by John Creasey
“Fifi!” he called, but received no answer. “Joe!” He called their names alternately as he looked into the empty kitchen, freshly-cleaned – there was a pail of water in one comer with a scrubbing brush and a floorcloth; evidently someone had been interrupted in the middle of cleaning and had not been able to get back to finish the job.
The little parlour was also empty.
“I don’t like it,” said Rollison, aloud. The words seemed to come back at him mockingly and derisively. He lit a cigarette and walked along a narrow passage to a small outhouse, which led to a tiny yard. That, too, was empty.
The staircase led from the kitchen, for the building was very small, most of the space being taken up by the restaurant proper. There was little light; Rollison imagined that there was permanent black-out at the landing and in the rooms above. The stairs creaked as he climbed them, and he put his hands in his pocket round the butt of his gun.
Except for his footsteps there was no sound; the silence was uncanny, as if the ghost of Fifi’s laughter and high spirits, of her husband’s deep voice and frequent guffaws, were near the Toff. He reached the landing and stood, still, then called again: “Fifi! Joe!”
No one answered.
“They’ve gone to see Hilda,” muttered Rollison aloud. “I wonder if any of the neighbours know her address?”
He was not really satisfied with the explanation; he wanted it to be the right one, but was unconvinced even after he had looked through the small bedrooms and the bathroom, finding no one there, and no signs that anyone had been in the rooms recently. He turned to the landing and went slowly down the stairs; his eyes narrowed in the gloom.
He tripped over something.
He lost his footing, grabbed at the handrail, missed that, and went sprawling downwards, his hands scraping against the wall. He realised that there had been a string stretched across the stairs, and that it had been fixed while he had been on the upper floor.
He concentrated on breaking his fall as best he could; he slid down a step at a time, bruising his buttocks and thighs, but when he reached the bottom he was not seriously hurt. He was able to put his right hand to his pocket quickly, but before he could grip the gun someone struck him.
It had the same farcical element as the rest of the business; it was with a pillow, billowy and soft, making him breathless, but not hurting him. He was buffeted, by someone he could not see, about the head and shoulders. He sneezed when feather dust got into his nostrils. Had he been on his feet he might have fought against it, but could only try to protect his face against the furious buffeting. It went on until he began to gasp for breath and his lungs seemed ready to burst. He could not utter a word as he tried, without success, to get out of the way of the pillow.
He began to gulp; there was too much dust and he didn’t get time to breathe; he felt that he must have air or else collapse. Yet it did not cease. He tried to get to his feet, but when he reached one knee someone pushed him in the back and he sprawled forward again. He felt as if he were suffocating, and into his mind there sprang the possibility that they were deliberately trying to kill him this way. He gasped and choked, but every time he fought his way clear another buffet caught him in the face and he gulped down dust which blocked his nostrils and constricted his throat.
He knew that he could not retain consciousness much longer; and then he stopped struggling, taking in a single gulp which made his breathing worse, but hoping that his assailant would think that he had fainted.
The buffeting continued.
The attempt to fox his opponent had not only failed, but made his plight more hopeless. Then, making a final effort to get to his feet, while that fighting, shadowy thing in front of him wrapped itself about his face like a warm, stifling blanket, he felt a greater pressure.
The pillow was over his face, being pressed against him, harder every moment. He could not breathe; his body heaved and twisted, but he could not breathe. Noises beat loudly and desperately in his ears, he felt his blood pounding, he imagined his tongue pressing itself against his teeth, forcing itself out.
Then he lost consciousness.
He recovered, not knowing where he was nor, for a while, what had happened. He was aware of a great thirst and a peculiar sense of warmth at his nose and the back of his throat. Then as the first realisation of what had happened came back, he sat abruptly and looked about him.
He was on the floor of a small room – a bedroom, with an iron bedstead against one wall. There was only just room for him on the floor between the bed and the fireplace, which was filled with red crêpe paper. The room smelt frowsy, but that, he knew, might be because of the dust still in his nostrils.
There was a sound not far away which he did not immediately identify; then he realised that it was someone knocking. He wished it would stop. He buried his face in his hands, for his head was aching and there was a sense of strain at the back of his neck. He could not see his face, and when he looked down and saw his body he did not think, at first, that there was anything unusual; then he realised with a sense of shock that he had on only his pants and singlet.
“Clothes.” He gulped the word, and looked about him. They were draped over the end of the bed; he could see the ends of the trousers and one of the coat sleeves. “Oh.” He was relieved although puzzled. The knocking continued and he said irritably: “Be quiet!”
There was a small window – high in one wall, admitting a shaft of sunlight which shone upon the dust that was everywhere; a coating of it was over his legs and arms, the floor gave off a small cloud when he moved to take a grip on the side of the bed, to pull himself to his feet. The banging became louder, and there was another sound – hurrying footsteps, which he thought were those of two or three men. They seemed a long way off.
If there were only a drink of water, he thought, he would feel ten times better. The aching in his head, the constriction at his throat, the dryness of his lips and mouth – all of them would be eased if he could only get some water. He realised that his eyes were half-closed and that he had difficulty in keeping them open at all. The senselessness of the attacks, the lack of finality, occurred to him afresh and made him frown, but his main concern was still the need of something to drink.
He managed to pull himself to his feet, then looked down at the bed.
He stood motionless.
He forgot his need of water, the hurrying footsteps and the banging, the fantastic assault at the foot of the stairs at Fifi’s and Joe’s. The shaft of sunlight coming through the window shone upon gold hair, spread out on a bolster – a pillow, with feathers strewn all over it, was on the side of the bed.
It was beautiful hair, especially in the sun; it made a panoply of beauty for a hideous thing – a woman’s face, mauve and blue and purple in patches, with the tongue poking out and the mouth distended, the eyes wide open and protruding.
An age seemed to pass as he stared down.
The woman wore a nightdress, rucked about her; the bedclothes were heaped against the wall, as though two people had been struggling. Her neck was swollen horribly, and thus threw into macabre contrast the creamy pallor of her shoulders, where the nightdress had been ripped away, and the whiteness of her limbs. In one hand she clutched a comer of the half-empty pillow. The feathers were all about her, a snowy blanket mercifully hiding the worst of her expression.
He did not recognise her, although he felt sure that she was Hilda Brent.
He did not recognise the voices which he heard outside the door, although he had little doubt that they belonged to policemen, and confirmation was not long coming, for a man said harshly: “Open this door! Open this door, in the name of the law!”
Rollison looked, not at the door, but at the tiny window.
Chapter Nine
No Escape By The Window
THE window was too SMALL; there was no chance of escaping by it, and even if he tried the door, a flimsy one already shaking under the weight of new blows, was not likely to hold long eno
ugh.
There was no time, either, to put on his clothes.
He stared again at the murdered woman, and knew exactly what had been planned for him. Not one man in a thousand would believe the truth. He was caught, red-handed, in a crime he had not committed, a crime which would arouse a deep horror in all who heard of it.
The fact did not have a demoralising effect; instead, it made him feel steadier, and he found his voice.
“All right, don’t break the door down!”
His voice was hoarse, but made the men on the other side of the door stop; one of them called out: “What’s that?”
“Wait a minute!” called Rollison. He looked round and saw a glass of water – its surface covered with dust – on the mantelpiece. He scooped some of the dust off with his finger, and rinsed his mouth out. He tried to think, desperately anxious to gain time.
Then he had another shock: the door was bolted on the inside, as well as locked. He stepped forward, while impatient voices sounded again, and drew the bolt back; he hoped, to do it without making a noise, but it squeaked, and then stuck, only to move finally with a sharp noise which must have told the men outside what, he was doing.
“Hurry up!” a man called, angrily.
Rollison turned the key; as he did so the door was thrust open and a uniformed policeman pushed him aside and strode past him. A second man, older and stolid, blocked the doorway.
The moment seemed to last for an age; it had a nightmare quality, a horror which was made worse by that shaft of sunlight shining on the woman’s golden hair. Rollison stared at the policeman who had passed him, saw the man stand for a moment by the bed, then turn and face him. He saw an expression of savage rage on a square, homely countenance, an expression he might have shown had he made this discovery himself.
“Wha—” began the second man, and then stopped, for he was able to see past the Toff. His face also reflected horror, and then took on the same bleak fury.
Rollison spoke as clearly and crisply as he could.
“My name is Rollison – the Hon. Richard Rollison. I have no knowledge of who killed this woman. I want to get in touch with Superintendent Grice immediately.”
“You want!” the first man snapped. “I should think—”
“Rollison?” said the man by the door, startled. “The Hon. Richard Rollison? You mean—the Toff?” His blue eyes were wide open and he peered at Rollison intently. Then, for the first time, Rollison caught sight of his face in a small mirror on the wall. He was covered with dust and feathers; no one would have recognised him.
‘Yes,” he said crisply. “I said Superintendent Grice, of Scotland Yard.”
The man by the bed was the one in charge, and for the first time there was a relaxation in his tension and he blinked.
“Recognise him, Sam?”
“It could be the Toff,” said Sam, bewilderedly.
“I don’t care who he is,” growled the first speaker. “He won’t get away with this, not even if he knows the Chief Constable himself. If I had my way—”
Rollison said: “Someone killed that woman. I didn’t. The longer you stand talking and wasting time, the more chance you’ll give the murderer to get away. Never mind what you believe or what I’ll get away with. Tell Superintendent Grice what has happened.” He spoke sharply, hoping that his manner would carry sufficient authority; he saw the first faint doubt in the other’s eyes.
“Better call the Yard, Sam. I’ll look after this so-and-so.”
“Ahoy, there! Anyone about?” A fresh voice called from below, one which Rollison thought familiar but which he did not immediately recognise. Footsteps sounded on the stairs. He wished he knew where he was, why there seemed so few people about, and why the police had hurried here and forced their way into the house.
“Who’s that?” asked the first man. “Keep him out, Sam.”
“Anyone abooout?” called the man below, and Rollison suddenly realised who it was.
In a few seconds, unless the policeman prevented him, Mike Anderson of the Echo would be in the passage; and probably he would have a camera with him. Rollison saw another facet of the diabolical cunning with which this had been planned.
“Keep him out!” hissed the first policeman.
Sam hurried downstairs, and an argument followed, the voice of Anderson sounding above the policeman’s. Rollison stepped to the end of the bed and picked up his clothes.
“Leave that alone!” the policeman said.
Rollison ignored him, and drew on his trousers. The man glared but made no effort to stop him. Rollison slipped on his coat, and took out his cigarette case. In the other pocket he felt the automatic; it seemed that nothing had been taken. He lit the cigarette, then wished that he had not, for he wanted a drink more than ever. He knew that Sam would send for the Divisional men as well as Grice, and that the waiting period would soon be over but would Grice give him full support? On the face of it, there was a cut-and-dried case against him. He would have the greatest difficulty in proving what had happened, although two things might help. One was the taxi-driver whom he had left outside the café; no one who planned such a crime as this would have left the man waiting. The other was the buffeting at the café; there must be traces of feathers to bear out his story.
The voices faded, the footsteps with them.
“Who sent for you?” Rollison demanded.
“You be quiet,” the policeman said.
“Try to get it into your head that I have been framed. Work on that basis; get some kind of a report ready for your superior when he arrives.”
“I heard you unbolt the door – and there’s no way anyone could have got out of this room except by that door,” the policeman said harshly.
Rollison gave up. It was useless to tell this man that by careful manipulation with the right tools, the bolt could have been moved from outside. As, of course, it had been.
The air of fantasy had gone; stark realism was upon him now the tenor of the case had altered. He remembered how, when he had first been hit by the pillow, that he thought it another fool’s trick; also, when he had regained consciousness, he had thought that it had been another interim attack.
“Where is this?” he asked, after a long pause.
“I told you to be quiet!”
Rollison shrugged and stubbed out his cigarette, and then, while the other was looking at the pillow in the dead woman’s hand, he heard a creaking movement near the door.
He snapped: “Constable, there’s—”
The policeman turned swiftly, at the same time as a man appeared on the threshold. Rollison moved swiftly towards him, then stopped short. The policeman grabbed his arm, while Mike Anderson stood gaping at the Toff.
“G-great Scott!” gasped Anderson. “Rolly, it is—”
He looked past Rollison, towards the bed, and his expression altered. He muttered something under his breath and then said to the constable: “Who is she? Any idea?”
“Never you mind,” said the policeman. ‘Who are you – that’s more to the point.”
“I’m from the Echo,” Anderson said, and took out a card. He looked at Rollison and then away. Rollison could almost see his mind working.
“Well, you can’t stay here,” said the constable. “I wish—”
More footsteps on the stairs heralded the arrival of Sam and, apparently; a third policeman. Rollison freed himself from the policeman’s grip and went up to Anderson.
“Mike, this fellow’s unfriendly, but you needn’t be. I want some information about people named Charmion, once at Ryall Street, Chelsea, and Wilberforce Mansions, Putney. I’m not going to have much freedom of movement for the next couple of hours. See what you can do, will you?”
Anderson stared at him.
“Do I have to tell you that I didn’t do this?” demanded Rollison. “For Pete’s sake, don’t act like a goat! Another thing – see Jolly and ask him to show you a wax face—wax face, got that? It’s a good likeness of a man who calls hi
mself Guy. If you can get a line on Guy—”
The arrival of Sam and another uniformed policeman made much further talk impossible.
“On the level?” Anderson demanded.
“Before you write this thing up, see Grice,” urged Rollison. “By then I should be able to tell you more about, it. Another thing—”
“That’s enough,” said his captor.
“All right,” said Anderson. “I’ll play.”
Sam would have stopped him, but he eluded the man’s grasp and hurried down the stairs.
Grice stood by the comer of the Assistant Commissioner’s desk, the A.C. sat back in an easy chair looking preternaturally solemn, while Rollison sat opposite him, washed but still dishevelled and with feathers and dust over his hair and clothes.
Outside, dusk was falling and a wind was rising, whipping rain against the glass and sending the curtains billowing inwards. A draught played about Rollison’s head, but he was hardly aware of it.
The A.C. was an oldish man whom he did not know well; his predecessor, who would have been as well-disposed as Grice, had taken a Regional Commissioner’s post in the North. This man, Rollison knew, might be stubborn and unfriendly, or might just stick to the letter of the law. He was not likely to be greatly influenced by what Grice said, and might err on the side of severity because, amongst his friends and social acquaintances, there were many relations of Rollison’s; leniency might bring accusations of old school tie comradeship.
“Your story is quite incredible, Mr. Rollison.” He spoke softly, as if he loved using words and intended to get the fullest meaning out of each one; his voice rose and fell, mellow and attractive and yet, just then, more than exasperating. “In fact, I cannot remember hearing one which occasioned me more—er—scepticism.”
“My story’s true,” said Rollison.
“I can hardly commit myself to an opinion on its truth; I can on its incredibility. I have received the reports of the police officers who were the first to release you from your strange predicament, and—” he tapped the tips of his fingers together softly—“I don’t see that we can do other than detain you.”