by John Creasey
Not far behind them was Jolly; obviously watching Uncle Pi.
‘Pi,’ Rollison said, as they reached the office, ‘I want you to get all the Redcoats together unofficially. Tell them that we’re going to have a bit of panic on our hands if we’re not careful, and drill them into handling it. Ask ’em what they think is the best thing to do, tell ’em that the reputation of the Camp is in their hands. You know the stuff.’
‘I see what you mean,’ Uncle Pi said slowly.
‘And then I shall tell Aird that we need you to start work on pacifying the Campers,’ Rollison went on. ‘You can make more magic with that voice of yours. Just calm them down.’
‘I’ll try,’ Uncle Pi said.
‘Thanks. I don’t know how you get all Redcoats together, but try to fix it before dinner, will you,’ Rollison asked.
‘Right,’ said Uncle Pi.
Rollison turned into the offices. Uncle Pi went on; and behind him was Jolly and a crocodile of a dozen children. Rollison watched them and Uncle Pi, with his rounded shoulders and swift yet unhurried walk. Llewellyn, Colonel Wickford White, and another man whose face was in shadow were in Aird’s office when Rollison went in.
‘Where’s Davies?’ he asked dryly. ‘Don’t we need him to make up the party?’
‘He’s with Mrs. Beck,’ Aird said. ‘Trying to find out what she knows. And his men are questioning Beck.’
Chapter Eighteen
Possibility
So the police were with the Becks.
And Beck could have three Redcoats killed; and perhaps Liz Cherrell, also.
Rollison found himself lighting a cigarette automatically. He had known that this was inevitable, but it brought the savage hurt of a knife thrust. He sat on the corner of a desk, looking at Wickford White. The Colonel was as sprucely dressed and vigorous-looking as ever; he had a frustrated look, too, as if his energy were kept from bursting bounds by some compulsion which he detested.
‘Hallo, Rollison,’ he said. ‘Glad to see you again. ’Fraid this isn’t working out as we hoped.’
‘Oh, come. Exactly as you hoped!’
‘My dear chap! Violence in the Camp. More disappearances—’
‘As Aird once said, when they felt themselves in danger they started to get nasty,’ Rollison pointed out. ‘Nothing we could do about it. They’re badly worried.’
He wondered if anyone could guess how worried he was. He looked at the stranger, recognized but couldn’t place him. He was sturdily built, with good, regular features, rather preoccupied. He gave a slight smile.
‘My dear chap!’ the Colonel exclaimed again. ‘Of course, you haven’t met the Chief. Mr. Butlin—Mr. Rollison.’
Now Rollison placed the stranger from his photographs. They shook hands, murmured politely.
‘Go on, Wickford,’ Butlin said.
‘Have to be frank,’ said Wickford White. ‘You haven’t yet done what we hoped you’d do. Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not complaining. But we hoped you would solve the problem quietly. Now we’re getting disturbing reports from all over the Camp—the Campers are feeling jittery. Bad. Only the nervous ones so far, of course, but we’re all very worried.’
Rollison said: ‘I’ve told Wray—Uncle Pi—what to do about that.’ He explained what he’d planned.
‘Astonishing!’ exclaimed Wickford White. ‘That’s exactly what Mr. Butlin suggested—get the Pied Piper ready.’
‘Nice to know I’ve done something right,’ Rollison said dryly.
‘Don’t misunderstand us,’ said Butlin, in a quiet voice. His smile was reassuring. ‘I’ve the fullest confidence in you, we all have, but when we heard of the murder of Susan Dell, we told the police everything—the terms on which we engaged you, our purpose, everything. But you represent us in the investigation. I’m sure the police will be glad of your help.’
Rollison smiled. So he wasn’t being politely fired.
‘Nice of you. Thanks.’ Now there was Davies to deal with, the Yard to ask for help, the reassuring confidence of the Camp’s owner.
‘Hallo, here’s Davies,’ Wickford White said.
Aird opened the door, and the Inspector came in briskly. He smiled all round, but nothing suggested that he had had much luck with Mrs. Beck or Beck himself.
‘Well?’ the Colonel burst out.
‘Mrs. Beck says that she was walking in the gardens and was attacked from behind,’ said the Inspector, musically, ‘and that’s all she can tell us, gentlemen.’ His voice went up and down, up and down. He looked at Rollison, and began to smile again, if faintly. ‘I’m glad to see you again, Mr. Rollison. I’ve been talking about you on the telephone with Scotland Yard.’
‘And I’m not arrested yet,’ Rollison marvelled.
Davies’s smile broadened; his eyes crinkled.
‘They’ve a high opinion of you,’ he said, as if he were pleasantly but very greatly surprised, ‘and they told me that you had asked them about this investigation, and also about the man Clark.’
Butlin, the Colonel, Aird, and Llewellyn now had their turn to look startled.
‘Just a precaution,’ Rollison said. ‘Never tread where the police don’t want you to, unless you want to very badly.’
Butlin smiled more broadly. ‘I knew we could rely on you not to take chances,’ he said. ‘I came just to tell you that. I have to be off. I’m overdue in London. Glad to leave you to look after our interests.’
He shook hands all round, and went out with Aird.
Davies stroked his chin, as if to prevent himself from smiling.
‘I think I see what you mean, now,’ he said. ‘They told me about this man Clark, and what he’s been up to. I’m to pass the message on.’ He paused, not necessarily for effect; but he won effect. ‘They now know that he’s still mixed up with a gang of jewel thieves.’
No one spoke; until the Colonel exploded: ‘Jewels!’
‘Yes, Colonel White, stolen jewels,’ said Davies, his voice rising on the ‘els’ until it was almost two notes higher than the ‘jew’. They aren’t able to tell us much more about it, except that the woman Susan Dell was used as a decoy sometimes, she helped the thieves to keep the owners occupied while they took the jewels. He rubbed his nose again. ‘There’s no telling until we have the inquest verdict, but I’ll venture an opinion,’ went on Davies, so mildly that he might have been talking about the temperature of the water in the swimming-pool. ‘She didn’t fall over those cliffs, indeed she didn’t— she was pushed. There was a bruise on the back of her head and other marks which the police surgeon doesn’t think are consistent with falling, and if he’s right, then it would be a matter of murder, wouldn’t it?’
‘Murder!’ exploded the Colonel; and Llewellyn gave a little popping echo of the word. ‘Murder! I must go and tell the Chief.’ He hurried to the door.
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Davies, gravely. ‘Murder.’
‘Looking for Clark?’ asked Rollison sharply.
‘Didn’t anyone tell you?’ asked Davies, as if surprised; but he wasn’t a fool, and probably knew quite well that no one else was aware of what had happened. ‘They found Clark’s body also—he was in the sea not so far away from here. His throat was cut.’
No one spoke.
Rollison saw a picture in his mind’s eye; of a crude crayon drawing of three Redcoats, one lying down and two sitting, each with a cut throat.
He could picture the flawless white perfection of Elizabeth Cherrell’s throat.
Davies followed him to the door as he went away. Outside in the passage, the Inspector said: ‘What will you do, Mr. Rollison?’
‘I’m going to try Beck’s wife,’ Rollison said. ‘She might change her mind. Why don’t you station a man in the Sick Bay where she is— send him at once, by the back way. I’ll go a long way round.’
‘Good idea, man,’ said Davies. ‘I’ll send an officer at once.’
Rollison walked across the reception hall. There was a milling crowd outside, and
the Colonel appeared to be ‘protecting’ his chief, who was besieged by Campers and signing autograph books steadily.
‘No, really, we must go!’ the Colonel cried.
Rollison joined them, and they cleared a path, but were followed by a crowd. Butlin stopped by a children’s playground, watching, smiling.
‘You’ll be late,’ the Colonel said plaintively.
‘Ten minutes won’t hurt,’ said Butlin, and turned to Rollison again. ‘I meant all I said, Mr. Rollison. Good-bye again.’
As soon as he had gone, Rollison became the centre of attraction again. Many people looked at him, some openly, some furtively; there was whispering, some Redcoats looked askance, too. The radio girl was saying something; that it was nearly dinner-time. Rollison had almost forgotten what it was like to feel hungry.
Jolly was in his chalet; a quiet Jolly, who listened and was obviously feeling subdued.
‘More emphasis on jewels,’ he echoed, when Rollison finished.
‘Yes. And now there’s murder and the police involved, the pressure’s on. Find out if the police are watching Beck, will you? He might try to skip.’
He went to the drawer and took out the pencilled drawing. Jolly glanced at it.
‘Any news of Uncle Pi?’ Rollison asked abruptly.
‘He was in Miss Cherrell’s chalet for twenty minutes or so,’ Jolly said. ‘He appeared to have a key, but he may have borrowed a master-key from the maid. That is all, sir.’
Rollison grunted, and left the chalet.
People were streaming towards the dining-halls, children were running; at least one in three looked back. He was going in a different direction from most of them. He reached the lower road and turned towards the Sick Bay – and as he reached a corner, Beck appeared.
He walked alongside Rollison.
Few Campers were about here; but two cars passed, and the passenger in one turned and looked back.
‘Rollison,’ Beck said, at last; he spoke as if the act of using his voice hurt him, ‘don’t say a word to the police about me. Not a word, do you understand. Or else—’
He crossed his throat with his finger. This time he didn’t imitate the death rattle; that made it worse, because Rollison found himself waiting for the hideous sound.
‘Nothing would stop it if I were arrested,’ Beck said. ‘Don’t forget that.’
He turned off the road; and a man in plain clothes followed him. This wasn’t the moment to tackle Beck. But Beck was nervous. Had he attacked his own wife? Would he have done a crazy thing like that, knowing that it would bring in the police, and they would question, probably watch him?
Rollison walked on. He could feel the influence of the man, just as nearly everyone else who had anything to do with the affair seemed to feel it, but – was it justified? Were there others working with Beck who would murder? Was this an act? Almost a form of hypnosis?
Murder had been committed, hadn’t it? Twice.
There was lovely Elizabeth with those glorious eyes and that fear – gone completely.
Was Beck bluffing?
Rollison could catch up with him, soon; could see him alone, but – he needed facts. He needed evidence to use against the man, evidence for which Elizabeth’s safety might be bartered.
He reached the line of chalets which had a First Aid notice swinging above several. The Sister on duty said there was no reason why he shouldn’t speak to Mrs. Beck – she was much better. The police had questioned her nearly an hour ago. She was extremely lucky, if that cord had been tied a little tighter …
Rosa lay on a bed; not in it. She wore a cotton dress of pale green with big, dark-green leaves. Her hair was drawn back from her forehead and looked like beaten brass. Her lipstick was smeared, and her powder had gone; her cheeks and nose were shiny.
When she saw Rollison, she started violently.
The Sister left them together.
‘Well, Rosa,’ Rollison said, ‘why didn’t you wait?’
She didn’t look at him, seemed as if she wanted to be anywhere but in the same room.
‘Go away,’ she breathed. ‘Go away!’
‘It won’t happen again, and—’
‘Go away!’
‘It won’t—’
‘It happened to Susan Dell!’ she gasped. ‘She’s disappeared, hasn’t she? If it hadn’t been for that, I wouldn’t have—’
She stopped again.
‘Tell me this, Rosa.’ Rollison pulled up a chair and sat by her side. He gave her a cigarette, and she seemed glad to draw on it. But she was reluctant to meet his eyes. ‘You want to save life, don’t you?’ Rollison persisted.
‘Go—go away,’ she said sighingly.
‘At least three, probably four people are in danger. You can help me—can’t you?’
‘I—I don’t know anything.’
‘Rosa,’ he said, ‘you can tell me what you know. I’ll make sure that nothing more happens to you. You needn’t worry, you’ll be quite safe.’
She didn’t speak.
‘What can you tell me?’
‘If—if he ever finds out—’
‘He won’t until it’s too late,’ Rollison said. He watched her closely. He saw that she was looking now at him and now at the window – as if she felt the presence of her husband and believed that in a moment he would be glaring in here with those searing eyes. ‘Where are the men, Rosa? Where’s Elizabeth Cherrell?’
‘I—I don’t know about the girl,’ she whispered. ‘I heard Cy say something, not—not much.’ She clutched Rollison’s hand and pulled herself up. He saw the redness at her throat; as it had been at Middleton’s. ‘But the men—Rollison, if I tell you, don’t let Cy—’
‘He won’t hurt you.’
‘You don’t know him!’
‘He won’t hurt you any more,’ Rollison said soothingly. ‘I’ll see to it. I’ll see that you’re guarded, day and night, from this moment on.’
She dropped back on her pillows.
‘They’re in some caves in the rocks, near Harlech,’ she said. ‘You get from here by boat. The men were kept in an old barn up by the Camp stables until after dark, then taken away.’
‘Why does he do it? What have they found out?’
‘I don’t know,’ she gasped, ‘I don’t—’
Then she screamed and covered her face with her hands; and fell back as if she were dead.
Rollison swung round towards the window, in time to see the dark, wiry hair of Cyrus Beck as the man moved away.
Chapter Nineteen
Talk Of Jewels
The Sister came hurrying in as Rollison turned from the window. Rosa lay absolutely still. Rollison watched the nurse bending over her, calling her, slapping her face lightly. Rosa seemed to have gone into a trance. Her eyes were open, and she stared at the ceiling but made no response.
Rollison remembered his earlier, uneasy thought – that Beck’s influence was almost hypnotic. He could induce fear. He could induce shock symptoms.
Could he?
Rollison went into the dispensing room, where another nurse was mixing bright liquids. There were stacks of bandages, enamel trays, surgical instruments, all the paraphernalia of the First Aid room. Davies’s man stood up from behind the door, tapping his notebook.
‘All right?’ asked Rollison, mildly.
‘Now we’ve got ’em, sir!’ The man was bright-eyed and eager to be off.
‘I hope so,’ Rollison said.
‘We will get some of the fishermen who know every cave in the rocks,’ said Davies’s man, ‘they won’t get them away now, take it from me.’
He hurried off.
Rollison went back into the sick-room. Rosa still lay on her back, eyes open and staring towards the ceiling. The Sister had piled clothes on her.
‘She seems all right,’ she said. ‘Pulse is a bit fast, and her respiration’s a bit shallow, that’s all. Just shock, but I’d better fetch the doctor again.’
‘Yes,’ Rollison said. ‘Was
n’t her pulse fast when she first came here?’
‘Not very.’ The Sister gave a funny little laugh. ‘If that cord had been tied a little tighter, I don’t think we could have saved her.’
‘Moral to murderers, never do a job in too much of a hurry,’ Rollison said. ‘Nothing I can do?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Rollison stood at the foot of the bed, looking down at Rosa. There was no way of telling whether she recognized him or not; she lay absolutely comatose. Now and again she blinked; that was all.
He went out.
Time had passed without his realizing it. Dusk was falling. In the west the sun seemed to be sinking into the sea, a fiery red ball at which he could look with comfort through the haze. In another direction he could make out the shore – and, if he concentrated, Harlech Castle and the rocky cliffs below it.
As he entered the large reception room, the middle-aged woman with the grey hair and the nice wrinkles came across to him; she looked as if she had been lying in wait. She wore navy blue and white, was very simply and very neatly dressed; she looked charming. If there had to be a woman in Jolly’s life, she looked right. Her eyes smiled, although there was a serious glint in them.
‘Excuse me, sir, but Mr. Jolly is worried because you haven’t had any dinner.’
‘I’ll get a snack, thanks.’
‘He asked me to tell you that he has put one in your chalet,’ she added. ‘And also—they have arrived.’ She changed the direction of her gaze.
Rollison looked in the same direction. Leaning against the counter beneath the big sign keys was a large man – a man of the size and, if the truth be told, much the appearance of the burly, brutish Rickett. But there was nothing brutish about this giant, in spite of his large paunch, his blunted features, and his two superb cauliflower ears.
He had smallish, pale-blue eyes; he winked.
Rollison winked back.