by John Creasey
“Which is exactly what they want, sir,” said Jolly.
“Ye-es.” Rollison shrugged. “Well, we can’t do any more until Grice and his men arrive. Did you hear what Anderson, said?”
“I caught a little of it, but I was not near the door all the time, sir. The other young man—”
“A Mr. Robert Moor, who is in love with Georgina Scott,” said Rollison, and promptly forgot about Moor. “Guy, Jolly, the man who’s been everywhere, that’s our bête noire. I wonder how long your Lauriston fellow will be with his identification of that mask? If we can find out who made it, we might get somewhere.”
“I think I told you, sir, that he hoped to have some information by tomorrow morning,” said Jolly. “Did I understand you to say that Miss Scott is ill?”
Rollison told him a little of what he knew, deciding to tell the story in detail when Grice arrived. It was obvious that he must keep the police informed of every step; if he kept anything to himself it would probably be precisely that they wanted. As it was, this second murder would surely force Grice’s hand; how could the police allow him to remain free?
He did not know that Grice was waiting outside the house for another police car carrying a police-surgeon and two sergeants, and talking to a tall, slim man who was breathing heavily. The man’s name was Simonds; he was one of the two whom Grice had detailed to watch the Toff.
Grice was brusque, and Simonds, drawing in deep breaths, was worried and apologetic.
“I kept outside, sir, and Wilson was at the back. I saw a little man enter, and I thought I’d better follow him upstairs – I’d already let Anderson go up. I heard talking, sir, and there was just enough light for me to see the little man bending down by the wainscoting. I—I thought I would wait a bit, and stop him coming down. Then the little man rang the bell. I was on the landing below, sir. The light came from Rollison’s flat – I just saw Rollison – and then the caller fired.” Simonds paused, but went on when Grice did not speak. “I was going forward to stop him as he ran downstairs, but I slipped. I didn’t lose much time, sir, but went after him pretty fast, but he got away. I—I’m terribly sorry, sir.”
Grice nodded, but said nothing; miserably, Simonds waited when the other car arrived and the party went upstairs; he knew that he had put up a very poor show; he did not know that he had saved the Toff from much unpleasantness.
On the arrival of the police party at the flat, the telephone rang, and Rollison answered it, indicating Anderson’s body and, with a gesture, giving Grice permission to go where he pleased. Then he said: “Hallo?” and was surprised to hear a deep and familiar voice.
“Rollison?” Sir Roland Blanding asked, abruptly.
“Yes.”
“You were right,” said Blanding; the words seemed to make the wires sing a tense and emotional song. “She has been taking drugs. Cocaine, my doctor thinks.”
“Ye-es,” said Rollison, slowly. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s not good enough! Where did she get them?”
“We have to find that out,” said Rollison, “and we aren’t going to let the grass grow under our feet. Blanding, keep her in her room and make quite sure that she doesn’t leave the house until I’ve seen you again.”
“She isn’t likely to be ill enough to be confined to her room,” said Blanding; his real strength, it seemed, was pertinacity; Rollison considered it obstinacy.
“Make out that she is,” said Rollison. “Better to have her in screaming hysterics because she can’t get out, than to walk into more trouble. I can’t stop now, but you’ll be well-advised to keep her in. Goodbye.”
He rang off without giving Blanding a chance to reply, then turned to look at Grice and the police-surgeon, a grey-haired little man with a berry-red face and pince-nez which were near the end of his nose; Dr. Lefroy, whom Rollison knew well. As they examined Anderson more police arrived, including the fingerprint men and photographer. They swarmed about the flat, with flashlights snapping and hissing and powder being spread here and there, determined to do their job thoroughly and, Rollison thought, mainly because Grice would have to make a full report, and produce evidence that he had left nothing undone against him.
There followed a period of inactivity which Rollison found trying; there seemed something ominous in it. Grice’s silence seemed to hold a menace; from time to time he looked at the guns on the table and wondered whether he would be wise to tell the police exactly what had happened.
Grice looked up, at last, with a smile that made Rollison feel foolish.
“Our busy day, Rolly!” Grice straightened up and took out a cigarette case. “Jolly gave me the drift of the story, but—”
Rollison filled in all the details, including the discovery of his own gun, and a sergeant, a lean-faced man with a hungry look, took it down in shorthand. When it was finished the man read it back in a metallic voice which sounded as if Grice, by giving him the order, had put a coin in a slot-machine. When it was over, Grice said: “Is that right, Rolly?”
“That’s all,” said Rollison.
“You’re sure of the name ‘Guy’?”
“I’m sure Anderson uttered it, yes, and I’m equally sure about the ‘child’s play’. Have you learned anything?” “Nothing outstanding,” said Grice. “Anderson”—he looked at the sheet over the man’s body—“wasn’t a man to exaggerate.”
“He was brimming over with excitement,” said Rollison. “How often do Press men get worked up?” Grice shrugged. “Rarely enough to make it remarkable.”
“He didn’t give you the Charmions’ address?”
“He gave me part of it. They’ve a flat in Queen’s Gate.”
“May I use your phone?” asked Grice.
Rollison nodded, and Grice told the Yard man who answered him to make inquiries about the Charmions and to keep the Queen’s Gate flat watched; he also gave instructions for the first Charmion to be watched, as well as his wife, Laura. Grice seemed to be on the telephone for a long time. He replaced it at last, and then said thoughtfully: “Where does Blanding come in on this?”
Rollison said: “It’s nothing to do with Anderson’s murder, and I don’t want to make it official.”
Grice said: “All right. My men will be done here in a few minutes.” The police-surgeon, who was a notoriously silent man, had finished, so Grice had only to attend to the odds and ends, and to superintend the removal of Anderson’s body. He told Rollison nothing of Simonds, but allowed him to understand that he was in no great trouble. The Toff was both relieved and mildly curious.
Then, in the study, with Jolly standing by the door, Rollison went into further detail about Georgina and Blanding, the young man named Moor, and all that had preceded his return to the flat. He concluded: “I’ve told Blanding nothing about Georgina’s visit to the man at Shaftesbury Avenue,” he said. “I don’t think it’s necessary yet, do you?”
“No,” conceded Grice. “Do you think there’s any doubt about Blanding’s story? Did he know the second Charmion or the first?”
“Oh, he knew the second,” said Rollison. “His story was too categorical for him to have been telling a half-truth. Anyhow, you can find out about the daughter and the child, can’t you?”
“Yes,” said Grice, and then more crisply: “I wish I knew how the Charmion -Blanding contact originated. How is it that the older Charmion knows Georgina?”
“Answer that, and you’ll answer nearly everything,” said Rollison, unhelpfully. “She was too young to have been under his influence, yet his name frightened her. True, she might have been affected by the name, which would give any member of the family a nasty jolt, and that might explain why she was so jumpy after I saw her at the coffee shop, but—” he shrugged. “This affected her pretty deeply. The drugs, diagnosed by one doctor, explain part of it, of course, but not all. ‘Charmion’ meant far more to her than she admitted.” He shrugged his shoulders and took out cigarettes. “Will you have a drink?” he asked, belatedly, and when Grice ref
used, looked at Jolly. “Make some coffee, will you?” He sat in the chair at his desk, on which the stuffed carcase of the effigy remained, and added, a little wearily: “What do you think is the major factor now?” Grice said: “What Anderson knew.”
“And was he killed because of what he knew, or was it another attempt to put a rope round my neck?”
“I can’t believe that you would be framed twice,” Grice said, judicially. “And if the flat was watched, they’d know that Jolly was here and that there would be his evidence to support yours.” He left it at that.
“If I weren’t who I am, would you be satisfied with the evidence of a manservant in support of his employer?” demanded the Toff. “Of course you wouldn’t! I doubt whether these people know that you’re quite so loyal to me as you are. I think it’s probable that Anderson was killed because of what he had learned, and the rest was put in for makeweight. Anderson died for the same reason as Hilda Brent.”
“She knew what he knew,” Grice mused.
“Yes.” Rollison scowled. “Any word of Fifi or Joe?”
“Nothing at all.”
“We are doing well,” said Rollison, sarcastically, “Well, there’s one thing that can be done, and I’d like to handle it myself.” He paused, hopefully.
“What do you mean?” asked Grice.
“Charmion,” said Rollison, “the first Charmion – and why he talked to Georgina.”
Grice said: “Do you think you’ll get anything out of him?” “If he’s genuine – and what he said to Anderson makes that seem likely – he’s probably feeling better towards me than towards you. I am his friend in need!” Rollison smiled, mirthlessly. “Shall I try him?”
“Yes,” said Grice, decisively. “You’ll let me know what he says as soon as you’ve finished, won’t you? When will you go?”
“Now,” said Rollison. “Is it still raining?”
“It was when I arrived,” Grice told him.
It was teeming when Rollison and the Superintendent reached the street. Grice’s car was outside with a chauffeur, and he offered the Toff a lift; the Toff refused, not because he preferred to walk, but because he wanted to make reasonably sure that he was not being followed, and felt fairly certain that Grice had taken precautions, hence his extreme amiability. Then he remembered a factor of importance and, as the car moved off, its headlights making the rain look even heavier, he hurried in its wake, shouting. Grice heard the shouts and the car pulled up.
“Hallo?” asked Grice, winding the window down.
Rollison said: “Sergeant Wilson – any news?”
“Wilson—oh, after your man in the bowler hat.” Grice’s face was in shadow, but Rollison caught a note of uncertainty in his voice. “No. Wilson lost him after following him about London for two hours. He went out to Golders Green and called at a block of flats. He wasn’t there for more than ten minutes, and eventually Wilson lost him at Piccadilly Circus.”
“And what about the flats?”
“I’ve done nothing yet,” said Grice. “But I will.”
So it was getting too fast and furious for Grice, as well as for him, he reflected as he walked in the wake of the car. He shrugged his shoulders, trying to dismiss all thought of the bowler-hatted man; he failed, for in spite of the darkness he could not rid himself of a feeling that he was being followed. Twice he stopped on the edge of the pavement, but the footsteps he thought he heard either stopped or were not there. He went on, listening intently, and paused again; he could not decide whether it were fancy or not.
In the lobby at the foot of the stairs of the building where Charmion lived he took off his macintosh. He shook the worst of the water from it, folded it inside out, and then hurried up the stairs. He thought of Anderson, who had once waited up there with such admirable discretion – and he thought, too, that he might be accredited with a motive for Anderson’s murder; Anderson had been in a position to spread information about the murder of Hilda.
He heard voices, much louder than Charmion’s and Georgina’s had been, and stood waiting. They were men’s voices, raised in anger; a third, a woman’s, kept interrupting, in ineffectual protests.
Chapter Fifteen
Brother Of Charmion
Rollison tapped sharply at the door.
The shouting stopped, and the hush was complete until the woman said in a high-pitched voice: “Someone’s there!”
“I know, you fool,” said Charmion.
There was no mistaking his voice, and Rollison imagined that it was Charmion who stepped forward, with heavy tread, and began to unlock the door. He took an unconscionable time over it, and when he had it unlocked he did not open it wide, but peered through an inch-wide gap.
“Who’s there?”
“Rollison,” said Rollison, quietly.
“Rollison!” gasped the woman. “No, no! He can’t come in, he mustn’t come in.”
There was a sharp sound; Rollison thought that Charmion had slapped the woman’s face. She gasped and he thought he heard her stagger away. Then Charmion opened the door wide and stood aside for Rollison to enter.
Standing against the wall, with a hand at her face and her eyes round pools of terror, was a woman of no more than twenty-four or -five; and in spite of the terror in her face she had real beauty. On the other side of the room was a man who might have been Charmion.
Rollison felt quite sure that it was the man whom he had seen at the window; and it was from that moment that he felt convinced that Charmion’s brother was involved more deeply in this affair than it appeared. Now the man was looking as scared as the woman – presumably, his wife. But he was acting; Rollison felt quite sure about it. The very way in which he raised his hands, as if to fend off a physical assault, indicated that.
“Rollison!” he exclaimed.
“Be quiet!” snapped Charmion. “Mr. Rollison did not come here to talk to you. What is it you want, Rollison? You may ignore my brother.”
“Gil, you can’t do this!” exclaimed the younger man.
“Unless you keep quiet, I will show you that I can do a great deal more,” said Charmion, with a savage intensity.
The younger man seemed to sag. His wife crept round the room towards him, and they stood together while Rollison eyed Charmion. It was like seeing the past and the present together.
“What do you want?” Charmion repeated. “I have been quarrelling – perhaps you overheard something of it.”
“I did,” said Rollison. “So you found them, did you?”
“I found them,” said Charmion. “I received an anonymous note, telling me—”
Rollison snapped: “Anonymous?”
“That is what I said,” said Charmion; he had himself under better control than at Rollison’s flat, as if this encounter with his relatives had given him a new confidence. “Why? Do you doubt that?”
“Did Anderson tell you?”
“I asked him whether he knew where to find them, but he said that he did not. I have little doubt that he lied – all newspaper reporters are liars; it is in their blood. No, I had an anonymous letter, Rollison, and I went to see them.” Charmion looked dispassionately at his brother and the girl, whose terror had not diminished.
Rollison said: “What did Anderson come to tell you about?”
“My wife,” said Charmion, very softly. “My wife and these two unspeakable swine.”
“You’re wrong, Gil!” cried Charmion’s brother. “We knew nothing about it, I tell you; she insisted, she had her own way! We haven’t seen her for a year!”
“I don’t believe you,” said Charmion.
“But it’s true, I tell you. Rollison!” the man was perspiring freely; he used mascara, which was running, and rouge, which made him look like a doll – a sinister doll. “He thinks that we robbed him, but it’s not true! Make him realise that it’s not true!”
“That should be easy,” said Rollison, sardonically.
“They have been trying to convince me that their incredible
story is not a tissue of lies,” said Charmion. “They expect me to believe that soon after I left, Laura – my wife – began to take drugs, and fell into the hands of unknown men, who made her sign away my wealth. They say that they were frightened. The truth is that they were party to it. The time will come when I will make them rue the day.”
“We knew nothing about it!” The woman spoke, finding courage for the first time and stepping forward, both hands raised, looking at Charmion; Rollison deliberately effaced himself; it looked as if the quarrel would start afresh and he desired nothing more. “Laura told us that she wanted nothing more to do with us. We tried to reason with her, but—” she stopped again, and turned away; had she been anyone he knew, Rollison would have felt sorry for her, so great was her fear and her distress.
Charmion turned to Rollison.
“The lies pour out of them,” he said.
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” said Rollison, “Am I in this? I mean, if you want an opinion on their truthfulness, I can’t very well give it without knowing what they’ve said.”
Charmion shrugged his shoulders and his brother exclaimed: “Rollison, you’ve made life hell for us, but—but convince him we’re telling the truth! We looked after everything perfectly, everything went smoothly, we made money for him – and then his wife got mixed up with Guy and the others.”
The man drew in a sharp, searing breath, as if waiting to see his reaction to the name ‘Guy’, Rollison remained impassive, and young Charmion went on: “It was hopeless from the start! He gave her drugs and we couldn’t make her stop taking them. We even consulted a doctor, but she wouldn’t undergo his treatment. We—we told Gilbert things were all right, we didn’t want to upset him, but he came out before we expected him. We were working on the halls, trying to get a bit of something for him when he came home, we knew what a shock it would be!”
“Yes,” said Charmion, softly – with the softness of a snake. “I came out too soon, there is no doubt of that. The rest”—he sneered—“lies, from beginning to end.”