John Creasey - The Toff and The Lady Страница 4

“Time will tell.” said Rollison.

“Exactly! And if she sees someone whom she knows, it might bring everything back to her. You won’t mind if I come with you, I hope? I can watch the patient closely when she sees you. I’ll first make sure that she is awake,” the matron added, “it would be a pity to disturb her is she has fallen asleep.”

“If she has, I’ll come again later,” said Rollison.

He waited in the office while the matron was out, and he looked about the room with casual interest. There were photographs of royalty and other distinguished patients, and on every hand there were evidence of a discreet effort to impress visitors.

After five minutes he began to fidget. At the end of ten minutes he stood up, and almost immediately the door opened. A young nurse who looked a little scared entered, coughed in some confusion, and said:

“Matron says, sir, if you don’t mind, sir, perhaps it would be better if you were to come back to-morrow morning.”

“To-morrow,” ejaculated Rollison.

“Yes, sir. This way out, sir.”

“What room is the patient in?” asked Rollison.

“Number 4, sir, this way out, sir.” She led the way to the front door, and only when she reached it did she realize that Rollison was going in the opposite direction. She exclaimed in concern. Rollison ignored her; he had seen that the door of a room on the ground floor was marked 4. As he stood outside it for a moment the nurse came back, speaking in a low-pitched but appealing voice: the patient could not be allowed visitors that day. Rollison held up his hand, and succeeded in silencing her as he listened to the murmur of voices from the room beyond. First there were two voices, then only the matron’s, raised a little so that he could hear every word. She was holding a disjointed conversation.

“YesYes, doctor, she was perfectly all right at half-past

two, and had a good lunch . . . . Her pulse is very low and she

is running a hundred-and-one . . . One, yesYes, complete

coma.” There was a longer pause, before she went on: “I have done all that, doctor . . . . In half-an-hour, that’s splendid.”

After she finished there was the ting of the telephone being replaced.

Rollison put his fingers on the handle of the door.

“Oh, please!” appealed the nurse.

“I shall tell matron that you did all you could to stop me,” promised Rollison, and opened the door.

The matron was standing by the side of a single bed, in a room where everything was white or green. A nurse in starched cap and white dress, was standing with a hand on the forehead of the woman who lay on the enamel-painted bed, a woman whose pallor was so marked that Rollison drew in his breath in surprise. The sound made the matron swing round.

“Hallo,” said Rollison. “Serious trouble?”

“You shouldn’t be in here!” whispered the matron. “Go out at once.”

“Not just yet,” said Rollison. He gave her a most charming smile, and approached the bed. There he stood looking down on the woman of the photograph. Because of her pallor she was remarkable. Apart from it, she looked as she had done in the newspaper photograph, and he got the impression that all vitality, all personality and charm had been drawn out of her. She seemed hardly to be breathing. Her high cheek-bones looked more prominent than in his photograph, and her lips were parted slightly. Now that he saw her with her eyes closed, the fact that they sloped upwards a little towards the temples confirmed his first impression—that she was not English.

“Mr. Rollison!” said the matron, sharply.

“I’ll come into your office,” said Rollison, but instead he stepped across the room and examined the window carefully. The day had turned warm, and the window was wide open. It was of the modern type, with a patent, self-locking fitting, and, when ajar, could easily be opened from the outside. He stood there for some moments, and then turned to the cabinet by the side of die bed.

“Has anything been touched since you found her?”

“No, of course not,” said the matron, while the nurse looked at him with startled curiosity. “Mr. Rollison, I must insist”

Rollison ignored her and picked up a medicine glass. There was a little green liquid at the bottom.

“What time did she take this?”

“After lunch. I positively must insist—what are you doing?” The matron’s voice rose a shade as Rollison took a folded handkerchief from his pocket, wrapped it about the glass, and stuffed it back in his pocket. “You have no right to do that!”

“I want to make sure that nothing happens to it before the police arrive,” he said.

“The—police!”

“Obviously we must tell them of this at once,” said Rollison, and his expression was bleak. “It isn’t nice and it might be murder. But then, you know that, don’t you? What are the symptoms?” When she did not answer, he went on: “Acute narcotic poisoning, aren’t they?” He judged her agreement from her expression, and nodded. “I was afraid so. Have you any men on the staff?”

“We—Mr. Rollison!”

“Have you?” insisted Rollison, and added very gently: “The nursing home has an excellent reputation, matron, and I should not like anything to happen which would cause it harm.”

The matron became almost as pale as the patient.

“We have—two porters.”

“Have one of them stand outside the window and make sure that no one attempts to force an entrance,” said Rollison. “Have the other outside the door, with the same instructions. I’m afraid it’s a case of locking the stable door after the horse has gone, but it might come back, you know. Will you do what I ask?”

“I suppose you know what you’re doing,” she said. “I will send for them at once, but please come out.”

“Will the nurse be here all the time?”

“Yes.”

“Good. It isn’t likely that the patient will come round, but if she shows any sign of returning consciousness, send for the matron at once, nurse. And remember, that if she should utter even a single word, it might be helpful.”

The nurse promised hoarsely that she would do what he said. She looked as frightened as the matron, presumably worried so much because there had been a serious lapse of discipline. He followed the matron out of the room. The little nurse was waiting outside, obviously apprehensive. The matron gave her instructions to send the porters to the office, and maintaining her stately poise, she walked to the office and sat down at her desk. She was inwardly in a state of great agitation.

“What else has gone wrong?” demanded Rollison.

A tinge of colour stained the woman’s cheeks, and he admired her as she pulled herself together and answered.

“She should not have been left. The police asked us to arrange for a nurse to be with her all the time, and the doctors were equally emphatic. Nurse Armitage, who was on duty, was taken ill, and we could not find another at short notice who was free. It was only a matter of half an hour that the patient was left. She was well enough at lunch, because I was there with her myself.”

“I see,” said Rollison.

“What is your interest in her?” asked the matron, now rallying well. The shock of the discovery had temporarily unbalanced her, for if the patient died some blame would undoubtedly be attached to the nursing home. Now, however, she resumed her cloak of authority.

“I think she is a friend of a friend,” said Rollison, evasively.

There was a tap at the door, and the porters came in, two ordinary men in white smocks. The matron gave them precise instructions, dismissed them, and turned to Rollison.

“Why were you so—officious?”

“Someone had to make sure that everything necessary was done,” said Rollison. He touched the little bulge which the medicine glass made in his pocket. “That would probably have been washed, and someone might have closed the window. Should that have been left open?”

“Not at the bottom—there is a special ventilation shutter at the top. The nurse on duty was careless, and I didn’t notice it. I should have done, of course; the responsibility is mine.”

“I wonder if it is all yours,” murmured Rollison, and having won her hopeful interest, he went on: “This nurse who was taken ill—where is she?”

“She has gone home.”

“Has she been with you long?”

“Only a few weeks.”

“Have you found her quite satisfactory?”

“Perfectly,” said the matron, who obviously caught the drift of his questions. “I do not think that she co-operated with the people who administered the poison—if there was a poison. We are speculating, and I really cannot allow it, Mr. Rollison. It may be a natural illness, a result of the prostration, or of some trouble which had not been discovered. I really can’t assume that the patient was poisoned. She was to have had a dose of Neuro-Phosphates before tea—before all meals—so that was quite in order. The drop of liquid at the bottom of the glass was green, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Rollison.

“Then it is almost certainly Neuro-Phosphates.”

“Where is the bottle from which it was taken?” asked Rollison, and when she hesitated, he added: “I saw the police before I came here, they won’t object to these questions.”

“The bottle is in our dispensary,” replied the matron. “It is frequently prescribed, and we have it in bulk quantities.”

“Can I see it?” asked Rollison, and then changed his mind, anticipating a refusal and avoiding it. “No, that can wait for the police, provided it is put aside and not touched again until they’ve examined it.”

“I will see to that,” said the matron. “I suppose I’d better do it myself. Is there anything else you would like?”

“Several things,” said Rollison, “including a word with the police. May I use the telephone?”

She said Yes,” not very graciously, and went out. Rollison dialled Whitehall 1212, but did not wait to speak to Grice. He left a message which should bring Grice here hot-foot, rang off and moved to an oak filing cabinet by the side of the desk. He was not in view of anyone who might pass the window, but he looked at the door from time to time as he pulled open the filing cabinet and ran through the manilla folders inside. Under “N” he found “Nurses”. On the matron’s desk was a time-table of duties, which confirmed that Nurse Armitage had been on duty in Room 4 that afternoon. He picked out the card about Nurse Armitage, reading:

Armitage, Phyllis Jane, 6a Leeming House, White Court, Kensington.

Age: 26.

Certificates: S.R.N.; S.C.M.

Previous experience: Castle Nursing Home, Leamington

Spa. Seaview Maternity Home, Bournemouth.

References: Attached. Excellent.

Reports: After 1 month, most satisfactory.

He read the address again, murmuring to himself: “Phyllis Jane Armitage, 6a Leeming House, White Court, Kensington, aged 26.” Then he replaced the folder, without looking at the various letters attached, and closed the filing cabinet. His hand was on the telephone when the matron came in, carrying a large bottle of a clear green liquid, and a white record card.

“I have it,” she said, unnecessarily. “The contents are quite uncontaminated, as far as I can find on a quick analysis, Mr. Rollison.”

“I didn’t think they’d try to polish off the entire nursing home,” said Rollison, mildly. “The police will be here soon. Would you prefer to tell them what happened, or shall I wait?”

“I would much prefer to be on my own.”

“Then I won’t embarrass you,” said Rollison. “Will you tell Superintendent Grice that I have the medicine glass?”

She was obviously about to ask him to leave it behind, but he smiled at her from the door and disappeared before she could protest. She sat back and looked at the door, frowning, still greatly upset, and she was sitting like that when the police arrived.

In his taxi Rollison took out the glass, sniffed the contents but recognized no particular smell. He put a two-shilling piece into the glass, so that it lodged itself half-way down, like a stopper, then carefully wrapped it up again in the handkerchief and put it back in his pocket, lodged against his wallet so that it could not move on its side. Grice would not like him taking the glass away, and would express himself colourfully if the dregs of the dose were lost.

The taxi turned off Bayswater Road into Queen’s Road, and, a little way along, pulled up sharply as the driver saw the nameplate on the wall of a narrow turning—White Court. There was just room for the taxi to get into the Court, and beyond there was plenty of room for a cab or a small car to turn when on full lock. White Court consisted of a dozen tall, drab-looking houses, packed tightly together. Only one of them had been painted recently. Outside it hung a notice board: Leeming House—Furnished Flatlets. Rollison saw that as they passed a laundry van drawn up just outside Leeming House; and then he forgot it, for parked behind the laundry van was a small green-painted Morris car.

CHAPTER FIVE

PHYLLIS JANE ARMITAGE

“CAN’T get by the house, mister,” said the taxi driver, “I’LL have to drop you further back.”

“As far back as you can, please,” said Rollison. “And wait, will you?”

The cab pulled up. As Rollison climbed out a sombre figure, dressed in black, appeared in the doorway of one of the houses. He did not venture far into the cul-de-sac, but attracted Rollison’s attention by raising his furled umbrella. Rollison joined him, and smiled a greeting.

“Where lone trails meet, eh, Jolly?”

“They appear to, sir.”

“How long have you been here?”

“A little more than an hour.”

“Where’s the taxi?”

“Waiting for me in the main road, sir. I thought it best to make sure that I had some means of transport available.”

“Quite right,” said Rollison. “What else?”

“There is nothing of great moment,” said Jolly. “The driver of the car is a good-looking young man of quite pleasant aspect. After leaving Gresham Terrace, Miss Barrington-Ley secured a taxi. I expected that the young man would follow her, but he did not. He went to a popular restaurant and had lunch, and I thought it wise to do the same and thus to keep him under my eye. He gave me no reason for thinking that he knew that he was being followed, sir, and I am sure that I did not attract his attention. From the restaurant he went to an office in the Strand—I have the address, and I was able to find out which office in the building he visited. It was a firm of accountants, sir, next door to a firm of solicitors of the same name.”

“I see,” said Rollison. “And then?”

“He was there for some time, but I thought it might be wise to wait and follow him to his next destination,” said Jolly. “He left the office a little after four-forty-five, and came straight here. It is now nearly six o’clock. I am afraid” — Jolly looked apologetic — “that I have not yet discovered which particular flatlet that young man has visited.”