seen the man in the flesh and knew his story, he could make no further progress, and there was not much he could do. He felt the need of action. Everything was wrong; too many things happened off stage and left him frustrated, checkmated and – much though he disliked admitting it – bewildered.
“No straight runs,” he said aloud, and then chided himself for talking aloud. “I’ll find out what I can about the other Charmions,” he added. “I wonder who can give me the—” he paused, his eyes widened. “Mike Anderson, of course! He was on the Charmion case.”
He lifted the telephone and rang the Echo office, only to learn that Anderson was out. He tried the reporter’s flat, but there was no answer. He put on his hat, determined to call on him. But the telephone rang before he was out of the flat.
“Rollison speaking,” he said, and immediately there was a torrent of words in broken English.
“M’sieu! I ’ave found you, eet ees a great relief! M’sieu, this ees Fifi; you know who I mean, hein? M’sieu Roll’son, you must please come, to ’Ilda’s home, yes, you recall ’Ilda? M’sieu, I do not know if I am on my seat or my front, I am so worreed, please come!”
“What’s happened, Fifi?” asked Rollison.
“Oh, I cannot tell you over the telephone, m’sieu, eet ees too quick for that, please come at once. Shoe, ’e weel be waiting at the café for you. M’sieu, �
��urry. I tell ’Ilda you weel soon be there, hein? Good, m’sieu, good!”
“Fifi—” began ‘Rollison, urgently.
All he heard was the noise of the receiver being replaced, and it conveyed a sense of urgency, like Fifi’s manner. He went into the study, took a small automatic from a waterproof bag in a drawer, relocked the drawer and slipped the gun into his pocket, then hurried down the stairs.
There was no taxi in the Terrace, but he found one in the rank opposite the Green Park. He gave the address and sat back in the cab. Something else had happened to Hilda, and it had come too quickly on the heels of Charmion’s visit for him to assess the possibilities. Fifi’s excited summons had been anything but assuring. It was like everything in the affair; it whetted his appetite and then left him unsatisfied. It was conceivable that when he reached Mile End it would prove a false alarm, and he would find Fifi all smiles and apologies, her husband glum and reproachful.
At Piccadilly Circus he saw Jolly.
His man was walking with the package under his arm, his expression portentous; Rollison imagined that he had some news. But the taxi was in a stream of traffic and he could not stop to pick Jolly up. Even if he told the driver to turn back he would lose valuable time.
The journey took twenty-five minutes.
Before it was over Rollison was in a sweat of apprehension, reading far more into Fifi’s summons than she had put into words; the traffic was thick, and it was impossible to make good speed, while the driver insisted on keeping to the direct route instead of trying short cuts. Hardly knowing what to expect, Rollison was on the pavement outside the restaurant before the taxi had stopped. He heard the man call: “’Ere, wot abaht—”
“Wait!” called Rollison, and pushed open the door.
Every bench was empty, and there was no sound except the fall of his own footsteps on the polished linoleum.