XVIII

THE MESSAGE

He plunged forward. The knife, aimed at his ribs, slid softly into the flesh at his waist. He fell at full length, twisting round as he did so. She was off her balance, because of the plunging stab. He clutched her ankle and pulled, and she fell heavily on top of him. He heaved her off. She rolled on to the floor, without any attempt to struggle.

He stood up, and trod on the knife; the blade snapped.

‘I don’t think I like you, Mrs. Woolf,’ he said softly. ‘I don’t think we’ll get on at all well together.’ He lifted her; she was heavy, but in this mood he could have thrown her bodily at the wall. He dropped her into an easy-chair, and pulled the sash from her waist. It was sewn on at one side, and he tore at it; the stitches broke. He gripped her hands and bound them together.

She sat glaring.

He went to the safe and knelt down. There were jewel-cases and legal documents in thick envelopes; deeds of property, most of them; bundles of share certificates, all the normal things. He put them aside. He took out two thin bundles of one-pound notes, tossed them away, and glanced into the now nearly empty safe.

There was one sealed envelope; and a small black book. No weapon, no knife.

He took out the book.

In it was a list of names and addresses; hundreds of names and addresses. Under each letter of the alphabet there were two sets of entries – men on one side, women on the other. There was no time to go through this. There were no notes against any of the entries, little that might give him a clue to anything he wanted.

He slipped the book into his pocket, and picked up the envelope. He felt it, but there were only papers inside.

A car drew near again.

He stood up, slowly, and strolled to the window, as if he weren’t affected by it; but his heart started to thump again. He pulled the curtain aside an inch. The headlights of a car swept into the street.

It was nearly two o’clock.

He turned back, glanced at the woman, whose position hadn’t changed, but whose face was blank and almost sullen. He started to tear open the envelope.

The telephone bell rang, breaking the silence.

It made them both start.

The bell kept on ringing with the steady regular ring of a local call. The telephone itself was on the desk. He approached it, stopping and pulling the woman up as he passed; she let herself be drawn up, and he spoke quietly.

‘Is there an extension?’

‘In the hall.’

He went across and opened the door; a telephone stood on a small table just outside. He went back, while the telephone bell kept ringing.

The police?

They would come straight here, this wasn’t likely to be a police call.

He undid the sash at her wrists.

‘Answer it, and be natural – I’m covering you.’

She might doubt whether he would shoot, might defy him. He backed away, keeping her covered, and she didn’t even turn to look at him. She touched the telephone. He backed into the hall and lifted the receiver, and as he put it to his ear, the woman said:

‘Hallo.’

A man answered; so she hadn’t lied about the extension.

‘Leah, listen to me,’ the man said, in a breathless voice. ‘He’s dead.’

Rollison saw the woman’s shoulders move, then she glanced round at him, her eyes blazing with an unholy light.

The man spoke urgently, ‘Leah, did you hear me? He’s dead. Leo’s dead.’

She said in a strange, unnatural voice, ‘Yes, I heard you. I don’t believe it.’

‘It’s true. He was at Liz Lane’s flat – he’s been there all the time. Nevett was there, too. I traced Nevett tonight. He’s under arrest.’

Rollison heard the sharp intake of Leah Woolf ’s breath.

‘Nevett is? Did he—’

‘I don’t know. He says Rollison did the job. You know, Rollison – the Toff.’

She didn’t glance over her shoulder, just said, ‘Yes.’

Rollison took an envelope from his pocket and printed on it, in pencil, ‘Ask if they’ve identified your husband.’ It was awkward, trying to hold the paper steady with his elbow as he listened.

‘I haven’t been able to find out much,’ the man said. ‘The tenants in the flat above were in Leo’s pay, he could go up and down as he pleased, as the police weren’t inside the house. He sent the tenants out tonight, he wanted to work on the girl, and she might have been noisy. Nevett told me that, on the telephone. Can you hear me?’

‘Yes.’ Her voice was still tensely calm. ‘Go on.’

‘Rollison got in, somehow. There was trouble, and then Nevett blew up, I don’t know exactly what happened. The police caught him. I’ve just been talking to a friend in Fleet Street. Nevett’s on a charge, the police have got the girl and her boy friend. Rollison got away. He may visit you, be careful.’

She gave voice to a shocking sound that might have been a laugh.

‘Leah, what’s the matter?’

‘I still don’t believe you.’

‘Listen, this is sober truth. Leo’s dead – shot through the head. It’s official, the police have released a story.’

Rollison put his instrument down softly, and strode across to the woman, thrust the envelope in front of her nose. She took it, and read. The man was still talking. Rolfison went back and picked up his receiver.

‘You’ll be all right if you keep your head,’ the man was saying, ‘but we’ve got to get that safe open. We’ve got to save the records.’

She said, ‘That won’t be so easy. Jim, do the police know who he is?’

‘Not yet. That gives us time. Listen, I’ve fixed up with a man to come over – Sammy Gilbert. He’s reliable, and he can open any safe. Let him in, get him to open it, take out the papers we want. He’ll be there soon, and knows what to do.’

‘Why don’t you come yourself, Jim?’

The man didn’t answer.

Rollison felt tension easing its way out of him, like pain fading away. It was a quarter past two, and the police still didn’t know who Woolf was; so they might not know until the morning, and probably wouldn’t.

‘Well, why don’t you?’ Leah Woolf asked the man on the telephone.

‘There’s no sense in taking risks. Let Sammy get the door open, give him the dope, and then it’ll be fine. When the police come, you don’t know anything about it. It won’t be the first safe opened while people have been asleep in the next room. Leah, don’t make any mistake. Sammy’s good, and this is the only way to handle the situation. You understand, don’t you?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said. The strange, electric calmness remained in her voice. It puzzled Rollison, and seemed to puzzle the man named Jim. ‘And Leo is … dead!’

‘Listen, Leah.’ The man’s voice was cracked with anxiety. ‘Don’t act that way, I don’t like it. Leo lost his head over this Riordon job. That stuff has become an obsession, it’s all he could think about. He was taking big risks with it, I knew that all along, so did you. Understand, Leah – he wasn’t himself, so it went wrong. As if you didn’t know. Leah, can you hear me? Are you there?’

‘Yes, I’m listening,’ she said heavily.

‘If Leo had been caught, it would have been all up with us all. Maybe Nevett realised that, and he didn’t have any love for Leo. Maybe it was the best way out for all of us, as Leo was losing his grip. Get those papers out of the safe, that’s all. Nevett won’t squeal, you know that. He may be able to switch this on to Rollison, may get clear. But open that door as soon as Sammy Gilbert comes.’

‘All right,’ she said. ‘All right,’ and hung up.

There was plenty of time; at least, sufficient time. He could even give Sammy Gilbert a welcome.

He was within two yards of her when she moved round.

All colour had been drained from her face, the only colour left was in her eyes, and they blazed like blue flames. The rest of her was dead, but her eyes lived. It was as if she had been to hell and had come back, knowing what hell was like.

Rollison fought against the fascination of the dead face with the living eyes.

He didn’t speak.

She moved her right hand to her throat and clutched it.

She opened her mouth wider.

‘He’s—dead,’ she said, and the words were like a sigh from a heart that was smashed. ‘Leo is dead.’

Rollison forced the unseen hand of paralysis away from him, moistened his lips, and then said:

‘Well? Isn’t that what you wanted?’

‘Wanted. You don’t understand, he’s dead.’

It didn’t make sense; but he could see the truth, showing clearly now. She had both hate and love for Leo Woolf, and of them, love was stronger. The passion of her emotion explained why he could do what he wanted with her, humiliate and cheat and be unfaithful, and yet be sure that she would do whatever he wanted, and would always be waiting. Rollison knew that as surely as he was standing there. There were times when hatred spilled out, when she wanted to hurt; times almost of madness.

She had talked of killing Woolf.

She had felt, at that moment, that she wanted him dead; she had behaved as she might have done in the middle of a stormy quarrel, flinging hateful, bitter words at him, meaning them in the heat of rage.

But now he was dead, it was as if part of herself had died.

Rollison said gently, ‘Leah, listen to me. This won’t—’

She raised her hands.

‘You did it. You caught him, robbed him, made him helpless, so you did it. You killed him as surely as if you’d fired at him. You. I’ll see you hang for it, I’ll see you hang.’