by John Creasey
“They’ll do,” said Rollison. “Who are they addressed to?”
She looked at each of the four before she said:
“Stanislas Waleski at the Oxford Street Palace Hotel. Two say “Stanislas”, the others just “S”.”
“Thanks. Put them on the desk, will you? So we’ve a Pole who talks like an Englishman and wears American clothes. Quite a cosmopolitan, isn’t he? Waleski, lean forward —farther than that.”
Waleski’s head was thrust forward; he studied his shoes and the bald patch showed in the middle of the dark head.
“Well, is that him?” asked Rollison.
“Yes!”
“Good. Do you like getting hurt, Waleski?”
The man leaned back in his chair, his face darker for the blood had run to his head, and his eyes flaming. He didn’t speak but clutched the arms of his chair.
“Because you’re going to get hurt if you don’t do what you’re told,” said Rollison. “Let me have that letter, Judith.”
She handed it to him and he read aloud, very slowly:
“ “Sorry I’ve messed things up, Judy. There’s nothing I can do now. I didn’t mean to kill him. I just fe lt I had to let you know that.””
As the last few words came out, Rollison lowered the letter and looked straight into Waleski’s eyes.
“Who wrote that?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“You delivered it.”
Waleski said: “That’s what you think.”
Then Rollison moved again—a swift lunge, startling Waleski and the girl. His right hand shot out and the fingers spread over Waleski’s face. He pushed the square head back against the chair with a bump and struck Waleski on the nose with the flat of his hand. Tears of pain welled up.
Rollison leaned back, as if admiring his handiwork.
“Who wrote it, Waleski?”
Waleski gulped and swallowed hard as he tried to speak, pressed his hand against his nose, drew a finger across his eyes. The squat, powerful body seemed to be bunched up, as if he were preparing to spring from the chair. Rollison took the automatic from his pocket, squinted down the barrel then flicked the safety catch off and pointed the gun towards Waleski’s feet.
Waleski said: “I’ll kill you for that.”
He didn’t shout, didn’t put any emphasis into the words—just let them come out flatly, as if he meant exactly what he said.
Judith felt her own tension returning; something like fear ran through her.
“Yes, you’re fond of killing,” Rollison said and his voice hardened. “You killed Galloway; Mellor didn’t. If that note means what I think it means, it’s a prelude to the murder of Mellor.” He took no notice of the way Judith drew in her breath. “It’s the kind of note a man might write before killing himself—a confession note. But he didn’t write it; you made one fatal mistake, and—”
“I didn’t write it!”
“You know who did. Where’s Mellor?”
Waleski started, caught off his guard by the sudden switch from one subject to another.
Rollison snapped: “Where’s Mellor? Tell me or I’ll smash your face in. You think I hurt you just now but you’ll find out what it’s like to be really hurt if you don’t tell me. Where’s Mellor?”
He levelled the gun at Waleski’s stomach and his face took on an expression of bleak mercilessness which pierced Waleski’s already shaken composure, made him sit there with his eyes scared and his lips parted, his hands grasping the arms of the chair.
But he didn’t answer.
“Get out of the room, Judith,” said Rollison, without looking at the girl. “I don’t want you to see what happens to the obstinate Mr
Waleski. Shut yourself in the kitchen and stuff your ears with cotton-wool.”
He didn’t alter the tone of his voice and didn’t look away from Waleski.
Judith hesitated.
“Hurry, please.”
She turned slowly towards the door of the tiny kitchen and paused with her fingers on the handle. She saw the two men staring at each other, sensed the clash of wills and the working fear in Waleski, opened the door sharply and stepped into the room beyond. She heard Rollison say:
“I’ll give you one minute.”
The door closed.
She stood close against it, her body stiff, staring at the painted wood as if she could see through it into the next room. There was a breathless hush which did not seem to be disturbed by noises from outside. It lasted for what seemed a long time—and then she heard a thud, a cry, a sudden flurry of movement and another thud. She leaned against the door, unable to move and beginning to tremble.
Then Rollison said again: “Where’s Mellor?”
Waleski muttered something; she didn’t hear what it was. But as he finished, Rollison called out: “Judith!”
She flung the door open and went back into the room.
Waleski still sat in the chair; the blood was streaming from his nose and his lips were a red splodge. Blood had spattered his bright tie and his collar and shirt and he leaned back as if he were physically exhausted.
Rollison was rubbing the knuckles of his right hand. His eyes were glowing; obviously he had learned what he wanted.
Yet she burst out: “Has he told you where—”
“Yes. Is there a telephone in the house?”
“Downstairs, I—”
“Hurry down and telephone Mayfair 81871— my flat. The man who answers will be Jolly or Higginbottom. Say I want Jolly to come here at once and Higginbottom to meet me at the corner of Asham Street—Asham Street, Wapping—in half an hour. Have you got that?”
She was already fumbling for the door-key and nodded as she went out.
“Tell Jolly I won’t be in for tea” said Rollison.
* * *
It was as if a miracle had happened.
He had found out where Jim was; had almost proved that Jim hadn’t killed Galloway. He had opened up a new, bright world. Judith felt her nerves jumping as she hurried downstairs, slipped on the bottom step and saved herself by grabbing the banister rail. She had to wait for a moment, to get her breath back. Then she tapped on the door of the downstairs flat. The door was opened by Mrs Tirrell, her landlady.
“May I—”
Mrs Tirrell, a short, fat woman with shiny black braided hair, a pendulous underlip and a hooked nose, raised her hands in alarm and exclaimed:
“What on earth’s the matter, Miss Lome? What—”
“I must use your telephone—quickly, please.”
Judith pushed past into a large room crammed with Victorian furniture and bric-a-brac and photographs in sepia and black-and-white. The old-fashioned candlestick telephone was on a round table near the window.
“Well!” gasped Mrs Tirrell.
But Judith was dialling. Mayfair 81871—her finger was unsteady and cold. They knew where Jim was. Brrr-brrr, brr-brr. Would the man never answer?
“Is anything the matter?” Mrs Tirrell’s voice was shrill.
“No, it’s all right.”
Brrr-brrr, brrr-brrr. Perhaps Rollison’s flat was empty. If it were, that would mean serious delay—dangerous delay. It was useless to tell herself there was no hurry; she had to see Jim. Minutes counted—seconds counted. It was as if every moment of twenty-nine days was hanging in the balance, dependent on what happened in the next half-hour. A large brass clock beneath a glass cover stood on a wall-bracket, ticking loudly. Tick-tock, tick-tock; brrr-brrr, brrr-brrr. It was five minutes to four.
Would they never answer? Jolly or Higginbottom, it didn’t matter which—
The ringing sound stopped and a man spoke rather breathlessly: any other time Judith might have smiled at the gasping tone combined with an obvious effort to be precise.
“This is the—residence of—the Hon. Richard—”
“I’m speaking for Mr Rollison. He told me to ask for Mr Jolly or—”
“This is Jolly, madam.”
“You
—” She was conscious of the eager gaze from Mrs Tirrell’s protuberant, fishy eyes, of the difficulty of saying exactly what she wanted without telling the woman too much and without being long-winded and so wasting time. “Will you please come here—to 23, Knoll Road, Chelsea—at once? And will you ask Mr Higginbottom to meet—to meet Mr Rollison at the corner of Asham Street, Wapping, in half an hour?”
The man at the other end had regained his breath.
“I have the message, Miss. Who is speaking, please?”
“Judith Lome.”
“Did Mr Rollison say anything else, Miss Lome?”
“No! It doesn’t—Oh, yes, he did! He won’t be in to tea.”
It sounded ridiculous but a change in Jolly’s tone when he answered told her that it wasn’t.
“Very good, Miss Lome. I will be there as soon as I can. Good-bye; Mr Higgin—” she heard him call the other man before ringing off.
She stood with the receiver in her hand and Mrs Tirrell prancing about in front of her, desperately eager to know what all this was about.
“You look so pale, dear. Is everything all right?”
“Oh, yes. Yes. Everything’s—wonderful!” Judith squeezed her hand as she went towards the door and suddenly realised that she hadn’t any money with her; it was a rule of the house that all calls were paid for in advance. “I’ll let you have the tuppence, Mrs Tirrell, thank you—thank you!”
She fled and raced up the stairs. She knew that Mrs Tirrell was standing and watching but she didn’t care—nothing mattered but getting to Jim. How long would it take Jolly to reach here? Twenty minutes at the most; as the flat had a Mayfair number, it must be in Mayfair. Wasn’t she bright? She giggled from reaction, reached the second landing and caught sight of Mrs Tirrell disappearing into her flat. It wouldn’t be long before the woman came up to find out what was happening. Her hooked nose was the most curious and intruding one in Knoll Street. Never mind Mrs Tirrell; Rollison could deal with her—Rollison could deal with anyone.”
She slowed down as she went towards the top landing. She mustn’t lose her head. She had kept her composure well with Rollison: it mattered whether she impressed him favourably or not; he held her future in his hands. She mustn’t forget that. He had talked of danger and he wouldn’t talk lightly; so there was danger. The way Waleski had said Til kill you for that,” in the cold, dull voice, came back to her and took the edge off her excitement. What kind of affair was this? Who were the people who could frame—frame or blame?—Jim? Who would send her a lying message, a confession note? And then she remembered Rollison saying that if the note meant what he thought it meant, it was a prelude to murdering Mellor—murdering Jim. She felt a wave of nausea as she reached the landing and held tightly on to the top rail of the banisters. The landing was dark and gloomy, for the only light came from downstairs and there was a huge mahogany wardrobe which took up almost the whole of one wall.
She must compose herself.
She moistened her lips and went forward. There was no sound from the room—the men weren’t talking. She raised her hand to tap— and then something moved, to her right, and she glanced round.
A man darted from the corner by the wardrobe and, before she could move or cry out, one of his hands spread over her mouth. The other grabbed at her neck and she felt the tight clutch of his fingers—a sudden, suffocating pressure.
CHAPTER FOUR
The House In Asham Street
Waleski sat in the chair, occasionally dabbing at his split lips and his nose with a bright yellow-and-red handkerchief. His eyes were dull and he didn’t look at Rollison, who stood by the desk glancing through some of the sketches. Now and again Rollison looked up at the photograph of Jim Mellor and smiled faintly.
Judith had been gone a long time; but Jolly would be in; with luck, Snub Higginbottom would be there too. Jolly would look after Mr Waleski; Snub was the better man to have at Asham Street. It was no use speculating on whether Mellor would be alone or whether friends of Waleski would be with him. It wasn’t much use asking Waleski for more information—the man had recovered his nerve and would lie from now on.
He might have lied about Asham Street; but Rollison could usually tell when a man had told the truth. He had forced that information out when Waleski had been suffering from both pain and shock, before he had realised the kind of opposition he was up against. But you couldn’t use shock tactics against this type of man twice within a few minutes.
Here was Judith, running up the stairs.
Rollison glanced at the door.
The footsteps stopped and he frowned. Then they came again, much more quietly, towards the door. He moved across the room, keeping an eye on Waleski who might be pretending to be completely cowed so that he could try shock tactics himself. But Waleski wasn’t tensed to spring from his chair. Rollison actually touched the handle of the door, then heard a faint sound—the sound a scuffle would make. He stopped, hand still poised. He glanced round and saw Waleski sit up sharply, as if he realised the possible significance of this.
There was no further sound outside.
Rollison dropped his right hand to his pocket and the gun; and then Waleski sprang up. Rollison was on the half-turn. He could have shot the man but this wasn’t the moment for shooting. He stepped swiftly to one side as Waleski leapt at him, fists clenched, eyes burning. He anticipated Rollison’s move and changed direction; and he came like a battering-ram. Rollison jabbed out a straight left. Waleski slipped it with a neat head movement and crashed a blow into Rollison’s chest. Then he kicked.
Rollison banged back against the wall.
The glint in Waleski’s dark eyes was murderous. He grabbed at the gun, using both hands. Rollison held on, Waleski forced his hand up, bent his head and sank his teeth into the fleshy part of Rollison’s hand. Pain, sharp and excruciating, went through Rollison. It took much of the power out of a left swing which brushed the back of Waleski’s head.
Waleski leaned all his weight on Rollison, biting harder, drawing blood. The pain made Rollison’s head swim. The room seemed to get a fit of the jitters. He released his hold on the gun and it dropped.
Waleski let him go and grabbed at the gun.
Rollison kicked at it, caught the man’s wrist with his foot and head with his knee. Waleski lost his balance and backed away unsteadily— and Rollison, leaning against the wall, slid a small automatic out of his hip pocket.
“This makes a nasty hole, too, Waleski.”
His voice was unsteady and his head still whirled. Waleski’s face seemed to go round and round. But Waleski moved farther away, the impetus of his effort lost, fear back again. He was afraid not only of the gun but of the deadliness in Rollison’s eyes. Together these petrified the man.
The first gun lay on the floor near Rollison. Keeping Waleski covered, he bent down and picked it up, glancing swiftly towards the door. There was no sound from outside but the handle was turning. He looked at Waleski who was still held at bay. Waleski licked his lips and raised his hands a little, as if imploring Rollison not to shoot.
Rollison said softly: “Go into the kitchen.”
Waleski’s tongue shot out again and he took two steps backwards.
“Hurry, or—”
Waleski turned and disappeared into the kitchen. Rollison stepped swiftly after him and turned the key in the lock.
Now the flat door was opening slowly. Rollison moved to the wall alongside it. The door was open perhaps half an inch. This must be a friend of Waleski’s—a man as deadly and as dangerous and who was fresh for the fight. The moment for shooting had come. Rollison didn’t think of Judith, only of the man outside who must have heard the fight, forced the lock while it was going on and prepared for any violence. Rollison watched for a hand, a finger or a gun; but before anything appeared, a woman screamed.
The scream rasped through Rollison’s head.
He heard a growl and a flurry of movement, another scream which was cut short by a thud. By then he w
as at the door. He didn’t pull it open but peered round, gun in hand. He saw a small man, with his back to him, striking out at a woman whose hands were raised and who was toppling backwards down the stairs; all he saw of her was a flurry of a black dress and a coil of dark hair; then she fell and screamed again.
The little man swung round.
Rollison said: “If she breaks her neck, you’ll be hanged.”
He went forward, gun thrust out—and the little man turned and raced down the stairs.
If Rollison fired he might hit the woman who was still falling, her heavy body thudding from stair to stair.
The little man leapt over her to the landing and fled down the next flight. Rollison took two steps after him as the woman came to rest; and then he heard a sound from behind him.
It was Judith, getting slowly to her knees, one hand stretched out as if in supplication. In the gloom she looked deathly pale.
He said: “It’s all right, Judith. Take it easy.”
It was too late to stop the little man but he hurried down the stairs to the woman who lay inert, her legs doubled beneath her and one arm bent at an odd angle. Her black hair and clothes threw her pallor into greater relief. He knelt beside her and felt her pulse.
It was beating.
Judith stood at the top of the stairs.
“Where’s that telephone?” called Rollison.
“In her flat. The ground floor. Shall I—”
“You’d better come down with me,” said Rollison.
He straightened Mrs Tirrell’s legs and made sure that no bones were broken; but he didn’t touch her arm which obviously had a fracture. He felt her head and discovered a swelling on the back: she had caught her head on a stair and this had knocked her out.
Judith stood unnaturally still by his side.
“Just knocked out. She’ll be all right,” he assured her. He looked at the bleeding teeth-marks in his hand, wrapped a handkerchief round it and then took Judith’s arm. They went down the next flight of stairs and into the crowded parlour. “No one seems to have noticed the din, Judith. Are they used to rough-houses?”
“All the other tenants are out during the day.”