by John Creasey
“What’s that?” inquired Rollison.
“Any idea what all this is about?”
“Not a notion,” said Rollison, sadly, “and there’s only one consolation. There hasn’t been much time to find out.”
He went into his bedroom.
Jolly had laid out his pyjamas and dressing-gown and turned down the bed. Sight of it made him feel so tired that the thought of brushing his teeth was revolting. But he brushed them, and shed his clothes, draping them carelessly over a chair. When he got into bed a clock in the next room struck four. It was not much more than twelve hours since he had talked to the Benning mission.
Bob Benning, Isobel Cole, Mrs. Benning. What were they feeling and what had he done to help them? Talked to Grice, had a word with Ebbutt, asked Ebbutt’s men to make inquiries, put the Salvation Army on the trail! Well, that wasn’t unreasonable in a few hours; there was no reason why he should reproach himself. The speed of events was the cause of the trouble, and he knew from experience that when a case began with such speed it seldom slackened.
This Dwight affair might finish to-morrow, and by that time the first odds and ends of information about Bob Benning and Marjorie Fryer should come in. He might be able to take that inquiry up with a completely free mind, after all. It would still be a double case.
He found himself smiling vaguely.
He felt himself going off into a heavy sleep, and knew that if a ton weight fell on him he would hardly be aware of it. Nothing mattered but sleep.
And Ebbutt; Ebbutt, who might be dying.
Bob Benning, and his sweetheart and his mother.
Cedric Dwight.
Kitty.
Little Kitty Dwight, fighting him and yawning at the same time – and now in the next bedroom, quite safe. Well, as safe as she could be anywhere. Of course she was safe. Safe as houses. He would talk to her in the morning.
He heard faint sounds when he woke, and saw that the sun was fairly high, for it was shining on to a patch of carpet near the window. Although he noticed this it was some time before he realised its significance: that it must be eleven o’clock. It was a very bright patch of sunlight, and he was too warm in bed. He wriggled his toes. He felt stiff and his head was tender, as if the skin were being stretched across his scalp. Ah! He did not jerk up, but was wide awake on the instant, and began to collect his thoughts. First, how was Ebbutt? Then, were there any developments?
He pushed back the bedclothes.
The silence inside the flat was complete, and for the first time he began to wonder whether anything was wrong. Things could happen without the slightest warning, and there was no way of being sure that the night had been trouble free. He swayed as he stood up, pressed the heels of his thumbs against his eyes, steadied, and crossed to the door. As he reached it, he heard footsteps, and Jolly said: “Yes, madam.”
All was well!
Rollison went back to his bed and was sitting on it when Jolly came in, clad in his uniform of black coat, striped trousers, and cravat with its neat diamond tie-pin. He looked spruce, partly because he had had a haircut the previous morning, before any of this had begun, and partly because there was a kind of eternal youthfulness in him.
He would not be looking like this if there were bad news.
“Good morning, sir,” said Jolly.
“’Morning. Ebbutt?”
“He passed a fair night, sir, and I understand from the hospital authorities that every hour that he survives, the better his chances.”
“Ah.”
“As I did not wish to make a nuisance of myself on the telephone, I have arranged with the secretary to telephone a report every four hours,” said Jolly. “I think that she was persuaded to do so by the stories in the morning newspapers.” He produced the newspaper like a conjurer producing rabbits from a hat, and held them out. “I will get your tea, sir.”
“Yes. Where’s Percy Wrightson?”
“Washing up, sir.”
Rollison grinned. “He doesn’t know how much of a caution you are! Thanks, Jolly. What about our other guests?”
“Mrs. Dwight is awake, and I have endeavoured to persuade her that it is in her interests to stay here and to co-operate,” said Jolly. “She is anxious to return home, as she appears to think that if she does not, her husband is likely to suffer a great deal. On the other hand, she is obviously anxious not to be questioned by the police, and on balance I think that we shall find her co-operative.”
“Good. And the man?”
“He is also awake, sir. Mr. Wrightson and I found it advisable to secure him, and he is now in my bedroom, sitting in a chair and tied to it by the arms and the legs. He is not very co-operative, and simply insists that he knows nothing that would be of the slightest use to us. I am inclined to think that he is right.”
“Jolly,” Rollison said, softly.
“Sir?”
“That’s your first boob on this case.”
“I am sorry to hear that, sir,” Jolly said, looking surprised and even perturbed. “Would you be good enough to explain?”
“Yes. If this man thought it worthwhile taking a drug to make sure that he couldn’t be questioned, he must know some of the answers, mustn’t he?”
Jolly raised his hands, as if astounded, and then said in tones of great humility: “How very remiss of me, sir, not to think of that. You are quite right, of course. But may I suggest that you postpone the interrogation until after breakfast?”
Chapter Sixteen
Interrogation
Rollison ate a substantial breakfast …
He felt much more himself, and except for tenderness at his head, no serious ill effects from any of the events of the previous day. His problem was to consider those events in the right order, and to give each its proper emphasis. It was still difficult to judge which had been of greatest significance, and he kept reminding himself with an earnestness worthy of Jolly that it would be a mistake to try to reach conclusions too quickly. One mistake might be his last.
Dwight was still missing.
Rollison had no great regard of Cedric, but any human being who was victim of such fears was a man to help.
The newspapers gave large headlines and vivid pictures on the Battle of the East End Gym. Ebbutt’s face, with his broken nose and his huge double chin, stared up from most of the front pages; and he was described as the “famous East London trainer”. Probably he had never been so described before. There were pictures of the wreckage and, of course, there was also one of the Toff.
There was no mention of Dwight, but there was a passing reference to the incident on the Embankment even in the more exclusive papers, and a photograph of the Toff, dripping wet, in five of the popular dailies. Alongside this picture was another taken when he had been at a society wedding only a few months ago. He grinned at that alertness of the editorial mind, made sure that there was nothing in any of the newspapers which really helped, then pondered deeply on the attitude of the police.
Bryant had been almost too helpful.
Last night that had seemed a matter for congratulation, and simply his good luck at being interrogated by a man who was in his debt. But Bryant was also a policeman, and a good one. He could have helped without, in effect, allowing the Toff to do exactly what he wanted. There should have been a more stringent questioning.
Now that he thought back it was almost as if Bryant had wanted him to get away. Could that be so?
It was now nearly midday, and there was no word from the police. He could not be sure why not, but the beginning of an idea was already in his mind.
Did they want him to act on his own?
Were they more keenly aware of the circumstances and the issue at stake? Did they know that there were obstacles to them making quick progress and believe that he had a chance of finding the answers before they did? Such situations were rare, but there had been others. Grice himself had never hesitated to allow the Toff a free hand if he thought it would be to the Yard’s advantage
.
Grice had been emphatic that Dwight was a case of deluded mentality. Was that in fact what he believed? He was a cunning man as well as a first-class detective, and would know that if he scoffed at the idea that Dwight was in trouble, it would be likely to make the Toff delve very deeply.
Many puzzling things would be easily explained if the police were deliberately giving him rope.
Ah!
As Wrightson put it, Jolly was a proper caution, but there had been very little time for Jolly to work in while at Apex House. If the police had deliberately turned a blind eye, however, then the success of Jolly’s swift move was easier to understand. So was the fact that the Gresham Terrace flat, was now, apparently, being watched. That had also puzzled Rollison last night, but he had been so tired that he had not given it much thought.
“Bill Grice,” Rollison said to himself, “I would very much like a word with you.”
He stood up from the breakfast table, with its litter of newspapers, and went into the kitchen. There he saw an almost unbelievable thing. Jolly was preparing a plump chicken for the oven, and Wrightson was peeling potatoes.
“My lucky day,” the ex-boxer said promptly. “When I’m at ’ome, the old woman expects me to do the spuds for the family. I wouldn’t care if it was only me own kids, but what wiv’ my bruvvers and ’er sisters—”
Rollison said: “You can come and work here whenever you like. I promise you that Jolly will acquire no brothers or sisters.”
He went out, and paused outside the door of the spare bedroom. He heard radio music. He was tempted to look in, but did not, just checked that the door was locked on the outside. Jolly was taking no chances. The spare-room window was of toughened glass, and there was electrical control to the catch; no doubt that would be fastened securely, too. Rollison passed along a small passage, and opened the door of Jolly’s small bedroom.
It was a remarkable room, for against a wall there was a workbench filled with pigeon-holes, all of which were filled with some tool or aide to the craft of detection. It was like a tiny but well-equipped police laboratory, a kind of miniature police station. For years Jolly had worked to build this, but only recently had he gone to such trouble as he did these days. He could take fingerprints, and develop photographs, make keys, force locks – do nearly everything that a detective would want to do when he was away from the scene of the crime, checking his clues.
Sitting in an old-fashioned armchair, and securely fastened to it, was the man whom Rollison had caught last night. He was smaller than Rollison had remembered, tough-looking like all of the men involved; and that made Rollison pause. These men were in excellent training, a fact which it would be easy to forget. Whatever job they usually did demanded extreme physical fitness; and he would not be surprised to know that they all trained to keep in condition.
Boxers? Runners? Footballers? Cricketers?
It was guesswork.
He knew that there was nothing in the man’s pockets that would help, and he saw the defiance in the clear grey eyes. This man could be a very useful customer in a tight corner. He had been unconscious for a long time, and badly shaken before that, but there was a calmness in his manner which told Rollison that he was very sure of himself. He looked quite unafraid.
Yet he had drugged himself rather than allow himself to be questioned the previous night.
Why, if he were not afraid that he could be made to talk?
Rollison stood by the door, looking at him, and the man returned his gaze with that unexpectedly fearless expression; he was not really brazen, just bold. He had close-cut, black hair, he needed a shave, and his lips were set tightly. The longer Rollison looked at him, the tougher he looked. He did not speak, and seemed determined on this silent defiance.
Rollison said: “Where is Cedric Dwight?”
The man did not answer.
“You know,” Rollison said. “Where is he?”
Still the man did not answer.
“Who employs you?” Rollison demanded, but he realised that he could ask questions by the dozen and get no response at all, unless he could find a way of unnerving this man. The period of unconsciousness had apparently strengthened his nerve; that might have been one of the reasons why he had taken the tablets.
“Three of your friends were arrested last night,” Rollison announced.
The man stared back, impassively.
There might be some point in trying to frighten him physically, but Rollison did not think that would succeed, and he did not relish the task himself. This situation needed cunning, not force; and it was at least conceivable that he did not know anything worth passing on.
Rollison called: “Jolly!”
Jolly came quickly, dusting his hands.
“Has this man had anything to eat or drink?”
“A cup of tea, sir.”
“Give him something to eat,” Rollison ordered.
“Very good, sir.”
“I’ll see him again early this afternoon,” said Rollison. “Tie him up again after he’s eaten. All clear?”
“Perfectly clear, sir,” Jolly said.
“Good. As soon as he’s fed, bring in all the electric fires we have, and plug them into this room—you’re full of points,” Rollison pointed out. “Shut the window and shut the door. Get it really hot, like a Turkish bath. All understood?”
“Perfectly,” Jolly said.
The man’s eyes shifted for the first time, to the one electric fire near him, to Rollison, and then to the window. It was already stuffy in here, and the bright sunlight outside told of the warmth of the day.
“Let’s see if we can sweat some sense into him,” Rollison went on. “And then tell Wrightson to send for the masseur at the gymnasium. We’ll give the fellow a good work out, and hope his memory has improved by then.”
Rollison nodded curtly, and went out. He saw the expression in the prisoner’s face. Was this the beginning of a breakdown? Rollison went to the spare-room door, hesitated again, then turned the key in the lock, and tapped. The music was still playing. He heard a scuffle of movement, before the girl called out: “What is it?”
“I want to talk to you,” Rollison said, and pushed the door wide open.
She was sitting on the bed – not in it – wearing the trousers and the coat, the top of which was unbuttoned because the room was warm. She looked a little flushed, and her eyes were huge and a beautiful violet blue. The music was coming from the small radio at the side of the bed. A few cigarettes were there, too, and a tea-tray: obviously Jolly was giving her VIP treatment. The odd thing was that she looked almost contented, as if now that she was here she had no complaint. She did not smile at him, and was very wary; but she was not afraid of him, and that might be a pity.
“Hallo,” Rollison greeted, amiably. “Enjoying yourself?”
“I insist on being allowed to go home,” Kitty said with dignity. “You’ve no right to keep me here.”
“Haven’t I?” Rollison asked, and his smile had an edge. “I’ve a lot of rights that no one told you about, Kitty. Why did you drug yourself last night?”
She didn’t answer.
Rollison went nearer to the bed and stood looking down at her, reminding himself that in her petite way she was as lovely a creature as he had ever seen. Lucky Cedric!
Or was he so lucky?
“Kitty,” Rollison said. Now his voice was much softer and had a note of menace which he had well learned to acquire. “You released that man last night, and you took pills to make you sleep because he told you to. Why?”
“He made me!” She raised clenched hands. “I told you this last night. He made me do it, he said he will kill Cedric—”
“I don’t believe it,” Rollison retorted. “I don’t believe that was the only hold he had over you. He was helpless, and couldn’t do a thing. You knew that Cedric had come to see me, and believed that I could help him. You knew that Cedric had been kidnapped, and that the man could tell me where to find him—yet
you let him go. Why?”
Her face was scarlet.
“You’ve no right to talk to me like this!”
“Those rights again,” said Rollison, and swung round towards the door. “All right, you must have it your own way. You’ll find an afternoon dress in that wardrobe, and some shoes that look as if they’ll fit you. Get dressed. We’re going out.”
She gasped: “Where are we going?”
“To New Scotland Yard.”
“No,” she exclaimed, and scrambled off the bed and rushed towards him. “No, don’t take me there; don’t make me go to the police!”
She was really frightened by the prospect, and her fear told Rollison a great deal. Such fear of the police was abnormal, and he could think of at least one very good explanation: that she had a police record.
If she had, then there might be many explanations of why she had done what last night’s prisoner had ordered.
Now he needed to see Grice again; but first he could make the girl talk, at least a little; unless her fear of the men who had taken her husband away was greater than the fear of the police.
He would soon find out.
Chapter Seventeen
Kitty Talks
Kitty Dwight was just in front of Rollison, clutching at his hands, her great eyes pleading. Her very beauty must have won her nearly everything she had ever desired, and she knew how to use it. Even now she might be trying to fool him by pretended fears; but he did not think so. Her body was too tense, her hands clenched too tightly.
“Kitty,” he said softly, “what were you sent to prison for?”
She stood absolutely rigid, staring at him, looking like a doll, mouth fixed open, eyes rounded, clutched fists raised. It was easy to believe that she had stopped breathing. Then she backed away a pace, as if worked by clockwork, but did not move in any other way at all. He waited for the shock to ease, but it took a long time. The music changed tempo; a band was playing rock and roll, and it seemed so out of place and completely wrong in mood.