“I’ll be all right now,” he said. “These chaps are used to giving me a hand.” He smiled at the two commissionaires, who had come forward smartly. Then his expression changed and he said tensely : “Look after Gillian, Roily. I can’t tell you how much I love that girl. Alan can look after himself.”
“I’ll look after her,” promised Rollison. He turned to one of the commissionaires. “Pop back and tell Miss Selby that I’ll be a few minutes, please.” As the man moved off and M.M.M. looked his questions, Rollison added: “I’m just going to make sure all’s well at your flat. Let me have your key, will you ?”
“What would be wrong, sir?” asked the other commissionaire.
Rollison smiled but didn’t answer, and M.M.M. took out a bunch of keys, selected one, and said :
“It’s the Yale with the red speck on it. You really are thorough, aren’t you?”
“When I can be,” Rollison said.
He hurried to the lift, which was automatic, and then along the passage to M.M.M.’s flat. Number 37. No-one was in sight. He examined the lock, and saw nothing wrong with it. He inserted the key gently, standing to one side, but the lock turned easily, and there was a sharp click. He took the key out and pushed the door; it swung open slowly and soundlessly. He moved forward very slowly, and looked inside the flat, seeing the small hall and three doors; nothing else. There was still no sound. He dropped his right hand to his pocket and went in, looking into the living-room, the bedroom, the bathroom and the kitchenette. The flat was empty. He turned round slowly, swiftly, and went to the living-room, where there was a writing-desk. He opened each drawer, and looked inside swiftly, found nothing of interest, and closed the drawers again. He left the door open, and would hear when M.M.M. arrived in the lift.
He went into the modern bedroom, with all the evidence of luxury. On the bedside table was a big coloured photograph of Gillian. On the dressing-table was a smaller photograph of Gillian. On the mantel-piece was a picture of Alan Selby and Gillian, taken on Brighton Pier.
Rollison listened, and heard no sound of approach.
He looked through the dressing-table drawers with a speed of long practice, and then into the wardrobe. He found nothing that shouldn’t be there; there were two old crutches, and some other oddments which M.M.M. had needed when he had learned to walk again.
Rollison went out.
He heard the lift doors close, and then footsteps came rather heavily: M.M.M. walking with his limp, and the commissionaire possibly by his side. Rollison stepped towards the door, but didn’t go outside at first. He listened for other sounds, and heard one: a door was opening. He crept closer to his door and peered along the passage. He saw a door opening, very slowly: suspiciously slowly. He saw M.M.M on his own, limping much more than he had at the cottage, and frowning as if in pain.
The door opened a little more.
Rollison stepped out like a whirlwind, and M.M.M. looked astounded. Rollison threw himself at the door which was opening so slowly, but as he reached it, it slammed. He put his shoulder against the door and exerted all his strength, but it remained closed, and he wasn’t likely to get it down easily. He took his automatic from his pocket and fired three times at the lock; then he thrust the door open.
A draught struck at his head. A door beyond stood wide open, and he could see into a room with an open window, and a man climbing out of it: a man with a gun. Rollison jumped towards him. The man fired, and the shot sounded very loud. Rollison swerved as he went, and the shot missed him. He fired in turn. He thought he hit the man, for he saw him wince, but then a woman appeared from another room, and flung herself at Rollison, taking him completely by surprise, pulling at his gun arm. The man at the window dropped out of sight, while M.M.M. came in at the door, and the woman hacked at Rollison’s shins and tried to break free. He held her very tight, and she bent down suddenly and tried to bury her teeth in the back of his hand. All he realised at this moment was that she was small and had a lot of dark hair, a canopy of hair. Her teeth scratched painfully.
Doors were opening in the passage, a man appeared, someone shouted.
“Shut that door, Monty,” Rollison said swiftly. “Keep ‘em out.” He saw Monty Morne slam the door in a man’s face, then lean against it, for the lock wouldn’t hold anyone the other side. The woman was still struggling and trying to bite and kick, but suddenly Rollison let her go and, as she staggered back, gripped her at the waist with both hands, and lifted her high off the ground. She bared her teeth and snarled at him, waved her hands and tried to strike, and kicked the empty air; but she did no damage, and Rollison held her at arm’s length, as he might a bad-tempered child. He dragged her to the window, and looked out. There was a balcony just alongside and he saw open French doors.
“You can talk to us or you can talk to the police,” he said to the woman. “Which is it to be ?” She stopped struggling.
“Let me go,” she demanded in a hoarse voice, “Let me down, and I’ll tell you.”
“You’ll talk now,” said Rollison. “Who sent you, and what were you going to do?”
“Lodwin sent us,” she answered swiftly, as if she did not know that a man named Lodwin was dead. “We had to put Mome away, that’s all I know, we had to put Morne away.”
“You and who else ?”
“I wouldn’t squeal on him ever if it would save my life,” she said, gaspingly. “I’ll squeal on Lodwin but not on him, you needn’t waste your breath. Let me go, the police will be here in a minute. Give me a break.”
Dare he let her go? And even if he dared, had she a chance to get away ?
12
HOME AGAIN
Outside, men were shouting and hammering on the door. M.M.M. stood with his back to the door, sweat dripping from his forehead, his face very pale. Rollison released the woman and slipped her handbag off her arm with a movement which took her by surprise, and said : “How did you get in ?”
“We broke into the flat next door, and then came m at the window.” She swung round as she spoke and made for the door she had closed, and presumably for the window. As M.M.M. moved from the door, a biggish man m a sports jacket and a small man in a navy blue suit stumbled in, and looked about. Rollison was standing with the woman’s bag over his arm, and a smile which they must have found infuriating.
“What’s happened here?”
“Where’s the gun?”
“Who did the shooting?”
“Anyone hurt?”
“Time gentlemen, please,” pleaded Rollison and swung the bag on his arm. “There was a burglar, I spotted him, he shot at me, he still has his gun, and I don’t think anyone’s hurt, unless it’s the burglar because I shot at him, too. My name is Rollison, Scotland Yard will vouch for me, and it’s time Mr. Morne went to his own flat, he’s had a heavy day and his leg isn’t so good.”
“There was someone here. Who was it?” demanded the man in navy blue.
“A woman who got away,” said Rollison, and raised his right hand, to show the teeth marks, and a little blood welling up. “She got her teeth into me, and I had to let her go.” He went to M.M.M, and took his arm, and the others made way for him. “I’ll be in Mr. Morne’s flat when the police arrive,” he added, and led the way out.
• • • • •
A Flying Squad car was outside in five minutes, and Rollison was being questioned in ten. He stuck to the story, and M.M.M. corroborated it. He had taken a purse, a letter and some papers out of the woman’s bag before handing it over to the police; they wouldn’t find it easy to trace her through that bag alone.
When the police had gone, he examined the purse, which had only money in it, and the papers. They gave him no help, except that the letter was addressed to Miss Lola Bridger, 18, Kentall Street, S.W.7.
“Any idea why Lodwin should want you dead?” he asked M.M.M.
“It’s unbelievable!”
“It happened. Any ideas ?”
“I haven’t the faintest,” said M.M.M., helplessly.
“Anything in this business that you haven’t told me about?”
“No.” That was almost shouted, and was much too loud.
“Monty,” said Rollison, softly, “someone just tried to kill you. They might try again. You must know why.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” M.M.M. insisted. “It must be something to do with this dreadful business, but I tell you I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“If I know the truth, I might be able to stop another attack.”
“Goddam it, you know the truth !”
“Monty,” said Rollison, still in that soft voice, “a peculiar thing has happened to you today. You couldn’t have been more affable than you were this morning, but the next time I saw you you were very anti-Toff indeed. That’s all right as far as it goes, but I want to know why.”
“I’m not anti-Toff. I just think you’ve done a hell of a bad job, and done Gillian more harm than good. I love her, don’t you understand ? I love her so much it hurts to think that she might be in danger. I’ll do anything I can for her, absolutely everything.”
“Even keep silent when you know that another attack on your life might be successful”
“I can’t tell you anything else!”
“Monty,” persisted Rollison, “I didn’t like the way you behaved on the road today. I didn’t like it when you made an excuse to get away from me. I didn’t like thinking that you telephoned a warning to the house in Norton Street, and so let Charlie’s friends escape—doubtless believing you were helping Alan Selby and Gillian. I didn’t like it when you decided to try to make Gillian throw me over. I still think I can help Gillian. I didn’t even like it when you decided to be all nice and friendly at Clapham Common. You’re a somewhat obvious young man, far too obvious to get away with that kind of thing. I want to know why you’ve changed since you came to see me this morning, and I want to know now.”
M.M.M. was sitting in a small armchair, his back very straight, sweat dripping down his forehead, his hands trembling. He looked a sick man, and yet this morning he had been in buoyant spirits and, except for his leg, in boisterous health.
“It—it’s not true,” he muttered. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I imagining that your mood changed entirely when you were at the Wheatsheaf for lunch?” asked Rollison. “Is it imagination that there were two men, not one, in the Wheatsheaf interested in the farm, and that I followed one.
“The man Charlie, and the other talked to you? He put the fear of death into you, Monty, didn’t he?”
“You—you’re crazy !”
“Or the fear of the death of Gillian. Which was it?”
“I tell you you’re making it all up!”
“If I hadn’t come ahead you would probably have been killed.”
“They wouldn’t have killed me, they would only——”
M.M.M. broke off, realising that he had made just the admission which Rollison needed. Would he give up, now, or would he try to fight on? He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed his forehead, gulped, and then dabbed again.
“Let’s have it, Monty,” Rollison urged.
“I—I couldn’t help myself,” muttered M.M.M. “I didn’t know how serious the situation was when I talked to Gillian this morning, if I had I wouldn’t have told you. You— you’re right. Another man came into the Wheatsheaf, and sat at my table. He said that if I didn’t get you off the job, he’d kill Gillian.”
“And you believed him.”
“I couldn’t take a chance with Gillian.”
“Let’s pass that,” said Rollison. “What was he like?”
“He was an American. If you ask me, he and Brandt are in this together.”
“We’ll find out. What about tipping off the people at Norton Street ?”
“He gave me a telephone number and told me to ring there if—if you looked like getting too close. I had to do it, if I hadn’t it would have been letting Gillian down. I could tell that he was serious, he—he showed me proof that he’d got Alan prisoner, and told me that if he didn’t get hold of the farm he would kill both Alan and Gillian. The only way to help them was to get you off the case, and then persuade Gillian to sell.”
“So that’s what you were going to do?”
“Yes I had to. I thought we could butter you up a bit, and—well, what else could I do?” Now that it was off his chest, M.M.M. seemed less troubled, but kept dabbing at his forehead. “I still think the only safe thing is to let these swine buy the farm.”
“Do you know why they want it ?”
“No.”
“Sure?”
“I’d never heard of them until this morning, of course I don’t know.”
“How much did they offer you for your help to get me off the job, and to persuade Gillian to sell ?”
“That’s a swine of a question. You know damned well that the only thing they could offer me was Gillian’s safety and after that, Alan’s. Money didn’t enter into it. Good God ! I’ve got enough money for anything I’ll ever want in this life.”
“All right, no hysterics,” said Rollison. “Now, about this man who warned you ?”
“He came in just after you’d left, a biggish chap in a brown suit. He had a whispering kind of voice but he was American all right. He drove that black Humber, the car Charlie came in. Mildred and Bert couldn’t hear a thing he was saying, although they were at the bar all the time. And you can call me everything you like, but I still think that the wise thing is to buy this swine off.”
“In spite of two murders?”
“You talk as if ordinary, decent people had been killed, instead of a couple of crooks !”
“Monty,” murmured Rollison, “their way of earning a living apart, a lot of crooks are ordinary, decent people. They have wives and children who mourn them when they die, and a lot of very good qualities.”
“These two were brutes! They would have killed
“They daren’t kill Gillian until they have the farm, and they daren’t use too much pressure because any sale made under pressure could be ruled invalid,” said Rollison. “They could use threats, but couldn’t do physical harm to Gillian. That speaks for itself.”
“That’s what you say,” Monty almost sneered.
“All right,” said Rollison, crisply. “And the couple waiting in the other flat were going to ginger up your spirit of co-operation. Ever seen the woman before?”
“No.”
“I hope that’s true,” said Rollison, and seemed to relax; but he had never been further from relaxing. “Monty, I want you to try to remember this. You never benefit from making a deal with bad men. You can’t buy safety and you can’t buy an easy conscience. If you do what this man in brown orders, and persuade Gillian to sell the farm, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. That might not be for long, because once you’ve done what you’re wanted for, you might be rubbed out. Nice, expressive phrase, rubbed out, even if it is a little old-fashioned. They’re expert at the rubbing process. They’ve killed two men, and I think they would cheerfully have killed me. Don’t fall for it, Monty. Come back on my side.”
