by John Creasey
“No,” Kitty breathed. “It’s not true; they’ve lied to you, it’s not true.” And then, as if she did not know what she was saying, she added: “They promised never to tell anyone. They promised.”
“What was it for, and when?” asked Rollison, gently. “No one need know unless you decide that it’s best to tell Cedric.”
She looked utterly lost and forlorn.
“No,” she breathed. “Cedric mustn’t know.” There was a pause before she added: “They promised that they wouldn’t tell anyone.”
It would be pointless to try to persuade her that no one had told him; better, in fact, for her to think that her secret had been betrayed.
“Tell me what it was for,” Rollison insisted.
She closed her eyes, and he remembered how effectively she could use those eyes. It seemed a long time before she spoke, and when she did it was in a husky, whispering voice.
“I—I took some clothes and cosmetics from the place where I worked.”
“Where was that, Kitty?”
“Berridges.”
Rollison had good reason to know that Berridges were well known for the severity of their discipline; no one there ever had a second chance, and perhaps that was understandable, for it was a big departmental store, and at the mercy of an unreliable staff.
“I was in the cosmetics department,” Kitty told him, miserably. “A—a friend—a friend of mine was in lingerie. It—it looked so easy, and when she suggested it I—well, I just did it.”
“How much were the things worth?”
“I couldn’t be sure,” answered Kitty Dwight. Suddenly her eyes seemed huge and round and luminous, as if this were the moment of her greatest plea. “It went on for nearly six months before we were found out. I’m not going to pretend it was just an impulse. I knew I shouldn’t be doing it, but once it started it was ever so difficult to stop. I—I’d never been used to having enough money to buy everything I wanted, and I’d always lived in a back room and shared it with two cousins. Suddenly I was able to have a little room of my own, and Cora had a room in the same flat.” Rollison did not stop her to ask if “Cora” was the girl with whom she had stolen these goods, for now she had started, words seemed to pour out of her. “I just couldn’t give it up! Cora—Cora always sold the things. She had several boyfriends who bought them, but she was very strict with them, they never stayed the night. I didn’t really think what I was doing; I kind of grew into thinking it was—was quite all right. Then one day I was stopped while leaving the shop.”
She looked as if she could swoon with the recollection of that dread moment.
“Was Cora stopped, too?” inquired Rollison.
“Oh, yes,” answered Kitty. “She was given two years’ imprisonment, because it wasn’t her first offence. I—I spent six months in prison. Every day was horrible. I’m not making that up! Every day was terrible, and sometimes I dream about it at night now. I came out of prison a year ago, and had nowhere to go and nothing to do, but—Cora’s friends looked after me.”
“The men who were at your flat last night?”
“Yes,” said Kitty, and so simply explained almost everything that needed explanation. “They found me work as a photographer’s model, and that was how I met Cedric. I knew I ought to tell him, but I daren’t, because I was afraid that he wouldn’t want to marry me. I simply couldn’t give him up.”
“Kitty,” Rollison said softly, “how fond of Cedric are you?”
“I worship him,” she declared, her voice vibrant with simplicity. “I would do absolutely anything for him. I’m terrified that he might find out about the past, and—and these men threatened to tell him, unless I did what they wanted. That’s why I let the man go, and why I took the sleeping tablets.” She closed her eyes again, and he thought that she looked very tired. “I didn’t mean to tell you or anyone; I just prayed that everything would work out all right.”
“I think perhaps it will,” Rollison said. “Where is this photographer’s studio?”
“In Crew Street, off the Edgware Road.”
“Fine,” said Rollison, and studied her closely, smiled a little, and said: “Now that I know all this, I’m as big a menace to you as the others, aren’t I?”
“Yes.”
“Who would you rather trust?”
“You,” said Kitty, huskily. “That’s if you’ll help me, now that you know about my past.”
“Kitty,” said Rollison gently, “you made a fool of yourself and committed a crime, and you paid for it. That’s over. Provided you don’t let Cora or these friends of hers make you commit more crimes, you’ve nothing to worry about, and I’ll help you all I can. A lot of my friends in the East End of London have spent years in jail for far worse crimes than yours.”
“What?”
Rollison laughed.
“That’s true, believe it or not! Have you any idea where Cedric is?”
“No.”
“What else did these men want you to do?”
“They didn’t want me to tell you anything about the studio, or about the past.”
“I can understand that, too,” said Rollison. “Do you think you could face them again?”
Kitty didn’t answer, but just stared at him, and her eyes were asking “Why?”
“If I let you go, they’ll pick you up,” Rollison said. “I can have you followed, and find out where they take you. You must tell them that you didn’t say a word to me about anything that matters; you just refused to talk. Afterwards you must take a big risk, Kitty.”
“What risk?”
“You must tell them that if they don’t let you know where Cedric is, you’ll talk to me or to the police.”
She caught her breath.
“They’d kill me if I did!”
“They might try to. I’d make sure they didn’t. On the other hand, they might be so relieved that you haven’t told me anything yet, that they would tell you where to find Cedric. They might even let you see him. Then you’d have to tell me, but that needn’t come until later.”
There was a long pause, in which neither of them moved. Then: “All right,” Kitty said, very slowly. “I can see what you mean, and it’s worth trying.”
“That’s fine!” It would be easy to marvel at this girl’s courage, Rollison thought, unless she had fooled him – and he did not think she had. In any case he could soon find out if part of her story was true. “Kitty.”
“Yes?”
“Do you know what these men want with Cedric?”
“No, I haven’t the faintest idea,” Kitty answered promptly. “I tried to make him tell me how it was they could frighten him so much, but he wouldn’t talk about it. The awful thing was that these were friends of Cora’s; in a way I’d let him in for it.”
“He won’t be frightened when this is over,” Rollison said.
“Do you think you really can help?”
“Many more difficult situations have worked out happily ever after,” Rollison answered brightly, “and these people aren’t anything like as good as they think they are. Now get dressed, and be ready to leave in half an hour.”
He went out before she could speak, and approached the door of Jolly’s room. He hesitated, then opened it. A gust of heat-laden air struck him; it was already almost as hot as a Turkish bath. The prisoner was sitting just as he had been before, but his face was streaked with sweat which ran into his eyes and mouth, and he could not move his arms to wipe it off or help himself in any way. Rollison stared at him, seeing the red, puffy face, the greasy eyes, the physical distress: and he closed the door without a word.
Jolly was coming from the kitchen.
“Give him an hour, and then talk to him,” Rollison said. “Just make him tell you who he works for, where the headquarters are, and where Dwight is.”
“Very good, sir.”
“I’m going to the Yard,” Rollison said, “and—”
He broke off, for the telephone bell rang; there still wasn’t
time to breathe between one thing and another, and the ordinary day-to-day incidents of living became burdensome. He let Jolly answer, and hoped that it was a call about which he could take a message; but almost at once Jolly said: “I will find out if he is in. Hold on, please.”
“Who is it?” asked Rollison.
“Miss Isobel Cole, sir.”
“Oh,” said Rollison. “All right, I’ll talk to her.” He took the receiver, greeted briskly: “Rollison speaking, Miss Cole,” and heard the girl draw in her breath, as if now that she had plucked up courage enough to get him on the line, she found it difficult to speak. “How are you this morning?”
“Did you—did you see Bob?” Isobel burst out.
“Yes, last night.”
“You are going to help him, aren’t you?”
“I’ll do everything I can.”
“In—in spite of this other case that’s in all the papers?” she demanded. It was easy to imagine her distress, and that of Mrs. Benning, too. “I know I’ve no right to expect you to concentrate just on Bob, but he didn’t do it, Mr. Rollison, I’m sure he didn’t do it.”
“I’ll prove he didn’t, if that’s true.”
“You will, won’t you?” she begged.
He thought of how much she and Kitty Dwight had in common, in spite of the gulf which now yawned between them. He could picture this girl’s face, and the depth of her anxiety. He wanted to find some words of reassurance, but they were not easy.
He said: “I think this other case will be over in a day or so, and then I’ll concentrate on Bob. I’ve made a start already.”
“The thing that worries me—” Isobel began, and then broke off: and for the first time Rollison realised that she was not alone, for he distinctly heard another woman break in sharply. “Don’t say that!” the speaker ordered, and he knew that Mrs. Benning was in the same telephone-box, still joined in the battle for her son.
“Say anything you like,” Rollison invited.
“I can’t help it,” Isobel Cole cried. “I’m terrified in case you get killed! No one would be able to help Bob then.”
“I’ve told you before, it would take more than a ducking to kill him,” said Mrs. Benning, and her voice came more clearly; she had taken over the telephone. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rollison, but Isobel’s quite overwrought. She’ll be all right soon. Is there anything else that we can do?”
“Nothing at all, yet,” Rollison reassured her. “I’ll be in touch the moment I want anything from you.”
“Well, then, good-bye,” Mrs. Benning said.
When Rollison rang off, he was frowning at his Trophy Wall. He could hardly blame himself, yet he felt a sense of guilt at the unhappiness both the women were feeling, and the fact that he had really done nothing for them. Of course, he might get a break. After his appeal last night Ebbutt’s men would do everything they could, but even Ebbutt himself had made the circumstances look blacker against young Benning. And the hope of results from the Salvation Army seemed very forlorn.
The telephone bell rang again.
“Rollison speaking.”
“It is the secretary of the Northern London Hospital here,” a man said, briskly. “I promised to keep you informed about Mr. Ebbutt’s condition.” There was a pause, and in it Rollison seemed to stop breathing, he was so afraid of what he might be told. Then the man went on: “There is no major change, and every few hours he remains the same are hours gained.”
“Thanks,” breathed Rollison, and added with an effort: “Thank you very much.”
“Very glad to do anything I can for you, Mr. Rollison,” the secretary said. “I’ve been reading about you since I was a boy.”
“I hope you go on reading about me until you’re an old man,” rejoined Rollison. “Thanks again.”
He felt in much better spirits when he rang off. He deliberated, decided that it would be wiser to see Grice than to telephone him, and that this was as likely a time to find him in his office as any. There had been a time when Grice had been out and about a great deal, but promotion held him more often to his desk.
He told Jolly that he would be back in about two hours, and went out. As he passed the door of Number 29, he thought of the bullet-mark which wasn’t there, and the evidence that the chief purpose of that “attack” had been to frighten Cedric Dwight. Odd that the people now involved in this should once have been involved with the kind of larceny that the girl had described; in comparatively small crime.
Was it so small?
Pilfering was becoming worse and worse, in many phases of public life, and big departmental stores were more vulnerable than most. Not long ago he had been involved in a case where theft from a big wholesalers had reached vast proportions, and had led to murder and a campaign of violence greater than this one. There was a possibility that Kitty had been one of many girls who had been lured into stealing goods which were easy to sell: that for every one caught and sentenced, there might be ten still active and free. It could be a red herring, but it had to be considered.
He reached the mews where he kept his Rolls-Bentley. He had an arrangement with the mechanics at a small garage opposite to open the sliding doors and take the car out ready for him; and there it stood, massive and low slung, a beauty in twin-tone grey, always a sight which did him good. If the traffic wasn’t too bad, he would be at the Yard in ten minutes. The essential thing was to find out why the police had been so helpful; whether in fact they knew anything which would enable him to understand the campaign against Cedric Dwight.
Then he saw the front nearside tyre was flat.
That happened so seldom that he was immediately suspicious and wary. He walked round the car, glancing at each tyre; only the one was down. The garage doors were wide open and two men were in sight, working; they would change the wheel for him in a minute or two, the fact that the car had had a puncture did not really matter, but the possibility that the tyre had been deflated deliberately, either to delay or to put him in danger, was sharp in his mind.
He saw no sign of other damage.
He called: “Nobby!” to the garage man at the bench, and then, to save time, went to the boot. He did not open it at first, for there might be a booby trap: it could have been done to make him open the door, and it would not be the first time that an explosive went off in an unsuspecting man’s face. He stood to one side, as he inserted his key, turned it very slowly, and held his breath. Nothing happened, except that the chunky mechanic came up, briskly. “Lend me a long handled tool, will you?” Rollison asked. “The longer the better.”
Nobby needed only a glance to know that Rollison was on edge. He hurried back to the garage and came carrying a long pole, with a curved hook at the end, the kind used for moving high windows.
“This do?”
“Fine, thanks,” said Rollison. “Now stand at the front of the car, Nobby, and if I get blown to little pieces, tell the police.”
He grinned tautly as he spoke, stood well to one side, put the hook under the handle of the boot, and gradually levered it up. He was half prepared for an explosion, and shaded his face with his left arm.
There was no explosion.
But there was a man in the boot.
Chapter Eighteen
Silent Fear
Now Rollison threw the boot lid up, handed the pole back to Nobby, and stepped right in front of the open boot. The man was heaped inside, and his coppery-coloured hair identified him at a glance, but did not say whether he was alive or dead.
This was Cedric Dwight.
If he were alive, would it make any sense?
Rollison did not ask himself how the boot had been forced; hardly thought of anything but the discovery, and fear that the youth was dead. Nobby had uttered a single exclamation, and been silent ever since. A car passed the end of the mews, and the other mechanic began to hammer some metal. Rollison moved forward and eased Dwight round, and would not have been surprised to see the evidence of murder on his face or on his head.
His flesh was warm to the touch, too; if he were dead it had not been for long. Rollison took his wrist and felt his pulse. It was beating steadily, if a little faintly: as it would if he had been drugged. There was no sign at all of injury.
“Blimey!” Nobby said.
“Couldn’t agree with you more,” said Rollison. “Did you see anyone about the car?”
“No, sir, but I had to shut the place up for half an hour this morning; there was an emergency job.”
“That was when they did this, then,” Rollison mused. He leaned inside and lifted Dwight out; the man was a light weight. “Can I use a car to take him round to my flat, while you fix my nearside front wheel?”
“Pleasure, sir,” said Nobby. “Take the Daimler; her ladyship never minds if we use it in an emergency. The ignition key’s in the dash.”
He stood aside, and then hurried to open the door of a stately old Daimler, so that Rollison could lift his burden in. Rollison dumped Dwight on the seat next to the driver’s, and then took the wheel. He had not gone beyond pondering this new development, and the fact that he could not move at all without coming up against something which delayed him, or puzzled him, or alarmed him. He was more puzzled by this development than by anything else. He had taken it for granted that Dwight had been wanted by the men for some specific purpose. If that were so, why bring him back?
They were good, Rollison thought, uneasily; and they allowed a sense of humour some rein, which suggested overweening confidence.
Suppose they had got what they wanted from Dwight?
That seemed the most likely answer; and if they had, then Dwight should be able to talk. But not yet: he would be out for several hours, judging from appearances. Rollison felt a little bemused when he reached the front door of Number 22 and got out. He had hardly opened the other door when Wrightson came hurrying from the house, obviously on Jolly’s instructions.