John Creasey - Stars For The Toff Страница 7

At once he detected a strong smell of burning.

Burning?

He saw stairs disappearing downwards into a well of darkness; more stairs leading up, the walls drab with faded paper. It was from these that the smell of burning seemed to be coming. He hurried upwards, passed a doorway marked 2, and reached the next landing. Beneath the 3 on the door now facing him was the name Mrs Abbott. This door had an old-fashioned type lock, no more difficult to force than that on the main entrance. The smell of fire was much stronger now, and Rollison worked quickly. Suddenly the lock clicked back, and he flung the door open.

Smoke filled a room almost straight ahead, along a narrow passage. It was red-tinged. Rollison coughed as he plunged inside; he could see flames through the swirling grey, but little else. In one corner of the room he could just make out a wash-basin and a large old-fashioned jug. Coughing and choking, he fumbled for a tap, filled the jug, and splashed water over the fire. It seemed an age before the flames went out. He refilled the bowl and splashed in greater volume, this time until there was only smoke and steam and blackened debris.

The window was closed and smoke still whirled and twisted, as if anxious to get out. Rollison pushed open the window and turned back.

Gradually the smoke cleared; and as it cleared, his smarting eyes made out the hazy shapes of furniture: a chair, a cupboard, then a bed. And lying across the bed, feet dangling to the floor, a woman’s body.

Rollison’s heart lurched; then he steeled himself to go forward. It was a shock, even though he had been half prepared for some such thing. The woman did not move. Rollison reached her, saw the slackness of her eyes and mouth and knew that she was dead. He leaned forward and looked down on the now flabby face of Mrs Abbott.

Two had died . . .

The smoke had almost gone, and glancing into a corner he saw a bureau, flap down, drawers wide open. He went over to it. Someone had rifled it, papers were strewn about and two drawers had been turned upside down on the floor. But there was nothing to show what the thief—if thief it had been—had been seeking.

Rollison turned back and studied the position of the dead woman.

If she had come in, crept in, and approached a thief from behind, and the thief had heard, he could have spun round, seized her, and easily have thrown her into the position in which she now lay. One shoe had fallen between the bureau and the white bedspread, the other dangled from her foot. Seeing these, Rollison felt sure that this was what had happened.

There were dark marks on Mrs Abbott’s throat, showing where thumbs and fingers had pressed—marks which told how deeply they must have embedded themselves in the thick flesh. No one could kill like this by accident. In fury, perhaps, but chiefly in cold-blooded determination. And the killer must have had powerful hands.

Turning away from the body, Rollison studied a photograph of an elderly man— almost certainly Mrs Abbott’s husband, he thought. Then he made a careful search through the rest of the flat. But he found nothing of interest. And there was no ammonia, nothing to suggest that it was Mrs Abbott who had made the missile she had thrown at him.

Such missiles couldn’t be bought; she must either have made it herself or had it made for her, and Rollison’s suspicions that someone had put her up to the attack strengthened. He lingered for a few moments, wondering whether he had overlooked anything, decided not to stay, and went to the front door. There was no telephone, but he could ring the Divisional police from the nearest booth.

He opened the door—and saw two heavily built men standing outside.

*     *     *

Rollison stood stock still in surprise.

The two men blocked his way to the stairs; obviously they intended to do this. He felt quite sure who they were, and almost at once, one of them said:

“Mr Rollison?”

“Yes. I was about to telephone Division,” Rollison said.

“Were you, sir?” Scepticism showed in the man’s voice. “You don’t live here, sir, do you?”

“No. You know very well that I don’t.”

“Just making sure, sir. Excuse me.” He pushed by, and as he did so two more men appeared at the foot of the stairs. There would have been no point in trying to get away, but even had he wished to make the attempt, these additional men made any chance of escape almost impossible. Rollison still hadn’t fully recovered from his surprise at their unexpected arrival on the scene; now he tried to regain control of the situation.

“Officer.”

The man who had pushed past him paused. “Yes?”

“A woman has been killed in this house.”

“Indeed, sir. Is that why you were about to call us?”

“Yes.”

“What are you doing here?” The second man spoke, the taller and more massive of the two; he reminded Rollison of Bill Ebbutt fifteen years or so ago.

“I came to talk to the woman—to Mrs Abbott.”

“I see, sir.”

The first man was walking down the passage. The acrid fumes of smoke were still strong, and Rollison saw him pause and rub his eyes. He turned.

“It looks as if someone decided to burn the place down.”

“What’s that?” Another man appeared on the stairs, youthful-looking and very eager, obviously not a policeman. “Arson, do you mean?” His eyes gleamed with excitement. “I’m from the Chronicle. Is it arson?”

“Who knows?” asked the policeman nearest Rollison. “Don’t waste any time here, Tommy. Mrs Abbott’s dead, and there was a fire.”

The boy’s eyes seemed to grow enormous.

“Was she murdered?” He looked at Rollison.

“Do you know? Are you—good Lord! It’s the Toff!”

“That’s what they call him,” the detective said drily.

“Did he find the body?”

“Yes,” Rollison answered quickly.

“And we found him,” said the detective.

There was deep hostility in his manner, which was hard for Rollison to understand. It was almost as if the man intended to make the newspaper-man suspect him.

“There’ll be a statement later,” the detective went on. “That’s enough for now.”

“But—Mr Rollison! Haven’t you a statement to make?”

Rollison clutched at the remnants of his composure, and said firmly:

“Yes, I came here and found her dead.”

“So you didn’t—” The youth checked himself from finishing “you didn’t do it.” At any other time Rollison would have laughed, but now, still barely recovered from the initial shock of discovering the dead woman, and from his astonishment at the police attitude, he could see nothing funny in the situation in which he found himself. The newspaper-man gave him one last lingering almost incredulous look, and then turned and hurried down the stairs as a police photographer hurried up them. Rollison had the strong impression that the police had been prepared to carry out a murder investigation. He lit a cigarette as he turned back into the flat.

“Where are you going?” demanded the policeman with him.

“Into the sitting-room.”

“I’d like you to stay here.”

“Why don’t you come with me?” asked Rollison. He turned away, expecting a hand to drop heavily on to his shoulder, but the man didn’t stop him. The photographer was on the bedroom threshold, where the man who had first spoken to Rollison was saying:

“. . . could have been started to burn the body and disguise the way the woman was killed.”

“Who put the fire out?” asked the photographer.

“Good question,” Rollison said. He turned to the detective. “Are you in charge?”

“Yes, I’m Detective Inspector Godley.”

“Godley?”

“That’s right.”

The obnoxious solicitor at the West London Police Court had been named Godley, also.

“Well, well,” Rollison said. “Inspector, it’s time I went home.”

“I’ll tell you when you’re free to go, sir.”

Rollison said quietly, “I am free to go now.”

“No sir, you’re not.”

“If you want to prefer a charge I want a lawyer. At once. If you’re not going to prefer a charge, I intend to leave. At once.”

The man had very steady, rather opaque brown eyes. He had a strong face and a powerful physique, and something about the set of his lips told Rollison he was extremely stubborn. Inside the bedroom, the camera was clicking and men were moving about. A car drew up in the street below.

Rollison said: “I’ll be at home when you want me.” He tapped the ash from his cigarette, and walked back along the passage. Again he expected to be stopped, but was not. The man should at least have asked him to make a statement.

He reached the door.

“Mr Rollison?” the man called.

“Yes.”

“I would like a statement from you about what happened here.”

“I don’t know what happened before I came,” Rollison said. “I arrived at about four-thirty. I smelled burning, so I broke in. I found a fire in the bedroom, and put it out. As soon as the smoke cleared I saw the woman on the bed. She appeared to have been strangled. I was about to leave and telephone you—”

The man interrupted: “Why not telephone from here?”

“Because there’s no telephone.”

“Oh.” That was the first time the man looked disconcerted, but he quickly recovered. “We shall want your statement in writing, duly signed.”

“Whenever you like.”

“As it’s a short one, why not now, sir?”

Rollison thought: “Yes, why not now? It won’t take ten minutes.” He went to the sitting-room, and Godley followed, put a pen and notebook on a table, and left him; but there was another man in the room, watching. Damn it, they couldn’t seriously believe that he had murdered Mrs Abbott!

He finished and signed the statement, and took it to Godley, who was back in the bedroom doorway. Godley nodded curtly, and said: “Thank you.” Rollison went down the stairs as a short, plump man came up them, a Dr Sampson, whom he knew as a police-surgeon. Sampson nodded; and passed. Rollison stepped into the street. Outside the house were three police cars, the doctor’s car, an ambulance and a crowd of fifty or sixty people. Someone took a photograph— probably a Press photographer. A child asked in a piping voice:

“Did he do it Mummy?”

“Hush!”

Rollison forced a smile. “No, I didn’t do it, sonny.”

No one spoke to him as he turned toward Fulham Road, where he had left the Bentley. He turned the corner, saw the car, and noticed someone sitting in the front passenger seat.

It was a woman.

He opened the door, and Olivia Cordman smiled up at him.

“Didn’t they arrest you, Rolly?” she asked.

CHAPTER NINE

Warning

Rollison went around to the other side of the Bentley, got in, started the engine, and eased off the brake. The car began to move forward. He waited for several cars to pass, then pulled out.

“Can I drop you somewhere?” he asked politely.

“Anywhere near Fleet Street,” Olivia said. “Don’t look so grim, Rolly. They didn’t arrest you, did they?”

“They could yet!”

“The great Toff? Don’t be silly.”

“What brought you here?” asked Rollison, sharply.

“I came to see Mrs Abbott. I thought if I spoke to her alone, I might discover something that might help Madam Melinska. When I arrived I saw the crowds and someone told me Mrs Abbott was dead. Then I saw your car—it was unlocked, so I got in—and here I am.” Olivia settled more comfortably in her seat.

Rollison smiled. He was only just beginning to thaw out from the chill ice of Godley’s manner, and still hadn’t quite decided what to do.

“Need a friend?” asked Olivia.

“Now as always.”

“Try me. I can be a good one.”

“Certainly not,” Rollison said. “I’m sure you’d see me get a life sentence if you thought it would put The Day’s circulation up.”

“You couldn’t be more wrong,” said Olivia Cordman. “I would only see you get a life sentence if—” she paused, rolling the words on her tongue, and gave him a bright, friendly smile— “if I thought you’d killed Hester Abbott.”

“Do you?”

“Well, she did threaten you, didn’t she.”

“So she did,” agreed Rollison.

“And no one in their right mind is going to believe it was simply because you were helping Madam Melinska—even though she was supposed to have driven her husband to his death.”

“I see,” Rollison said. “That’s the angle, is it? Very interesting indeed, Olivia. You don’t have to believe me, but I didn’t know the first thing about this business until this morning.”

Olivia Cordman’s grin was quite remarkably disbelieving.

“You’re right, Rolly dear—I don’t have to believe you. Neither does anyone else.”

Rollison felt a flare of exasperation, but quickly stifled it, and laughed at her. The laugh did him good and obviously surprised Olivia, who raised her eyebrows as she turned to look at him. She had beautiful eyes, and Rollison was surprised that he hadn’t noticed them before.

“If you’re to be a friend,” he said, “you have to believe me.”

“Then why not try telling me the truth.” She was still piqued by his laughter.

Rollison suppressed a smile.

“I’ll tell you the truth as soon as I know it,” he said. “Meanwhile, you tell me something. You wouldn’t be so anxious to get the Melinska story unless it would help your magazine’s circulation. Why should it make new readers for The Day?

“My dear,” Olivia said, “where have you been?”

“There’s no need to be so cryptic.”

“In the past year or so, Rolly my love, public interest in fortune-telling has multiplied ten times over. When I first became Features Editor of The Day the Board wouldn’t have a breath of such fantasy. When I suggested it, I was pooh-poohed. Superstitious, sentimental nonsense, the wise men said, not fit for nor wanted by the sturdy housewives of the middle income group who read The Day. Whereas now we run a two-page spread every fortnight—we’re fortnightly now, in case you don’t know.”

“I do know,” Rollison said, and asked casually: “Think there’s something in it?”

Olivia stared at him for a moment, open-mouthed. “Something in it! Something in it! My dear Rolly, of course there’s something in it. Madam Melinska’s one of the most gifted seers—” She paused, as if at a loss for words.