The Toff and the Kidnapped Child (11 page)

 

They were back at Rollison's flat.

Joe Locket was in the kitchen, Welling was on the way, Rollison was sitting on the arm of the big chair in which Eve lay back. She was a little better than she had been, not so near breaking down, but her eyes were glassy and she could not keep still, even when Rollison was clasping her hand.

“. . . I could understand it more if we hadn't done exactly what he told us to,” she said. “If you'd tried to follow him, or if you'd told the police—well, it would be understandable, wouldn't it? If we hadn't carried out our part of the bargain we couldn't be surprised that they didn't carry out theirs; but we did everything—at least
that's
not on my conscience. If we'd tried to follow them, or if you'd followed me, then I would just blame myself.”

Rollison said: “You did everything you could.”

“Yes,” she said, and looked up at him, those glassy eyes still touched with beauty, her face pale and yet strangely calm. “So you were absolutely right: they couldn't be trusted. What do you think they'll do now?”

“They'll ask for more money,” Rollison answered.

It was hard to get the words out, because of the simplicity of her trust, and because of what he knew; there was a chance that Max and Felix would have made the exchange – but for Joe and Harry. Joe and Harry might have been noticed, might have given the game away. So he might conceivably be to blame for this himself.

It was useless to keep insisting that it would have been crazy to trust the two brothers; as useless to tell himself that he could not possibly have allowed Eve to go away without making some attempt to help her. The truth was that she believed that they had carried out the terms implicitly; and they hadn't, because he hadn't thought it wise. Now he could almost hear himself talking to Ebbutt, just telling the man enough for the other two to work on. He should have gone himself. He should have been on tap to take a message the moment Eve arrived at the Astor Hotel. There was no one else to blame, no matter how he looked at the situation, and if he told her so, then—

He felt the nervous pressure of her fingers.

“What are we going to do now, Rolly?”

“I'm going to see Leah again,” Rollison answered, “and you're going to rest.”

“It's useless to expect me—” Eve began to protest.

“Eve, if you don't rest for a few hours you'll crack up completely.”

“What about you?” she demanded. “You look as if you could fall asleep on your feet.”

“I've been used to this kind of pressure for twenty years,” Rollison told her, “so that's nothing to worry about. Dr Welling will be here very soon. You're going to do whatever he says.”

“All right,” Eve said, resignedly; and she obviously knew that she could not go on much longer. “Are you going to tell the police what happened?”

“Not yet. Not until I think it's vital.”

“One thing's certain,” Eve said; “you must do whatever you think best. Anything.”

Rollison said: “I will, Eve.” He sounded hoarse. When he stood up, he heard a sound of footsteps on the stairs; a moment later, he heard the ring at the front door bell, and felt sure that this was Welling, although there was a possibility that it was one of the men from the Yard; the Yard had been very quiet, except for sending that one man to see him earlier in the day.

It was Welling.

Welling had brought a hypodermic syringe and was going to stand no nonsense; Eve must sleep the clock round if she didn't want to collapse. Within five minutes he was dabbing at the tiny puncture in her arm with cotton wool soaked in spirit; within ten, she was getting into bed.

“But what she needs is freedom from her fear,” Welling said. “I know you too well to ask questions, but if you want to save that woman from a complete nervous breakdown, then you've got to get rid of this fear. From what little I've seen of her, I would say she's been living on her nerves for a long time – years, possibly. Do you think you can help her?”

“I've got to help her,” Rollison said simply.

Welling looked at him curiously, then said: “Well, don't knock yourself up in the process. This looks as if it's taking plenty out of you. I telephoned the hospital just before I came here,” he went on, “and the report on Jolly couldn't be much better. I don't think you need worry about him at all. Any other way in which I can help?” he added, abruptly.

“Yes,” said Rollison after a pause. “You can give me some sleeping tablets that will put me out cold in a few minutes.”

“For you?” Welling demanded.

“Call it for me.”

Welling gave him an old-fashioned look, and said: “Right. I'll send some over.”

 

Eve was sleeping.

Percy Wrightson had arrived, a lanky, long-faced, lugubrious man, and had immediately telephoned to ask his wife to join him, to help ‘look after the lady'. Joe Locket had gone home. There was no report from Harry Mills, and Rollison found himself thinking anxiously about the man, and remembering the ruthlessness with, which the Hapley policeman, Jeff, had been run down. Rollison telephoned Ebbutt again; there was still no news. He put a call to Superintendent Grice of New Scotland Yard, but Grice was out on a bank hold-up job; his assistant told Rollison that there had been no trace of the driver of the Hillman, no trace of the driver of the Super Snipe. In short, the police had made no progress, and there was no particular reason why they should have done.

Rollison went out, left the Bentley outside the house, and took a Morris runabout from the mews garage; it would be much easier to handle in the rush-hour traffic. As he drove towards Kensington and the Marple Guest House, he found himself thinking not only of Eve, but of Caroline and her father. He had been consulted in the first place to look for Ralph Kane, and had given him hardly a thought.

Would it be easier to trace the girl through him?

Was he making a mistake in concentrating on Caroline through Leah – even if Leah were still at the guest house? He didn't think she would be; but there was always a chance that Max and his brother would be overconfident, feeling absolutely sure that he would not go to the police. He reached Marple Street and drove past the corner house, sure that he would not be recognised even if Max or Leah were there. He sat at the wheel, smoking. He was quite sure that he had not been followed, and he almost wished he had. There were so many anxieties crowding on him now; not least, Harry Mills. If anything had happened to Harry he would feel the full weight of blame.

He neared a corner, planning to park out of sight of the guest house, and saw an old Austin seven only fifty feet or so ahead, with a man sitting at the wheel. For the first time that day, Rollison's heart really leapt; for this was Harry Mills. He got out of the Morris and hurried over, while Harry looked straight ahead, as if completely unaware that anyone was approaching him. Rollison bent down and said: “Haven't you got the price of a telephone call?”

“Cor lumme, it's Mr Ar!” exclaimed Harry, in a squeaky voice. He was a small man, nearly fitting the little old car, which was immaculate inside. His grey eyes lit up, and he thrust his hand out of the window, to grip Rollison's hand. “Want me to get out, or—”

“Stay there, and tell me what happened.”

“Nothing much,” answered Harry promptly. “That's the worst of it. Once I got here, I was stuck. There isn't any telephone kiosk in sight, and if I'd gone away to find one, they might have skipped.” He hadn't the same pronounced Cockney accent as Joe, had a little round bright face, and was very well dressed; Harry was also a dandy. His black hair was brushed back in waves which seemed to be Marcelled, and it glistened with a well-advertised brand of pomade. “So I thought I'd better stay put, Mr Ar.”

“The man came here, did he?”

“He went halfway round London to get here, though.”

“Did he stop on the way?”

“Nope,” answered Harry. “Now and again he got held up in traffic, but he's some driver, I can tell you that.”

“Did he have a suitcase with him?”

“Brought it out of the Astor Hotel,” answered Harry, and told Rollison the same story that Joe had, up to the point when Joe had gone round to the other side of the hotel. “And he took it into the guest house, if that's the right word for it.” He sniffed.

“Isn't it, Harry?”

“Proper tarty lot have gone in and out there since I've been waiting,” Harry said scathingly. “Couple of old dears, too, to be honest. Any instructions, Mr Ar?”

“Have you seen another man like the one you followed?”

“Nope.”

“Have you seen a short, big-breasted girl – twenty-three or four, say – come out? Somewhere around 40, 22, 40,”

Harry's eyes glistened.

“I wish I had!”

“Just stay here until I come back,” said Rollison.

He left the car just round the corner from Harry's, and walked back to the Marple Guest House, keeping close to the small areas of the houses on that side of the street so that there was less chance of being seen from the window of Leah's room. It all seemed too good to be true: Max here, the money here, Leah here. Rollison reached the front door and found it wide open. There was a sound of frying and a smell of cooking, too. No one saw him. A breeze came in at the front door and made the theatre and cinema notices flap a little. He passed the first floor, and saw no one. As he approached the next floor, and room 7, he hesitated, watching all the other doors and looking behind him, in case he had been seen and was being watched.

There seemed to be no need for alarm.

He reached number 7. His heart thumped now, because there was the possibility of finding the money, as well as Max.

He turned the handle of the door, and thrust; and the door opened. Warning rose very high in his mind, for there was no longer any doubt: it was too easy, and that probably meant that it was being made easy. He thrust the door hard back against the wall, and it banged noisily, making pictures shake and oddments on the dressing-table rattle; but there was no sound.

The bed, made, was empty. The curtains were back and the blind was up. The room looked surprisingly bright and fresh, and had a well-kept appearance. There was a slight scent of roses. He looked into every corner, heart hammering because he was so sure that it was too easy.

Then he saw a suitcase.

It stood between the bed and the far wall. It looked new; and Joe had told him that the case which Eve had taken was a lightweight air-luggage case, a pale biscuit colour. Could it be full? He did not believe that anyone, even a pair as sure of themselves as Max and Felix, could be so careless; if it were full then the room was being watched and they knew that he was here. How could he be watched, except from the door? He glanced up at the ceiling and at the walls, seeing if there were a spy hole of any kind; it would be easy enough. He saw none. He went out and looked round, down the stairs and along the passages, and the place seemed deserted; there was that sizzling sound of frying and the appetising smell.

He reached the case.

There was room for someone to hide under the bed, of course, although no one could move easily and freely from there and he did not think it was likely; yet he turned up the drape of the bedspread carefully, feeling a little absurd; he saw only the cheap carpet. There was positively nowhere else that anyone could hide and from where they could surprise him, so he picked up the case.

It was as light as a case could be; empty.

He knew that the moment he touched it, yet he put it on the bed, turned the key and opened it, taking great care not to put his prints on the chromium plated locks. He eased the lid back. Yes, it was empty. Eve had told him that there had been four packets and it would be easy to take four separate packets out of the house; that was why Harry had noticed nothing. Rollison had a curiously flat feeling of disappointment, although all the time he had tried to persuade himself that he would not find the money.

Nor did he expect to find Leah.

But there was one other possibility: Max's room. There were only two men's names on the board downstairs, and one was against room number 12. A Mr M. Leon. ‘M' for Max. Rollison went out, still feeling that he was being watched, yet unable to be sure. He went up the stairs. Now a radio had been switched on, and it sounded as if two men were talking. He reached the next floor; here were rooms 9 to 11; there was only one floor above. He hurried up the final flight, not really expecting to find Max; only he had to make every possible effort before he began to try to find Leah; and before he talked to Grice of the Yard.

The door of room 12 was closed and locked. Rollison hesitated, then took out his picklock, bent down and saw that the key was not inside the lock, so the tenant of this room was out. He had the door open in a few moments, and stepped inside a larger room than he had expected, and one which was comfortably furnished, where there was a 21” television set in a corner, a radio, rows of books, extremely comfortable armchairs; and there was a door leading to other rooms, the bedroom, bathroom and kitchen. He re-locked the door, then went into the bedroom, which was quite tiny, with just room for a bed, a small chair and a wardrobe. He opened the wardrobe and took out a suit; and he knew in a moment that this was not Max's room, nor Felix's; for the suit belonged to a much taller man.

Then he saw a photograph, standing on the window-sill, and even the Toff could hardly believe his eyes.

It was identical with the photograph on his desk; a print taken from the same negative. He stepped towards it and picked it up, just as he had picked up the one from his desk. Eve was smiling; Caroline, too: and only Ralph Kane had been straight faced when this photograph had been taken.

Who but Kane would have this photograph in his bedroom?