by John Creasey
The drawing-room was empty.
Rollison switched on a light, for the first time, and it dazzled him. There were more pictures here, all of women, but these were very different from the photographs outside: each was an oil painting, and each was very lovely. He was startled at seeing a Gainsborough which he had last seen at Sotheby’s, and a Millais in his best period. He could not place the other portraits, except to know that each was good.
The furniture was modern, and had the look of having been selected by a professional interior decorator; everything matched perfectly, and nothing except the pictures really had life. The colours were pale blue and gold, which showed a lack of imagination, but no one could reasonably complain. There was a writing bureau, but nothing else where papers or documents might be stored; and even if he found a better place, he did not know what he might find.
He turned towards the passage and to the bedroom opposite; and heard a sound.
He stopped in his tracks.
He listened intently, telling himself that he was not wrong, that he had heard that sound, as of somebody moving stealthily. He had heard such sounds so often that he could not be mistaken; but now there was silence, and it was possible that his nerves were sufficiently ragged to make him imagine noises.
He stepped towards the bedroom door again, and saw that it was ajar. He did not think it had been when he had first seen it, but the light had been poor then, and he could have been mistaken.
Only silence greeted him.
Suddenly he began to whistle lightly, a catchy little modern tune he did not know by name. If anyone was here the whistling would make it seem that he was completely unaware of it.
He opened the door of the spare bedroom and switched on the light. There was a single bed, with scarlet and black drapes and furnishing; a startling room, for the lighting was so designed that it threw up the colours. On these walls were impressionist drawings, all in black and red. It had an unpleasant kind of effect on him, almost as if there was a kind of corruption about anyone who could design that kind of colour scheme and like that kind of picture. Absurd? He turned towards the door of the main room, seeing that it had opened another inch. Now he had to decide whether to surprise whoever was there; or whether to pretend that he had been taken by surprise.
He kept whistling.
Then he moved to the door in a stride and flung it back, as he had the door at his own flat.
The door struck no one, but the light from the great room opposite fell upon a girl.
She had great beauty.
There was no reason why Rollison should be surprised, and yet he was. The girl stood there in a pair of lemon-coloured pyjamas, and looked scared, which was hardly surprising. Not terrified; just scared. She was shorter than the average girl, her hair was like the doctor’s at Ebbutt’s gymnasium, corn-coloured, beautifully waved, and yet looking quite natural. Her eyes were enormous, and cornflower blue, if this light told the truth. Her throat was bare, but the top button of the pyjama jacket was decorously fastened. Perhaps the fact that she had on no make-up, and that her feet were bare, added to the degree of Rollison’s surprise at seeing her. Undoubtedly she was an elfin creature, not only of great beauty, but also of great charm. She reminded him, instantly, of Brigitte Bardot.
Slowly her expression changed. The scared look turned into one of fright. She put her right hand up to her throat, as if protectingly. Her eyes glistened, and she moistened her lips, but made no attempt to speak.
“Hallo,” Rollison greeted, and hoped that he sounded much less surprised than he felt. “I thought the flat was empty. Who are you?”
She didn’t answer.
He was reminded of Isobel Cole, not because of any similarity in features or in expression, but because of that direct and almost naïve look; of bewilderment and simplicity. That could be a pose, for she had known for some time that someone was in the flat, and might have decided what action she would take.
“Who are you?” Rollison repeated, and smiled as if this were the most normal thing in the world. “Does Cedric know you’re here?”
She didn’t answer; and the silence began to irk Rollison, partly because he could not understand it. Why didn’t she make an attempt to speak? He could understand if she tried and failed, if she only got a tumbling sentence or two out, even if she turned and tried to get away from him and slam the door in his face. But she did none of these things.
Rollison’s voice sharpened: “I’m a friend of Mr. Dwight. Does he know you’re here?”
At last the girl tried to answer, and he thought that she was saying yes. He jumped to the obvious conclusion; that Cedric Dwight did not live alone, and that was hardly surprising, for money could still buy almost everything, and the credulity of a girl like this would probably make it easier for him to have his triumphs.
“Y-y-yes,” she said.
Rollison smiled, trying to be patient, and did not move. If he did, he would probably terrify her.
“Who are you?” he inquired again.
She hesitated, then began to speak, and he saw that she was framing the word “I”. She could not get beyond it, and said “I-I-I” some six or seven times. The first shock would have explained her early silence, but surely she could see that he meant her no harm.
Then she blurted out: “I’m his wife!”
“Oh, no,” thought Rollison, and wished that there was somewhere to sit down. Cedric, married? He had not said that he was a bachelor, had made no claims at all, but – married? It was possible that “wife” was euphemistic, but somehow Rollison did not think that. This girl was the wife of Cedric Dwight, or had good reason to believe that she was.
“He forgot to tell me that he was married,” Rollison declared, as if that were a reasonable comment for a man supposed to know Cedric Dwight so well.
He stepped forward, and the girl backed away. She not only backed, but darted a glance towards the right; her right – and Rollison’s left. That was the moment which carried the warning to him; the moment when he realised that this girl wasn’t alone.
Someone was standing close to the wall, ready to jump or strike at him the moment he stepped over the threshold; and the girl was still backing away, as if to lure him on.
Chapter Twelve
Deception?
There was the one obvious possibility here: that this girl was really Cedric’s wife, that she had believed that he was away for the night, and had shared her charms with another man. Copped, as Bill Ebbutt would have said. That might explain her expression, the change from the immediate fright to genuine fear. But there were other possibilities, too. Dwight himself might be behind the door, anxious to keep out of the visitor’s sight.
Was that possible?
Rollison said: “I won’t hurt you, I assure you. I’ve come to try to help your husband.” He took another step forward, and still she backed away. It was dark in the room, except by the open door, and she looked ethereal in that dim light; a shadowy figure with silky hair all brushed with beauty, almost as if she were not real, but painted: like the Millais, with its wistfulness.
He reached the threshold, stepped inside – and took a swift step backwards. The trick worked. A man standing behind the wall leapt at him, but because he moved back, missed. Rollison shot out a foot. The other kicked against it and sprawled headlong, having no chance to save himself. Rollison saw the slug-like blackjack which slid over the carpet and came to rest at this girl’s feet.
This might be one of the men who had staged the attack on Ebbutt; that blackjack told its own story. It warned Rollison what was likely to happen in future, too.
The girl had turned and run farther into the room, the man was scrabbling to get to his feet. Rollison simply dropped his right hand to his pocket and took out his automatic; he covered the man, and the scrabbling stopped.
“Don’t get up,” he ordered. “And don’t think I won’t shoot.” He moved his right hand and switched on the light; it came from a chandelier in the
middle of the ceiling, a beautiful one of porcelain, and it was reflected in the heart-shaped mirror which hung over the fireplace, an imitation Adam. “Put on a dressing-gown,” he said to the girl. “Then tell me what all this is about.”
“He—he was going to kill me!” she exclaimed. She did not even look towards the bed, or the dressing-gown over the foot of it. Instead, she drew nearer Rollison, her great eyes showing not only relief, but also the reflection of her fear. “He told me he’d kill me if I didn’t—”
The man on the floor chose that moment to move.
He ignored Rollison’s warning, behaving as if he had never heard it. He leapt at the girl. On that instant Rollison knew that if he fired at him, he might hit the girl. It had been done so swiftly and with such cold courage that Rollison had no chance to stop it. And now the man’s hands were at the little beauty’s throat, and it seemed as if he intended to choke the life out of her – or break her neck.
Rollison had a quick mental image of the “unconscious” man in Bill Ebbutt’s gymnasium.
Then he went forward.
The man, with his hands round the girl’s throat, was carrying her back towards the bed, and she fetched up against it and fell backwards before Rollison could help. Her assailant seemed quite oblivious of Rollison, was breathing heavily, and seemed intent to kill. Rollison shifted the gun in his hand, held it by the barrel, and brought it down on the back of the other’s head.
The man’s hold slackened. He gave a little gasp, and then began to slide down. His hands dragged from the tip of the pyjama jacket, dragging it downwards, and for a moment he was held up because his weight was helped by the jacket. Then the fabric tore. He slid to the floor, quite unconscious, while the girl struggled to get upright, with her hands at her throat. She was crying in a curious choking way, as if she could hardly breathe yet had to cry. Rollison reached her and put a hand round her waist, then sat her upright on the side of the bed. She still clutched at her throat. Her mouth was open as she fought for breath; it was that, not crying, which made the peculiar noise.
If Rollison judged her aright, it would be a long time before she was collected enough to talk to him, and it would be minutes before the man came round. At least he couldn’t be dead – that single blow had not been hard enough to kill him.
Had it?
Rollison felt the sharp edge of doubt. One man dead of a broken neck, one man unconscious from drugs, now this man lying in a crumpled heap, as if there were no life left in him.
Rollison lifted the girl bodily, and she was feather-light. He carried her to an easy-chair near the fireplace and dumped her into it while she still gasped for breath. He swung round towards the man on the floor, straightened him out, and tried his pulse.
It was beating.
Rollison felt as if he were choking.
He touched the back of the other’s head. There was a bump and a small cut, and a little blood stained his fingers; nothing suggested serious injury. Rollison’s own forehead was wet with the sweat of anxiety and of relief. He also felt momentarily dizzy. He stood quite still, not trying to fight against it, but allowing the spasm to die away. It lasted for a long time. He felt himself swaying, but still did not fight; and slowly his head cleared. He knew that if the man had come round in that moment he would not have had a chance, but the man lay very still, genuinely unconscious.
The girl’s breathing was easier, but she lay back in the chair with her eyes closed and her mouth open. Rollison bent over the man and felt inside his pockets. There was a wallet, and he took it out and opened it; he found money, but nothing else at all. There were twenty pounds, all in old one-pound notes.
His other pockets were empty except for a handkerchief, a comb, and the kind of oddments a man usually carried. There were no tickets, no letters, nothing which could help to identify him. In short, he was as anonymous as the other two had been.
There was a kind of uncanniness about all this; about the situation altogether. Coincidence had a long arm, and Rollison would never reject it completely, but it was remarkable that this man should have been here at the very moment he, Rollison, had arrived. Why had he come? And why had he tried to choke the girl? To make sure that she could not talk?
Rollison stood up, cautiously. His head ached more than it had all that day; if it grew any worse, he would be practically useless. He looked down at the man, wondering how long the other would be unconscious; if he were shut in a cupboard, too, would he drug himself?
How could he, if his pockets were empty?
Rollison searched again, deeper into the partitions of the wallet, and found three small white tablets wrapped in cellophane. He had no doubt that these were tablets which could knock a man out and keep him out for hours. This was a refinement which not only puzzled but worried Rollison, for this man and those with him knew exactly what they wanted, and took precautions which would make the ordinary criminal look silly.
Who were they?
What were they trying to do?
Rollison crossed to the dressing-table, and took out several pairs of nylon stockings, used these as cords, and bound the man’s wrists and ankles. At least he would be secure for the next hour, and longer, if necessary. The girl was still leaning back with her eyes closed and her mouth open; she no longer looked like the sex kitten. He went into the dining-room, where he had seen whisky and brandy, poured out a little brandy, and took it to her. He could picture little wizened Lil Ebbutt taking brandy obediently; and this girl, her eyes open now, opened her mouth obediently too, swallowed, and then tried to speak. Rollison told her to keep quiet for five minutes, and went into the drawing-room. He opened the bureau and ran through the papers there; mostly they were letters to Mrs. Cedric Dwight, and those written by friends all began in the same way: Dear Kitty. Kitty for kitten, Kitty for Kate. Kate was an impossible name for this girl. He made sure that there was nothing helpful, and then searched the sideboard in the diningroom, but drew another blank. He had a feeling of acute frustration: there would be nothing here, of course; this was a waste of time: except that he might be able to persuade his prisoner to talk.
The girl knew something, too.
He heard nothing when he went into the hall, and stepped into that fiery-looking spare bedroom. He was not normally susceptible to atmosphere, but this did not appeal to him at all. The fires seemed to burn and the smoke seemed to writhe, and each caricature of Mephistopheles seemed to take on life. What made a man design such a room?
Then Rollison made his discovery.
In one corner was a small bureau, and when he opened it he found it filled with sketches, patterns of wall-paper and of paints. It was remarkably tidy, and suggested someone who really knew what he was doing with colours. Rollison rifled through the sketches, and was not surprised to see some which had obviously been the basis for the work in this room. There were patterns of silks and satins, too; this desk belonged to an interior decorator, and whether he was amateur or professional did not greatly matter.
Each sketch was initialled: C.D.
Dwight?
Rollison found another book of sketches by the side of the bureau, and opened it with exceptional eagerness; this might at least throw some light on to Dwight. It did, quickly. There were sketches of women – many of the girl in the next room, many of the film stars round the walls. There were photographs, too; obviously this was Dwight’s passion as well as his hobby. There was nothing remotely salacious or sexy about any of it; no Victorian boudoir would have been shamed to exhibit any of these pictures.
So Dwight was an artist, and a reasonably good one. He had probably designed this room.
And he suffered from delusions, or so it was said: the kind of thing which might influence a man’s taste in such designs as these; which might twist and warp the fabric of his mind so that he could create a room of devils and of hell-fire. Was this evidence of a warped mind, or simply of a kind of thwarted genius?
There were no documents of any kind in here.
But there was a small diary, with some addresses in it, some telephone numbers, and, at the end of the diary pages, a column of different figures, like telephone numbers which had been doubled or trebled. It took only a moment for Rollison to know what this was: a list of the codes of a combination safe.
Was the safe here?
He stood up and looked round. There was only one small room he had not yet searched, and he went there at once – and found the safe under a picture. He felt a quickening excitement as he tried the combination he had found, and pulled the door open.
The safe was empty.
He felt a sharp anti-climax as he went back to the big room. A minute or two afterwards he heard the key turn in the lock.
Only the girl could have locked him in – only Cedric’s wife. Rollison was quite sure that the man had been secure.
He went to the door almost as soon as the lock clicked home, and tried it with his shoulder. It was solid and firm and there was no hope of forcing it. His head throbbed even with that slight effort. He knelt down, taking a knife out of his pocket; it was a kind which Grice would have frowned upon but would make a burglar’s heart glad. He could see nothing, for the key was in the lock. He thought he heard whispering. He kept trying to reconcile what had happened before with this: hadn’t he seen the man try to strangle the girl?
Had she let him go free?
Or had she locked him, Rollison, in while she went for the police? Was this in fact an act of great courage?
Rollison pushed an awl against the key, felt it yield, and then heard it drop. He could see light, but there were no voices and no sounds. He opened the blade that served as a skeleton key and worked with it; he had never been in a greater hurry and it had never seemed to take so long. But at last he felt it get a grip; turned; and made the lock click back. The sound seemed so loud that anyone in the hall or near it must have heard. Cautiously, he opened the door. He could not be sure what would happen, and there was at least the possibility that he would be attacked.