Chapter Eleven

Unlocked Door

Maude had not appeared to be listening to the conversation, but was obviously aware of the way all of them looked at her, and she eased herself back in her chair. She had a little colour now, and clearly had much better control over herself.

“Rolly, give me a cigarette, will you?” she asked. Rollison was at her side in a moment, and no one spoke as he handed her his case and flicked flame to his lighter. She drew deeply, and let the smoke trickle out between her lips at one corner.

“I don’t pretend that I enjoyed that very much,” she said, “but I’ve always wanted to model for Hugo Zana.”

“My dear good woman—” Zana jumped up.

“And I’ve always admired Rose Mary,” Maude went on quietly. “I hope I can help her, too.”

“This kind of thing might happen again and again,” Russell said, harshly.

“I have Rolly to protect me!” That was only half joking.

“He won’t always be at hand,” said Russell, and swung round towards Zana. “Hugo, you can’t let her work for you after this. It would be next door to murder.”

Grice sat and watched the scene; Rollison stood and watched; and Zana and his assistant stared at each other as if oblivious of the others. Zana’s big mouth was working in a way which suggested that he was fighting back a spate of furious temper.

Did he suffer from paroxysms of fury?

“I know whom I want to work for me,” Zana said, deep in his throat, “and I want those sketches tonight, by seven o’clock. You haven’t much time.”

“It’s crazy!”

“Very well, I am crazy.”

“If you take risks with Lady Maude—”

“What are you trying to do?” demanded Zana, almost shrill, “teach me my own business? She wishes to work for me, so she works for me. Anyone who doesn’t wish to work for me knows where he can go. There is only one Hugo Zana, there are dozens of good artists.”

“Why, you conceited lunatic—” began Russell, jumping to his feet. “Go and find one-half as good as me if you can. I’m finished with the damned job.” He glowered at Zana, his face now redder than his hair, and the freckles showing clearly; here was the temper at which his colouring had hinted. His glittering eyes looked more green than grey. “And if you’ve any sense, you’ll get out of this while the going’s good, what sense is there in you getting yourself hurt?”

“You’re very sure that Lady Maude will get hurt, aren’t you?” asked Grice.

Russell swung round on him.

“What more evidence do you want? To find her with her throat cut or her face burned off?” He flung himself out of the room, and clumped up the stairs; and soon they heard thudding sounds, as if he was kicking at everything that got in his way.

Zana looked across at Maude, whose smile was now set and strained. What would Zana do, Rollison wondered.

He should have expected the sudden, broad grin, which made Zana look so much like a clown.

“He will be back in time to get the sketches done,” he asserted confidently. “Come with me, please, I want to show you the dresses which you will wear for the sketches, and also—there is something I would like to try with you. Those shoulders, they are very good, I have an idea that it would be possible to drape a coat from the back in such a way—yes, I think so. Yes. Come!” He jumped up. “We will go and see Mitzi.” He moved towards Maude, took her arm and then swung round towards Grice. “The police do not object if I work?”

“The police don’t object,” said Grice, “but you won’t work for long if that man dies.”

“Then we must hurry!” Zana cried, and almost hustled Maude out of the room.

Grice watched them go, then ran his thumb and forefinger over his chin; it rasped over stubble which looked very grey against his sallow skin. He smiled wryly as he heard the couple hurrying up the stairs.

“Think he’s right about Russell?”

“Probably. Bill, will you check Russell’s past and present as closely as you will Percival Harrison’s?”

“Why?”

“It may be just because he’s a human being, but he was very anxious for Lady Maude not to work for Zana, wasn’t he? And he was the only person who knew we were going to Anne’s for tea. He had time to telephone for the acid-thrower, even time to have a word with the chap in the street. That’s a thing to check, too.”

“Any other reasons for suspecting him?”

“I don’t even suspect him, I’d just like to make sure that he isn’t involved with our Mr. Smith,” said Rollison. “There’s another thing, Bill. I don’t like to think that Maude is the only one working for Zana.”

“She won’t be,” Grice said grimly. “I’ll arrange for a couple of our most attractive policewomen to join Zana soon; it may take a bit of arranging, though.”

“If he’s under arrest it won’t be necessary,” Rollison observed.

“He won’t be. The acid-thrower’s come round.”

“Small mercies,” Rollison said, thankfully. “Anything new, Bill? From the agents who won’t send girls to Zana, for instance.”

“Yes and no,” Grice said, slowly.

“Can you tell me?”

“Yes. Two say that Zana’s reputation is now so bad that they won’t take risks. One admits he was frightened by threats of physical violence. Undoubtedly someone is out to ruin Zana.”

“Hm, yes,” said Rollison, and forbore to point out that the police could have acted sooner. Perhaps they couldn’t be blamed for their caution, and certainly they were trying to make up for lost time. “Have you heard from any of the models themselves?”

“Two of those who left the country lived alone, no one’s heard from them since they went. The families of the other two – one’s gone to Milan, one to Buenos Aires – have had cables.”

“That all?”

“Yes.”

“I’d give a lot to talk to one of those models,” Rollison said. “Anything more?”

Grice rubbed his chin again.

“No, but we’ve plenty. English people with the artistic temperament are bad enough, but the continentals—” he shrugged. “Zana sees himself as a kind of genius when he’s working, I’m told, refuses to have anyone near him except his faithful old Mitzi, goes into a kind of trance, and then comes out of it as if he was inspired. Can’t get any sense out of him.”

“Been studying the great man, have you?” murmured Rollison.

“You may find it hard to believe but we like to know the people we’re dealing with,” Grice said, “and we’re badly worried about this.” He moved towards the street door as he went on, and it opened on to the bright, sunlit square. He glanced at his watch. “It’s nearly half-past four, at least I’ve got to admit that a lot of things have happened since Zana came to see you.”

“Including a visit to the East End,” said Rollison solemnly. “I trust you’ve checked that.”

“Ebbutt’s boys would swear that you were in Australia if you asked them to, they’re that devoted to you at the moment,” Grice said. “But it might not last.”

“Don’t be too hopeful. Any news of Rose Mary Bell?”

“Nothing I haven’t told you about.”

“I think I’d like to go and look at her flat,” Rollison said, hopefully.

“If you force entry I’ll put you inside, no matter what alibi you have.”

“I never enter a lady’s apartment without being invited,” Rollison said solemnly. “Bill.”

“Yes?”

“What’s the name of that sergeant who didn’t see me near Hill Court?”

“Maidment.”

“Good chap?”

“Coming on to the plain-clothes branch in a few weeks time, he’s one of the better ones. Look out for him.”

“I will. Nice fellow.”

“If you ever get him to think kindly about you, I’ll believe in miracles again,” Grice said. He glanced towards the corner as an ambulance appeared, almost certainly carrying the man whom Zana had choked. Two policemen came round the corner, including Maidment. “Rolly,” Grice went on, “if I didn’t know before, I know how ugly this is now. You may be surprised to hear me say it, but you’re not a bad-looking chap yourself.”

Rollison said blankly: “Handsome is as handsome does, Bill. Thanks.”

Grice went off, paused to speak to the two policemen, and then went round the corner again. The policemen strolled towards the salon, and Maidment glanced at Rollison but didn’t nod or smile. Obviously these two were going to watch the salon, which wasn’t likely to be left unguarded until this affair was over.

It wasn’t likely that Maude would be allowed to go anywhere by herself, either.

Rollison hadn’t seen Russell come out, and wondered if there was a back way, and whether Zana knew the artist well enough to be right about him recovering from the outburst of temper. Had that just been the Irish in Russell? Or was it possible that he was among those people who were anxious that no models should work for Zana?

Rollison went to his car, which was now parked on the other side of the square, scarlet and dazzling in the afternoon sun; the black and blue and grey cars beside it showed up drab and uninteresting. He hadn’t locked the door when he had left it, and he opened it quickly and was about to get in when he noticed that the bonnet wasn’t properly closed. He stared at that, no longer absently.

When it wasn’t fully closed, it rattled; and it hadn’t rattled on the way here. So, someone had released it, from inside the car.

Why?

He studied the green upholstery, looked along the dashboard, saw nothing unusual, and then put his keys away and cautiously opened the door.

Nothing happened.

“Odd,” he said, very softly. “Very odd.”

He studied the floor and the pedals; they all seemed normal enough. He looked at the handle which controlled the bonnet, and saw several smeary marks on it; they might be his own fingerprints, but he doubted whether his fingers would leave such marks. He pulled it, still very gently, and nothing happened—except that a young lad stopped on the pavement in front of the car, staring as if he could not believe his eyes.

Rollison winked at him, and went forward to lift the bonnet. He was even more cautious than before. The bonnet went up without trouble; it did not need fastening, but would hang in mid-air until he slammed it down. The lad drew nearer. Rollison studied the beautifully finished engine and the whole works, familiar with every item except one. Carburettor, engine casing, self-starter wire, the electric wiring, the fan and fan belt, the various component parts were almost as familiar to him as his own hand, but he had never before seen the small metal container, rather like a fat aluminium cigarette, which was tied to the self-starter arm.

“Well, well,” he said, and repeated: “Well!”

The lad was almost breathing down his neck.

“Stand back a bit, will you?” said Rollison, and turned to look into the eager young eyes.

“Sir, you are Mr. Rollison, aren’t you? I mean, you are the Toff. I’m sure I’ve—”

“That’s what I’ve been called,” agreed Rollison, and smiled broadly and rested a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Do something for me?”

“Rath-er!”

“Thanks. Go round the square until you reach Zana’s salon. If you don’t know it, there’s a brass plate on the door. Walking about outside you’ll see two policemen, one of them a sergeant wearing a peaked cap, not a helmet. He’s Sergeant Maidment. Ask him if he can come and see me for a moment, will you?”

“Right away, sir,” the lad said eagerly, and could hardly get the words out. “Are you—are you on a job, sir?”

“A little one.”

“And I’ve helped,” the lad breathed, and turned and scurried off, as if he couldn’t perform his errand quickly enough. Rollison turned away from him, and studied the little metal cylinder, having no doubt that it contained nitro-glycerine or some other high explosive that would go off the moment the engine started, perhaps as the self-starter was pushed. Everything in the book was used, every known trick; and if the man who had done this had closed the bonnet properly it would have been successful.

It wouldn’t be now.

Rollison felt great tension building up inside him. There were a dozen things he wanted to do at once, including a visit to Rose Mary’s flat, but he wasn’t sure that he ought to go there first. Ebbutt’s men would have been out with their inquiries for some time, there might be some reports. It had become desperately urgent to see the case through quickly, because the pressure against Zana was being stepped up.

Rollison had to face that.

He hadn’t time to worry about why it was happening, except that the “why” would surely help him find Smith. Smith had become an ogre; a killer above all killers, determined at all costs to put Hugo Zana out of business.

Could that be the only reason?

Rollison set his mind to work against time, going over everything that had happened and everything that he had been told. The bonnet was still up. To passers-by it must look as if there was engine trouble, and he had sent for a mechanic. He glanced along the street and saw the boy coming, taking very long strides to keep up with Sergeant Maidment, who was no more than fifty yards or so away.

Then Rollison saw the man on the motor cycle.

The motor cyclist had entered the square a minute before, and had already been round it twice; now he was heading this way again, and was very close to the bonnets of the parked cars; it was almost as if he was looking for one of them.

He carried a hammer in his right hand.

Why should a motor cyclist—

In a surge of horror, Rollison realised why, realised that this was one of Mr. Smith’s men, that as he passed the car with the bonnet wide open, he would fling the hammer in. The thud and the vibration would set off that deadly little tube, blowing the car, the Toff and everything nearby to little pieces.

The motor cyclist, engine roaring, tossed the hammer.