by John Creasey
Middleton muttered something and turned away, limping. The two young Redcoats looked at Rollison as if to say, ‘We understand, sir,’ and went out with him. Rollison felt a curious flatness at the ‘sir’ and the attitude of deference. But that soon passed.
‘I’ll come with you,’ Llewellyn said.
‘Another job to do first,’ Rollison said. ‘We want Mrs. Beck followed. Have to use a Security man. Send one over to me, will you, I’ll be at the far end of the pool.’
He hurried back to the spot where he had left Rosa.
All Rollison could do was have a search started for Rosa – and go with Llewellyn to see that Security man who had followed Elizabeth and been found in a corner of one of the Quiet Lounges – there were several in the Camp. This one, near the main gates, had three doors leading into it. The man had been found behind two armchairs. There were bloodstains on the wall and on the back of a chair; but nothing that Rollison could see to help him find the identity of the attackers.
The man himself couldn’t help.
Elizabeth Cherrell had gone into a quiet lounge to get some cards ready for an evening Whist Drive. The Security man had waited for ten minutes; she hadn’t come out, so he had gone in. He hadn’t seen Liz, but had been struck on the head while passing through the doorway.
Now he was heavily bandaged, and there was a bruise on the right cheek.
And Elizabeth was gone …
He gave Rollison a list of her movements; he had it all down, with a time-table. At first sight it did nothing to help – but there it was, the people she had seen and spoken to, the places she’d been to, a complete record of where she had been and what she had done from the moment that the man had started to watch her.
She had twice seen Middleton.
Rollison checked with the Security Officer who had followed Middleton; the two meetings between the Redcoat Captain and Elizabeth tallied on each record – they had met once in a dining-hall, once on the playing-fields.
Rollison talked to the gate officials, within sight of the Quiet Lounge. Neither of the men on duty had noticed anything unusual. It must have happened very quickly. The windows were visible from the gate, but of course the men had to look out of the Camp, not inwards.
Had there been anything at all unusual?
Nothing.
Who had gone in and out of the Camp?
A lot of cars, of course – but no record was kept, the gate-keepers simply made sure that no one without authority came in. But they were observant. There had been an R.A.C. scout at the gate about the time of the disappearance, and he was telephoned, to help. Rollison left them making up a list, from memory, of all the vehicles which had gone out of the gates. Of course, Elizabeth could have been in any car – no matter how small. If she had been on the floor, with a rug thrown over her, there would have been little chance of her being seen. She could have walked out, of course, without using the main entrance; but that wasn’t likely.
Was it? What would Jolly say?
More reports came in.
Cyrus Beck hadn’t been out of the Camp. Nor had the brutish Rickett. Rosa wasn’t in her chalet.
The three prisoners were still in theirs.
Rollison left the gates, for the offices. He soon sensed something which he hadn’t noticed earlier: he was being watched by a lot of people. It wasn’t the same kind of thing that had made him sensitive to Beck, not cause for fear; yet there was something furtive about it.
He was being pointed out by many people.
He heard a boy in his early teens say: ‘That’s him, Mum.’
People stopped and looked round when he passed; or stopped to watch him as he approached. Children pointed. It revealed something which had not existed in the Camp the previous day, and told Rollison that the dark-haired Redcoat had known what he was talking about.
He went to his chalet, but Jolly wasn’t there.
He telephoned the gate and was told that at least twenty-seven cars had left the Camp, as well as several Camp lorries and vans; it was impossible to be sure that everyone was on the list.
Jolly arrived, still in his wrap.
He listened as he dressed.
‘I haven’t been idle, sir,’ he said, as if he were conscious of censure. ‘I’ve been trying to find out whether there is any common factor in the disappearances. Apart, I mean, from people involved in each. I think there is one, and the place where Miss Cherrell was last seen is consistent.’
‘What is it?’
‘All of the missing Redcoats were last seen near the main gates,’ Jolly said. ‘My—ah—friend has been very helpful, making inquiries as discreetly as she could, but that hasn’t been wholly successful. Here is the list, sir.’
He had it written down.
Jim Campion had been seen by the assistant at a sweet-shop, near the main gates – or had been last noticed. Tommy Tucker had been seen at the entrance to the Princes Theatre, almost opposite the shop. Peverill had been on the nearby putting-course.
There was another note in Jolly’s clear handwriting.
Elizabeth Cherrell had been seen with each of the three Redcoats a little while before they had vanished; she herself had made this clear.
‘What else do we know?’ Rollison asked heavily.
‘One other common factor has come to light, sir,’ Jolly said. ‘I think I may say that my helper has done a remarkable job.’ He was firm. ‘It is now certain that each man—Campion, Tucker, and Peverill—was very friendly with Miss Cherrell; they were rivals, one might say. She did not discourage or strongly encourage them, as far as I can find out.’
‘How did you find this out?’
‘It was common knowledge to the Redcoats, sir. However, these men were all at one time or other assistants to Uncle Pi, when looking after the elder children.’
‘Oh,’ said Rollison heavily.
‘There is still another factor,’ Jolly went on serenely. ‘Everyone, including Miss Cherrell, must have been in the plain view of dozens, if not hundreds of people, just before they vanished. It is almost as if they just walked out. But not one of them was seen to pass through the gates by the gate-keepers. The disappearances were about that spot, all the same—a spot from which they could go or be taken out of the Camp very easily.’
‘Or taken to any other part of the Camp,’ Rollison pointed out. ‘The railway—the beach—the fields on either side. The trouble here is that no one ever watches anyone—so many people are moving about, you just don’t notice them unless there’s some special reason for it. We need Ebbutt and his boys.’
Ebbutt and his men couldn’t easily be knocked out, but – were they coming too late?
‘Are you going to tackle Middleton again, sir?’ asked Jolly.
‘He’s hardly responsible for what he says, but yes. But first I want to see Uncle Pi. Any more low-down on him?’
‘He’s extremely popular with everyone, sir—and all know that he is deeply in love with Miss Cherrell. Apparently he has been for years. There is a section of Camp opinion which believes his slight deformity puts him out of the running, as it were.’
‘H’m, yes. A man with a grievance like that could be a psychological case,’ Rollison said gloomily. ‘Keep an eye on him yourself when you can spare the time, Jolly.’ The sarcasm appeared to go over Jolly’s head. ‘I want to have another go at Beck, but I’ll wait until our reinforcements arrive tonight. But no longer, Beck’s due for his shock. And—’
The telephone bell rang.
He grabbed the receiver.
‘Rollison here …’
He wasn’t surprised when he heard Llewellyn’s voice; he wasn’t surprised really when he heard the Assistant Controller say: ‘That Mrs. Beck—she’s been found, Rollison. Down in the rock garden by the railway. Strangled.’
Chapter Seventeen
Cause For Fear
Rosa Beck wasn’t dead.
The hideous similarity between the attack on her and the attack on Middleton coul
dn’t be missed. A cord, not a stocking, had been tied round her neck, and it looked as if she had been left for dead. Two Sisters from the Sick Bay had rushed to her, and a doctor was on his way from Pwllheli when Rollison reached the rock gardens.
There were dozens of people about, mostly middle-aged or elderly, seeking coolness in the shade and beauty among the flowers. It was always quiet here, except for a few very young children in prams or in their mothers’ arms. When Rollison arrived, there were at least a hundred people.
He felt their gaze.
‘There he is …’
‘That’s Rollison.’
‘That’s the Toff.’
‘Murder …’
He sensed the feeling which Llewellyn had earlier; one which probably explained Llewellyn’s anxiety and the fact that he had almost lost his grip. Here was the beginning of fear among the Campers. Here was a fat chrysalis of rumour which would soon grow wings.
‘Murder … Strangled … Detectives … The Toff … Murder … Murder— One last Night … Disappeared they have …’
He did not hear the actual words, but sensed them, as if thoughts in the minds of the people could be projected into his.
He searched for clues. There were a few footprints, with nothing remarkable about them. The paths and steps on the large rock gardens were of stone; most of the flower-beds were so crammed with flowers that feet could only trample these down, not leave tell-tale signs behind.
Rosa, now in hospital, had been found behind some bushes.
She must have walked down a path from the road at the end of the chalets, and been attacked from behind. The actual spot had been cleverly chosen, the most remote in the garden.
Llewellyn arrived.
‘Must have the police in, of course,’ he said. ‘Aird telephoned me, just before you came. He thinks so, too. I’ll telephone Davies. Yes?’
‘Yes,’ Rollison agreed.
‘What made you think she might be attacked?’
Rollison said: ‘She’d asked for help but didn’t wait for it. Like Susan Dell.’ He looked bleakly across the garden and to the railway tracks.
‘She’ll pull round,’ Llewellyn said. ‘Think she can help?’
‘If she were in a mind to, but this might scare her off,’ Rollison said. ‘Can we blame anyone for not wanting to be murdered?’
‘Shocking,’ Llewellyn said weakly. ‘And here, of all places—it’s inconceivable! Haven’t you any idea what it’s about?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll telephone Davies,’ Llewellyn said. ‘He’ll soon be here. Certainly can’t wait any longer before we call the police, but’ — he seemed to be talking in order to convince himself — ‘What effect it’s going to have on the Campers I don’t know. If they get an idea that a murderer’s loose …’ He looked really dismayed. ‘If you knew how rumour spreads in a place like this …’
He didn’t finish, but hurried off.
The dark-haired and the fair-haired young Redcoats who had been with them earlier were with the crowd now. So were several others. Uncle Pi, with a dozen or so children about him, was on the playing-fields near the chalets.
By then, Rollison had absorbed the reason for Llewellyn’s fear, and accepted it as logical. If rumour that a killer was at large spread far and wide, it would soon be distorted. The killer would turn into a man who would strike at anyone; anywhere. It would become a Thing. The danger of panic working itself into people’s hearts, minds, eyes, voices, was haunting Llewellyn.
Rollison went to Middleton’s chalet, but Middleton wasn’t there. He turned and saw Uncle Pi approaching.
‘Rollison, I was just coming to see you.’
‘Nice of you,’ Rollison said, ‘I wanted—’
‘Dick Middleton, as you’re at his chalet. He’s in mine.’ Rollison went to Uncle Pi’s chalet. ‘We were both coming to see you.’ The hunchback looked very white, especially about the lips. Was it pain in his eyes? ‘Any idea where Liz is, yet?’
‘No.’
‘Dick has an idea about you,’ Uncle Pi said. ‘He thinks that you’re lousy.’
Middleton was standing by the side of Uncle Pi’s bed, smoking; his hands weren’t steady, his eyes were glassy. Without the scarf round his neck, the red swelling showed how tight the stocking had been.
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Rollison, how did you get into my chalet last night?’
‘I picked the lock.’
Middleton said in a taut voice: ‘I’ll tell you something else you did. You put a blanket over my head, then knocked me out, and then pretended to strangle me with Liz’s stocking. Then you did your life-saving act. That’s what I think of you.’
‘Crazy, you see,’ said Uncle Pi. His brown eyes were very bright. ‘Isn’t he?’
He seemed to be asking the question of himself; and trying to seek an answer at the same time. The question was: Can Dick Middleton be right?
‘Quite crazy,’ Rollison said.
‘All right,’ growled Middleton, ‘explain how you happened to come along just at that moment? Go on. You wanted to appear a hero, and then—’
‘Yes, and what then?’ Rollison asked lightly. ‘I’d be interested to hear what motive I had.’
‘You know—’ Middleton stopped.
‘Let’s assume I don’t know a thing.’
‘Assume?’ Uncle Pi could be bitingly sardonic.
‘You knew damned well I’ve been trying to find out where the other fellows went,’ Middleton shouted. ‘You knew that I—’
He couldn’t finish.
‘So you’re a detective too,’ Rollison said. That was meant to sting Middleton into saying more. ‘What else did I know?’
‘You knew I was afraid that Liz was involved,’ Middleton said. He sounded as if the words choked him; and Uncle Pi looked as if he would willingly strangle him. ‘And you wanted to worm the truth out of me, wanted to find out how much I did know.’
‘Well, how much do you?’
‘I just …’ Middleton’s voice seemed to die to a husky burr. He didn’t actually form words for several moments. Uncle Pi continued to look at him. ‘I just suspected Liz,’ Middleton managed at last. ‘I hated myself for it, but—’
‘Go on.’
‘She was friendly with the three who disappeared,’ Middleton burst out. ‘I know she was—she was stringing them along. She made them think there was a chance for them. The same as she did me. I—’
‘Dick,’ said Uncle Pi, in the softest voice, ‘I ought to wring your neck for that, except that too many necks appear to have been wrung.’ His eyes were glowing. ‘And also except that I can see you’re crazy. Give me one reason for suspecting Liz of any part in this devilry, apart from the fact that she was friendly with the three Redcoats who vanished.’
‘Isn’t that enough?’ Middleton rasped.
‘No.’
‘I talked to her about them,’ Middleton said, as if goaded into going on. ‘She just brushed me off. Everyone else here was worried about it, when they had time to be worried, but Liz wasn’t. She tried to make out that it was nothing to worry about, although—’
‘Although what?’
Middleton went on hoarsely: ‘I can’t help it if you’re fooled by her, too! She’s so beautiful that it blinds you. She can hypnotize you. When she wants anything—’
Uncle Pi thrust his hands deeper in his pockets.
‘I can’t stand this any more,’ he growled. ‘Or else I shall really wring his neck.’
He went out.
Middleton glared after him.
Rollison said very mildly: ‘Do you love her as much as that, Dick?’
The Redcoat Captain didn’t speak.
‘She is lovely,’ Rollison said. ‘She might be a Delilah, too. But I didn’t strangle you, you know. Not my cup of tea at all. Who put that idea into your head?’
Middleton didn’t speak.
‘Who?’ Rollison insisted.
‘She—she did,’ Middleton
uttered. ‘And I almost believed her. It wasn’t until I started talking to Uncle Pi that I realized that a man with your reputation—’ He broke off, snatched a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, found it empty, growled: ‘Oh, hell!’ and flung it at the wall. ‘I feel as if I am going crazy. If she’s guilty, it’s awful. If she’s really missing—’
‘Listen,’ Rollison said, putting a cigarette between Middleton’s fingers. ‘What makes you think it possible that she was right, and that I attacked you?’
‘Call me crazy,’ Middleton said. ‘I can’t help it, perhaps I am crazy. But as soon as you arrived, you started going around with her. She was detailed to help you, but it seemed obvious that you knew each other.’
Rollison didn’t speak.
‘I think it was obvious, anyhow,’ Middleton growled. ‘She was with you all the time, you were always in a huddle. I could have broken your damned neck!’ He drew fiercely at the cigarette, hesitated, then went on in a low-pitched, savage voice: ‘It’s like living in hell. Loving her so much and believing that she’s bad. Understand, fearing that she’s bad. Is she? Tell me that, Rollison, is she?’
‘We’re finding out,’ Rollison said.
A few minutes later he went out of the chalet with Middleton. Uncle Pi was on one of the paths. Middleton went into his own chalet. Rollison went on, and Uncle Pi fell into step with him. They walked along in silence, until: ‘Certain amount of confusion in Dick’s mind, isn’t there?’ Uncle Pi said calmly. ‘Anyone who could believe ill of the Toff must be crazy!’
He gave the sardonic smile. With his slightly humped back and slightly twisted neck, he could look almost sinister – if it weren’t for his wonderful voice and his honest eyes.
‘Confusion, yes,’ Rollison said. ‘He might not be so crazy about Liz.’
‘I don’t regard you as a sick man,’ Uncle Pi said with his wry smile. ‘I wouldn’t mind punching you on the nose, and I want to punch someone.’
‘Go ahead.’
They went towards the offices. Rollison was watched, pointed at, whispered about. There was a factor he hadn’t known before: people were subdued. The laughter of some people seemed forced. Rollison knew that much of this might be auto-suggestion; but not all of it. Those who were easily unnerved were already beginning to feel the strain. This showed among the Redcoats, too. Those who approached looked at Rollison almost longingly, as if asking: ‘Can’t you stop it?’