Model for the Toff

by John Creasey

  The bell rang again.

  Rollison moved swiftly towards the lobby, and as he opened the bathroom door, heard a man speak but didn’t catch the words. He left the door ajar, and crept forward. Then he saw the letter-box open, and a thick finger poke through; he stood flat against the wall, just out of sight.

  A man said: “I’m sure it was this comer flat.”

  “Sure it wasn’t higher?”

  “It was next to that red tower.”

  “I’ll try again,” the second man said. The bell jarred, the letter-box snapped back, and the next words were muffled: “I can’t see anyone.”

  “I’m positive this was the one. I saw him climb on to the balcony and then into the room; I was lying on the grass over there, sunning myself, and just happened to look up. Big, dark-haired chap, he was.”

  “The porter will soon be here; he’ll have his pass key,” said the first man. “Take it easy.”

  Rollison moved into the bedroom. Outside, a man started whistling, and shuffling his feet. Another walked away. Rollison stepped over the girl’s body and opened the drawers of the dressing-table, but found nothing likely to help him, no books, no letters; nothing. He moved away swiftly, and had to step over her body again. The savage anger which he felt towards the killer was greater than ever, but he dared not stay here. If he was found here he would have to be held, Grice or no Grice, and would probably be charged for illegal entry, if nothing worse. At least he had made no prints.

  He picked up a small leather-and-canvas hold-all and went into the living-room.

  A chair was out of place, and the writing-desk seemed to mock him, with its closed lid and its closed, locked drawers. He reached it in two strides, and used his skeleton key. His ears were strained to catch any sound that the men were making, and for any from outside. He imagined that one policeman was in the hall; the man might have sent for reinforcements, or might be preparing to handle this for himself, and so win all the glory.

  The lock of the desk clicked back.

  Rollison opened the desk and was met with an array of pigeonholes, many of them filled with letters, small books, bills, and various oddments. He took each one out and put it in the hold-all, leaving behind only pens and pencils and unused paper and envelopes. He thought he heard someone hurrying along the passage, but there was no one outside. He strode across, closed and locked the door to the lobby, and turned back to the desk. The drawers had all been unlocked with the main drawer, and he pulled open each one. There were no papers, but two boxes of chocolates, some wrapping paper, two small empty cardboard boxes, and a zip-type brief-holder. He unzipped this swiftly; it was empty. He didn’t waste time closing the drawers of the desk, but stepped to the open window, stood by one side, and looked out.

  Not far away, walking purposefully, and with several small boys trailing behind him, was a large policeman. He was heading for this corner, and it seemed certain that he would be one of several on the way.

  Then a shout came from the passage: “Coming?”

  Rollison stepped out on to the balcony. The approaching policeman was still fifty yards away, and could see him. Two of the boys pointed eagerly. Rollison gripped the leather handles of the hold-all between his teeth, held the railing of the balcony, and swung over. He lowered himself cautiously, as a man shouted: “Oi! Look there!”

  Rollison dropped.

  If he hurt his leg or ankle now, he would really be in trouble, but he landed squarely. A police whistle shrilled out, but the large policeman and the escort of boys were out of sight from here, hidden by a thick hedge. Rollison turned and raced towards the far comer of the grounds and the building, hearing that whistle shrilling, knowing that it would be touch and go.

  He reached the corner.

  No one was in sight, but beyond was the road, the parked cars, and almost certainly people at windows, seeing without being seen. There was something else, resting against the wall: two bicycles. He ran to one and snatched it, swung his leg over, and pedalled towards a narrow doorway at one side of the grounds. The door was ajar. He didn’t get off, but bumped it open with the front tyre, and pedalled furiously along a service alley towards the street.

  The whistle sounded farther away.

  Rollison reached the end of the alley, jammed on the brakes, and nearly pitched himself over the handlebars. He let the bicycle fall as he sprang off, and then turned into the road, walking smartly; a running man would invite attention. Several people were in sight, but all of them were standing still and looking towards the sound of the whistle, not towards Rollison.

  His car was only just round the corner.

  He reached the corner as a police car appeared, travelling very fast; two uniformed men were in it. They gave him only a quick glance. He still showed no sign of haste, but walked to his car, which wasn’t locked. He slid behind the wheel, tossed the bag to the back, and drove away.

  Five minutes later he felt that he was safe. Grice might guess a lot, but could never prove who had been at Beryl Ward’s flat.

  By now her body would have been discovered, and Harrison would have been found behind the bathroom door.

  With luck he would pay the penalty for murder.

  Rollison did not go straight to Gresham Terrace, but to another part of the West End, a small, graceful square, with a grass patch in the middle and plane trees all around, and even a nursemaid and two children idling on the grass. A white smooth-haired terrier frisked. It had become much warmer, and Rollison was sweating a little as he stepped out of the car and approached one of the tall houses in the square. There was a brass plate by the side of the door, but it did not announce a doctor or a dentist; it said quite simply:

  The Marigold Club

  This club was a private one, and it was run by Rollison’s aunt, Lady Gloria Hurst, for young women who found such a residential club in London a great boon. Many did. It was quite small, yet a room or two was always empty for an emergency.

  Rollison rang the bell.

  The door was opened by a middle-aged woman, whose face brightened at sight of him as she said: “Hallo, Mr. Rollison. You’re quite a stranger.”

  “I try to put everything right,” said Rollison brightly. “Hallo, Ethel. Is my aunt in?”

  “Yes, but I don’t like disturbing her before three o’clock; she is getting on, you know. Still, if it’s urgent …”

  “Find me a quiet spot, a sandwich and a cup of coffee, and three o’clock will be fine,” said Rollison, and Ethel, the club’s housekeeper, closed the door and led him along a wide passage to a room on the right. She opened this door and stood aside for him to enter. Beyond, a small room was tall and gracious, like the rest of the house, furnished in more Georgian than Victorian fashion. There were several small tables in the middle, and other tables round the walls, as in a writing-room at a private hotel.

  “Very hungry?” the housekeeper asked.

  “Famished, in fact,” Rollison confessed.

  “I’ll see what cook can do,” she said.

  “Ethel, you’re the most understanding woman I know. By the way, is Lady Maude still a resident here?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Thanks. Is she busy?”

  “I don’t really know, Mr. Rollison, but Lady Gloria will.”

  “Call Lady Gloria on the dot of three, will you, and tell her I’m waiting,” said Rollison, and smiled as Ethel went off.

  He put the hold-all on to one of the side tables, sat down, opened it, and took out all the contents. Then he emptied his pockets. The room was bright and airy, even a little cold, but he did not notice that. He turned over everything he had found, letters, diaries, address book, bank statements, some files of correspondence, receipts for stock and share certificates, some Government securities, including a Post Office Savings Bank book with several hundred pounds in credit.

  All of these were in the name of Miss Beryl Ward.

  There was a photograph album, and she had photographed well; almost as well as the
missing Rose Mary Bell.

  Rollison studied the diary, but there were no entries for the past few days, no notes about Zana, nothing that helped him. He turned next to the letters, but these seemed to be from friends – one from an Uncle Wilf in Torquay – and nothing helpful at all.

  He had only the address book left.

  There was a tap on the door, and the housekeeper came in carrying a tray, a pile of sandwiches which would have been enough for two normally hungry people, some coffee and a dish of trifle. She spread a small cloth over one of the card-tables and said: “I hope that will make you feel better?”

  “I feel better already,” said Rollison, and shifted his chair purposefully.

  It was nearly twenty to three, and he was ravenously hungry. He finished the sandwiches and the trifle before feeling that he’d had enough, then poured out coffee and took it back to the table where the papers were. He turned to the Index page B, for Rose Mary Bell: and there was her name and her address, exactly as Zana had given it to him.

  There was Zana’s private address, as well as the address of his salon.

  There was the address of Percival James Harrison, too, the same as on the letters Rollison had found on the man whom he had left behind the bathroom door.

  Until he could compare this with a fuller list he couldn’t be sure that all of Zana’s models were on it, but against several of the names of girls was a small “z”.

  Coincidence?

  He finished his coffee. In a few minutes he would be commanded to the presence of Lady Gloria Hurst, not only his aunt, but the one and only relative for whom he had both regard and affection. Ethel was sure to call her on the stroke of three. Rollison glanced through the papers again, found nothing more of interest, and picked up the photograph album to run through it. Most of the photographs were of young women, all were very lovely, and loveliest of them all was undoubtedly Rose Mary.

  Why shouldn’t Beryl Ward keep a photograph album?

  What—

  A small photograph slipped to the floor from one of the pages he hadn’t yet opened. He bent down to pick it up and glanced at it with cursory interest … and then went almost as still as he had at the sight of Beryl Ward’s body.

  This was a photograph of a woman, too. Judging from the hair, she was young. It was impossible to be sure from the face. Two scars, one on each cheek, had ruined any beauty that she had ever had.

  This was probably the girl now in Canada.

  Rollison kept staring at it, and then turned it over, but apart from some kind of print number, in faded blue rubber stamping, there was nothing more to see. He turned it back, and as he did so there was another tap at the door.

  The summons was very prompt; it was not yet quite three.

  “Coming,” he called, and put the photograph back very slowly.

  The door opened.

  “You haven’t been called to the presence yet,” said the girl who came in, smiling. “Ethel said you asked whether I was busy, and I’m seldom too busy for you. What do you want this time, Richard?”

  Rollison didn’t answer.

  The other stared back, her smile becoming a little set, for she could not understand the expression in his eyes. She didn’t come any further into the room, but waited. She was of medium height, no more than twenty-four or five, with naturally fair hair, professionally waved, and a fresh, open face, the English country-girl kind of face, with the bloom of health on her cheeks, and ripeness on her lips. She was Lady Maude Dennison, a ward of Rollison’s aunt, and once before she had helped Rollison by acting as a decoy to a bad man.

  “Rolly, what’s the matter with you?” she asked at last.

  “Matter?” ejaculated Rollison, and then jolted himself out of the mood. “Sorry, my sweet. I was going to ask you to become a famous dress designer’s model, but I think I’ve decided not to.”

  “I haven’t changed that much?”

  “No, you haven’t changed,” he said. “You do the impossible and look lovelier every time, but I think I’ve learned what might happen to you if anything went wrong. So—”

  He broke off.

  “I think I want to know more about this,” said Maude in a quiet voice, and did not look away from him.

  Rollison didn’t answer at first, for he heard footsteps outside, and prepared to meet his aunt, an encounter never faced lightly. Lady Gloria opened the door wide with the stick she always used when walking, although she stood as upright as a post for all her seventy-nine years. She wore a dark blue dress, tight at her remarkable wasp waist, and wore a lace net collar, held up by small supports, as if she meant to make sure that her head could never droop.

  “And if Maude wants to learn more she’ll learn it,” she declared. “Good afternoon, Richard. Isn’t it time you came to see me out of a sense of duty and not because you require help?” Her grey eyes glinted as Rollison stepped forward, took her free hand, and dutifully kissed her cheek. “I think it is, whatever you may.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” said Rollison earnestly, “but I was always a reprobate, so you’ll have to forgive me.” He squeezed her hand. “In any case, you’d scare me away.”

  “I scare you?”

  “You won’t teach me the trick of looking younger every time you see me,” protested Rollison. “I simply can’t compete.”

  “You can come along to my room and tell me what you want,” said Lady Gloria, obviously pleased. “Life has been very humdrum lately, I could do with a little excitement. May Maude come, too?”

  “Maude may,” agreed Rollison, “but I’d rather talk here. I’m in a greater hurry than usual.” He looked from the old woman to the young one, and went on in a tone which they knew proved that he was in most deadly earnest. “I wanted Maude to go as a model for one of the big dress designers; most of his others have been frightened away, and he wants to find out how. I think I’ve found out, but still don’t know why. Among other things, they are being threatened with vitriol in the face. I’ll find out why some other way.”

  His aunt said: “I see, Richard. Yes, I think you’d better. And you’d better be careful yourself.”

  Then Maude asked: “Who is it, Rolly? Hugo Zana?”

  Chapter Seven

  Model For Zana

  “Yes,” answered Rollison very softly, “it’s Hugo Zana, Maude. How did you come to guess so quickly?”

  “It wasn’t very difficult,” said Maude; “it’s common knowledge that he can’t keep his models any longer. At least two agents have advised friends of mine not to work for Zana. They haven’t said why, but—” she shrugged. “You know how it is, sometimes.”

  “Do you mean he expects his models to sleep with him?” demanded Lady Gloria. “If you do, say so.”

  “It’s not so specific as that,” said Maude. “In fact it isn’t specific at all; it’s just a kind of general warning. When good agents give you that advice, it’s time to take it. Besides …”

  “Besides what?” asked Rollison, still very softly. “Well, there are some facts to face, aren’t there?” asked Maude, moving towards a chair and turning it round so that Lady Gloria could sit down; but Lady Gloria preferred to stand. “Several of Zana’s models have had bad luck ever since they went to work for him. One girl had a shocking accident, and isn’t ever likely to walk again. It’s just—well, it’s just that it doesn’t seem very pleasant to work for Zana.”

  “I still think you’re talking in circles, Maude,” said Lady Gloria accusingly, “and if you don’t know Richard well enough to know that he didn’t come here to waste his time, then you should. What are the reasons for models not wishing to work for Hugo Zana? Not so long ago that was considered the height of a model’s ambition.”

  “It was even a year ago,” agreed Maude. “But somehow—well, they say that he loses his self-control without any warning, he rants and raves, that he’s—well, he’s simply going mad.”

  “Who are ‘they’?” inquired Rollison.

  “Oh—people.
”

  “If the truth be known, this is probably simply rumour against the man,” said Lady Gloria. “You can’t support your case with facts, Maude, can you?”

  “Well—”

  “Have you seen Zana in one of these spasms?”

  “No, but—”

  “Have any of your friends?”

  “Well, not exactly, but—”

  “Just friends of friends,” said Lady Gloria with a sniff, and glared at Rollison. “I don’t see why you should stand there and grin like a Cheshire cat. It’s quite obvious that you didn’t know what was being said about Zana, and yet you appear to want to find out why his models leave him. If they have reason to believe that he is a sex maniac, which is what Maude is really implying—”

  “Oh, nonsense, Lady Gloria,” Maude said sharply. “I was only trying to explain what I’ve heard.” She looked intently at Rollison. “Has Zana asked you to find out why his models have left him?”

  “Nice to be consulted,” mumbled Rollison, looking warily at his aunt. “Yes.”

  “In which case, he can’t know, and if he was driving them away by his own behaviour he’d hardly be unaware of it,” said Lady Gloria, flatly. “Well, Richard, you say you haven’t any time to waste, but you don’t seem to be making very good use of what time you are spending with us. Do you want Maude’s help, or don’t you?”

  “I think I’m frightened of asking for it.”

  “No need for you to be frightened; that’s up to her,” said Lady Gloria. “What do you think, Maude?”

  “I think I should like to model for Zana,” said Maude, thoughtfully, “but I’d want to make one absolute condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That he designs an evening gown especially for me.”

  There was a moment of startled silence.

  Next moment, Lady Gloria laughed more loudly and more deeply than Rollison had heard for many a year; and he was chuckling, too.