Feathers for the Toff

by John Creasey

  “His next journey will be to Scotland Yard,” said Rollison.

  Arnott said: “Where’s your evidence?”

  “In the first place, the package.”

  “If you ever open that package, Rollison, you’ll regret it. It won’t make good reading about friends of yours.” There, thought Rollison, was the story he had heard before – incitement to fear of the contents of the package; and undoubtedly Arnott gave the impression that he regarded it as a trump card. Yet this was a clever, cunning, plausible rogue who had contrived to play on the nerves of his victims; Babette, Lancelot Stewart, probably Danny Bond and many other people had all suffered.

  “That’s made you think,” sneered Arnott.

  “I often try to think,” said Rollison. “The second source of evidence is Babette.”

  “She isn’t worth a row of empty gin bottles!”

  “Hence your anxiety to take her away with you,” said Rollison drily, and turned to look at Babette. “Do you know where he would have taken you?”

  She shook her head as she looked towards Arnott with such hatred that even he evaded her eyes. Rollison had the impression that Arnott thought that he was bluffing.

  He said: “Babette, go and telephone Scotland Yard, will you. Ask for Inspector Leslie, give him this address, and tell him that I asked him to send two men here at once, with a car and handcuffs.”

  Arnott raised a clenched hand.

  “If you do—”

  Babette lifted the cover off a telephone in the corner of the room, dialled the number, and glared at Arnott as the ringing sound came faintly into the room. Arnott made a sudden move towards her, prepared to risk the gun in Rollison’s hand. Rollison kicked at a small table between them and Arnott knocked against it. He thrust out a hand to keep his balance, and Rollison put the flat of his hand against the man’s chest and thrust him back.

  “Believe it or not,” he said, “you’re nearly under arrest.”

  “Inspector Leslie, please,” Babette said.

  “You’ve got no evidence!” Arnott snapped.

  “Is that Inspector Leslie? …” Babette went on talking while Rollison sat on the arm of a chair and spoke quietly to Arnott; he seemed to relish every word.

  “There is forcing an entry into this house, assaulting Mr. Bryan, attempting to assault Mrs. Smith, attempting to assault me, carrying firearms without a licence, uttering threats—all on my evidence as well as that of the others. I shall prefer a charge, Arnott, you are going to a cell. Tomorrow you will be remanded for eight days, while the police make inquiries. At the end of those eight days you will be committed for trial on a murder charge.”

  “You can’t do it!” Arnott cried wildly. “There’s no legal charge, I didn’t—”

  Rollison watched him contemptuously; the man was going to pieces. In that final horrible crack-up he turned to Babette as she finished telephoning and his voice was pitched on a low, whining key.

  “Babette, you can’t do this to me. You can’t do it. Make Rollison see sense. I won’t worry you again, I swear. I—I didn’t poison Lance, that was someone else. You’re wrong if you think I had anything to do with the murders, too, they were against my orders. Babette, listen to me, listen!” He pulled his tie loose from his collar, and advanced a step. “Don’t go on with it. If you’ll stop Rollison I’ll make it worth your while.”

  Babette stood looking at Arnott with disdain which amounted to disgust. She was more beautiful then than Rollison had ever seen her, in spite of her pallor and her lack of make-up. Her eyes were fine; and she looked as if she was exalted.

  She did not speak, but turned and went out of the room.

  “Rollison—” Arnott began brokenly.

  “Sit on the floor,” ordered Rollison. He moved his gun forward. Arnott obeyed. He was still sitting on the floor, in sullen silence, when massive Inspector Leslie arrived, as Grice’s chief aide, with two other men.

  Rollison said: “The name is Arnott and I charge him with assault, uttering threats, using firearms, and forcing illegal entry.”

  Arnott did not speak, even when he was taken out to the police car, handcuffed to a man who was six inches taller and much larger than he. Inspector Leslie looked at Rollison with a grin.

  “Who is he?”

  “I think he poisoned Whittering.”

  “Great Scott!”

  “I came here in the hope of catching a sprat, and I collected a whale. I don’t know why he killed Whittering, I don’t know the first thing about the business, but guard him with great legions, encompass him about with strong chains. Make sure he doesn’t slip his handcuffs. By the way, have you heard from Superintendent Grice lately?”

  “He’s due at the Yard soon after five o’clock.”

  “With news?”

  “He has traced the owner of the car,” said Leslie. “He is a man named Arnott, with an address in Winchester and another in London.”

  “Well, well! Leslie, you must search his London address with a fine toothed comb. The thing you’re looking for is a small package, about eight inches by four, with a lot of Scotch tape round it. What is his address?”

  “It’s on my desk,” said Leslie. “I don’t know offhand. Why don’t you come to the Yard with me?”

  Rollison said sadly: “Just for once, I’ve got something else to do. Any news of Babette Smith yet?”

  “There wasn’t when I left the Yard.”

  “I’ve been trying to find out from her parents where she might be,” said Rollison, glibly. He was standing in the hall, and he ushered Leslie out and watched the police car disappear, with a stunned Arnott in the back, and the bulky plainclothes man next to him.

  He turned and ran his hand through his hair.

  “Oh, Jolly!” he said. “How I wish you were here!” He went into the sitting-room and found Babette standing near the door. The despair which he had seen before, the defiance which she had shown to Arnott, were both there, and yet her lips were curved in a smile, and in her eyes was a look almost of affection.

  “I seem to have been wrong about you,” she said. “Does Jolly matter so much?”

  “He’s my Watson.”

  “Won’t I do?”

  “No.” Rollison put his head on one side. “I’m not so sure, though.” He stepped to the piano, sat down and ran his fingers along the keys, and began to play; the air from Liebestraum came sweetly. While still playing, he asked: “Can you give evidence against Arnott? I mean about the murder of Whittering.”

  “Yes.”

  “Without implicating yourself?”

  “No.”

  “Where do you come in?”

  “I obtained the poison.”

  “Oh,” said Rollison. He played for some seconds, thinking that it suited her mood, and then went on: “Under compulsion?”

  “Yes, but who will believe it?”

  “The police, if we set our minds to it, and if you had no evil intent.”

  “I had none.”

  “How did you come to fall into his hands?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Compress it,” said Rollison, and smiled up at her. “Is this getting on your nerves?”

  “No, I love it. Don’t stop.”

  While he played, changing from tune to tune without pausing, and only glancing up at her occasionally, she talked to him. Outside the storm clouds had gathered until the room was in a shadowy darkness, and the rain spattered down on the windows, occasionally forced against them with a clatter which almost drowned the music and her voice.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Back Again To Danny Bond

  In front of Rollison, in his room, were two daggers which reflected the subdued light. Leaning back in an easy chair was Superintendent Grice. Rollison sat with his elbows on the desk and studied the detective. It was nearly eleven o’clock, and he had left Babette at Cannon Row two hours before.

  “It suddenly occurred to me,” said Rollison, “that the gruff manner of Mr. Brya
n, and his attitude towards his daughter, might be assumed—to make the Surbiton house the last place where we would look for her; and it was so. It was just a chance thought and I acted on it, otherwise Babette would be with Arnott instead of at a police-station, and we wouldn’t know half as much as we do. Have you been to Arnott’s house?”

  “Yes. There was nothing at Winchester, except indications that he and several other men had been there lately. In London we found two ounces of barbiturate and a packet of white arsenic. Useful evidence.”

  “Most useful. Babette was with Arnott when he put the stuff into Whittering’s glass, at the Kim-Kam. It wasn’t put in his whisky at the flat, the wiping of fingerprints there was just to hoodwink us. It succeeded. I wish she hadn’t been there. Don’t forget I made her come to you and give herself up.”

  Grice said nothing.

  “The poisoning was done after she had talked to Whittering and he had told her that he was through with the racket,” Rollison went on. “Whittering was getting nervous. He had talked too freely about Danny Bond, but that wasn’t the main motive for his murder; it was because he was losing his grip. She told Arnott so, and Arnott was with her at the Kim-Kam, in a private room. One of the waiters was in Arnott’s pay and substituted whisky with the powder in for another glass. The waiter didn’t know what was in it.”

  “As you say, Babette did,” Grice reminded him.

  “Yes.” Rollison toyed with the knives. “Poor Babette! She found out a year ago that her father was in grave trouble, and that only she could help him. Lancelot Stewart agreed to help because he loved her desperately. It’s hard on a young woman when she discovers that her father is a criminal, and she learned just that. Julian Edward Bryan, receiver of stolen goods for more years than either you or I can remember. He wasn’t even suspected, was he?”

  “No,” admitted Grice. “Even when his name cropped up in this business, we could find nothing against him. He was believed to be a retired city merchant of good character, independent means, and a troublesome daughter. Instead, he’s dealt in stolen goods for forty years!”

  “And has kept the records under the innocent guise of personal accounts,” said Rollison. “I’m glad we found them, because it puts his guilt beyond all doubt. He was being blackmailed by Arnott, as we now know. His daughter and Lancelot Stewart chose to try to help him, only to find themselves faced with Arnott. Arnott needed more help, and chose to use them. If Babette had refused, the truth about her father would have come out. Not nice. That was why she tried to stop her Lancelot from talking, and to get away from me. I wish you had heard Babette tell the story, Bill. She had to help her father; had to. All this began nearly twelve months ago. Into the picture came Danny Bond, introduced by Lancelot Stewart. Danny was running short of money, and Arnott wanted more go-betweens to keep up his flow of gullible and easy-to-fleece Nato officers and wealthy foreigners.”

  “How was the fleecing done?”

  “Gaming, mostly, with stacked cards. A seductive girl, too much liquor, and the victim was helplessly compromised. There’s nothing new in that. The West End remains the best hunting-ground for you, Bill.”

  Grice nodded.

  Rollison smiled, faintly.

  “Danny Bond came in and took his cut, then rebelled when he realised what a beastly business it was. He couldn’t get right out of it. So, Babette believes, they had to silence him. I imagine that when they decided to do that, there was the first thought of murder, and then the attack on Mrs. Fotheringay, from which it was thought she would die, was considered a better method. The obstinate woman didn’t die, so there were no gallows for Danny. However, he saw his danger and chose to fly, taking with him one small package. Bill, Bill, Bill! To think I had that in my hands!”

  “Go on,” said Grice.

  “The loss of the package caused great alarm, and with it Babette hoped to turn the tables and force Arnott to silence. Presumably it can give the whole show away. Earlier thoughts of murder developed into deeds. At all costs, they had to have that package. Thanks to Danny, who had seen Babette before he left for Winchester, Babette knew its value. She and Lancelot Stewart went after it. Twelve months of associating with the Arnott gang had given her a hard twist, hence her poise and her blasé manner. The quest for the package gave us all plenty of trouble. Arnott saw his danger, and obviously kept in close touch through his Winchester people. Lancelot Stewart was poisoned. Arsenic—a different poison, that was very cunning—was put in the salt pourer at the bungalow, and faked evidence was available that Lancelot Stewart had put it there on his recent visit. When I mentioned arsenic poor Babette folded up. His knife, taken from his room, was also used to try to implicate him. The rest of the story you know. In come Alec Stewart and Sheila O’Rourke. Sheila through her Danny, Alec through Sheila; he didn’t know his father was implicated, and there’s no reason why he should have done.”

  Grice looked non-committal.

  “I know you have a pet theory about Alec,” said Rollison, “but that doesn’t matter at the moment. Sheila went off in her tempestuous way to show the police what fools they were for suspecting innocent Danny, and she came across something which really frightened her. To wit, Lancelot Stewart and the fact that Danny had taken a package of importance to the bungalow. For now we know,” went on Rollison, “that Danny told Sheila that she must help Alec, that there was great danger for Alec. The emotional side of the tangles apart, that caused complications. Sheila isn’t capable of straightforward thinking. She dramatises herself and the situations. I think that her underlying emotion was love for Alec Stewart, which came flooding out. It does, you know. Well, we know how they all reacted, how they tried to side-track me, how Lancelot Stewart tried to get me to start work on Bryan, and was prepared in fact to try anything if I would only pay no attention to his son.”

  Grice interrupted: “Why did Lancelot Stewart talk about danger to his son?”

  “Possession of that package was dangerous, there’s no mistake about that.” He rubbed his swollen eye gingerly. “Lancelot rightly told Sheila that if Danny Bond were free the danger to Alec would be less, and he went out of his way to try to make her prevent me from going to the bungalow. Well, now,” went on Rollison, more briskly, “we know that great efforts were made to get Danny Bond out of London, using Alec Stewart after their quarrel, and we know that the need grew so urgent that they were prepared to frame Danny for a crime which he didn’t commit. We also know that Danny got hold of that package in self-defence. We’ve got to find out what is in it. The rest is settled, except for incidentals, and I don’t think we shall have any difficulty with them. The man whom I held at the Surbiton house confirmed most of Babette’s story. He’ll crack completely when you question him. We’re back to Danny Bond, the package, and the reason why Arnott was so desperately anxious to get Danny out of London.”

  “Alec Stewart and Sheila O’Rourke might still be involved,” said Grice quietly. “I still find it hard to believe that he knew nothing of the package in that grandfather clock.”

  “If he’d known where it was, and what it might mean, he would not have left it in the clock on the day the clock might have been taken away,” said Rollison.

  “Unless it was a particularly deep way of showing his complete ignorance.”

  Rollison laughed. “You’re nothing if not persistent! Worry the bone, old chap; you might get a little marrow out of it. My crying need is to find out what is in that packet, and why they were so anxious to get rid of Danny Bond.”

  “Probably because, like Whittering, he grew difficult. You’ve said yourself that he rebelled and that was the reason.”

  “Wrong! I said that it appeared that way to Babette. I didn’t commit myself, because I don’t think that was the only reason. I think Danny knew about that package, and that nothing else was really important, and I also think,” went on Rollison, “that when Danny is released—and you’ll have to release him on the new evidence—he’ll be in acute danger. I think he
knows who was, and is, behind Arnott. There’s your chance, Bill, because it might prove to be young Alec Stewart, and it may be someone of whom we haven’t yet heard. You will release Danny, won’t you?”

  Grice said: “We’ll have to, when the formalities are over. Babette knows that he wasn’t at the Chelsea house on the night of the first crime, and Arnott’s companion at Surbiton says the same. We could refuse to accept the evidence, but I don’t think we would be justified.”

  “You wouldn’t,” said Rollison. “Bill, play ball with me, will you?”

  “Now what’s in your mind?”

  “Let me have Danny.”

  Grice frowned. “I don’t see what I can do about that.”

  “You can have him followed by your men in the hope that he’ll lead you to important places and to the package, or else that he will be attacked. Don’t shadow him. Let me handle him.”

  “That won’t lessen the risk of an attack on him.”

  “It won’t be intended to lessen it. I’ve stuck my head out so often that I don’t mind playing Aunt Sally again. Bill, there is much that is stinking bad about this business, and we haven’t come to the end yet. The lives of three people might yet be ruined—Danny’s, Sheila’s, and Alec Stewart’s. Not to mention Babette Smith.” He added abruptly: “What did you think of her?”

  “I felt extremely sorry for her,” said Grice.

  “That’s just it. And Lancelot Stewart in his odd way did his best to do the right thing. He didn’t enjoy his last few days on earth. There is more than the danger to those now involved or likely to be affected,” he went on, soberly. “We think that with the arrest of Arnott we’ve got to the bottom of this victimising of visiting officers—and of our own, for that matter. I’m afraid we haven’t. I think Arnott ran only one branch, and there are others. I think the malignant thing will continue to grow unless we make a proper end to it. I think we can reach that end through Danny Bond, but now that so much has gone wrong I don’t think they will make any immediate attack on him if your men are obviously keeping him under close watch. So, leave it to Uncle Rolly!” He laughed. “That keeps cropping up, too.”