Chapter Five

Beryl Ward

Hill Court was a group of blocks of flats, overlooking Regent’s Park. It was surrounded by well-kept lawns and a few small trees, and outside it were a dozen cars. It was not a place of luxury, and Rollison knew that the first block contained only very small flats, mostly shared by two girls, some by married couples. It was the kind of place where a successful model who hadn’t yet made a big name might be expected to live.

Rollison left his car five minutes’ walk away, after pulling on a pair of thin cotton gloves.

As he passed the cars parked near the flats, he looked for a black Consul. There were green, red, grey and white Consuls, but not one in black. Pity. He reached the spacious entrance, where once a porter had been on duty all the time, but now there was a sign reading: Ring for Porter. Rollison went to the lift and studied the plaque on it, showing where the flats were; Number 19 was in the first floor.

He went up.

The whole place was quiet. It was nearly two o’clock, hardly siesta hour, but most of the residents here would be out during the day, and he hoped that Beryl Ward would be. He blessed Zana’s good memory; if the luck broke his way, he might know a lot more about this Beryl within the next half hour.

Flat 19 obviously overlooked the park, for a passage window near it did, and he could see the people on the grass under the trees, and some walking; a peaceful London scene. Several youths were kicking a football about, and others were still faithful to cricket.

Rollison listened at the door of the flat, and heard nothing.

He rang the bell; and there was no response.

He rang again, to make sure.

He studied the lock, a Landon, which it would be difficult to force without doing damage, and wasn’t sure that he wanted anyone to know that a visitor had been here. Once this was forced it would need expert repair. He went to the passage window and looked out, seeing that a window of the flat was almost within reach. The street was empty, and the people in the park were some distance off; there was a good chance that he wouldn’t be seen if he climbed.

He opened the window wide, and got out.

It was child’s play, with only a thirty-feet drop, and he swung easily from this window to Beryl Ward’s, which had a small balcony; in a moment he was on the balcony and scanning the park, trying to make out whether he had been noticed. No one appeared to be interested. He turned to the window, which was open a couple of inches at the top; this was his day, for he had only to push a little to open it wide enough to get inside.

He closed it again, behind him.

The flat itself seemed strangely quiet, with all the distant noises dulled. Rollison was in a small living-room, with a couch and easy chairs, a fourteen-inch screen television set in a corner, more books than in many homes, mostly on shelves which reached from floor to ceiling of one wall. There was an atmosphere of comfort, as if the girl had all the money she needed.

Did Mr. Smith pay well?

Against one wall was a small walnut writing-desk, and Rollison tried it and found it locked.

“That’s fine,” he said sotto voce; “it’ll be worth looking through.” He didn’t try to force the lock at first, but went out of this room into a tiny lobby. Two other doors led off this, and beyond one was a bedroom; he could see the head of the bed. The other was a kitchenette. He put his head round the kitchenette, and saw another door which led to a bathroom; obviously this could be entered from both bedroom and kitchen.

“Nice and compact,” he observed, and backed out, and looked into the bedroom.

There was Beryl Ward, on the floor.

There was a bullet hole in her forehead.

The sight of the girl’s body struck home with savage force. It was almost as if Rollison had been viciously attacked. He stood quite still, one hand raised, and felt as if ice was forming in his veins. For several long moments he couldn’t move and didn’t try to think, but gradually he began to thaw.

He went nearer the girl.

She was very attractive, and the little hole in her forehead hardly affected her looks; it was almost possible to forget that it was there. She wore the suit Rollison had seen before, the skirt rucked up a little. She lay on her side, facing him, curled up a little in a cat-like way. Her complexion was beautiful, and there was an illusion of movement at her lips.

Rollison bent over her.

Her hand was warm, but her pulse was still. She hadn’t been dead very long; an hour or so, at most. He made absolutely sure that she was dead, and stood up; his jaw seemed to be locked, for this was such a waste of beauty and of youth, and it changed so many things.

There was no other door leading out of the flat; the front door was closed and certainly hadn’t been forced open, so someone with a key had come in here and done this thing. It looked as if she had been sitting on a dressing-table stool, and had twisted round to see her killer; that killer had stood close before he or she had squeezed the trigger.

This girl had looked into the face of death and recognised it.

Rollison stood up. He could search the flat quickly, but doubted whether he would discover anything of interest. The killer would not have left anything for the police to find; and the police were bound to find the body soon. Should he, Rollison, send for them? He didn’t think more about that then, but turned towards the living-room and the writing-desk, taking a knife from his pocket. One of its blades was a pick-lock.

He was within two strides of the open door of the room when he heard the sound.

It came from inside the room; just a faint rustling which he might easily had missed. But he was quite sure that it was there.

That was the moment of great danger and great testing. He had to wrench his mind from the sight of the dead girl towards this new fact, this threat—for could any person hiding there be anything but a threat? If he revealed the fact that he had heard, he would bring the other into the open, and—

It might be the killer, who still had bullets in his gun.

Rollison actually touched the door and pushed it open, and as he did so, exclaimed as if in annoyance, and said: “To hell with it?”

He swung round and went back to the bedroom. There the girl lay, still and dead, and nothing had changed but the beating of his heart. Danger was like the fluttering of wings about his head and within him. He could creep across to the bathroom and then to the kitchen, but that wouldn’t help; there was only one way into the living-room, and from whichever door he entered the lobby, he would be seen.

If the unknown had meant to kill, wouldn’t the shot have been fired by now?

Rollison went to the girl and picked up her handbag, which was open on the dressing-table. This was simply for the sake of doing something, to fool the other man.

Man?

There were the usual oddments, a purse, several pound notes, nothing of interest to him. But Rollison had recovered his poise completely, and knew exactly what he wanted to do.

There was no gun in the girl’s bag, or in sight, and he felt sure that the wound in her forehead had been caused by a .22.

He went back to the lobby.

The door was open, as he had left it.

“I’ll just have a look in that bureau,” he said aloud, and hoped that it didn’t sound to stagey for whoever was outside. “Then I’d better call Grice. Must be a telephone here.”

He strode forward, knowing that there was only one place for the other to hide: behind the door. He pushed it back gently at first, and then flung it so that it crashed back. He leapt inside and swung round as the door bounced back and a man cried out in mingled pain and fear.

He was young.

There was a gun in his hand, but it wasn’t poised; for that vital second he was off his balance, and staggering. He tried to get the gun up in time, but Rollison smashed a blow at his jaw and connected with a sharp crack which had an ominous sound. The man crumpled up and the gun dropped, falling heavily. Then it was hidden by his body, and he fell in much the same position as the dead girl.

Rollison stood back, breathing hard and rubbing his knuckles, but that was only for a moment. The man wasn’t likely to be out for many minutes, but those minutes would be enough. Rollison bent down and ran through his pockets, taking out everything that might be useful. He put them in his own pockets, and then drew back.

The one certain thing was this man’s name: Percival James Harrison. He was already stirring and his eyelids were flickering.

Rollison gripped his coat lapels, hauled him to his feet, and dragged him into the bathroom. He tied his hands behind him with a tie, then hoisted him up, and draped his coat collar over the hook at the back of the bathroom door. Percival James Harrison hung helplessly, his eyelids fluttering, his mouth working. Rollison swung round towards the bath, saw the shiny chromium of the shower equipment, switched the shower on, and turned the tap full on to the man’s face.

Water smacked on to it. Harrison gasped and began to kick out and to wriggle. As his coat became soaked his eyes opened wider, only to close again as the water struck them.

Rollison turned it off.

“All right,” he said savagely, “you’re going to talk now, or I’ll dump you in that tub and leave you to drown. Who’s this man Smith?”

The man’s mouth worked, water dripped from his hair and his face, gathering in a large pool at his feet, trickling all over the place. His hair was plastered over his forehead now, shiny black hair. He seemed to be trying to speak, and Rollison gave him thirty seconds to recover his voice, and then asked in the same savage voice: “Answer me. Who’s Smith?”

“I—I don’t know. I don’t—”

Rollison slapped him across the face four times in quick succession, making his head swivel as if on a hinge, and fear leapt into the other’s brown eyes.

“Come on, who’s Smith?” Rollison demanded. “You haven’t a chance of holding out on me. Don’t waste our time. Who is he? Why did you kill Beryl Ward?”

“I—I—I—” Harrison began, and then gabbled something which might have been: “I had my orders.” And that was what he might be expected to say, that he’d had orders from a man he didn’t know, but—he might know, and if he did he wouldn’t be likely to hold out for long.

“I’ll give you one more chance,” Rollison said roughly, “and if you don’t tell me the truth I’ll really get to work on you. Who—is—Smith?”

His prisoner just stared, water dripping, mouth working, as if even fear could not drive him to give the right answer. Rollison raised his hand, ready to strike and to strike again until he was dizzy with pain … but for that moment there was silence.

In it, a bell rang.

It wasn’t a telephone, it was too short and sharp; so it was the front door.