Hammer the Toff

by John Creasey

  ‘Well, sir, two things appear quite obvious to me, and I have no doubt that you have seen them. I think Mr Grice has, too, sir, but prefers not to admit it.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Rollison.

  ‘Briefly this, sir. Horniman knew the district where Mr Drayton was hiding. He told Miss Susan. He also, it appears, told Mrs Drayton, and both went down to see Mr Bruce. But an attempt was made on Horniman’s life while he was on board the train—’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ asked Rollison.

  Jolly looked mildly surprised.

  ‘Surely, sir, we can conclude that, from the conversation which Horniman had with the man at Southampton.’

  ‘Right,’ said Rollison.

  ‘And then, sir, Horniman went off in a hurry to see Mr Bruce, saw what had happened, and hurried away. It seems to me that whoever fired the cottage might also have engineered the attack on Horniman.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Rollison, ‘and it seems to answer most questions.’

  ‘Do the police know Mrs Drayton, sir?’

  ‘No. They thought she was still in America.’

  ‘I wonder if she was Mr Bruce’s mother,’ murmured Jolly, ‘or whether it was an attempt to make Miss Susan think she was. After all, sir, Miss Susan is wealthy, is she not?’

  Rollison nodded absently.

  ‘And this may conceivably be an attempt to defraud her,’ said Jolly.

  Rollison said slowly: ‘It could be, I suppose; but I’m backing Silva-Sheen and the new invention.’

  ‘Only time will tell, sir,’ said Jolly blandly. He glanced at the correspondence, ‘I hope you will allow me to assist further with that, sir? Er … if I may say so, I have wondered whether, at such a stage, you would not find it more distracting to initiate a secretary than to manage with my help. If I may suggest delaying those letters for a few days, until it is reasonably certain that you will not have to leave in a hurry, sir, I think—I am only making a suggestion, sir—’ he broke off.

  In the end, Rollison agreed to the delay.

  Little developed in the next week. Grice could not trace the gun with which the shots had been fired, nor could he find the round-shouldered man, although Horniman had given him a Fulham address, said that his name was Welling, and that he often carried out small errands for him. According to the Colonel he had brought a message to Southampton about the meeting with Bruce Drayton at Lyndhurst. Horniman was clearly trying to establish that Welling had been the link with Bruce Drayton, and also stress the point that Bruce had disappeared of his own free will.

  The medical evidence on the body was inconclusive. Dental evidence suggested only that it might be Bruce’s. At the final inquest, however, it was formally declared that the body was Bruce’s, and that death was by burning; otherwise it was an open verdict, which covered suicide, murder or accident.

  Rollison did not think there was much doubt about which it was, and believed the police were also convinced that it had been murder.

  Horniman gave no sign that he was worried, and saw much of Susan. For a few days she had been subdued, then she had brightened up under Horniman’s influence. Gossip raged; but Rollison was less worried by gossip about her than the possibility that the police held the same opinion as he: that Horniman had convinced her that Bruce was alive.

  The police would doubtless have taken prompt steps but for the open verdict, which tied their hands. There was no crime with which to accuse Horniman or Susan, only the possibility of crime. It was being cleverly done, thought Rollison; Horniman was keeping just inside the law.

  One fact had emerged: Bruce Drayton’s contract with the Board of Trade had expired, and that being so he had every right to work for private concerns. One might guess that Horniman was employing him, or that a syndicate of textile manufacturers were behind him; but it was only guesswork. Rollison would have liked to spend more time watching Horniman and Susan, but the desk claimed him.

  One bright October morning, when his mail was more than usually excessive, he decided once and for all to engage a secretary. He had scarcely put the matter in hand when the telephone rang.

  He lifted the receiver.

  It was Superintendent Grice, an exceedingly worried man.

  ‘Rolly, do you know where Susan Lancaster is?’ he demanded abruptly.

  Rollison stiffened. ‘At her flat, presumably.’

  ‘She’s not, she seems to have disappeared. And the flat’s been ransacked. Rolly, don’t act the fool over this business. Meredith’s been playing merry hell about interfering outsiders, and Barrow’s managed to get his ear. Do you or don’t you know where she is?’

  ‘I can’t even guess,’ said Rollison, ‘not even for the Chief Constable. Why not try Horniman?’

  Chapter Four

  Seaside Revels

  Susan had reached her Mayfair flat at half-past two that morning. Tired after a party, she had gone to bed at once, so her maid declared. But before eight o’clock she had left again, taking no luggage. ‘Disappeared’ seemed too strong a word, Rollison thought, although later in the day he began to feel real disquiet. The maid, to whom he talked, told him that she herself had been up at eight o’clock, but had not called Miss Lancaster, since she had been to bed so late the night before. At eleven o’clock, however, a registered letter had been delivered, marked Immediate and Urgent. The maid had taken it into the bedroom, and found Miss Lancaster gone. The room had been in disorder, and, alarmed, the maid had telephoned Scotland Yard.

  The police now had the letter; they were by no means sure that the ‘disorder’ was anything more than untidiness. But it gave them a chance to probe, which was what they most wanted.

  Grice telephoned to Rollison late in the afternoon, to tell him that there was still no clue as to Susan’s whereabouts. Horniman had been interviewed and declared that he knew nothing. And: ‘He threw his weight about rather, Rolly.’

  ‘He’s that kind of man,’ said Rollison.

  ‘I wondered if you would go and see him, as a friend of Miss Lancaster’s,’ Grice said, mildly. ‘I’d very much like to have your considered opinion of him.’

  ‘But he’ll only throw his weight at me,’ reproached Rollison.

  ‘That won’t do you any harm,’ Grice said. ‘Did the maid tell you about a registered letter?’

  ‘Yes. What was in it?’

  ‘We haven’t opened it’ protested Grice, scandalised. ‘She hasn’t been gone long enough for as to assume that she is missing, you know. She may get in touch with the maid before long. I’m sending the letter back to the flat, to be posted on to her if she does that. We’ve tried it for prints, of course.’

  ‘I see,’ said Rollison. ‘All right, I’ll go.’

  The Colonel lived in a block of Park Lane apartments overlooking Hyde Park. The building was sumptuous, the atmosphere exclusive. A bell-boy took Rollison up to Horniman’s flat and left him. He rang the bell three times before it was answered by a meek-looking middle-aged woman.

  Before Rollison could say anything, an irritable voice called: ‘Who is it?’ and Horniman appeared, looking harassed and annoyed. The sight of Rollison seemed to anger him still further. ‘If you want me, I’m not in,’ he declared. ‘I’m expecting a taxi at six o’clock sharp.’

  The woman scurried away, leaving Rollison still standing at the door. Horniman said sharply: ‘I’ve told you, I’ve no time to spare.’

  ‘Not even five minutes?’ asked Rollison, mildly. ‘I wouldn’t worry you, but Susan Lancaster—’

  ‘Damn you and the police and your confounded curiosity!’ snapped Horniman. ‘Can’t a girl go away for a few days without being hounded by policemen and interfering amateurs? Where Miss Lancaster has gone is her business. And now if you’ll excuse me—’

  He pushed the door to with a little snap that sounded very definite indeed.

  Rollison turned away, reflecting that Colonel Horniman was obviously badly rattled.

  It might be worth trying to find out where ex
actly he was going.

  Rollison hurried downstairs and from a telephone booth in the hall, telephoned Jolly.

  ‘The Hon. Mr Rollison’s residence,’ greeted Jolly blandly.

  ‘Jolly, you’re going on holiday,’ said Rollison. ‘I don’t know for how long, but pack what you need for two or three nights and come to the entrance of Park Court, Park Lane, without losing any time. You mustn’t be later than five to six.’

  Jolly received these instructions as calmly as he would have accepted an order to go to the North Pole or post a letter, and at five minutes to six precisely descended from a taxi in Park Lane, carrying a small suitcase and a furled umbrella. Rollison spoke to the taxi driver, who was readily, if expensively, persuaded to drive a little way along and there wait for Jolly. Rollison told his man briefly what he wanted: to know where Horniman was going and whether he met Susan.

  At six o’clock a taxi drew up outside the main entrance to Park Court, at one minute past Horniman stepped into it and soon he was travelling towards Hyde Park Corner. Jolly’s taxi turned after him. Immediately afterwards, Rollison saw Barrow drive past.

  Rollison went back to his flat and telephoned Grice, who was excessive in his thanks.

  ‘You’ll let me know when you hear from Jolly, won’t you?’ he asked.

  ‘Isn’t Barrow going to do that?’ asked Rollison, innocently, and rang off.

  The attitude of the police puzzled him; Grice had always been friendly, but had seldom gone out of his way to enlist help in such a matter as this.

  It was a little after eleven o’clock when Jolly telephoned to Rollison at his flat. He was in Bournemouth, and Horniman had gone straight to the Lorne Hall Hotel. Susan Lancaster was not registered there, but Horniman had asked for a Mrs Drayton.

  ‘Mrs Drayton’, apparently, had arrived late that afternoon.

  Horniman had gone up to his room which was next to Mrs Drayton’s. Unfortunately he, Jolly, had been unable to get a room on the same floor but he had secured one immediately above Colonel Horniman’s. Moreover, he had come to an arrangement with a helpful chamber-maid and hoped that he would be able to report some progress next morning. Did Mr Rollison intend to come to Bournemouth? ‘I took the precaution of reserving a room at the Norfolk Hotel,’ Jolly said. ‘Perhaps you will let me know tomorrow if I am to cancel the reservation.’

  ‘I will,’ promised Rollison. ‘Oh, and keep a look-out for Sergeant Barrow.’

  ‘That shall be done, sir,’ Jolly assured him, and added: ‘You will remember your engagements tomorrow morning, sir, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rollison, absently. ‘Yes, of course. Good night.’

  Just before he went to bed, he wondered what engagements Jolly meant. He looked up his engagement book and found that he had none noted for the next morning. The journey and the excitement had perhaps made Jolly confuse the date.

  Rollison stopped thinking about it.

  In the morning, he decided to breakfast off toast and marmalade, and to lunch early. While he was shaving he thought again of ‘Mrs Drayton’. Of all the odd turns in an odd business, that surprised him most. This time the police would surely get her real address.

  At ten o’clock, there was a ring at the front-door bell.

  Rollison, looking through his correspondence that was almost as heavy as that of the previous day, and feeling rueful because there had been another hitch over his secretarial arrangements, half-expected to see Grice on the threshold. Instead, a tall young man with an eager expression stood there. ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘Good morning,’ returned Rollison, politely.

  The young man stared at him for a moment and then said nervously:

  ‘It is ten o’clock, isn’t it?’

  Gravely, Rollison consulted his watch. ‘One minute past,’ he said.

  ‘Then I am on time,’ declared the young man.

  ‘Oh,’ said Rollison. ‘On time for what?’

  The young man thrust his hand into his pocket and brought forth a letter. He read it hurriedly, then looked above Rollison’s head to the flat number, which was on the fan-light. ‘This is 25a Gresham Terrace, isn’t it?’ he asked. ‘I am speaking to Mr Rollison?’

  An echo of Jolly’s reminder entered Rollison’s mind. ‘Don’t forget your engagements.’ He held out his hand for the letter as another man came up the stairs. This one, though equally breathless, was plump.

  Rollison’s fears were confirmed. Jolly had made an appointment for an interview with the tall young man for ten o’clock. and with the plump young man, presumably, at 10.15, and goodness knew for how many others. A vista of an interminable series of appointments with earnest young applicants; both tall and plump, appeared in Rollison’s mind. He did not like it. He had not intended to do all the sifting himself, and now, faced with it, his enthusiasm for a secretary wilted.

  He gritted his teeth, and marshalled the two young men into the flat.

  Had Jolly made a note of the appointments? He searched among the files, and found a list; he groaned. Every fifteen minutes from now until 12.45 he was to interview earnest, hopeful, eager young men.

  The tall one was, apparently, James B. Hadlam. He was very earnest indeed. He produced many credentials. He assured Rollison of his desire to render the utmost service. Rollison promised to write to him and paid his travelling expenses.

  The bell rang again while he was interviewing the plump young man, in whom earnestness had been replaced with plaintiveness. Rollison leapt up and rushed to the door. There stood a stocky, pugnacious-looking man of between twenty-five and thirty. He was untidy and snub-nosed, but Rollison saw with a surge of relief that he was neither plaintive nor earnest. He liked the look of the newcomer; nevertheless, in all fairness he must interview the rest of the applicants.

  ‘Stay on duty for a bit, will you,’ he suggested, ‘and send the others in one by one.’

  It was a miserable morning. At half-past twelve, the applicant due at 12.45 appeared and was shown in immediately. Ten minutes afterwards he was shown out. ‘Thank God that’s the last,’ Rollison said in exhausted relief. ‘It is, isn’t it?’

  The snub-nosed young man nodded.

  ‘What you want is a cup of coffee,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’ve got the milk on.’ Casually he went into the kitchen, which was sacred to Jolly and where Rollison was only permitted to go if such a visit were unavoidable. He came back with a tray, biscuits, and one cup.

  ‘Two cups,’ said Rollison.

  ‘That’s all right, I’ve had mine.’

  Rollison looked at him for a moment and then burst out laughing. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Higginbottom.’

  ‘Sure you’re not making it up?’

  The young man shook his head. ‘Quite sure,’ he said cheerfully. ‘If I were, it would probably be French with a small f or Reginal Argincourt, or even—’

  ‘Come and sit down,’ said Rollison. ‘I see you’re a man of imagination with the will to keep it under restraint. Do have a cigarette.’

  ‘Thanks. Would you mind if I smoke a pipe? Odour inoffensive, I assure you.’

  ‘Carry on,’ said Rollison, gravely.

  ‘Thanks very much.’ Higginbottom took out pipe and pouch and began filling the pipe. ‘You do want an amanuensis, don’t you?’ He looked at the piles of unanswered letters. ‘All crime?’ he asked.

  ‘Very little crime,’ answered Rollison.

  ‘Just as well,’ said Higginbottom. ‘One can get sated with it. I wanted to join the Police Force,’ he added, with a grin, ‘but I’m half an inch too short. No exaggerated notions,’ he added, quickly, ‘I didn’t expect to be drafted through Hendon College to a desk of my own in three months, or anything like that. Perfectly prepared to be a copper. I thought – well, I did think, so why shouldn’t I say so? – I thought when I saw your letter that you might find me useful now and again. I’m a peaceable chap but I can use my mits if there’s any need.’

  The telepho
ne bell rang. Rollison stretched out his hand for the receiver, then said thoughtfully: ‘There’s an extension in the hall. Listen-in to the conversation and take it down, will you, then come back and transcribe it.’

  ‘Right-ho’ agreed Higginbottom.

  ‘Morning, Jolly,’ said Rollison, brightly. ‘How are things?’

  ‘Good morning, sir.’ Jolly paused. ‘Matters are reasonably satisfactory, sir. Two of the people in whom we are interested are here, including Mrs Drayton.’

  ‘What do you make of her?’ asked Rollison.

  ‘I had time to observe her only for a few minutes, when she came downstairs for coffee,’ Jolly said. ‘She is having lunch in her room, sir. She was with the Colonel. She is a well-preserved, well-dressed, rather attractive-looking woman, sir, that is really all I can say,’

  ‘And Miss Lancaster?’

  ‘She isn’t staying here, sir, but I understand Colonel Horniman is lunching at the Norfolk, and I may have something to report after lunch. Will you postpone any decision about your own movements, sir, until I have telephoned you again?’

  ‘Right. I’ll do that.’

  ‘Very good, sir. And may I inquire how the appointments transpired this morning?’

  ‘Oh, they went off all right,’ Rollison said. ‘What’s your estimate of the required qualifications, Jolly?’

  Jolly gave a solemn, meticulous list of the talents and attainments he considered necessary. It went on for a long time.

  At the end of it Rollison gave a snort of laughter.

  ‘You want quite a paragon,’ he murmured.

  ‘If I may say so, sir, you do.’

  ‘I see,’ said Rollison. ‘I—look here, are any more coming this afternoon?’

  ‘Six, sir, between two-thirty and three-forty-five.’

  ‘Hmm. Well I’ll stay in until half-past four, but I might go out after that.’

  ‘I will try to ring you before then, sir. Goodbye.’

  Rollison rang off, as Higginbottom came in, pencil and paper in hand, a rueful grin on his face.

  ‘I’d better not waste any more of your time,’ he said.

  ‘Frightened by Jolly?’