Then he heard, a sound.
It was low-pitched, a gasp or moan—and it came from Number 5. He turned sharply and looked at the sliding door. It was open an inch—he hadn’t noticed that before, but now he could see that it was not flush with the wall. He put his fingers into the little gap and pushed the door open further. Utter silence reigned—but was broken suddenly by another moan.
Rollison turned from the door and looked right and left— and then walked up and down the mews, making sure that no one lurked in the shadows. Satisfied, he hurried back to the lock-up, and widened the opening until there was room for him to get through. He stepped inside as another moan reached his ears. He took a pencil-torch from his pocket and flashed it on. The thin beam of light made eerie patterns on the shining body of the car—and then shone on Snub, who lay huddled up on the back seat! His hands and wrists were tied—that much Rollison saw in a quick glance—and something poked from his mouth; a handkerchief. In spite of that gag, Snub had managed to make some noise.
Rollison opened the door.
“All right, old chap,” he said. “You needn’t——”
Then he heard a rustle of movement behind him, and darted back, out of the car—but as he did so, something hit him on the back of his head. A second blow followed, much heavier than the first; he lost consciousness.
When he came round his head was aching badly, and he could not move his arms and legs freely. The pain ran from the back of his head, down his neck and across his back. He did not at first remember what had happened, but as memory crept back, he realised the truth. A man had been waiting in the garage, Snub had been allowed to make that noise, or else the assailant had made it, luring Rollison into the garage.
He kept his eyes closed, and tried not to think.
Minutes passed
He thought at first that he was bound to a bed or a couch, then discovered that he could move his arms freely, he wasn’t tied up. It was pitch-dark, and he wasn’t sorry; any light would hurt his eyes. The blood drummed through his ears with the effort of movement, and he lay still again.
Everything was quiet.
Yet—he could hear something. Faint sounds—very soft music. It wasn’t far away. He tried to move his head again, in spite of the pain which shot through it, but he could see nothing, and the drumming of the blood sent the other sound away. It might be his imagination. He relaxed again, and became aware of something he hadn’t noticed at first—perfume.
Where was he?
The perfume gave him a clue—and now that he was more capable of thinking and reasoning, he realised that he was lying on a comfortable bed or couch. This might be Pauline Dexter’s room. He couldn’t remember the scent, but it was a woman’s room, anyhow.
He had no idea how long he had been here, and could not guess how long it was since he had come round. Two things were important. He was alive and free to move. But he mustn’t move too quickly. That bump over the head had been pretty hard, and
What about Snub?
He felt sick with alarm as he thought of the youngster; then the alarm faded, for he remembered that Snub had been breathing. There was no reason to think that Snub would have been killed and he, Rollison, left alive. Odd how he took killing for granted in this business, although as yet—and as far as he knew—Merino had not ventured murder.
He heard a door open.
Something clicked, and a light appeared at the foot and sides of a door which was opposite the end of the bed. The glow was only a glimmer, but it enabled him to see the outline of the bed, his legs—they weren’t tied—and a wardrobe near him. He turned his head. Near him, on a bedside table, was a lamp; he had only to stretch out his hand and switch it on.
Someone walked along the hall.
The footsteps faded.
A sound—it was music, perhaps from a radio set which was toned down—crept into the room. Then the footsteps returned, and he heard a woman humming in a lilting voice.
Then the door closed again, and the light disappeared.
Rollison put his hand to his side and groped for his cigarette-case. He found it, and drew it out. Then he groped for his lighter, and thumbed that clumsily. The light from the flame hurt his eyes. He lit the cigarette, then held the lighter further away, to get used to it. It needed filling, and the flame soon died down, He let the cap click back, and put both lighter and case into his pocket. The little red glow near the end of his nose was hardly a light at all, until he drew at it—and then all he could see was the tip of his nose.
He sat up.
Springs creaked faintly; it was a very comfortable bed. He hitched himself up to a sitting position. The blood drummed painfully through his ears and the back of his head seemed to lift from his neck, but he set his teeth and sat upright, and gradually the pain eased. Next time he moved, putting his left hand towards the table-lamp, there was less pain.
He found the switch and pressed it
A subdued light filled the room.
He closed his eyes against the pain, but gradually opened them. He was able to recognise the room it was the flat in Lilley Mews, Pauline Dexter’s bedroom. On the dressing-table was a photograph of the girl, and next to it, that of a film-star masquerading in the guise of a Greek god.
Rollison put his feet to the floor.
The pile of the carpet saved him from making any sound, but the bed creaked again. After a while, when he had pressed his feet firmly to the carpet, he stood up. He thought at first that he would faint with the sudden pain, but it cleared slowly and soon he stood upright. He knew that he would be practically useless in any emergency, with a head as bad as this. He stepped to the dressing-table with its long, frameless mirrors, and sat on the stool. There was nothing the matter with his face or forehead. He put up his right hand and touched the back of his head gingerly—and winced with pain. He manoeuvred the side mirrors, so that he could get a back-view of his head.
There was a large swelling, but as far as he could see the skin wasn’t broken.
He finished the cigarette, feeling thirsty. He looked round the room, and saw a hand-basin in one corner. He reached it, half-filled a tooth-glass with water and, without troubling to rinse it out, gulped a little.
He finished the water greedily.
All the time he could hear that faint music.
He went to the door and tried the handle, quite expecting to find the door locked—but it was not He pulled it open. Odd, that he should be quite free to move about as he pleased. There was no sense in it.
A light flashed on, so bright that he gasped aloud and whipped his hand to his eyes. He saw nothing for some time except a red light through his eyelids. He leaned against the wall, recanting his thoughts—they hadn’t let him roam at will; this had been done so that he would think he could escape and then have his hopes dashed.
“Put that—light out,” he muttered at last, and opened his eyes a fraction, peered through a crack in his fingers.
“Oh, is it as bad as that?” asked Pauline Dexter, as if distressed. “What a shame! But you’ll soon be better. Come in and have a drink.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“REQUEST”
SHE slipped her arm through his and led him into the drawing-room. In a corner a radio was playing soft orchestral music, the air which she had hummed a little while before. She helped him to sit on a settee and, when he grunted as his head touched the back, she made a moue of sympathy and, handling him gently, pushed a cushion behind him so that he could sit upright Then she pulled a pouffe near, and lifted his legs on to it
“You’ll soon feel better,” she said. “Whisky? Or perhaps you ought to have coffee, after that blow.”