by John Creasey
Meer waited in the doorway of his shop and watched the car disappear. Then he turned back into the gloom, while from the other side of the road a man of medium height, dressed in black, and with a dyspeptic expression on his pale face, showed a surprising interest in an off-licence until both Lowerby and Meer were out of sight.
Immediately he turned to a telephone kiosk and put through a call to London.
‘Yes, Jolly?’ responded the Toff amiably.
‘You might be interested to hear, sir, that Dr. Lowerby has purchased a faked’ – Jolly uttered the ‘faked’ with superb contempt – ‘Sheraton table from a Mr. Meer, and has taken it home with him.’
‘Yes?’ said the Toff. ‘I once bought a faked assegai and brought it home. I was very young at the time, but—’
‘You believed it genuine, sir, and you bought it because of your interest in weapons. Dr. Lowerby, sir, is not interested in antiques. At least, there are none visible from any of the downstairs windows of his house.’
‘A point,’ said the Toff slowly. ‘Follow Lowerby, Jolly.’
‘Very good, sir.’
At the Gresham Terrace flat Rollison turned to Brendon, who was sitting near him. Brendon knew that Jolly had left early that morning for an unknown destination, and realised it was in connection with the quest for proof of Chamberlain’s illegal activities. He showed a praiseworthy restraint, and to reward him the Toff gave him a brief resume of Lowerby’s part – as far as it was known – in the affair.
‘It’s all bits and pieces,’ Brendon said irritably.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Rollison. ‘Our job’s to fit the bits into the pieces. And eventually we will. Sylvia didn’t give you any particulars of this house, did she?’
‘No—it was only being vaguely talked about.’
‘No district?’
‘No. What’s in your mind?’
‘They might have left the New Piccadilly to look for the house,’ said Rollison. ‘But as Chamberlain is probably the only one who knows which house it was, that doesn’t help much.’
‘Nothing helps much,’ said Brendon dispiritedly.
‘You’d be surprised,’ Rollison said.
He did not add that it seemed at least possible that the house – if the Sandersons had gone to look at one – would be somewhere near Hersham. To have intimated that would have been associating the disappearance of Bren-don’s friends too clearly with the murder. He thought it, none the less.
And he had a keen desire to talk with Arnold Chamberlain.
Putting his head into the lion’s den was an occupation at which the Toff showed to advantage. Nothing, he claimed, was dangerous if it were done openly. He telephoned the Oxford Street showrooms, to learn that Chamberlain was out, but was expected that afternoon soon after four o’clock.
Rollison gave his name and promised to call at four-thirty.
That at least would give Chamberlain an opportunity for avoiding the meeting if he wanted to. Also it gave the Toff time to slip to the East End and to visit several friends, including the woman who had offered him hospitality on the night of the ‘Steam Packet’ fracas.
His quest was simple: he wanted to find if there was much traffic reported in ‘snow’ – the vernacular for cocaine.
There was no unusual activity, as far as he was able to discover, but there were rumours that there was a lot of the stuff about. He could get no further than that, and he turned his questions to the recent open activities of Dougall and Hi Ling. That odd association of aliens was known but not liked by some East Londoners, but reluctantly the several whom Rollison questioned were compelled to admit there were no outward signs of illegal activity.
The small cargo boats – little more than coast craft, although they travelled frequently to and from Holland, France and Belgium – which Hi Ling owned were doing their normal trading, although neither the negro nor the Chinaman had been seen in person for some days. For that matter, they always kept in the background; few people knew them as the Controllers of the shipping line.
Rollison wrinkled his forehead.
There was a distinct possibility that through the shipping end of the business he would learn something useful about Hi Ling. And at the back of his mind was the uncomfortable thought that in Australia James Sanderson ran several ships, mostly for coastal work.
‘There could be a connection,’ admitted the Toff. ‘We’ll see whether Uncle Arnold will talk about it.’
Chamberlain – not wholly to the Toff ’s surprise-received him precisely at four-thirty.
The big, squarely built American, with the clean-shaven face, luxuriant black hair, and the thick horn-rimmed glasses, sat back in his swivel chair and eyed Rollison keenly, if warily. He looked what he made himself out to be – the Big Business man with no time to waste.
‘Well, Rollison, what’s on your mind?’
‘You,’ said the Toff, and had an irritating feeling that he had seen the man before. He pushed that aside as he tapped a cigarette on his thumb-nail. ‘We needn’t beat about the bush, need we?’
‘I’m not beating anything.’
‘Unless it’s the law,’ said the Toff gently. ‘But we won’t go into that. The real purpose of my visit, one might say, is to try to find a really charming country house—’
The words came so casually that he was able to study their effect on Chamberlain thoroughly. He saw the man’s start of surprise, he saw Chamberlain put both clenched fists on the table – and he remembered that the grey-haired man at the ‘Steam Packet’ had done exactly the same thing.
That had been Chamberlain!
He had no doubt in his mind, and the discovery gave him deep satisfaction after the first surprise – but no more than the fact that Chamberlain was startled out of his equanimity by the mention of a country house.
For that, to say the least, was interesting. Brendon certainly would have jumped to conclusions.
Chapter Thirteen
Shock For Brendon
The Toff would have been the first to acknowledge that there was nothing normal or straightforward about the murder of the tramp – assuming it had been a tramp – and the case which followed it. The development which had come through Brendon had done nothing to make the affair more orthodox. Instead of starting at the beginning of a hunt and going on to the end, with sundry interferences, he was approaching the mystery from both ends, anticipating the solution somewhere in the middle.
The Chamberlain angle was equally unusual.
Despite the fact that McNab had Chamberlain under some kind of supervision, the fur importer was outwardly possessed of an unblemished reputation. Yet the Toff knew that as a consort of men like Dougall and Hi Ling he was a dangerous criminal. The only previous communication he had had with the man was the affair of the visiting-card. Chamberlain’s attitude suggested that he was not going to pretend that he did not know what Rollison was after, but was going to bluff.
He sat and stared at the Toff, his hands clenched in characteristic position, although he did not realise that it gave him away. The Toff was smiling, and smoke was curling from his lips. In silver greys, he was immaculate; and the sun striking through an open window shone on his sleek, black hair.
‘What are you drivelling about?’ demanded Chamberlain at last.
‘Not bad,’ said Rollison cheerfully. ‘In fact you might put it across with some people, Chamberlain. Country houses or no country houses, you’re heading for a nasty fall in the very near future.’
‘Don’t talk nonsense. If anyone’s going to fall it’s you.’
‘Oh, I have. Underneath a car,’ retorted the Toff. ‘Strange how things won’t work according to plan, isn’t it? Actually I’ve never been impressed by Nigger and Hi Ling. Certainly not in the first flight, and they’re somewhat too easily scared. Like other people I know.’
Chamberlain drew a deep breath.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Rollison. If there’s anything you’ve got to sa
y with any sense in it, I’ll listen. If there isn’t, I’m too busy to waste time. I had some silly card with your name on—I suppose you are the same man?’
‘Yes, I’m the same man,’ said Rollison, and chuckled. ‘Chamberlain, you may be a bad crook, but you’re a fair actor. A pity I’m not in much doubt about you, isn’t it?’
Chamberlain straightened his glasses.
‘I think it’s time you went.’
‘Oh, not yet,’ said the Toff. ‘I’ve several other things to say. A word of warning to start with—you should be more careful when you go to the “Steam Packet”.’
Chamberlain’s hands clenched.
‘What on earth—’
‘Suppose you stop fooling?’ asked Rollison, and his voice hardened. ‘If you’re running away with the idea that I don’t know what you do and what you’re doing, you can lose it. All I’m looking for is enough evidence to make a police charge advisable, and that’s not going to be long in coming.’ His eyes were hard as he spoke, and he could see the effort Chamberlain was making to keep his self-control. He knew that he was frightening the fur importer. Psychological terrorism would always be the Toff ’s best weapon.
‘I—I’ve never broken a law in my life!’ snapped Chamberlain.
‘Then you don’t know much about the law,’ said the Toff gently. ‘Get a nodding acquaintance with it, it might save your neck. Not that I think that’s likely. Chamberlain, it was a foolish thing to mutilate the hands. There’s just one reason why hands should be mutilated and that’s to prevent identification. You told the world as well as me and the police that the man you killed was known on police records, and—’
Chamberlain cracked.
He pushed his chair back, sending it crashing to the floor, and rounded his desk quickly, his hands clenched.
‘Get out of here, get out! Come to my office talking a lot of nonsense like this—I’ll smash your ruddy face in! I’ll—’
He struck out wildly.
The Toff, who seemed to be in his chair one moment and on his feet the next, side-stepped with ease, and delivered a short-arm jab to the side of Chamberlain’s ribs. Enough to sting but not to damage. Chamberlain stopped himself and swung round to deliver another punch. It hummed past the Toff ’s head, and the Toff rapped a sharp blow to the solar plexus. Chamberlain gasped and doubled up.
The Toff stepped back a pace and watched silently, waited until he was sure that Chamberlain could hear, and said gently: ‘Very foolish, Chamberlain, from start to finish. That’s a little indication of how badly hurt you’re going to be, particularly if Sylvia Sanderson meets trouble.’
He spoke slowly, so that each word impinged itself on Chamberlain’s ears. And then he backed towards the door, moving silently and with a speed that seemed unnatural. One moment Chamberlain saw him, lean-faced and with his eyes agleam with mockery. The next he was gone, the door closed.
On the face of Arnold Chamberlain there were varying emotions. Of pain and hatred – and fear.
Primarily fear.
Rollison walked slowly down the stairs of the building, through the showrooms, where there was evidence of a considerable and thriving business. But not a business enough to make Chamberlain really wealthy.
As he reached the thronged pavements of Oxford Street Rollison saw two things: the man with the squint, whom he did not yet know as Jaggers, and the two plain-clothes men, who made a great point of neither seeing nor recognising the Toff.
Rollison smiled as he walked towards Gresham Terrace.
It was less what he had seen in Oxford Street than what he was seeing in his mind that concerned him then, however. For it had come with a quite surprising suddenness – a factor that might be the common denominator of this mystery.
Sanderson ran a small Australasian shipping line.
Hi Ling and Dougall ran a similar one in England.
Chamberlain would have to ship most of his furs from abroad, and might easily run one or two ships. There were dozens – in fact hundreds – of small firms operating a virtual ‘pirate’ service of cargo boats, with the idea of cutting their own transport costs and making a side-profit from the carrying of other goods.
How to find out?
Rollison was reluctant at the time to consult further with McNab. The Scotsman had, so far, been very obliging, but he might easily contrive to do something which would complicate matters for the Toff. By putting the plain-clothes men to watch Chamberlain he had done precisely what the Toff wanted – added a reason for Chamberlain to lose his nerve. He wanted Chamberlain to do that, very badly.
But for the rest he preferred to carry on alone.
He turned into Gresham Terrace at about half-past five, and as he entered his flat he heard the telephone ringing. He lifted it, wondering as he did so where Brendon was, and hoping that the youngster had not gone far.
Jolly’s voice came.
‘About Lowerby, sir. He has gone in the London direction. I have been trying to call you for nearly an hour.’
‘Right,’ said Rollison. ‘Nothing more?’
‘Nothing, sir. I understand’ – Jolly paused, with a nicety of judgment – ‘that Sir George Manering’s XI is in a bad way, sir—nearly two hundred behind with only five wickets to fall.’
Rollison chuckled.
‘A sad week, my Jolly. All right, come back to town.’
‘Are you sure it won’t be advisable for me to wait for the return of the doctor, sir?’
‘No, I’m not. But I’ve got a job for you here, Jolly, and even you can’t be in two places at once.’
‘I will start immediately, sir.’
‘Do,’ said the Toff.
He closed down, made sure that Brendon was not in one of the other rooms, and then went out again. He took a taxi this time, but went again to the showrooms of Arnold Chamberlain. He was prepared to wait, if necessary, for an hour. He needed less than half.
Dr. Vincent Lowerby drove up, parked his Morris in a side-turning, and then stopped for some minutes while getting something from the back seats. Rollison watched without appearing to, and saw the doctor take out a small table, with the legs and surface covered in brown paper. Lowerby carried it quickly towards Chamberlain’s shop and disappeared.
Rollison rubbed his chin.
‘Jolly,’ he said aloud, ‘you found more than you know. A visit to Hersham and Mr. Meer is indicated. Meer—odd name. I wonder if Mannering knows him?’ Rollison chuckled. ‘George won’t be in the best of moods if they’ve lost today.’
The affair of the faked Sheraton table – faked, if Jolly was right, and it was not a matter on which Jolly was likely to fall down – was of considerable interest, although so far its importance could not be estimated. But here was a direct connection between Meer – so far unknown in the affair – Lowerby, and Chamberlain.
Chamberlain was not a man to buy fakes.
There was, therefore, something more than intrinsic value – or worthlessness – in the deal in antiques.
Was it the first of such deals?
That being a point on which there was no available evidence, the Toff wasted little time on it as he returned to the flat. He thought more of young Brendon, who had, after all, left the flat and could hardly be blamed for it. With a youth of Brendon’s type, and one so obviously anxious to be up and doing, the present inactivity would be unbearable.
Had he gone to try something on his own?
Rollison sighed.
He stopped thinking as he reached the landing outside his flat. For it was occupied not by Brendon but by the tall and chunky figure of Chief Inspector McNab, whose sandy eyebrows were drawn together as he scowled.
‘Why, Mac, pleasures do come sometimes.’
‘Pleasures?’ grunted McNab. ‘Dinna waste ye’re words on me, Rollison. I know well what ye’re thinking. I’d like a word or two with you.’
‘Have I ever been known to refuse you yet?’ asked the Toff.
McNab, who did not appear to be in
a good humour, grunted a non-committal reply. A whisky-and-soda, a comfortable chair and a cigarette did little to thaw him, and he lost no time in getting down to business.
‘About this Hersham murder, Rolleeson. Have ye learned anything worth the knowing?’
‘I wouldn’t say so; no. Have you?’
‘It’s time there were some results,’ McNab said, and the Toff knew in that moment that Higher Powers had been urging the Scotsman to greater endeavours. Without admitting that in so many words, McNab pointed out glumly that there had been no developments whatsoever. He even admitted that he had questioned Dougall and Hi Ling, but that they had presented excellent alibis.
‘They’d be good at that,’ said the Toff. ‘What have you come for, Mac, apart from just to swop stories?’
McNab glowered.
‘I’m not swopping stories, Rolleeson. Ye’ve been active, I know that, and I’d like to know why.’
‘Finding dead ends while looking for clues,’ smiled the Toff. ‘I can’t give you anything in the way of evidence. All I can offer is a hunch, and I’m not going to do that—you don’t like hunches, and no decent policeman admits they exist. I—’
The telephone rang sharply.
Rollison excused himself and lifted the receiver. He heard Brendon’s voice at the other end of the wire, and judging from it Brendon was excited. If the Toff ’s expression remained inscrutable for McNab’s benefit, he felt his heart jump.
‘It’s true, I tell you!’ snapped Brendon. ‘I saw him not ten minutes ago, and I’m outside the place he went into now. Jim Sanderson’s in London!’
Chapter Fourteen
Fast Work
If it were true – and the Toff could not say that it was not – it was the first real break that had come his way since the start of the affair, even if it smashed one theory. He said easily: ‘All right, old man—what’s the address?’
‘I’m at the corner of Queen’s Road and Bayswater Road, near the station,’ said Brendon. ‘I checked up on that before ringing through, Jim went into a house not two minutes’ walk away.’