by John Creasey
Rollison reached his chalet.
He opened the door, and Jolly called out from the chalet at the rear: ‘Is that you, sir?’
‘And in one piece,’ said Rollison. He put on the light, and studied his face in the mirror. There was a promising bruise on his right temple; that was all. He put on his coat, as Jolly appeared, having smoothed down his hair. He was in his blue-and-white spotted dressing-gown. ‘Fight,’ Rollison said, ‘with a man who seemed drunk. Or pretended to be drunk.’
Jolly said: ‘Indeed, sir?’
‘Big, bulky chap, who’d already stopped me from following Clark and the girl,’ Rollison said. ‘We don’t like him, do we?’
Jolly didn’t speak.
‘We aren’t exactly bosom friends with Middleton, either,’ Rollison added, ‘and now I suppose I’d better sit down and tell you what’s been happening.’
He talked, at some length. Much of what he said was highly speculative, some was even ornamental. But it cooled him down. Cool, he realized how furious he had been with the bulky man, because of fears for the missing Susan Dell.
‘It would appear that the man who feigned drunkenness wanted to incapacitate you,’ Jolly said, as if all had been revealed to him.
‘Or put it another way,’ Rollison said. ‘Beat me up and warn me off, and all lush apology in the morning for having been blind drunk. We’ll search his chalet before long. We’ll also have a look at Middleton’s.’ A glow came to his eyes, a mellowness to his voice; he was no longer filled with rage. He actually smiled. ‘I think we can see a little daylight, Jolly. We have to be careful with the Bulky One, and not warn him off—he’ll lead us where we want to go. I think. I—’
There were footsteps; light and quick, those of a woman.
They stopped.
There was a tap at the door.
Jolly slipped into his chalet, and closed the door. Rollison glanced out of a window which was slightly open, and saw Elizabeth’s fair hair. He opened the door. She was ready with words as soon as she saw him.
‘Rolly, did he hurt you?’
‘Think nothing of it,’ said Rollison, and stood aside. ‘One honourable scar and a clear conscience. How do I do as a knight errant? Come in.’
She came in. She looked agitated.
‘Rolly, Dick wants to apologize. Will you let him? Before he knows who you are, I mean. If he apologized afterwards it wouldn’t really mean much, would it?’
Rollison said gently: ‘Elizabeth the Kind-Hearted. Don’t fight too many battles for Dick Middleton, sweet Liz, or you’ll be in trouble yourself. Of course I’ll see him—but I shouldn’t urge him to come, if I were you. He—’
‘He’s coming,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Uncle Pi and some of the others convinced him about what really happened.’
‘Good. Where’s Uncle Pi?’
‘With Dick.’
‘He has a way with young men as well as children,’ Rollison murmured. ‘I want to know all about the chap who was drunk, Liz, because I don’t think he was half as drunk as he made out.’
She looked at him, round-eyed. They were the loveliest eyes he had seen for at least eighteen months. They were set in the loveliest face. A shadow of doubt, much smaller than a man’s hand, crossed his mind about her; not about her goodwill, but about her level of intelligence. Was she – could she be – just a little dumb?
‘Oh, you see evil in everything!’ she exclaimed.
She turned on her heel. He reached the door before her, and bowed slightly. Head high, she went out. He closed the door again and scratched his head. He went to the telephone, called Llewellyn, told him what had happened and asked for information about the bulky man; especially his chalet number. Llewellyn had already heard of the fracas.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
‘Positive,’ Rollison said. ‘And while you’re finding out what you can about the chap, will you—?’ he paused.
‘Yes?’
‘Forget it.’ Rollison changed his mind. ‘I don’t want to give you a lot of work for nothing. Thanks.’
He rang off, sat on the side of his bed and contemplated the wall opposite. It was apple green with one or two slightly darker patches. He lit a cigarette. He got up, opened the top drawer of the chest, and took out one of the pamphlets with Elizabeth Cherrell’s photograph on it. He found two pins and pinned the photograph to the wall, then went back and stared at it. The wall, in fact the room, looked a brighter, lovelier place; a thing of beauty.
He winked at her.
There was a tap at the communicating door, and on his ‘come in’ Jolly entered. Jolly wore a black-and-white check coat, flannels, and a white scarf. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were bright; he looked almost a happy man.
‘My, my,’ breathed Rollison, ‘who is she?’
Jolly had a mind as quick as any rapier, and he had seen the picture on the wall. He did not smile, but said gravely: ‘Miss Cherrell, I believe, sir—Miss Elizabeth Cherrell. I have just been out for a walk before retiring. Cy Beck is married, has been here a week, and was here when Clark was in the Camp before, too. That’s all I know yet, sir.’
Rollison contemplated him in thoughtful silence; and gradually became sombre. For a few minutes, that driving fear for Susan Dell had left him; Elizabeth had driven it away. Now, it came back. It was not so urgent, because he knew there was nothing that he could do about it immediately; but it would be in his mind until he had found the girl with red hair and green flecks in her eyes.
‘Progress of a kind,’ he said. ‘And we must check Middleton, and find out if any of the missing Redcoats knew Beck or Clark.’
‘Naturally, sir.’
‘And we must check Miss Cherrell.’
‘Of course,’ said Jolly.
‘Why of course?’
‘There is some measure of affection between Middleton and Miss Cherrell. I discovered from one of the ah—clerks—in the offices that last year they were very close friends then. Very close friends.’
‘Oh,’ said Rollison, and rubbed the tip of his nose with his forefinger. ‘Were they? And Miss Cherrell resented it because I’ve shown some doubts about Middleton. Do you think it could have been a mistake to have her as guide and counsellor?’
‘It may have been, sir, but there was no way of anticipating it.’
‘Consolation. Jolly, did anyone tell you that three Redcoats have disappeared? That is to say, Camp officials. I mean,’ he went on, as if he were a child making a wild guess at some improbable question, ‘friends of people like Middleton, Uncle Pi, and Elizabeth Cherrell. We saw the obvious possibility that Middleton might be involved because he’s in a position to give the other Redcoats orders didn’t we? Therefore, we can’t trust Middleton. We can’t trust any of the officials, either. Aird, I suppose, and Llewellyn—but no absolute certainty about any of them. If this thing is big enough to warrant Clark smuggling Susan Dell out of the Camp in a hurry, it might be very big. Dollars are involved. We could act too quickly—and we could tell the wrong people what we know, couldn’t we? After all, this could involve those in high positions. Agree?’
Jolly was just himself: ‘I do indeed,’ he said.
‘Or to make it simplicity itself, we can’t afford to trust anyone.’
Jolly didn’t speak this time.
‘Clark and Beck were here at the time of each disappearance. Think you can find out if anyone else was?’
‘I’m quite sure I can,’ Jolly said, and there was positive eagerness in his eyes. ‘I find the staff most co-operative.’
‘Obviously. Your job,’ Rollison said dryly. ‘Tomorrow.’ He regarded his man coldly, and with some suspicions. He had never seen Jolly in quite such a mood. In spite of the situation, he recognized the kind of mood in which he might burst into a laugh, or wear a buttonhole, or even blow a tin trumpet. Jolly’s expression was almost smug. ‘Good night,’ Rollison said.
‘Good night, sir,’ said Jolly. He smiled broadly. ‘I hope you sleep well.
’
He went out, bowing slightly before he closed the door. After a moment, there came a sound – an unusual sound, a lilting humming of a sound. Jolly, giving his rendering of La Ronde.
Jolly, gay – at this place!
It was so improbable here that it was hard to believe. To make it worse, it was a mood which Rollison could not capture. He lit another cigarette and stared at Elizabeth. Her beauty was sufficient to befuddle any man. He disliked his doubts about her; he also disliked the way she had flared up. He thought that if she loved a man, she would do anything to help him.
Was she in love with Middleton?
Middleton hadn’t come to apologize, after all. Perhaps Elizabeth had dissuaded him.
He recalled everything that Elizabeth had said, and her anxiety that he should see Middleton before the Redcoat leader was told who Rollison was. She had assured him that Middleton was on the way. There was no reason at all why she should have dissuaded him, so there was an obvious question: Why hadn’t Middleton turned up?
Rollison stood up abruptly, went to the door, hesitated, then switched out the light and stepped on to the path. He heard a youth singing, some way off; heard footsteps as late birds went to their chalets.
He closed his door, and stood still, listening for any nearer sounds. He heard none.
He knew where Middleton’s chalet was, and hurried towards it. Now and again he stopped, to make sure that he wasn’t followed.
When he was near Middleton’s chalet, he began to think that someone might be behind him. He went more cautiously. Yes, there were footsteps, stealthy but unmistakable. It was very dark, except close to the chalets; and there were dark patches of shadow, patches of blackness, where a man – a dozen men – could hide. One had failed to harm him; next time several might try.
He was within a few doors of Middleton’s chalet when a man came away from it, although no door opened and there was no light. The man appeared briefly, a silhouette against a light some way off. There was no mistaking the rounded shoulders of Uncle Pi.
He disappeared.
Rollison started moving again.
The footsteps behind him also started afresh.
Chapter Eight
Threat
It was quiet; dark, eerie.
The footsteps might almost have been the echoes of Rollison’s own, except that he knew that they were not.
He gripped his weapon and peered about him, could make out the shape of the chalets against the dark sky; clouds had blown up, and it was much cooler. He could just discern the waving tops of bushes, and could hear them rustling.
A man walked briskly along a path nearby; then a chalet door slammed, and there was silence.
Had he imagined the shadower?
Rollison turned to the door of Middleton’s chalet, and tapped softly. There was no answer, and there was no light on inside. Two or three chalets in this line had lights on, but most were in darkness.
He tapped again; and still there was no answer.
Five minutes in Middleton’s chalet might tell him a lot; but above everything else there was that feeling, almost a premonition, that Middleton had disappeared, like the others.
Rollison tapped for a third time, got no answer, and then walked briskly away, as if he’d given up trying. And now was followed. This time there was no doubt, no attempt on the part of his follower to hide the fact that he was behind.
Rollison stopped at a corner, rubber hose in hand.
A light attached to the corner chalet was not bright; yet he could be seen against it by the man who came towards him. Just one man, who drew nearer.
He became a shape – tall, dark, wearing a trilby hat. He showed up against lighted windows – and blotted some out as he passed. He wore rubber soles, and made little sound; it was familiar, almost frightening.
Rollison stood quite still.
The man drew within a few feet of him; and still came on. Eerie was just one word. It was almost as if the man could not see him; as if he were being followed by a ghost.
The man stopped.
He said: ‘I’ve got a gun.’
It was Cy Beck.
He had a flat voice, and indistinct; not the kind of voice that it would be easy to recognize again. He spoke through a muffler or a scarf, wound about his face, and covering his mouth loosely. The light fell on his eyes; that was all Rollison could see of the face itself, but he was sure it was Beck.
‘Really?’ Rollison said. ‘Mind it doesn’t go off pop, Cy. I’m a nervous man by nature.’
‘You’re in the way,’ Beck said.
‘It’s even been suggested before,’ Rollison murmured, ‘it’s almost a hardy annual. Whose way?’
‘Mine.’
‘If I were in a more receptive mood, I might apologize,’ murmured Rollison, ‘but I’m still annoyed by the fracas in the Viennese Bar. What—’
‘Rollison,’ said Beck, ‘you talk too much. I’ve got a gun. I wouldn’t mind using it. You’re in the way here—get out. Never mind why you came, never mind about those Redcoats. Just get out.’
‘But where’s my inducement?’ Rollison asked practically. ‘You can’t expect a man just to fold up because you breathe hot air on him.’
It was not so easy to be flippant. Beck was just out of reach of a blow, and probably had a gun. All this was at one with Rollison’s fear for Susan Dell; he believed that Beck was quite capable of shooting, and a length of rubber hose was little use against a gun.
The night was quiet; a light went out, leaving only one, some distance off, as well as the corner light above his head.
‘You can pack up and leave in the morning,’ Beck said. ‘Don’t stay any longer.’
Rollison didn’t speak.
The man went on: ‘They’re alive—they needn’t stay that way. I could cut their throats.’
Nothing in his tone suggested that he was talking for the sake of talking; he sounded more menacing because there was no expression, no emphasis; just the plain statement. ‘I could cut their throats,’ he said, calmly; and in Rollison’s eyes there appeared a picture of Redcoats with red throats.
‘As easily as I could shoot you,’ the man added.
He moved his right arm.
Rollison felt a wave of panic, and flung himself to one side. He heard a hissing sound. He felt angry with himself as he steadied, because there was no report of a shot, nothing to suggest that—
He felt a stinging pain in his eyes, and knew at once what it was: ammonia gas. Tears flooded his eyes, the lights blurred, the night went darker; but there was nothing he could do to help himself. He stretched out his hand and touched the corner of a chalet. The air was clearer here, he had taken a shot of the stuff right in his face. His eyes stung, his nose and throat burned.
He stood quite still, dabbing at his eyes, breathing in the clear air.
He was at the other man’s mercy, yet felt that the man had gone. This was simply a warning. He didn’t like the other’s confidence, his quick anticipation of the way he was likely to dodge from that ‘shot’. But it was obvious that Beck would like to avoid trouble by driving him away.
He did not know how long he stood there, but at last he felt better. He could breathe without the cool air seeming to burn his nostrils. He moved about, slowly, cautiously.
He moved, slowly. There was only the silence – broken suddenly, a long way off, by an outburst of laughter and then, clear, a woman’s voice: ‘Be quiet, Tim!’
A door banged.
That was all; Rollison was left with the quiet night and the stinging memory of the gas and of the tall man with the covered face and the flat voice and creeping menace. It had been Beck – surely? The man had said that the three Redcoats were alive but that he could cut their throats.
From the moment he had seen the fear in Susan Dell’s eyes, this case had become different; deadly. The tall man had made it worse; venomous.
There wasn’t much time to lose.
Middleton’s cha
let was only a few yards away.
If Middleton knew anything, he must be made to talk. He hadn’t answered the tapping, might have been dead asleep.
Rollison moved slowly towards Middleton’s chalet. He heard only his own footsteps, yet listened, ears strained, in case others were behind him.
He heard none.
He reached the door, paused, and listened; and heard nothing. He tapped, softly; and there was no response. He tapped more loudly; there was still no answer.
He turned and faced the empty lawn, the opposite line of chalets. All were in darkness, now, and he heard no sound except the faint rustling of the wind through trees and bushes, and murmuring along the grass. It was colder; much colder. He shivered.
He turned back to the door.
He didn’t tap again, but took his knife from a pocket. It had many blades. Such a knife would have pleased any schoolboy, delighted any crook, and made any policeman from a flatfoot upwards the most suspicious man in the world. Among the blades were the pick-lock, a metal saw, a cold chisel, and also, a mica blade, for opening Yale locks like those on the chalets.
Convinced that he was no longer being watched, Rollison started work. Yet with his back turned to the other chalets and the grass and the dark sky, the feeling of being watched was much stronger than ever.
The lock clicked back.
He pushed the door open, and it squeaked; there was no other sound.
Why wasn’t Middleton in his chalet?
Rollison closed the door and leaned against it, then shone a pencil torch round the walls. The beam fell on a large photograph – of Elizabeth Cherrell.
There she was, with all her beauty; smiling radiantly; and her photograph was by the side of Middleton’s bed. What else would he find here?
The beam of the torch lowered.
It fell on Middleton, who lay on the bed, fully dressed, with a stocking tied tightly round his throat.
Rollison switched on the chalet light, and swept forward, knife in his hand again, the cutting blade open before he reached the Redcoat leader’s side.