“The—the kitchen.”
“And a door to the fire-escape is there?”
“Yes.” She caught her breath.
“Is the kitchen door open or closed?” As he asked that, he approached her. “Don’t get worked up. This may be a false alarm—or it may be just the thing to put us right. Is the kitchen door——”
“It’s closed.”
“Good, said Rollison. “I’m going to put the light out. Just stay where you are, I’ll be back in a moment.”
He crossed the room and put his hand to the switch; there was a faint click, and the light went out. Barbara stood in the darkness, staring towards the door. She heard it open and thought there was a faint creak as Rollison went out. A second creak was much louder; the kitchen door squeaked, he was opening that. A moment later a window rattled—very loudly.
It kept rattling, as if a high wind were buffeting it, but the window of the sitting-room didn’t move, so it couldn’t be the wind.
CHAPTER FOUR
INTRUDER
INSIDE the flat all was quiet. Rollison stood by the kitchen door, seeing the outline of the window and the starlit sky beyond— and the head and shoulders of a man outside.
He waited only long enough to convince himself that a man was standing on the fire-escape, then closed the door. The key was on the outside; he turned it, and went back to the sitting-room. He could just make out Barbara Allen, standing in front of her chair.
“Can you see me?” he called softly.
“Ju—just,” she answered unsteadily.
“A man’s trying to get in,” said Rollison in a matter-of-fact voice. “Will you do exactly what I tell you?”
“Yes.”
Then go to your bedroom, undress and get into bed,” said Rollison. “He’s probably come to question you, as the flat’s already been searched. We might find out what he’s after. You’ve several minutes to get ready, I’ve locked the kitchen door. All clear?”
“Yes,” whispered Barbara. She was shivering.
“We might find out what’s behind it all,” Rollison said. “He won’t dream that I’m listening. Which is your bedroom?”
“Opposite this room.” She was calmer now; he’d given her both confidence and hope.
“Good—come on,” said Rollison
He drew to one side as she came towards him, her figure a clear silhouette against the window. She made no fuss, passed him and went through a doorway—he couldn’t see her then. The bedroom door closed. The rattling at the window stopped and after a pause he heard a thud; the man was now in the kitchen.
There was no sound at all from the bedroom.
Rollison backed towards the telephone, groped cautiously, touched the table, pressed close to the wall and squeezed into a recess.
Scratching sounds at the door told him that the intruder was working on the lock. Soon, the kitchen door squeaked open loudly.
The light from a torch flashed on, striking the wall opposite, and was reflected from the glass of one of the small pictures. The intruder lowered it and moved it round slowly. It shone on the telephone, and Rollison, pressing tightly against the wall, prepared to act if he were seen.
The beam of light moved away, missing him, and made a complete circuit of the hall until finally it came to rest on the bedroom door-handle. The circle of fight on the door grew larger, and in the reflection Rollison could just make out the man’s figure. The light grew whiter as the torch drew closer to the wall. Suddenly part of it was hidden by the man’s figure. A short, squat fellow, he moved with great stealth. The shadow of his hands appeared on the door as he changed the torch a florid, ugly-looking creature with powerful shoulders and a thick barrel-like torso.
“Get up,” ordered Rollison.
The man didn’t move.
“Get—up.” Rollison leaned over the bed, bent down and grabbed the man’s wrist, pulled him to his feet and gave him a shove against the wall. He came up against it with another thud and nearly fell again. He shot out a hand and clutched the dressing-table for support. The trinkets rattled, a brush fell to the floor.
“I should get back to bed if I were you,” Rollison said to Barbara.
She obeyed; her nightdress was thin and the room cold. She sat down and pulled a blanket round her shoulders, looking first at Rollison and then at the burglar.
“Take off your coat,” Rollison said to the man.
After a short, tense pause, the man did so.
“Throw it on the bed,” ordered Rollison.
Again the man obeyed, and the coat fell on the bed, near Barbara.
“Pick it up, Mrs. Allen, and empty the pockets,” said Rollison, “We’ll see what we can learn about the gentleman.”
He looked into the scared brown eyes of his victim, who moistened his lips again and stood up more comfortably. Barbara began to go through the pockets, but kept looking at the burglar and at Rollison. Oddments piled up on the bed by her side, and Rollison did not speak until every pocket was empty.
A wallet, some letters, a gold watch, a slim gold cigarette-case and a lighter, a piece of billiard-chalk, a green comb, a small ring of keys, a book of stamps and some other oddments came to light.
“Now I wonder where you won the gold watch,” said Rollison, with a touch of mockery. “The last crib you cracked, I suppose. What’s all this about diamonds?”
The man didn’t speak.
“I shouldn’t hold out on me, chum,” Rollison said mildly. “The telephone is in the hall, and the police will be here in five minutes if I dial 999. What’s all this about diamonds?”
“Why the hell don’t you ask her?” growled the intruder.
“Because I prefer you to tell me,” said Rollison. Mrs. Allen, pick up that hair-brush and give it to me, will you?” He glanced at the silver hair-brush on the floor and Barbara got off the bed. She looked a comical figure with a blanket clutched round her, one corner trailing on the floor. Instinctively, she looked at herself in the mirror, and felt her hair again.
She picked up the brush.
“Throw it,” said Rollison, and she did so. He caught it deftly by the handle and beat the air with it. “This is almost as good as a cosh,” he mused aloud. “You know what a cosh is, don’t you chum? A shiny sheath of leather filled with lots of lead shot. On the whole I think this will hurt more. Now what were you saying about those diamonds?”
The man glanced at the brush, as if trying to make up his mind whether Rollison meant to use it—and Rollison darted forward and struck him on the top of the head.
“Just to show you that I mean business,” said Rollison. “And if you get really awkward, I’ll try your knife. Think how much trouble and pain you can save by opening your mouth.”
The man darted a swift glance at Barbara.
“She—she’s got them!” he gasped.
“Don’t be silly,” said Barbara, as she sat down again.
“She has!” barked the man.
“She has—she hasn’t—she has—she hasn’t—now there isn’t any more fluff on the puff-ball,” said Rollison, his voice hardening. Mrs Allen, whom are those letters addressed to?”
“Letters?” Barbara was startled.
“Those you took out of his pocket.”
Barbara picked them up; there were three. The man by the wall looked from Rollison to her and back again as she read.
They’re all addressed to—to Harold Blane,” Barbara said quickly.
“Harold Blane,” echoed Rollison. “Harold, I am not fooling. I’m going to hear your story before you leave here if I have to break your bones to make you talk. You came here to get some diamonds which you think Mrs Allen keeps in the flat —what makes you think so?”
“They must be here,” muttered Blane. “They must be !”
“Oh, a case of logic, is it?” asked Rollison. “Some of your boy friends searched the flat this afternoon and found nothing. Others—maybe you were among them—persuaded Bob Allen to take a little ride with you, and you made sure he hadn’t got them on him, so—they must be here. Right?”