by John Creasey
“Whom did you say his wife met?” asked Rollison.
“A man named Guy,” gasped Charmion’s brother. “A little man with a face like a bird. He could turn her round his little finger; she signed everything away to him.”
“A face like a bird’s,” mused Rollison.
“The voice of a Judas,” said Charmion, still softly.
“It’s no use, Charles,” said the woman; her voice surprised them all, for she had it under better control and had regained her composure. While they had not been looking at her she had powdered her face and even touched up her lips. “We’d better go. They won’t believe us.”
Rollison said slowly: “We might, in time. Why are you so frightened of me, Mrs. Charmion?”
She said: “Oh, don’t make it worse! You know as well as we do.”
“Are you going to turn the screw?” demanded Charles Charmion, tersely. “What about those letters?”
“And phone calls?” interpolated his wife.
“The visiting-cards,” said Charmion’s brother.
“And telegrams,” said his wife.
Rollison looked from one to the other, and then said, mildly; “I know nothing about them. Have you any of them with you?”
“Oh, what’s the use?” demanded Charmion’s brother harshly. “Gil, don’t trust him! Heaven knows you ought to know better than to trust him an inch! He’s told us all the time that when you came out there would be the devil to pay; he’s threatened and badgered us for a year now. Yes,” he snapped at the Toff, “I’ve one of your cards here!” He put a trembling hand to his pocket, drew out a wallet, and extracted several cards. He sorted through them feverishly, then selected one and held it out to Rollison. “Well? Isn’t that yours?”
Rollison took it, and Charmion looked at it.
It had Rollison’s name printed on one side, with the Gresham Terrace address. On the reverse side was a pencilled drawing of a monocle, a top-hat, and a cane. The Toff often used such cards. They created a certain unnerving effect when delivered at the right moment, although not so great as he had once imagined.
“Well?” screeched Charles.
Rollison took out his own wallet, went through the same procedure as the man, and put one of his own cards next to that he had been given; there was a noticeable difference in the printing, the copper-plate engraving on the genuine card was smaller than on the other. On the reverse side were the sketches; they too were smaller and much neater.
“Not mine.”
“Not—yours!” gasped Mrs. Charmion. “Then who—”
“One day, we’ll know,” said Rollison. He felt cold and tense. Each page turned in the story had its own absurdities, its own tortuous cunning. “If I were you,” he advised Charmion, “I should give this pair the benefit of the doubt for the time being.”
“Do you think I’m such a credulous fool?” demanded Charmion. “Do you expect me to believe that someone I don’t know has set himself to get my money, to drug my wife until she is hardly sane, to frame my brother and”—he sneered—“to frame you at the same time? No, Rollison, I am not deceived.”
He had created an even tenser atmosphere by the coldness of his voice. His brother and the woman hung on his words, the woman tight-lipped and still afraid, the man with his mouth agape, until into the silence there came a knock on the door, soft and timid. Yet it was enough to make them all start, and Rollison turned quickly.
The knock was repeated.
Charmion stepped towards the door and opened it, his movements brisk and decisive, reflecting his newfound confidence. Someone – a woman in a streaming cape – stood on the threshold, and Charmion said: “Yes?”
A voice that was high-pitched with emotion answered him, one which made Rollison move swiftly towards the door.
“Please,” the woman said. “I come, please, to see—”she gulped—“M’sieu Charmion! I am asked to come, this ees the address. My name ees Link, m’sieu, Fifi Link.” She gulped again as if she could not bring herself to utter the words. “Please, ees M’sieu Charmion ’ere? I must see ’im.”
Charmion stood aside, and Rollison stepped into Fifi’s view. She stared at him, wide-eyed; her cheeks sagged, she looked a different woman from what she had been the night before. But a new light sprang to her eyes when she saw Rollison and she jumped forward, gripping his arm.
“M’sieu, M’sieu Roll’son! Please ’elp me, please make them return my Shoe, do not let them ’urt ’eem. Only for Shoe would I come to see that man who is so ’ateful!”
Chapter Sixteen
Fifi
If Charmion knew that she meant him, he gave no sign, but stepped farther away from the Frenchwoman and watched impassively as she gripped Rollison, shaking him, staring at him with her eyes streaming tears. She was so distraught that her words became unintelligible.
The others stood watching as the Toff tried to comfort her.
Swift, urgent thoughts passed through his mind. Where was Joe? Who had taken Joe from Fifi and, more important by far, who had sent Fifi here, naming Charmion as the man who could return her Joe?
Fifi grew quieter at last.
During the paroxysm, Charles Charmion and his wife had been edging towards the door, putting on their raincoats unostentatiously. As Rollison drew the Frenchwoman away from the door, Charles Charmion said in an agitated voice: “You don’t want us any more, Gil, do you?”
“Get out of here,” said Charmion, soft-voiced. “If I ever have to see you again, I’ll send for you.” He waved them towards the door and his sister-in-law half ran towards it. But before they went out, Rollison said: “Why the hurry, Charmion?”
“We’re due to give a turn,” said the younger Charmion. “If we don’t get there on time we’ll probably lose the engagement. Rollison, if you’re sure you didn’t send those messages—”
“Where is there a show so late as this?” demanded Rollison.
“It’s a cabaret—”
“All right, where’s the cabaret so late as this?” demanded Rollison, keeping an arm about Fifi’s shoulders. She had quietened and was now looking up at the others, questions in her eyes; but she kept close to Rollison, as if taking comfort from his nearness.
“It’s a private one,” muttered the younger Charmion.
“Where?”
The man tried to bluster. “I don’t see what it’s got to do with you—”
“I shall want to see you afterwards,” said Rollison, coldly.
“Oh, tell him, and let’s get away,” said Mrs. Charmion.
“It’s at 1A, Littleton Place,” said the younger Charmion, with poor grace, “at the corner of Port Street. Gil, don’t forget that—”
Charmion said nothing, and his brother tightened his lips and turned away; yet Rollison could not rid himself of an impression that, as he turned, there was a grotesque smile on the dancer’s face. The woman’s expression did not alter. The door slammed behind them, and then their footsteps sounded as they hurried down the stairs; one of them stumbled. Young Charmion spoke, they appeared to recover and hurried down again.
Inside the flat it was very quiet.
Then Charmion stepped towards Fifi, who looked at him without recognition. Rollison thought that there was an expression which might have been pity and understanding in the man’s eyes. Charmion stretched out a hand, scarred and calloused after his work on the moor, and rested it on Fifi’s shoulder.
“Who sent you to me?” he asked.
Fifi stared: “You? You are Charmion?”
“I am,” said Charmion.
“But—” Fifi began, and gasped. “The man who just went out now, ’e ees like ze Charmion I knew, yes. I did not dare to speak, M’sieu Roll’son, always I leave such things to you, but this—this ees not Charmion!”
“It is what they made me,” Charmion said. “Why did you come?”
She turned to Rollison and said: “M’sieu, I do not undairstand. This ees not the Charmion I ’ave thought of so much, no, eet ee
s a different man. But”—her eyes filled again with alarm—“where ees Shoe?”
“Who is Joe?” asked Charmion.
“Her husband,” said Rollison, shortly, and then persuaded Fifi to tell her story.
She started slowly, with many comments and exclamations, but soon was in the swing of it; it was graphic because of the intensity of her feelings; her love for ‘Shoe’ was obvious in every word she uttered, every gleam in her dark eyes.
It had started early on the previous morning.
Joe had gone to the market but had not returned. A child had been sent to Fifi, with a note from him; it had told her to put up the ‘Back Later’ sign in the window and to join him at The Docker, a small public house not far away. Fifi had gone, expecting to find that Joe had met an old friend and wanted her to join in the reunion; it appeared that many of Fifi’s French colony friends visited her from time to time.
Instead of Joe, she had been greeted by another message, obviously sent by Joe. She was to go to a house in Golders Green. Something in the way the note was delivered, rather than its actual words, had warned her of impending trouble. She had sent a messenger to the restaurant, to close it until she returned, and hurried to Golders Green. There the house had proved to be a vast block of mansion flats, and, when she had found the flat she wanted – Number 79, she said – she had been admitted and then told to wait if she wanted to see Joe again.
Listening to her story, Rollison sensed the same cold efficiency which planned every step perfectly; the arrangements were calculated to impress the excitable Fifi more than anything else could have done. ‘A man’ had convinced her that Joe was in danger and that to save him she would have to stay there. She had asked permission to send a message to the staff of the restaurant, but it had been refused. She had been left alone for a long time, but, eventually ‘the man’ had returned; he had given her Charmion’s name and the Shaftesbury Avenue address, and told her that Charmion knew where she could find Joe.
That was all.
“All the time, eet was Charmion,” Fifi breathed, eyeing Charmion incredulously. “I knew that eet was Charmion, why else should I be so afraid? M’sieur”—she turned to Rollison again, her hands clenched—“where ees Shoe? All I ask is that you find ’eem an’ return ’eem to me!”
Rollison looked at Charmion, and asked: “Well, Charmion?”
“It is a fantastic story!” exclaimed Charmion. Something in his manner made Rollison thoughtful; he was too definite; suddenly, and for no reason at all, Rollison was reminded of Sir Roland Blanding. “I have no idea why she should be sent to me.”
“But it must be Charmion!” cried Fifi.
“Can you explain this, Rollison?” Charmion asked, quietly. “I am completely at a loss.”
“I’m beginning to believe that you might be,” admitted Rollison. “Fifi, I’m looking for Joe now. I hope to find him before the night is out, but”—he paused, frowning—“you’d better not go back to Mile End just yet.”
“But m’sieu—”
“I think you’d better go to my flat,” said Rollison; and then more briskly: “I’ll come with you soon.” He looked at Charmion and went on: “Is there another room here?”
Of course, there’s my bedroom,” said Charmion.
“Wait there, chérie said Rollison, squeezing Fifi’s shoulder reassuringly. His eyes were smiling, for he wanted Fifi more cheerful, and believed that he could raise her spirits. “I won’t be long.” He led her towards the door which Charmion opened and she went through.
Charmion closed the door and swung round.
“What do you know about this, Rollison?”
Rollison said: “Taking the facts as I know them, I should say that you’re being framed, because—”
He told the story swiftly and concisely, glad that he could do so. It brought the relevant details clearer to his mind, helped him to assess the values of each item of information and all that had happened. He cut out all embellishments, and Charmion listened, hard-faced, twice restraining himself from interrupting only with an obvious effort.
Rollison finished, quietly: “So, if we judge from that, we’re both being framed. It would be helpful if we knew why.”
“If anyone else had told me this story I would have refused to believe him,” said Charmion, “but—” he broke off, then went on very gently: “I don’t trust my brother. I think he left here feeling highly pleased with himself. He was always very fond of pulling fast ones. I think I shall go—” Rollison said: “If you want to keep your feet dry, don’t leave this apartment.”
“That’s absurd!” snapped Charmion. “I can go—”
“Anywhere you like,” said Rollison, “but you’ll probably wish you hadn’t.”
“Is that all you are going to say?”
“For the time being, yes,” said Rollison, and smiled – there was a hint of gaiety in his expression which must have puzzled Charmion. “I think I can work the situation out if I’m left to myself.”
“How can I be sure that you will consider my interests?” demanded Charmion.
“You have to trust to luck,” said Rollison, lightly. “Fifi!” He raised his voice, and Fifi came so quickly that it was obvious she had been standing with a hand on the door.
“We’re going,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Charmion, but remember the advice for the night – stay put!”
Gripping Fifi’s elbow, he hustled her to the door, opened it, and passed through with her. He closed the door with a bang, then stood for a moment, so that their eyes could get used to the gloom.
There was no movement behind him; even had there been the faint whistling would probably have prevented him from hearing it. He kept smiling until they reached the Avenue, and then, with the friendly darkness about him, hiding his face, he looked bleak and uncompromising. But there was a lilt in his voice as he chaffed Fifi and then shouted for a taxi; one drew near after they had walked nearly as far as the Circus.
Ten minutes later he was ushering Fifi into the flat, and saying to Jolly: “You remember Mrs Link, Jolly? She will be staying the night.” Jolly bowed, and allowed himself to smile a greeting.
“But, of course, M’sieu Sholly!” exclaimed Fifi. “Always so sad! To Shoe, I ’ave said often, M’sieu Roll’son, ’e ees so sholly; M’sieu Sholly, ’e ees so sad!”
“Indeed,” murmured Jolly.
Rollison said: “Fifi, I’ve one or two calls to make, but before I go I want you to think hard and find what you can remember. Ready?”
“I am prepared, m’sieu! I feel, now, that you weel find Shoe. That ees all that matters, and eef I can ’elp you—” she paused, eyeing him with bright eyes. “Proceed, m’sieu!”
“A child brought you the first message?”
“Yes, m’sieu.’
“The second was telephoned to Bert Prior, at The Docker?”
“Yes, m’sieu.”
“You went to 79, Rapport Mansions, Golders Green, and waited there all day?”
“That is so, m’sieu, but—”
“I haven’t finished yet,” said Rollison. “The man who told you to wait there and the man who told you to go to Charmion’s place – was it the same man?”
“No, no, m’sieu! The first, ’e was a little man, so funnee in ’is face, with an absurd little nose—like—” she paused, then hurried on: “a beak, m’sieu, the nose of a parrot!”
“Good!” said Rollison, with feeling. “The other?”
“‘E ees not so easy to describe,” said Fifi, frowning. “‘E ees just a man, m’sieur, ’e—” she paused, then raised her hands helplessly. “Just a man!”
“Wearing dark clothes, a bowler hat, and carrying an umbrella,” said Rollison, “pale-faced, ordinary-looking, and with his lips—”he pursed his lips a little, giving himself an odd, complacent expression—“like this?”
“M’sieu!” cried Fifi. “You know ’eem!”
“I’m beginning to think I do,” admitted Rollison. “See if Gr
ice is at the Yard, Jolly.” He lit a cigarette after Fifi had refused one, and then gently he broke the news of Hilda’s death. He did not tell her the circumstances, and was glad, for her distress surprised him. He knew that it would revive her anxiety for Joe, but she did not speak of that, just relapsed into silence and looked, about the flat, as if helpless and hopeless.
“Mr. Grice is on the line, sir,” said Jolly.
“Hallo, Grice,” said Rollison. “How are things?”
Grice said, explosively: “If you’ve called me up to ask me ‘how are things’ I’ll—”
“Oh, that was just a preliminary canter,” the Toff assured him. “Seriously, have you anything in the way of results?”
“Nothing at all,” said Grice, “except that I know you’ve been to Charmion’s place and that his brother and sister-in-law were there. They slipped my man.”
“They’re at a little club in Littleton Place – remember it?” He did not wait for Grice to answer. “You should, for you told me about it – it’s Grade 2 in your club system. Port Street, for the first grade, Littleton Place for the second grade, with its dancing, extravagance and what-have-you. They work there and call it a cabaret.”
“The Charmions?” Grice sounded incredulous. “They’re not under that name, I’ll swear to that!”
“A Charmion by any other name smells just as foul,” said Rollison. “The younger man and his wife did all they could to make sure that I visited the club – tonight, I think, I’ll be expected. I can’t explain more now, but I thought you’d like to know.”
“Will you be in if I come round right away?” asked Grice.
“No,” said Rollison, emphatically. “I’m going to keep that date! I’ve done everything I’ve been asked to in this show so far, I don’t see why I should stop now. But I’ll amplify it a bit. The younger Charmions blame Guy, our parrot-like Guy, and also Charmion’s wife, for her distressing habit of taking drugs. Charmion himself isn’t sure whether they’re telling the truth or not – at least, that’s the attitude he adopts. He does it well, too; there are times when I think he’s telling the truth and others when I think he’s fooling me very nicely. However, that will work out. Concerning Golders Green—”