The Toff In Wax by John Creasey

Author:John Creasey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-04-13T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

Four Pretty Heads

Rollison stood with the old woman in front of him, staring over her shoulder. Two beds were directly in his line of vision, and on the pillows were two pretty heads – Liz Bonham’s and Isobel Allington’s; Liz and Is.

They did not move.

Rollison went ahead of the caretaker, and looked into the other bedroom. Mandy Fitzherbert and Norah Thomas were there.

But were they?

“They look as if they’re dead,” the old woman breathed again.

“They don’t look real,” said Rollison. He went forward, suspicion growing stronger with every step. He bent over Liz’s head, and by that time was sure of the truth. He put down his hands and took ‘Liz’ gently between his hands and lifted. The head, of wax, came off the pillow.

The old woman screamed: “Her head’s come off!”

Rollison let the head fall, and swung round in time to stop her from rushing out of the room. In a way it was good to have something to do, in pacifying her and making her realise that this was a kind of sick joke. He helped her to a chair and then went into the kitchen and put on a kettle. Then he went back to the old woman, who was looking better, and no longer muttering to herself.

“When did you come in here before?” asked Rollison.

“About an hour ago.”

“Did you look in the bedrooms?”

“Of course I did.”

“And weren’t the heads there?”

“What do you take me for, young man?” demanded the caretaker. “If I’d seen them before I wouldn’t have been so upset, would I?”

“I suppose not,” agreed Rollison, sounding abashed. “Did you hear anyone come up?”

“I heard you.”

“Before me.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Do you always hear when people come upstairs?”

“Not if I’m at the back—but I was listening out this morning.” The little eyes became almost suspiciously bright. “How am I to know you didn’t come and put those heads there, scaring the wits out of an old body like me?”

“But I haven’t had time.”

“It wouldn’t have taken a minute.”

“No,” conceded Rollison slowly. He began to smile. “It certainly wouldn’t. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“If it’s good,” she said.

“I’ll make it myself.”

“Making yourself at home here, aren’t you?”

Her mind, like her eyes, was as sharp as needles. Suspicion glittered in them as she made that comment, but Rollison only grinned as he went back to the kitchen. When he went to see her again, she had gone. He put the two cups of coffee down, and hurried to the ladder, which was back in position. He went up quickly. There were different paintings on the easels, and no sign of the two sketches of himself. He moved towards the modelling stand and searched about, looking for any signs of wax; he saw none. He looked in every nook and cranny until he was sure that no wax had been used up here for some time, but under a canvas in one corner he found a flat box.

Inside was human hair, packed in a plastic bag.

He took out several strands of this, and carried it into the bedrooms.

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