by John Creasey
At the last moment, Max stood aside.
“Thanks,” Rollison said, without looking round. “Come on, Kane.” He accepted the danger that Max carried a gun and would shoot; but if he showed fear or any sign of weakness, he knew that he would undo any good that the last few seconds had done. He had seized the initiative, and if Max allowed him to keep it, then it was almost certain that Max was nothing like so sure of himself as he made out.
Rollinson went down a flight of stairs and stopped on the landing; now he could turn round without giving any impression that he was frightened. He saw the three of them standing high above his head; Kane and the woman aghast, Max empty handed. Rollison slipped the gun into his pocket, and said: “It’s now or never.”
Kane exclaimed: “Leoni, you’ve got to stop him from going to the police!”
Rollison didn’t speak but looked away; a long stretch of drab brown lino-covered stairs was ahead of him, and he started down slowly, wanting to plead with Kane to come but knowing that the first sign of weakness would be dangerous. He was halfway down the stairs when Kane burst out: “Stop him!”
Max Leoni said: “You go with him, Kane, but don’t talk; understand that? Don’t talk.”
Kane gasped: “You mean—”
“You heard what I said.”
Rollison felt nearer exulting than he had for a long time, but he did not show it and he did not turn round again until he reached the foot of the next flight of stairs. Then he saw Kane coming slowly down, heard his footsteps, and heard Leah say something without being answered.
“What happened to my man in the Austin?” Rollison demanded.
Now, Max sneered: “He met with a slight accident, and he’s on the way to hospital, but don’t get excited – he wasn’t hurt badly.”
“What hospital?”
“Central London.”
Rollison said: “I’ll come back and see you if he’s hurt badly,” and started down the next flight of stairs, with Kane at his heels; a thoroughly bewildered Kane. Rollison stepped into the street and there was tension and anxiety in his mind as he looked towards the corner. The Austin had been struck by a battered Hillman, both the cars were locked together at the bumpers, and a crowd had gathered round; but there was no sign of an ambulance. Rollison remembered the crash he had heard, and knew that this had happened just after he had gone into Kane’s room; it had been perfect timing at a point when Max had seemed completely sure of himself.
What was he doing now? Telephoning his brother?
Rollison crossed to the other side of the road. A little woman with fluffy grey hair was saying in a shrill voice: “And I saw it with my own eyes; it’s a wonder that poor man wasn’t killed outright. Sitting there reading the newspaper he was, and that fool ran into him. He said he was trying to avoid a dog, but I didn’t see a dog anywhere near at the time, and I saw everything with my own eyes.”
“You ought to make a statement to the police,” a younger woman said.
The time might come when Rollison would want to talk to this grey-haired woman, but this wasn’t it. He guided Kane round the corner to the Morris, which no one appeared to have touched. He said: “Wait a minute,” and opened the driving door with great caution, making sure that there were no booby traps, then went to the front of the car and put up the bonnet; nothing appeared damaged. “All right,” he went on to Kane, and the two tall men sat side by side in the little car, heads almost touching the roof, knees jammed beneath the dashboard.
“Why did you do that?” asked Kane.
“There’s always a possibility that Max would put a firework in the engine, to scare the wits out of me,” Rollison replied, and added mildly: “Or to blow me to smithereens. I don’t like Max any more than you do.”
Kane said, slowly and reluctantly: “I have to admit that I didn’t dream he would let me come with you. You judged him better than I did.”
“Max is worried,” Rollison remarked, yet wondered if he were fooling himself. He was thinking fast as he went on, almost mechanically, not only talking to Kane, but trying to convince himself. “I think that his brother will soon be worried, too. They want more money and they’re beginning to think they might not get it. When anyone makes such a point of trying to keep you away from the police, there’s only one obvious reason: they’re really frightened of the police. In short—”
He was almost glad when Kane interrupted.
“Do you mean they actually have police records? They’re vulnerable?”
“Would it surprise you?” asked Rollison dryly. “The thing that matters is that they’ve got Caroline.”
“Yes,” said Kane, and pressed his hand against his forehead again, in that gesture which was so reminiscent of Eve. “If they’re so vulnerable, why have they come out into the open as they have? Max gave me the impression that he wasn’t frightened of anything or anybody.”
“That’s what he set out to do.” Rollison turned into Kensington High Street, and appeared to be preoccupied with traffic, so he didn’t go on; but he was asking himself over and over again: ‘Why is Max so sure? And why did he give in so easily?’
Then a new thought flashed: anyone could see how near breaking point Kane was. Max must have realised that he would probably talk – and would talk about the cottage. It was almost as if Max and his brother, thinking several moves ahead, intended Rollison to know where Caroline was.
Could that be true?
The traffic thinned out near Kensington Gardens, and most of the cars were coming in the opposite direction.
“This doesn’t make any difference to Caroline’s danger,” Kane was saying. “They’re bound to guess that I’ll tell you where she is, so they’re almost certain to get her away from that cottage.”
“It could be,” conceded Rollison.
“Then the situation will be worse, not better.”
“They have a big problem, Kane,” said Rollison, still trying to convince himself. “They have to turn twenty thousand pounds in notes into easily portable quantities. They’re not sure whether I’ve been to the police or not, and they’re wondering whether all the ports and airfields will be watched. They don’t know which way to jump, and they don’t know which way I’ll jump if they do Caroline any harm.”
After a pause, Kane agreed: “I suppose not. Are you going straight down to the cottage?”
“Yes.”
“I’m coming with you,” Kane said.
Rollison glanced round, saw the set line of his jaw, and the feverish brightness of his eyes. This was the man who, not long ago, had tried to shoot him. This was a man who was beside himself, and he could not be relied on to take any rational course. This was the man who had been utterly faithless to a wife whom he loved. Rollison turned into Gresham Terrace, pulled up, and saw one of Bill Ebbutt’s lightweights, a perky sparrow of a man, leaning against a lamp-post and reading an evening newspaper; he grinned and waved to Rollison as he strolled across.
“Bill sent me along to make sure nuffink goes wrong,” he said, and looked curiously at Kane. “You okay, Mr Ar?”
“Fine, thanks,” Rollison said. “Nip along to the nearest telephone, Micky, tell Bill that Harry Mills was mixed up in a car smash, and that he’s at the Central London Hospital, but not badly hurt.” The little boxer’s eyes narrowed, and he looked alarmed. “Get back as soon as you can.”
“Oke,” Micky said, and went hurrying.
“Who was that?” asked Kane, staring after him.
“You’ll find out I’ve got a lot more friends than Max and Felix have,” said Rollison. “Come on.” He hurried up the stairs and, as he reached the top landing, the door opened and Percy Wrightson appeared, smiling what was intended to be a polite smile of welcome but was really a widespread grin; he had always enjoyed acting locum for Jolly. “Hallo, Percy,” greeted Rollison. “
Get me the Central London Hospital on the telephone, will you?”
“Any messages?”
“No, sir,” said Percy, suddenly remembering his position, and he inclined his head slightly as Rollison ushered Kane in. He saw Kane glance round the large room, his gaze resting for a moment on the Trophy Wall; and then Kane demanded: “Where is my wife?”
“This way,” Rollison said, and took him across the room and to the spare bedroom, opened the door, saw that the blinds were drawn – and a moment later saw a little bundle of a woman, Mrs Wrightson, peering at him from the kitchen doorway.
“She hasn’t stirred, so I look in every half-hour to make sure she’s all right,” she whispered.
“Thanks,” said Rollison, and watched Kane’s face as he stepped inside and saw Eve.
20
SPEED
Kane approached the bed slowly, almost falteringly. Rollison had no doubt at all of the depth of his feeling, then; he looked a broken man. He stood by the side of his wife, hands held out towards her, as if he longed to take her in his arms, and he seemed oblivious of Rollison as he bent down, touched Eve’s shoulders lightly, and pressed his lips against her forehead. But she did not stir. Her face was turned towards Rollison and the door, and she looked as lovely as he had ever seen her; and resting, too.
Wrightson called: “I got the ‘orspital, Mr Ar.”
Rollison hesitated, then turned away and closed the door. Wrightson was standing in the doorway, obviously on edge because the hospital was waiting.
“Thanks,” Rollison said heavily. “Pour out two double whiskies, and have one yourself.”
“With Aggie around? Not on your life,” rejoined Wrightson. “X wouldn’t mind a beer, though.”
“Help yourself.”
“Ta,” said Wrightson, and drew himself up as Rollison lifted the receiver, “Thank you very much, sir.”
Rollison asked first for the casualty ward, and as he held on he was picturing Eve’s face, in the pose he had seldom seen, and the tension in Kane. The casualty ward answered.
“. . . Mills, sir, yes, came in about an hour ago. Oh, not very serious, he’ll be going home in the morning, if not tonight.”
“That’s fine,” Rollison said, with real relief. “Now give me the private ward sister’s office, will you?” Although he told himself that there would have been word from Welling if Jolly had taken a turn for the worse, he was on edge until he was assured.
“Comfortable and quite as well as would be expected, Mr Rollison.”
“Thanks,” Rollison said, and this time his relief was fervent. “You’ve been very good.” He rang off, went straight to his desk, took out the tablets which Welling had given him and, in front of Wrightson’s popping eyes, put two into one of the whiskies, and crushed them with the end of a fountain pen.
“Soda, Percy,” Rollison said, and winked, and with a husky voice Wrightson said: “You certainly are a one, Mr Ar! I must say the chap looks as if he could do with some shut-eye.” He put the syphon of soda near the two glasses, and Rollison went back to the bedroom.
Kane had moved to the window, and was staring at the houses opposite, his head held high, his hands clenched by his side. He heard Rollison, turn, and said stiffly: “I owe you an apology, Rollison. No one could have looked after my wife more thoroughly. Thank you.”
“Now come and have a drink,” Rollison said.
Ten minutes later, Kane was as deeply asleep as his wife.
“Percy,” Rollison said.
“Yes, sir?”
“When I’ve gone out, I want you to lock the door and open it only to people you know. Don’t let anyone else in. You know Dr Welling, don’t you?”
“The old doc? Sure, I know him.”
“And you know the trick mirror?”
Percy Wrightson winked . . .
The trick mirror was set in the wall above the front door, and by glancing up it was possible to see who was outside. That was one of Jolly’s ideas, and had been installed for some time. Rollison was quite sure that Wrightson would not take the slightest unnecessary risk, and it was safe to go out.
He went to his desk, and telephoned the Yard; and although it was late, Superintendent Grice was at his desk.
“. . . yes, I’m handling the case,” Grice said. “We still haven’t found that Hillman, but—”
“Forget it for now, will you?” Rollison pleaded. “Bill, will you play ball if I give you some off-the-record information?”
“You could try me.”
“I daren’t risk it going too far,” Rollison said. “The girl might be killed if her kidnappers know that you’re on to them.”
Grice said in a quiet voice: “What do you want us to do, Rolly?”
“Watch all ports and airfields for the Kane girl,” Rollison answered, “and go through the Rogue’s Gallery and take out all the black-haired men, standing about five feet five to seven, southern European type, current names Max and Felix Leoni, and let me have the photographs—”
Grice exclaimed: “Leoni?”, as if he were aghast.
“Know them?” Rollison barked.
“Are you sure they’re involved?”
“Positive.”
“Rolly,” Grice said, gruffly, “be very careful how you handle the Leonis. The police of several countries have been trying to get a charge against them for a long time, but haven’t succeeded. They operate between here and Central and Southern Europe, and between France, North Africa and South America. They are known to kidnap young girls and hold them to ransom, but we’ve never found proof. They have another favourite trick, of arranging engagements for dancers and singers on attractive terms, and outwardly they’re genuine. But—” Grice hesitated, and then went on with a vehemence which seemed greater because he spoke so quietly: “They are vicious and deadly, and we want proof against them badly.” He paused again. “I can tell you that you’re right about one thing: if they make a threat, they carry it out.”
“They don’t know that I’m talking to you,” Rollison reminded him. “Bill—”
“Yes?”
“There was a little street accident in Marple Street this afternoon or early this evening. One of Bill Ebbutt’s men was slightly hurt. His car was hit by a Hillman.” He heard Grice draw in a sharp breath, and went on: “The driver of the Hillman said that he swerved to avoid a dog, but there’s at least one woman in the street who didn’t see the dog although she saw the accident. If you could get on to that driver, you might find that he ran down Jeff, at Hapley. If he did, you can get at the Leonis this way, and not through me. Will you try?”
“I’m ringing Accidents on the other line,” Grice said. “Rolly, be very careful.”
“I’ll be careful,” Rollison assured him.
He rang off, hesitated, became aware of Percy Wrightson staring at him, and saw Percy’s wife coming in with a large plate of luscious looking ham sandwiches. He was taking one when the telephone bell rang.
“Put those in a box for me, I’ll eat them as I’m driving,” he said, and hesitated again, then lifted the telephone. “Rollison speaking.” He expected to hear one of the Leonis, but was not really surprised when a woman spoke to him; he felt quite sure that it was Leah.
“I’ve got a message for you,” she said. She was breathing hard, and gave the impression that someone whom she feared was standing close by her side. “From—from Max. Can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“He says he’ll make the exchange for another twenty,” Leah said. “He says that you’ve made it too hot for them, and they’ll do a deal this time.”
“Leah,” said Rollison, and she answered in a gasping voice: “Yes?”
“Tell them I’m going to the cottage. Tell them that I’m going to bring Caroline away with me. Tell them that I’ve p
osted a letter to my bank, explaining everything and naming them, and it will be opened unless I talk to the bank by nine o’clock in the morning. Have you got all that?”
“I—no, not all of it!” She almost screamed. “Tell me it again, more slowly.” He told her, and she repeated it word for word. Then: “They’ve gone out, but they’ll want to know all about this the moment they’re back,” she went on. “They’ll—they’ll want you to bring the other twenty with you. Mr Rollison, don’t make any mistake about it, please. He means what he threatens to do to Caroline Kane if you don’t bring that money.”
“I can believe it,” Rollison said.
“They—they’re devils!” Leah burst out. “They—”
She rang off, as if afraid that she was saying too much.
Rollison saw Mrs Wrightson come in, with a cardboard box containing the sandwiches, and a thermos flask which she was screwing up as she approached. Rollison said: “Thanks, Aggie. Keep an eye on Percy and make sure he does his job properly,” and went out, to Aggie’s delighted smile and Percy’s pretended disgust. He glanced up at the mirror; no one was outside. He went slowly down the stairs. The Rolls-Bentley was standing outside, near the Morris. All the time he was thinking of the way Leah talked of the Leonis; of the effect they had on Grice; of the effect they had on Ralph Kane. It was true that when he had called Max’s bluff, he had won a minor victory, but Caroline was still in the Leonis’ hands, and no one who knew anything about them doubted the gravity of her danger.
Rollison saw a small car, an open M.G., parked further along the street, and at once he remembered Joe Locket telling him about the M.G. which had been near the Astor Hotel. He walked towards it, and was twenty yards away when he recognised Max. He did not hesitate, but went straight up to him.
Max was back to normal, smile flashing.
“You get my message about a little matter of another twenty thou?”
“I got it.”
“You’ve also got quite a problem,” Max said. “How would you get hold of twenty thousand pounds at this time of day?”