by John Creasey
“ Was it just the news? Are you sure?”
“I’ve never questioned that,” said Judith quietly. “I don’t think there’s any doubt. I could usually guess when he’d been depressed; it would be a day when there was more cock-fighting among the United Nations or a flare-up somewhere in the world. I don’t think it was related to his personal affairs. He always said he felt so helpless—that it wouldn’t have been so bad if he could have done something about it himself.”
“I see,” said Rollison. “Did you know his friends?”
“One or two of them. I don’t think he had many.”
“Isn’t he a friendly type?”
“Yes; but he spent a lot of time at business, often worked late and he was rather—well, impatient of most people. He used to call himself the Superior Being. Oh, that wasn’t conceit! He would be laughing at himself because he hadn’t patience with a lot of social chatter and the usual table-talk—any of the conventional things.”
“How long have you known him?”
“Six months—just six months.”
“Has he ever talked about himself and what he did before that?”
“Of course. I think I know almost as much about him as he knows about himself. He wasn’t demobilised until two years after the war and he spent a year studying printing. His family are nearly all printers. But there wasn’t scope for him in the family business and he wasn’t satisfied with their old-fashioned methods anyhow, so he got this job outside. He’s good at it, you know, he’s no fool.”
“I’ll grant that,” said Rollison. “Did he know anyone from the East End of London?”
“I don’t think so—not well, anyhow. Why?”
“It could matter.”
“Well, the works are at Wembley and of course he had business all over London, so he’d know customers in the East End. I hadn’t given it much thought but I think he spent one day a week in that district—or part of a day. Bethnal Green and Whitechapel mostly, I believe. You could get all the details from the works.”
“Who’s managing the works now?” asked Rollison.
“The directors. The man I saw told me that they wouldn’t replace Jim yet but that was nearly a month ago when I went to see if they knew anything about him. The police hadn’t questioned me then and I couldn’t understand what had happened to him.”
“Do you remember the name of the man you saw there?”
“Yes,” said Judith. “Arthur Dimond. I— What’s the matter?” She looked alarmed when Rollison began to choke on a sandwich. “Have I said anything startling?”
“You’ve said plenty,” said Rollison, very softly, “and you’ve proved me a dumbwit, Punch! I haven’t given half enough attention to the business side. Dimond—without an “a”?”
“Yes. I know because it’s on the letter-heading of the company. Mr Dimond looked after another company and didn’t spend much time at Wembley. Is it important?”
“It might be,” said Rollison. “Have some coffee.”
* * *
Arthur Dimond was a director of Jim Mellor’s firm. Flash Dimond had been the leader of the gang Mellor was later supposed to lead. Coincidence could hardly stretch as far as that.
* * *
Judith said: “No, thanks, I couldn’t eat any more. They were delicious.”
She looked almost sorrowfully at the few sandwiches left on the dish.
It was a quarter of an hour since she had named Arthur Dimond and she had answered many more questions since, most of which Rollison had put absently as he thought of this new angle. He had certainly not probed deeply enough into Mellor’s recent past. But the police weren’t blind: they must have noticed the name Dimond on that letter-heading. “Cigarette?”
The telephone bell rang as Rollison held out his case. He put the case in her hand and dropped a lighter by her side, then went to the telephone. “Rollison speaking.”
“Jolly, sir,” said Jolly. “I’m speaking from a call-box near the Oxford Palace Hotel. I thought I ought to communicate with you at once.”
“Yes?”
“A woman answering Miss Arden’s description has called three times to see Waleski, sir, and she’s just come again. Would it be wise for me to follow her?”
“Not just wise—an act of genius,” said Rollison. “But I’ll want to take over as soon as I can get there. Let me know where she goes, especially if she’s likely to stay there any length of time.”
“ Very good, sir,” said Jolly.
* * *
What to do with Judith and what to advise her to do? That was the most urgent problem. Was it safe to let her return to her rooms? Reason said “yes,” instinct “no.” There was no indication of danger for her yet; but the comrades of Waleski weren’t likely to give much notice of their next move. They would want to hurt him and might decide that could best be done through Judith. She wouldn’t be able to stand much more.
Judith decided to wash up.
“Jolly will never forgive you,” said Rollison, “but carry on with the good work.”
He carried the tray into the kitchen for her, told her she would find an infinite variety of make-up in the spare room, left her puzzling why he should keep cosmetics here and went back to the telephone. He dialled a Victoria number and was not kept waiting.
“Grice speaking.”
Rollison made his voice gruff.
“Sorry to worry you, sir, but that there Torf ‘as bin up to ‘is tricks again.”
“Who is—Oh, Roily, you fool.” Grice was still friendly judging from his tone. “Where’s Mellor?”
“Hoodwinking everyone like fun. I’m more interested in his girl-friend. Are you having her flat watched?”
“Why?”
“Because I want to send her home. I don’t think it would be good for her to stay at this den of iniquity and I’m not sure that she’ll be safe alone.”
“Any reason for saying that?”
“A bump of caution but nothing logical, Bill. Waleski was watching her place and someone did nearly strangle her. Talking of the comrade—”
“We’re talking about the girl. You can safely let her go home. You’ll find a sergeant in Gresham Terrace and he’s there to follow her. She’ll be all right.”
“Thanks,” said Rollison. “Sworn that warrant for my arrest yet?”
“No,” said Grice. “We’ve decided that Waleski’s been lying and there isn’t a case but we could change our minds. If you run riot I shall let you cool your heels at Cannon Row for a night or two. That’s clear enough, isn’t it?”
“As crystal. I repeat—what are you doing with Waleski?”
“Letting him go. He’s a licence for the gun and says he drew it in self-defence and didn’t use it.”
“Very subtle,” said Rollison. “You, I mean, letting him go and, I trust, keeping tabs on him. You now need two men to take care of Judith Lome and heaven help you if you let her down. And four to follow Waleski. Bill, I think it’s time we put our heads together.”
“If we don’t, you’ll get yours broken. I didn’t expect you to take much notice of me but, if you play the fool, I won’t give you an inch.”
“This isn’t one of my good days,” sighed Rollison. “No one loves me, no one believes a word I say. When I know Mellor is safely out of your reach I’ll come and see you.”
He rang off, without giving Grice a chance to reply, and turned to find Judith coming in; a grave-faced Judith.
“Who was that?” she asked.
“A wise old bird, my poppet. You’re going home. The police are going to make sure that no one worries you, not because they think anyone will try but because they think Mellor might come to you. If they ask more questions, tell them not a word more than you have already. Refer them to me for everything else. And remember” —he was serious now— “that if you do say too much it might spoil Jim’s only chance.”
“I won’t spoil anything,” she promised.
He went downstairs with her and
spoke to the CID man on duty, putting Judy into his charge. The girl looked small and slender beside the burly detective. The sleep and food had refreshed and encouraged her and she held her head high.
Rollison went thoughtfully back to the flat and, as he reached the landing, heard the telephone ringing. He slammed the door behind him and spoke into the extension in the hall.
“Hallo.”
“It is Jolly again, sir,” said Jolly. “This time from the hotel. Waleski has returned and both he and the woman have gone to his room— Number 607. There is every indication that they will be there for some time.”
Rollison said: “Oh,” and then was silent for so long that Jolly prompted him with a courteous: “Are you still there, sir?”
“Yes, Jolly. Tell me, out of the depths of your understanding of human nature, do you think there is even a remote chance that Comrade W and mademoiselle are lovebirds?”
“Most emphatically not, sir.”
“Then I’ll pay them a visit,” said Rollison. “You wait there.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Spoiled Lovely
The large and glittering entrance hall of the Oxford Palace Hotel seethed and bubbled with people and talk. Rollison side-stepped a mountainous woman whose fingers seemed to be made of diamonds and her voice of sandpaper; squeezed past two men who were heartily agreeing that there was a fortune in it; and spotted Jolly.
Jolly stood, an oasis of quiet dignity in the cauldron of garish glitter, between the lifts and the staircase. As Rollison approached, a loud-voiced young woman stopped in front of Jolly and asked:
“Put me right for the Grill Room, will you?”
Jolly looked at her coldly.
“I regret, miss, I am not familiar with this establishment.”
She wilted and fled.
“Bit harsh, weren’t you?” asked Rollison.
“Yes, sir.” Presumably that was not the first time Jolly had been so accosted that night.
“What of Waleski?”
“I am a little concerned about him and Miss Arden,” said Jolly, unbending. “After due consideration I decided that this was the best position to take up but there is another staircase and another lift. However, these are nearest his room—Number 607, sir. Neither of them has appeared again.”
“They’d probably come this way. Is Waleski being watched by the police?”
“I have seen three plain-clothes men but I believe there are always two or three on duty in such hotels as this,” said Jolly, and the faint emphasis on this was masterly. “I went to the sixth floor, to make sure of the position of the room, and saw no one observing Number 607.”
“Grice wouldn’t let Waleski run around on his own,” Rollison said. “The police are just being cunning. Stay here for another five minutes, in case they come down as I go up, and then join me on the sixth floor.”
Jolly bowed, as if there were no one else to see him.
A lift was waiting, nearly full. Rollison was the only passenger to alight at the sixth floor. Here all the glitter was absent. The lights were subdued, the wide yellow-walled passages were silent, the hush reminded him of Pulham Gate. He studied the room indicator board and turned right, finding Room 607 along the first passage to the left. He made a complete tour of the floor, passing three chambermaids and a breezy American GI. When he returned to the main lift and staircase, Jolly was waiting.
“All clear?”
“Neither of them passed me, sir.”
“We’ll catch ‘em in a huddle,” Rollison said confidently. “You stand at the corner of the passage and give me warning if anyone comes this way.”
“Certainly, sir. My right hand will be at my mouth if anyone approaches.”
Rollison opened the skeleton-key blade of his knife as he reached Room 607. He listened but heard no sound of voices. He slipped the key into the lock, feeling a sharp twinge of excitement. His heart beat fast as he twisted and turned. The sound of metal on metal seemed loud; surely they would hear it in the room? The key caught and he turned the lock, then glanced round at Jolly. Jolly raised his right hand and pulled his lip. Rollison left the door unlocked and stepped back, as if looking at the room numbers. A chambermaid came lolloping along with a towel over her arm. Rollison turned his back on her and walked away until she went into a room. He nipped back and received all clear from Jolly; next moment he was inside Room 607.
He stood in a tiny cubicle with two other doors. One, ajar, showed the bathroom; the other was closed.
He heard no sound, even when he stood near the closed door.
This had no lock; he knew that it could be bolted from the inside. If it were bolted, all chance of catching the couple by surprise was gone. He turned the handle and pushed; it wasn’t bolted. The room beyond was dark and silent.
They might have left by the other stairs or lift; or Waleski might have heard him at the door and be lying in wait. Rollison stood quite still, breathing softly, straining his ears to catch the sound of breathing but could detect none. The faint ticking of his watch sounded. He took out his small automatic, held it in his left hand and pushed the door wider open. It made no sound at all: the hush was as uncanny as it was unexpected.
Someone passed along the passage. He kept still until the footsteps faded. Then he pushed the door another few inches and groped along the wall at shoulder height, seeking the light-switch.
He didn’t find it.
He bent down, pushed the door wider and crept inside. There was no light behind him, no sound, nothing to warn anyone lurking inside that he was entering. Still crouching, he listened intently for any faint sound.
No—nothing.
He put the gun away and took a slim pencil torch from his pocket, pressed the bulb against the palm of his left hand and switched it on; his hand hid the light. He held it at arm’s length then took his hand away. A slim beam of light shot out, vivid in the darkness.
If Waleski were lying in wait he would have acted by now.
Yet Rollison remained uneasy.
In the faint light he saw the pile of the carpet, the bottom of the bed and a chair. The bed was behind the door; there would be a light by the side of it. He groped for the switch, found it and, gun again at the ready, pressed it down.
Clarissa was on the bed, hair and clothes disarranged, one bare leg falling over the side of the bed, the stocking from it tied tightly round her neck.
* * *
“She’ll do,” said Rollison.
“I’d better go on for a few more minutes, sir.”
Jolly wiped his forehead then continued to give Clarissa Arden artificial respiration. They had taken turns during the past fifteen minutes and now she was breathing more normally and was out of danger. She lay on her face and Jolly knelt on the bed, a knee on either side of her, pressing his hands into her ribs slowly, rhythmically. His sparse hair fell into his eyes and his lined face glistened with sweat.
Rollison lifted the telephone on the bedside table. Jolly glanced at him but raised no query.
“Room Service, please . . . Yes, I’ll hold on.” Rollison fumbled for his cigarette-case and then tried to flick his lighter with his left hand but failed. “Hallo, Room Service? Send some strong coffee to Room 607 at once, please— for three. Yes, three. Quickly, please.”
He rang off and lit the cigarette.
Jolly stopped working and heaved a great sigh.
“I think that will do, sir.”
“Yes, take a rest,” said Rollison.
He went to the bed and lifted Clarissa, grunting with the effort, sat her in the one armchair and then turned down the bedclothes. Her skirt was open at the waist and he had loosened her girdle and unfastened her high-necked blouse. He laid her on the bed and pulled the bedclothes over her then stood back to study her spoiled beauty.
Her face was blotchy and there was a scratch on one cheek, just below and in front of the ear. Her hair was a tangled mass, her lipstick smeared so that she looked as if she had been eating strawberr
ies with a child’s greed; and all her powder had been rubbed off. He doubted whether Clarissa Arden had ever looked such a wreck as she did now.
“She won’t forgive us easily for this, Jolly.”
Jolly started.
“Won’t forgive? I should have thought—”
“If we could tidy her up so that she looked presentable she might remember we saved her from dying,” said Rollison and smiled faintly. “Of course, I could be misjudging her. When she sees those weals at her neck, she’ll know that it was touch and go, won’t she?”
Several weals, made by the stocking, showed red and angry on the neck which was usually so white and smooth.
She turned her head but didn’t regain consciousness.
“On the whole, I prefer Miss Lome,” said Rollison.
“Miss Arden is a very handsome woman, sir,” said Jolly, dispassionately. “Do you mind if I wash my hands?”
“Carry on.”
“I hope to finish before the coffee arrives,” said Jolly and disappeared into the bathroom.
He was still there when the waiter arrived. Rollison took the tray at the passage door, tipped the man enough to satisfy him and not enough to make himself noticeable and carried it into the bedroom. He remembered carrying the tray into Judith and smiled—and saw Clarissa’s eyelids flicker.
He went out again.
“Stay where you are for a few minutes, Jolly.”
“Very good, sir.”
Her eyes were wide open when he went back and he saw the fear in them, fear which didn’t disappear when she recognised him. She caught her breath and her hands clenched beneath the clothes; they made two little mounds. He thrust his hands into his pockets, put his head on one side and murmured:
“I don’t like Comrade Waleski either.”
She licked her lips.
“My—my throat is sore.”
“Nylon is bad for throats,” said Rollison. He picked up the twisted stocking and held it up and her eyes glistened with horror, it was tied very tightly; they didn’t want you to live. Was it Waleski?”
“I—I suppose it must have been.”
“Sit up and have some coffee,” Rollison said and then called out: “Jolly! Any aspirins?”