XII

DARK DUET

The light remained still, pitched on the hand and the gun. The hand was large, with long, thin fingers, browned and powerful. The automatic pistol was fitted with a long rubber snout; a silencer. That kept as steady as Rollison’s torch.

Rollison slid his left hand towards his pocket and touched his gun, but didn’t take it out. He had no silencer, and a shot would bring the police.

‘I said, drop it.’

There was an edge to a deep voice.

Rollison murmured, ‘Delighted, old friend,’ and dropped the torch, thrusting his foot beneath it to lessen the noise, then kicked it away. It rolled over and over, the light snaking out, now on a polished brown shoe, now the leg of a chair, now on the wall. It stopped. Rollison took two long sideways steps and peered into the darkness; pitch darkness, there was no crack of light.

He could hear the man breathing.

‘Don’t tell me you can see in the dark,’ he murmured, and stepped to one side again.

Flame flashed, vivid and revealing, a bullet hissed out and thudded into the wall. It sounded very close. Rollison stood motionless.

‘You haven’t a chance,’ the man said. ‘Not this way. I can give you one.’

Rollison said, ‘I like to make my own,’ and swift as a cat, moved the other side.

The second shot hissed, and the revealing flame showed a tall man in an open doorway, dressed in dark clothes; only his face and hands showed. The bullet smacked into the wall, as if nothing else was enough to show earnest. Rollison’s heart was hammering, and he could hear the other’s laboured breathing.

The man said softly, ‘You’re asking for trouble.’

‘I’ve company,’ Rollison said, and stood his ground. There wasn’t a third shot. ‘Police are back and front, if you keep up the Bisley practice you’ll have more visitors. They won’t be as willing as I am to keep this off the record.’

The man didn’t answer. There was a rustle of sound in the darkness. Rollison took out the gun and held it by the barrel, as a club. The rustle came again, he tried to judge whether the other was in front or to the left or right – and then a white light stabbed out, swivelled round, and shone on his face. He closed his eyes against the blinding dazzle, moved swiftly, felt the glow pressing against his eyelids, following him wherever he went.

He stopped; and smiled.

‘Should we know each other?’

‘So you’ve made it,’ the other said, and couldn’t keep the ring of satisfaction out of his voice. ‘The great Toff ’s come to see me!’

The light was stabbing at Rollison’s face, on to his big, glistening teeth.

‘Wrong. I came to see Marion-Liz.’

‘You can see her, Rollison.’

The shaft of light moved, shone on Rollison’s gun-hand and the gun. The man drew in a sharp breath.

‘Wondering why I haven’t used it?’ asked Rollison. ‘I should hate to kill first and try to talk afterwards, corpses are stubborn about talking. Shall we have some more fight and a little chat?’

‘Just keep still.’

‘I can’t do any better than this,’ said Rollison, ‘I’m imitating the Rock of Gibraltar quite nicely.’

The man said, ‘Drop that gun.’

‘Not in a thousand years.’ Rolfison had a laugh in his voice – and let it fade, caught his breath and muttered, ‘Listen!’

That wasn’t bluff, there were footsteps outside. A man came up the stairs – perhaps a man and woman. The sounds stopped. The unseen man’s breathing was harsh and laboured again. Rollison held his breath – heard a faint sound, as a key turned in a lock, then a mutter of voices. After a pause, a door closed.

‘The old folk next door,’ murmured Rollison. ‘The police might follow, to see what they’re up to. I shouldn’t start playing the accordion.’

The torch went out; another rustle of movement told him that the other was moving. Right, left, or forward? Using his wits, he could guess why the man wanted to talk: a proposition was on the wing. Yet there was nothing here to make him feel free from danger. The thudding of those bullets in the wall had been unpleasantly close.

‘Do you like playing around in the dark?’ he asked, and the laugh was back in his voice.

‘Listen, Rollison, I can fix you. It’s all laid on. I can find a witness to say you were with Lizzie Lane when she killed Keller. That would send you for the long drop. Don’t make any mistakes.’

‘No more than I can help,’ said Rollison brightly. ‘But what makes you think the police will think that I stood by while the girl-friend battered poor Keller and cut his throat?’

‘They’ll believe it, if they have a witness. You’re in a bad spot already.’

Given that ‘evidence’ and the police would have a case nothing could break, Rollison knew. He asked: ‘When are we going to have some light?’

His hand groped for the light switch, and touched it.

‘Don’t do that!’ The torchlight shone out again, and stabbed against Rollison’s face. ‘Back into the room.’ The light shone steadily and close to the man’s body, for the glow just showed his gun. ‘Play the fool, and I’ll shoot.’

Rollison backed into the room.

He came up against a table.

The torch went out. After a pause, the door closed, and the man put down the switch.

This was a small room, without a window; a room that had been partitioned off from a large one. He was leaning against a dining-table. There were four upright chairs, a small sideboard, a tall corner cupboard, a few books in open shelves near an electric fire. The floor was carpeted in deep red. The furniture was modern, of fair quality; the walls well papered cream, and the lighting came from three lamps set in the walls.

The door and the woodwork were painted red.

The man stood against the closed door, tall, lean, dressed in navy blue. He was middle-aged; his grizzled hair was thick and heavily greased, brushed straight back from his forehead without a parting. His face was round, his cheeks tanned to a healthy, attractive brown; he had light-grey eyes, and his tan made them seem very bright. He had a short nose and short upper lip, and his lips were full, almost too full, hinting at mixed blood.

‘Go and sit on the other side of the table.’

Rollison shrugged, moved, and sat.

‘Put your gun away.’

‘That’s where I stick,’ said Rollison. ‘If I have to choose between a trial and a shot from your gun, I’ll have the trial. Of course, you put your gun away, and then we’d be on equal terms.’

The man put his gun into his coat pocket, drew his hand out and stood against the wall.

Rollison put his gun away.

‘Rollison,’ the man said, ‘there’s just one way you can get out of this alive.’

He meant that.

His pale-grey eyes had a look that wasn’t good. Here was a cold, calculating killer – and he must be desperate now.

‘Do tell me,’ said Rollison, ‘I’m always interested in living.’

‘Then you’d better listen carefully. I want—’

‘By the way, where’s Marion? Or do you always call her Lizzie?’

The man’s teeth clamped together; the muscles of his cheeks worked.

‘The girl stole some keys and an address – I want them,’ the man said. ‘She knows where they are. You can make her talk.’

‘Won’t she talk to you?’

‘I’m in a hurry.’

‘Well, well,’ murmured Rollison, ‘I thought you were friends with our Liz. I take it you killed Keller.’

‘Never mind who killed Keller.’

‘Oh, but I do,’ said Rollison.

The man thrust his head forward, and his right hand dropped to his pocket. So did Rollison’s. They stood watching each other, cat and mouse, and rage sparked from those cruel light-grey eyes.

‘You don’t get it, Rollison. If you make the girl talk, you’ve a chance. If you don’t – I’ll kill you myself, or send that witness to the police. Don’t forget it. I want the keys and the address.’

‘All right,’ said Rollison lightly. ‘Where is she?’

‘In the next room.”

The man crossed the room and opened a door, put his hand inside and pulled down a switch. A dim light showed in the other room – either from a low-powered lamp or one with paper or cloth tied round it to lessen its brilliance. He stood on one side, and his right hand was still close to his pocket.

‘Come here,’ he said.

Rollison pushed his chair back, keeping his right hand near his gun. He moved, watching the man, whom he trusted as far as he would a rattlesnake. He reached the doorway of the next room, still watching; the other didn’t move for his gun.

Rollison backed into the room. Pale eyes glittered at him. As he went farther, he saw that this was a bedroom. There was an oak wardrobe, pale carpet, a dressing-table against a heavily curtained window – then the foot panel of a single bed. He was by the side of the bed. He saw a girl’s legs, bare, the feet lying limp. As he drew farther back, more of her legs came into sight; she wasn’t fully dressed.

The legs were long, slender, shapely – as he’d seen before, when Marion-Liz had lazed on the Devon beach. They had the golden tan of the sun on them – but not at one spot, between the knee and thigh. There, the tan had been burned away; a small round burn showed, raw and ugly.