Feathers for the Toff

by John Creasey

  “I don’t know that I like the idea,” said Grice.

  “You’ve done as much before.”

  Grice glanced at his watch, as a clock began to strike, but he did not comment on the time.

  “Rolly, have you still got something up your sleeve? It isn’t much use reminding you that you should not have withheld the story of Sheila O’Rourke’s visit—”

  “Which we now know for certain had nothing to do with Whittering’s murder.”

  “You don’t believe that any more than I do,” said Grice. “We only know that she didn’t actually administer the poison. We don’t yet know the real reason for her visit, and she has proved herself a good liar in this business already.”

  “A good liar,” mused Rollison. “I wonder. I told her that she was a very poor one, but it’s just possible that she is a lot better than she appeared to be on that celebrated occasion.”

  “You haven’t yet answered my question.”

  Rollison laughed. “I have nothing up my sleeve! I don’t see why you should worry to ask, as you won’t believe me unless I say ‘yes’. As a matter of fact, Bill, two things keep occurring to me. In the first place, the centre of gravity appears to be Winchester. There is a very curious fact which we haven’t commented on yet—that Arnott had two houses in the Winchester district from which he was able to work. Then there comes along the coincidence, of the scene shifting to another Winchester house—the bungalow.”

  Grice said: “Is there any evidence that it shifted? You’ve stood out against suspicions of Alec Stewart, but his bungalow may be the main basis for operations.”

  “If you can believe that Alec Stewart has been a party to these frauds, and is the kind of young man to associate with the Arnott-Kim-Kam variety of nasty night-life, you will believe anything. However, Winchester remains a place of interest. As for the rest, I haven’t got over the fact that Arnott came and gave himself up!”

  “That’s one way of putting it.”

  “It’s very nearly true. Never was an arrest of a really bad man made so easily. However, the crux of this business isn’t Arnott—or have I said that before?”

  “You’ve said something very much like it.”

  “Then I must be tired,” said Rollison. “Do you mind if I sling you out now? What about a drink before you go?”

  “No, thanks,” said Grice, who was an abstemious man.

  “Don’t forget my humble plea for Danny Bond,” said Rollison.

  He was by no means certain that Grice would be able to help him with Bond, even if he were so minded. The Assistant Commissioner and the Commander C.I.D. were both able men, but newlyappointed, and it was not strange that they viewed the activities of Rollison with some disfavour; they were impressed by stories of the Toff, but also impressed by their own importance and by the significance of rules and regulations. Grice rarely spoke of them, but it was obvious from a dozen little signs that he found their activities a hindrance; Grice was the least orthodox of policemen.

  When the Yard man had gone, Rollison sat back in an easy chair and contemplated the top hat which showed three bullet holes. If he persisted in his efforts he expected to find that there would be others quite prepared to shoot him. So far they had behaved with some circumspection as far as he and the police were concerned, and had concentrated only on dealing with those people who might have betrayed them. There was no reasonable doubt that Arnott would have murdered Babette, for the same reason as he had killed Whittering and Lancelot Stewart.

  Was that the same reason as for the attempt to get Danny Bond hanged?

  “Yes,” mused Rollison, lighting a final cigarette, “I certainly wish Jolly were here!”

  Just after ten o’clock next morning Grice came through on the telephone. Rollison’s face was much nearer its normal size, and he was delighted that he felt no real ill effects from his various exertions.

  Grice said: “Rolly, Danny Bond is being released at noon. No one else here seems to think it’s worth having him followed, all the attention is centred on Arnott. Some pleasant things have been said about a man named Rollison! If you want to see Bond before he leaves Cannon Row, I should come over at once.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” said Rollison. “Bill, I am getting increasingly fond of you.”

  “I wish I could say the same of you,” said Grice, and rang off.

  When Rollison reached the police-station next to Scotland Yard, Grice was not there. Inspector Leslie took him to the room where Bond was waiting. There was little but formality to do, he said, before Bond was released. The man did not seem particularly elated, nor did he seem frightened. He gave the impression that he knew that his release was only a matter of time.

  “Can I see him alone?” asked Rollison.

  “Yes, that’s all right.”

  Bond, dressed in creased grey flannels with baggy trousers and a white tennis shirt with tie loosely knotted, and in need of a haircut, looked up at Rollison without enthusiasm. He was taller than Alec Stewart, and undoubtedly a good-looking young man, although his eyes were clouded, and his manner was nervous. Rollison wondered why Leslie had not thought that he seemed frightened.

  Bond was sitting on a bench, his legs thrust before him, hands in his pockets, and a cigarette dangling from his lips. “Hallo, what do you want?” he demanded ungraciously.

  “Where are you going to sleep tonight?” asked Rollison.

  “There are hotels.”

  “Do you want to stay at a hotel?” demanded Rollison, and in Bond’s dark eyes he saw a hint of the fear which was never far away from him.

  “Why shouldn’t I?” he muttered.

  “I know that Arnott has been arrested,” said Rollison, “but the package hasn’t been found.”

  “I don’t know what’s in it.”

  “No one seems to know what’s in it,” said Rollison sceptically. “You took it from Arnott and went to enormous trouble to hide it, and yet—”

  “All I know is that Arnott was frightened out of his life at the thought of losing that package,” said Danny Bond. “I wanted anything which would frighten him.”

  “And who else wanted it?” asked Rollison.

  “I don’t know.” Bond tossed his cigarette into the empty fireplace. “What are you getting at, anyhow?”

  “My flat is in a nice, central position,” said Rollison. “My man has been hurt, and can’t occupy his room. It’s better than a hotel, both more comfortable and several degrees safer.”

  Bond looked at him steadily.

  “You seem to think I’m in danger.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  Bond stood up and took his hands from his pockets. He spoke with some frankness and there was something very boyish about him.

  “I wish to God I knew! I’m as nervous as a cat on hot bricks! I almost wish they weren’t going to release me yet, although—all right,” he added, abruptly, “I’ll come.”

  As they went in a taxi to Gresham Terrace, just after mid-day, Rollison glanced at his companion’s glum countenance and wondered when Bond would inquire where Sheila was; when he knew that she was with Alec Stewart he might become extremely restive. Even when everything else was finished, there would still be the Sheila-Alec-Danny problem to be solved.

  He paid off the taxi and Bond stood waiting for him by the entrance to the house. Danny was looking up and down, as if he half-expected to see some familiar and unwanted figure in Gresham Terrace; of his nervousness there was no reasonable doubt.

  They walked upstairs side-by-side, and as they went, Rollison thought that he heard footsteps in the hall above him. He was frowning when he reached the landing, and his frown grew deeper when, to his astonishment, he saw that the front door of his flat was open.

  “Stay here,” he said to Bond, and he felt the man’s muscles grow tense as he gripped his forearm. Then he went slowly forward, with his right hand in his pocket. The sounds of movement were more audible; whoever was there was making no attempt
to hide his presence. Suddenly, there came a flurry of footsteps, a bright red head, and Sheila came out of his study, followed by Gerry Wilmot. She started, drew back, then recognised Rollison.

  “Rolly!” she cried. “I wondered what had happened to you!”

  Then she stopped, and her smile vanished, for she saw Danny Bond.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Quiet Reunion

  “Hallo, Sheila,” said Danny.

  “Hallo, Danny,” said Sheila.

  She did not move towards him, and he went slowly into the hall. He must have seen the American, but had eyes only for Sheila. Their engagement ring glittered on her finger. Wilmot sent a puzzled glance at Rollison, who was far too intent on the couple to sympathise with the American.

  There was certainly no joy in this reunion.

  “Well—how are you?” asked Sheila.

  “I’m all right,” said Danny.

  “You’re free, then.”

  “Yes, I’m free. Thanks to Rollison.”

  “He is wonderful, isn’t he?”

  “I suppose so.” Danny drew in his breath. “I didn’t know you would be here. You might have warned me, Rollison.”

  “Oh, Rolly didn’t know,” said Sheila with a little more spirit. “This was to be a surprise for him, and it did surprise you, didn’t it, Rolly? I didn’t realise that you would be out, Danny. Er—Danny.”

  “Yes.”

  “Has Rolly told you?”

  “About what?”

  “That I’ve been to the poultry farm.”

  “No,” said Danny. “No, he didn’t tell me. How—how is Alec?”

  “He’s all right,” said Sheila. “Oh, you don’t know Gerry Wilmot, do you? He’s been a great help. Ask Rolly. I don’t know what we would have done without him.” She looked uncertainly at Wilmot, who advanced to shake hands. Danny put his hand forward without enthusiasm. They exchanged laconic greetings.

  Sheila turned to Rollison. “Rolly, dear, I do hope you don’t mind, but I went to see your man yesterday, to take him some more eggs. He was so grateful, and he gave me a key.” She beamed. “He said he knew you wouldn’t mind if I had a key. Here it is,” she added, giving it to him. “I hope you don’t mind me letting myself in.”

  “So you’re still at it,” Rollison said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “In the first place, I can’t imagine Jolly parting with a key except on my express instructions. In the second place, this isn’t his key, it’s a spare one of mine.”

  A fiery flush spread slowly to Sheila’s ears and to her neck. She looked surprisingly neat after coming from a journey, and wore the green frock.

  “Oh, I am a beast!” she confessed. “As a matter of fact, it was in your room at the hotel, Rolly, you left it on the dressing-table. That’s right, isn’t it, Gerry? I thought you wouldn’t mind if we borrowed it, and then I thought it was a bit of a nerve, and—well, you needn’t look at me as if I’m less than a worm!”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Only about ten minutes,” said Sheila. “Haven’t we, Gerry?”

  The American was also red in the face, and extremely ill-at-ease. Rollison tossed the key into the air, and then said more amiably: “What were you looking for? The package?”

  “Why, no!” exclaimed Sheila. Then she stamped her foot. “Well, yes, we were! We knew you’d found it, Alec told us, and I don’t see why we haven’t got a right to have it. After all, Alec’s father said that it would make a great deal of difference to Alec, who isn’t really strong enough to look after his own interests.”

  Slowly, Rollison shook his head.

  “Grice is wrong,” he said. “You’re a very poor liar. I don’t know whether to wish you well or not. You have wasted your time, because the package was stolen from me two days ago. Why did you leave Winchester?”

  “Well, nothing seemed to happen, and the police just wouldn’t tell us anything, so we caught the early train. But why are we standing here, we might as well sit down. Or is it time we went to lunch?” she added, with a glance at Danny. Obviously she was done with the key incident. “You haven’t had lunch in a decent place for a long time, have you?”

  “A snack will be all right for me,” said Danny, very subdued.

  “Gerry, take Sheila out to lunch, will you? And keep her away from me for at least two hours. By that time I might have resisted the temptation to put her across my knee and spank her.”

  “Well!” exclaimed Sheila. “How beastly can one get!”

  She marched out with her head held high. Wilmot turned towards Rollison.

  “I’m sorry,” he said simply.

  Rollison smiled. “Don’t worry about it.” He saw the American’s relief, closed the door on the couple, and turned and regarded Danny Bond.

  “You didn’t exactly rave,” he remarked.

  “Didn’t I?” asked Danny perfunctorily.

  Rollison said: “Danny, have you put yourself through all this trouble and turmoil for the sake of Sheila’s pretty face? Don’t lie about it. The situation is too serious. You and I know that we might be attacked, you because of what someone thinks you know, I because you might have told me about it. Sheila isn’t worth it, you know.”

  Danny said very slowly: “There’s nothing you can tell me about Sheila. I sometimes wonder if I shall swing for strangling her.”

  “My, my!” exclaimed Rollison.

  “It isn’t funny! She—” Danny drew in his breath, and turned away. “That was a damned silly thing to say. There’s nothing wrong with Sheila except that she’s as fickle as they come. The highest bidder will always win Sheila. If I hadn’t spent every penny I had to give her excitement, I would never have got myself in this mess. Alec had the right idea when he threw her over. Who’s this American chap she’s tagging along with?” He frowned. “You know, I’ve seen him before somewhere. I—Great Scott, of course! At the Kim-Kam!”

  Rollison said: “Well, well.”

  “He was there one night a few weeks ago, and in the card-room,” said Danny, excitedly. “Whittering, or one of Arnott’s other men, was stacking the cards and Wilmot saw him. There was a peach of a row! Wilmot was thrown out on his neck, eventually, but I always thought he would come back and make trouble for Henderson. How on earth did Sheila pick him up?”

  “They said they met for the first time on a train,” said Rollison. “I wondered how true that was. I wonder if Grice is right!”

  “What has Grice got to do with it?”

  “He thinks Sheila is a congenital liar. And Wilmot has been so meekly amenable it isn’t true.” He looked at Danny thoughtfully. “He was a victim at the Kim-Kam, you say?”

  “Oh, yes. There was trouble now and again whenever we struck someone with a bit of spirit,” said Danny. “What a filthy business it was!”

  “Filthy is one word.”

  “You needn’t rub it in,” said Danny Bond. “Oh, forget it! Do you think there’ll be any objection to my going to my flat?”

  “I don’t see why,” said Rollison. “Mrs Fotheringay might not approve.”

  “Is she in hospital?”

  “Yes. She’s conscious, I’m told, but doesn’t know who it was who attacked her. She may believe it was you.”

  “Poor old soul,” said Danny Bond. “She was pretty decent to me, Rollison. I’d like to deal with Arnott myself for what he did to her. There are some things I’d like to collect,” he added abruptly. “Shall I go now?”

  “We’ll go after lunch,” said Rollison. “I’ll get some sent up.”

  Throughout the meal he fancied that Danny Bond was thinking more of Sheila than of anyone else. The more he saw of Sheila the harder he found it to believe in her sincerity. ‘Fickle’ was exactly the right word for her. She was doubtless flirting outrageously with Gerry Wilmot and at the same time looking about her with speculative eye on the other presentable men in the restaurant. It began to look as if she had toyed with Danny Bond and Alec Stewar
t, but had no deep affection for either of them.

  Of the two women in the affair, he liked Babette Smith much better.

  At the back of his mind was the possibility that there was something more in Sheila than he had yet seen. It seemed incredible that she played any key part in the crimes, yet the possibility seemed to get greater all the time. Grice would probably feel even more certain if he knew of the fresh ‘coincidence’ in the fact that Wilmot had been a victim of the Arnott gang at the Kim-Kam club.

  They finished the meal just after half-past one. To find out whether they were being followed, they went to Chelsea by bus. There was no evidence that they were followed, and nothing to suggest now that Danny was greatly afraid.

  The house where Danny had lived was near the river. It was one of the few small houses standing in its own grounds behind a high wall, a charming Georgian place, creeper-clad, with a small walled garden sadly in need of attention.

  “It’s gone to rack and ruin in a week,” Danny remarked. “If Mrs. F. were here it would look as neat as a new pin. I wouldn’t mind spending a day or so tidying up.”

  “That’s a nice thought.”

  “The police would probably think that I was digging for buried loot.” They reached the front door, with a pillared portico, and he took a key-ring from his pocket, selected a key, and inserted it. The brass was tarnished.

  On the brass of the lock were several tiny scratches, which looked very bright.

  Rollison saw them, but their significance did not dawn on him until Danny had opened the door and pushed it wider. Danny stepped in first, and Rollison suddenly pushed him forward. Danny gasped and fell headlong, taken so much by surprise that he had no time to put out his hands to save himself. Rollison flung himself to one side, and as he did so he caught sight of a man at the far end of a wide passage. He saw the flashes from a gun which the man was holding. The bullets went through the open doorway, and would have hit Danny Bond in the chest had he been standing upright.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The House Of Mrs. Fotheringay