VI

ACCUSATION

Rollison knew Grice well, but could never be sure what line the Superintendent would take. They were friends; at times close friends, although at others relations were somewhat strained. It was true that the Yard occasionally consulted Rollison; but Marion-Liz had omitted to add that more often than not he worked without them, and as often angered the Powers That Be.

He held the line for several seconds, sitting on the edge of the desk swinging his leg.

Grice said, ‘Rolly?’

‘Hallo, Bill.’

‘When did you get back?’

‘Ten minutes ago.’

‘Stay there, will you?’ said Grice. ‘I want a word with you.’

He rang off.

Rollison put back the receiver, rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and picked up Eddie-Harry’s note again. If ever there were a case for telling the police everything he knew, this was it.

There was not the remotest reason why he should play poker with Grice or sell a dummy to the police. It was all open and above board – and yet the pencilled note introduced a faintly disturbing element.

His lips quirked as he dropped the note and dialled Scotland Yard, asked for Grice, and held on. Grice was still in his office.

‘Yes?’

‘Bring me a present, Bill, will you?’

‘Don’t fool, I’m in a hurry.’

‘Never more serious. I just want a set of Harry Keller’s fingerprints.’

’What?’

‘You heard,’ said Rollison.

He put the receiver down and went out of the room, through the kitchen and into Jolly’s bedroom. This had been partitioned off, so that Jolly’s sleeping-quarters were little more than a cubicle. Beyond the wooden partition, installed at Jolly’s earnest request, was a small laboratory, and even a tiny darkroom, for Jolly was a devoted camera fiend and also loved to dabble in criminology. Here was a microscope, tiny filing cabinets for keeping specimens, magnifying-glasses, a few simple chemicals – a laboratory in miniature, but everything was good. Rollison opened a drawer in a small bench beneath the window, and took out a bottle of grey powder and a camel-hair brush. He went back to the living-room, and brushed grey powder over the prints on the pencilled note.

The prints showed up clearly.

He blew the loose powder away, went back to his drink and lit a cigarette – and the telephone bell rang again.

‘Now, Bill,’ he said reprovingly, and went across and lifted the receiver.

‘Rollison here.’

‘Rolly! You’re back!’ cried Marion-Liz. There was only one voice quite like that.

‘And I had a nice journey, too,’ said Rollison cheerfully. ‘A little company would—’

‘Roily, listen. I’m in terrible trouble, and you are too.’

‘I’m often in trouble.’

‘But this time it’s deadly,’ she said, and caught her breath. ‘They think you and I killed Harry Keller. I’ve just been interviewed by the police, they as good as said I was lying about last night, and that means they think you’re lying too. Rolly, be careful.’

‘Don’t worry, Liz.’

‘I can’t help worrying. Murder is …’ She caught her breath. ‘They can’t prove that I did what I didn’t do, can they?’

‘They won’t seriously try.’

‘Listen, Rolly,’ she said desperately, ‘you mustn’t make light of this. They mean business. I could kill myself for having got you into such a mess. If you hadn’t helped me and tried to give me a good time, it wouldn’t have happened. Tell them—tell them everything.’

‘About what?’

‘About me. What I told you. I—I don’t see any other way out. They probably know about me, anyhow, and probably guess you do, too. I think that little rat Keller must have squealed. But don’t get yourself into trouble because of me, I shall be all right.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Never mind.’

‘Liz,’ said Rollison, ‘I want to know where you are, and I want you to stay there. No more running away. If you do a flit, the police will really have reason to think you’re mixed up in this. Understand?’

‘They’ll never catch me,’ Marion-Liz said, and rang off.

Rollison put the receiver down, looked at the trophy wall. Small automatic pistols which were deadly, phials of poison securely locked in small cabinets fitted with toughened glass windows, cracksman’s tools, ingenious weapons of all kinds – and all used in cases on which he had worked. Murder was not new to him. Above all the other trophies was a top hat with a bullet hole in the crown. He touched his forehead to that – and the front-door bell rang.

It was Grice.

Superintendent William Grice was a tall, well-built, rangy man, with a bony face and square shoulders. He had a sallow complexion, brown eyes, and wore a brown suit; his hair was brown where it wasn’t turning grey. His skin had a peculiar clearness, almost transparency, stretching tightly across his nose. There two little white ridges showed at the bridge, as if there weren’t enough skin and it had been stretched to make do. His hair was sleek and brushed straight back from his forehead, with a centre parting. On the right side of his face and temple was an ugly scar; Rollison had been with him when he had been gravely wounded in an explosion.

He was a quiet man, by nature, but could be brisk and aggressive.

‘Drink, Bill?’ asked Rollison.

‘No, thanks.’ Grice seldom drank alcohol. ‘What the devil have you been doing?’

‘Having a nice restful holiday.’

‘Don’t try to pull that one,’ said Grice, standing with his back to the trophy wall. ‘I wondered why you’d decided to go down to that out-of-the-way spot on your own, I thought there was something behind it. You’ve got yourself mixed up with a pretty fine bunch.’

‘Accidental, Bill.’

Grice raised a hand impatiently.

‘Rolly, listen to me. I know you pretty well, and I know you can’t keep out of a nice little mystery. I know you do everything you can to help us, but cheerfully lead us up the garden while you’re doing it. I usually give you all the rope I can, because I’m fool enough to believe in your goodwill and that kind of nonsense, but there are limits. You told Allen that you were with the girl all Wednesday night. You weren’t.’

‘But I was, Bill.’

‘Nonsense!’

This wasn’t like Grice; nothing in the way he was behaving was like Grice. His agitation was only just beneath the surface, and must have a deep-rooted cause. ‘I want to know the truth about last night. How long were you with Elizabeth Lane? Did you let her use your car? Just what time was she away from you? The whole truth, and let me have it fast.’

Rollison poured himself another drink.

‘Wrong,’ he said. ‘The statement stands on simple truth.’

‘You’re crazy! I know she’s a beauty. I know she’s a nice girl, if you don’t probe too far into her family and her own recent history. She’s a damned good little actress, too, and just the type to make you lie for her – your damned quixoticism will get you in trouble one of these days. I can even believe that you think she’s innocent, and want to help her – but she’s as guilty as hell. If you start building up an alibi for Elizabeth Lane you’ll be charged as an accessory,’ Grice added flatly. ‘It’s as serious as that.’

Rollison said, ‘Well, well, we’re getting all worked up. Bill, cool off for a minute and listen to me.’ His gaze was steady, there was no smile in his eyes or at his lips. He held Grice’s gaze, too, although the Yard man was obviously impatient. ‘I left the Country House Hotel at half past eight last night with Elizabeth Lane, who called herself Marion. Except for ten minutes during the dance at Latchet’s Roadhouse, we were together until half past two. That’s the truth.’

Grice swung round and began to pace the room. He saw the pencilled note, glanced at it but didn’t pick it up. ‘You’re lying,’ he said abruptly. ‘You must be lying.’

‘No, Bill.’

‘Then you were there when she killed Keller,’ Grice said heavily. ‘You see, we know she killed Keller at about nine-thirty in the evening. There isn’t any doubt. She was seen with him at Hexley, just after he left the inn there and went for a walk. A girl she knows was there on holiday. The girl recognised her dress, saw her from behind, tried to catch her up, and called her. She ignored the call and disappeared, with Keller. They met near the spot where he was found dead this morning. Other things were—’

He broke off, abruptly.

Rollison chuckled.

‘Don’t tell me too much, Bill.’

‘I won’t tell you too much. You ought to be satisfied that if I say she killed Keller, there isn’t any doubt about it. Either you’ve got to withdraw your alibi for her, or we’ll have to hold you. That’s it and all about it. That alibi is proof that you’re lying, she couldn’t be in two places at once. Now, face up to it. You can’t help her. Even if you think you’re digging into a juicy case and by helping her will get to the bottom of it, give it up. It’s red hot. I can square it with the Devon people, provided you drop the whole thing.’

‘Liz may be a bad lot, but she didn’t kill Harry Keller at Hexley last night, or anyone else anywhere else,’ Rollison said. ‘You’ve been led up the garden, Bill. Has this girlfriend any grievance?’

‘None. We had her in mind because of her known association with Keller. Allen did an astute bit of work, the girlfriend said her piece before she knew what had happened. And there was a note in the Lane girl’s room – a telephone message asking her to go and meet Keller, at Hexley.’

‘She didn’t go.’

Grice went to the window, looked out, and raised a hand. That little movement had a significance which put alarm into Rollison – real alarm, for the first time. He looked at the note, and wished he’d never asked Grice about a set of Keller’s prints. The note would prove an association with Keller. Grice turned round; he had signalled to a man who had been waiting for him in the street, and the signal was to tell the man to come upstairs. Grice was here as a friend; and couldn’t do anything much by himself. Directly a sergeant or detective officer joined him, he would become a policeman.

He wanted the man up here, because two were needed to go through the routine of an arrest.

‘Why did you ask for Harry’s fingerprints?’ Grice demanded.

He looked towards the desk and went to it; Rollison felt sick with alarm, but didn’t show it.

He could hear footsteps on the stairs, some distance below, as he leaned back as if he hadn’t a care.

Grice picked up the note, read it, and barked, ‘When did this come?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine. Yesterday, probably. If Harry actually wrote it, it came after he left Devon. Either he came to London and slipped that into the letter-box, or someone else did it for him. He knew I was in Devon, so it doesn’t add up. I suppose you’re sure he’s dead.’

‘He’s dead, all right.’

Grice took a fold of paper from his pocket – a foolscap sheet. The footsteps stopped outside, so the man’s instructions had been to wait on the landing until he was called. Rollison went across to the desk and looked at the ten prints daubed on Grice’s official foolscap form – prints of Harry Keller. Grice took a magnifying-glass from his pocket to examine those on the envelope.

He didn’t speak.

Rollison moved back.

Outwardly he was quite calm, inwardly he was in turmoil. If he stuck to his story, there would be an arrest. He wouldn’t be much good to himself or anyone else in jail. The whole setup lacked reason, but Grice was sure of himself and wasn’t going to take half-measures.

Rollison felt suffocated, and it wasn’t just because of the heat.

Grice put both sets of prints down.

‘They’re his, and that makes it pretty clear that you had dealings with him,’ he spoke in a low-pitched grating voice. ‘Rolly, listen to me. Elizabeth Lane met Harry Keller last night, about half past nine, and killed him. There was time for you to drive her from the hotel, go to Hexley, and then go to the roadhouse. Allen’s checked that. I don’t believe you just drove around. I can’t believe you would cover up if you knew what she’d done. She either left you at Hexley or you’re lying about the drive. She’s still loose, because she’ll lead us to others. We’ll pick her up when we want to, I’ve a warrant. She’s in a big racket, and we’ve been after the mob for some time. You probably know all about it and think this is a short cut to the leaders. It isn’t. If you stand by your story, I’ve no alternative but to detain you. That will mean a police-court hearing in the morning and an eight-day remand in custody. Get that into your thick head, and tell me the truth.’

Rollison’s feeling of suffocation faded completely, because he had decided what to do.

‘Sorry, Bill,’ he said.

He clenched his fist and smacked an uppercut beneath Grice’s chin. Grice’s teeth snapped together, his eyes rolled. Rollison grabbed him before he fell and lowered him to the floor.

Grice lay still.

Rollison turned to the hall, and listened; there was no sound. He went to the desk and unlocked the top drawer. He took out a Yale key, glanced at it and slipped it into his pocket. Then he put an automatic and two spare clips of ammunition into another pocket, added a packet of cigarettes, hesitated, and took out a small sheathed knife which was fastened to a piece of blue elastic that looked like a sock suspender. Next he went to the kitchen and unlocked the back door.

He stepped out on to the fire-escape.

Grice hadn’t stationed a man in the yard at the back of the houses in Gresham Terrace; hadn’t really believed that the man in the street would be necessary. Rollison hurried down the iron steps, his feet clattering. He reached the concrete yard and looked up; there was only the closed kitchen-door. He walked towards the alley, which led to another street.

Inside an hour, there would be a general call out for him.