The Toff In Town

by John Creasey

  “Great Scott, no!” exclaimed Hedley. “People who haven’t been on the air lose their voice the first time they sit in front of a mike, or else squeak or whisper. But as soon as they’ve tried it out once or twice, most of them are all right. So we have them here any time after 2.30, the earlier the better, for rehearsals. That has to be done, because they’re all allowed a limited time. One man might take five minutes to read a script which another would read in three, or even less. Sometimes cuts have to be made or bits added on, you can’t really tell until you’ve rehearsed. It’s all right with stage and screen people, but put an ordinary man in front of a mike with a script perched up in front of him, and he dithers.”

  “I can well believe it,” said Rollison. I suppose some are really shy. This man from Burma, for instance—does he really want to talk about it, or have you used a lot of persuasion?”

  “He was all right,” said Hedley. “Bit worked up. We did the script yesterday afternoon, and I think it will be good. You’ve got it, Rose, haven’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Miss Myall, and produced several sheets of foolscap.

  “I suppose there isn’t a spare,” inquired Rollison. “If I’m to think about it, I’d like to——”

  “Take one,” said Miss Myall, and thrust a copy of Allen’s script into his hand.

  “Thanks,” said Rollison. “And thanks for everything else. Now, what about having a drink with me?”

  No one said “no”.

  Perky Lowe took them to the Chester Arms, in a side street near Gresham Terrace, and they sipped their drinks—except Wardle, who took his whisky-and-soda in two gulps—and chatted, crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s of the discussion. Miss Myall was the first to leave. Hedley followed soon afterwards, and Wardle, who had a remarkable capacity for whisky-and-soda after office hours, gulped down half his fourth, lit a cigarette and eyed Rollison fixedly.

  “What is all this about?” he demanded.

  “I’ll tell you later on,” promised Rollison. “Very hush-hush, for the time being. Thanks, Freddie!”

  They left the Chester Arms together. Perky came out of the public bar, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and took the wheel of the cab. Rollison went out of his way to drop Wardle at Charing Cross, and then was driven back to Gresham Terrace.

  “Anything more to-night, Mr. Ar?” Perky Lowe asked.

  “Anywhere special to go?” asked Rollison.

  “No, Mr. Ar, I’m at your service, same as always. Shall I stick around?”

  “I think you’d better,” said Rollison.

  “Oke.” Perky pulled up outside the flat, jumped down and, as Rollison climbed to the pavement, held out a folded sheet of paper. “My report,” he said proudly. That Chrysler made three calls—juicy bit, ain’t she?”

  “The Chrysler?” asked Rollison, blankly.

  Perky threw back his head and bellowed with laughter.

  “Cor, you are a one,” he gasped. “The Chrysler cor! She’s a beauty all right, though, wouldn’t like to try followin’ ‘er in my cab on the open road.” He finished laughing, and then added hopefully: “Let’s know when it is, Mr. Ar, won’t you?”

  “When what is?” asked Rollison, taken unawares.

  “Nark it! The broadcast. You’re goin’ to broadcast, ain’t you?”

  “There’s been some talk about it,” said Rollison, chuckling. “I’ll certainly let you know if it comes off.”

  He went upstairs slowly. There was a smell of burning—or of something which had been burnt recently. The lower flight of stairs and the landings had been cleaned up, but on the flight leading to his flat the damage was all too apparent. A small hole had been made in the wall. The banisters were gone, except two rails which stuck up like the stumps of trees—and the tops of them were blackened, they had caught fire. Part of the steps had been blown away, and a biggish area was badly scorched.

  He opened the front door, noticing that there were several dents in it which had not been there before. The full force of the explosion and the debris had been blown over his head; nothing else could have saved him.

  He stepped into the flat.

  There was a light in the study but nowhere else in the flat, and he heard the murmur of voices. Jolly was in there and possibly Snub had decided not to go, in view of the explosion. He hoped Snub hadn’t stayed here all the time—the movements of Merino and Pauline were well worth following.

  He opened the study door.

  Jolly turned round with a start of surprise, and from the depths of an easy chair Superintendent William Grice of Scotland Yard looked up with an accusing stare.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  POLICE

  GRICE was a brown-faced, brown-haired, brown-clad man; and perhaps the most formidable detective in the country. He and Rollison were old friends, but whether their friendship would weather this storm Rollison did not care to guess. He looked down at Grice with a faint smile. Grice’s skin was smooth and his complexion almost perfect—only marred, in fact by a large scar on one side of his face and head. That was from an explosion in which he had suffered so badly that for several days his friends had despaired of his life—and it had happened in an affair in which Rollison had been playing a part. His high-bridged nose was white at the bridge, where the skin seemed to stretch across it. He had large brown eyes.

  “Well, Mr. Rollison, he said heavily.

  “So we’re formal, are we?” asked Rollison. “Get the Superintendent a drink, Jolly.”

  “Mr. Grice has declined one, sir,” said Jolly.

  Then give him a lemonade,” said Rollison. He took the other easy chair, sat down and stretched his legs. “Well, Bill? Detecting? Jolly, get me those oddments you were handling, will you?”

  “Yes, sir.” Jolly went out, and Grice clasped his hands together in front of his chest and spoke without raising his voice.

  “I always thought you were a bit mad, Roily; now I know you are. Time and time again I’ve asked you not to try to tackle any kind of investigation when you know it’s a police matter. Time and time again I’ve spoken for you, and you’ve been able to do a great deal more than any other private individual. You know very well that if the A.C. or the Home Office got nasty, you wouldn’t be able to get anywhere near a job again. Yet you let a thing like this happen.”

  “Bad man comes, tries to blow me to perdition—and that’s all the sympathy I get,” murmured Rollison.

  “You won’t get any sympathy. A thing like this didn’t happen out of the blue, something led up to it. Here are some of the things. Several of Bill Ebbutt’s toughest has-beens are holding a watching brief for you at a flat in St. John’s Wood. A taxi-driver named Lowe, once one of Ebbutt’s hopes, is driving you about. Jolly is nervous, and refuses to talk—which means that he’s hiding something. Even if you don’t mind having your own head blown off, think of Jolly sometimes.”

  “As a matter of fact I’ve thought quite a lot about Jolly lately. He wanted to tell you about this before.”

  “Oh, Jolly’s got some sense,” said Grice. “Well, what is it?”

  “Mystery.”

  “Now look here,” Grice began in exasperation, but Jolly came in carrying a large silver tray. On one end was a glass of lemonade for Grice was almost a teetotaller, at the other, a variety of “oddments”. Jolly placed the tray on the desk and handed Grice the glass, then drew attention to the other things.

  “The exhibits, sir,” he murmured.

  There were photographs of finger-prints; the knife; all the oddments which had been taken out of Blane’s pockets, each with a little tab attached and a description written thereon. There was a sheet of typewriting, and a swift glance showed Rollison that Jolly had noted down the times of the telephone calls and the incidents—and had them to the minute. All of these things were to be expected of Jolly, but the final thing startled even Rollison; for there was a cabinet-sized photograph of Oliver Merino on the tray.

  “Well, well!” he exclaimed.
“Congratulations, Jolly!”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “And what are these?” asked Rollison, touching some pieces of charred wood. There was also a length of string, burned at both ends, and a tin tack badly bent at the point.

  “They came from the staircase after the explosion, sir. A policeman took some of the samples but left these, and I thought I was at liberty to remove them. I understand that the constable arrived while I was telephoning Mr. Grice. I thought it wise to inform the police, since it was so evident that violence was intended. I trust that meets with your approval, sir.”

  “Warm approval,” said Rollison.

  “I hope you’ve a good excuse for being so late, because when I make a report, there are going to be some nasty remarks.”

  “Excuse?” Rollison frowned and looked at Grice as if perplexed. “I suppose so—unless,” he added in a burst of inspiration, “you were to go abroad until it was all over! The Riviera, for instance—I’m sure you’d love a trip to the Riviera. How much would it cost, Jolly?”

  “Six or seven hundred pounds, according to one estimate I heard recently,” said Jolly solemnly, “but I have no doubt that it could be done for considerably less. Is the lemonade to your liking, Mr. Grice?”

  Grice, who was sipping, grunted.

  “Can I get you anything, sir?” Jolly asked Rollison.

  “No, thanks. Don’t go through. I’m sure Mr. Grice will want to ask you a few questions.” He leaned forward and indicated the various exhibits with his forefinger, explaining what they were item by item, letting the story build up vividly. He kept nothing back, except his own visit to the flats in Lilley Mews. And he ended with an account of what had transpired at the Aeolian Hall.

  Grice finished his lemonade.

  “And what else?” he asked.

  “Believe it or not, Bill, I think that Allen is in mortal terror of you and a police uniform, and I thought it worth while trying to help him without recourse to law. And if you’d like an opinion——”

  “You know what I think of you,” said Grice heavily.

  “This doesn’t directly concern me. I don’t think you will get anything on Mr. Merino or his girlfriend, I don’t think you will persuade Allen to talk, I don’t think you could hold anyone in this affair except Blane. There just isn’t any evidence against Merino or Pauline, only a lot of suspicion. And I’m sorry you’ve come because now I suppose you’ll have to take official action, and that may really blow the lid off. You might possibly drive these people underground, but even if you do they’ll pop up again when you’re busy on something else. And I’d much rather get it finished now; Barbara Allen can’t stand much more of this pressure. Nor can Allen.” He leaned back, touching the back of his injured hand gingerly. “If I were young and callow in the ways of the wicked, William, and if I didn’t know that you’re the most orthodox of policemen, I would now go down on my bended knees and ask you to do nothing until Saturday.”

  “That’s impossible!” exclaimed Grice.

  “The poor, poor Aliens,” sighed Rollison.

  “Pauline suggested he should broadcast, therefore Merino wants him to broadcast, he was promised relief by Saturday —and now he won’t get it. He’ll live for weeks and maybe months on the edge of a volcano, wondering when it’s going to erupt again, he’ll lead his wife a dog’s life—and all because Merino chose a noisy way of trying to do me in. Sad, isn’t it!”

  “You needn’t expect me to take any notice of that kind of blather,” said Grice. “Even if I would—and I certainly wouldn’t —forget what you’ve told me, there’s the report about the explosion. It’ll have to be investigated. The story of Merino’s visit here—is that Merino?” he added, looking at the photograph which Rollison had indicated casually.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, the story will have to be told and he’ll be interviewed.”

  “Oh no, he won’t,” said Rollison.

  “Of course he will!”

  “Mr. Merino will have left his flat and will be at some place unknown by now,” said Rollison. “He took his chance and lost it. I can’t really understand the fellow. I could understand him coming and threatening, but it was crazy to do this—or allow it to be done—knowing that even if I were hurt, Jolly wouldn’t be and the story would be told. But I’m pretty certain this will scare him out of town. You might get hold of his girl friend, but she wasn’t here, there’s nothing you can pin on to her. If you tackle the Aliens, all you’ll get is a re-hash of what I’ve told you. Allen’s scared of the police, but that’s not an indictable offence. You’ll spend a lot of time and public money chasing round in circles, whereas if things were allowed to go on as they are, we might get results by Saturday night.”

  Grice made no comment.

  “Bill,” said Rollison thoughtfully.

  “Yes?”

  “If I were to pull a few strings and get the Assistant Com-missioner’s hearing, will you support do-nothing tactics—on the strict understanding that I take no serious action without telling you? You’ll have to watch events, of course, you could put a man to watch the Aliens and another to keep an eye on Blane and a third to watch Pauline. But once you come out into the open, we’ve had it. The Aliens——”

  “It’s not like you to talk about pulling strings,” said Grice.

  “This isn’t an ordinary case. Two youngsters in hell,” Rollison said. “If you doubt it——”

  The front door bell rang.

  “See who it is, Jolly, will you?” asked Rollison.

  Jolly went out, and Grice and Rollison sat in silence, looking towards the door. Rollison heard Jolly walk across the hall, but he was not thinking about the caller. He wondered if there were the slightest chance that Grice would see the thing his way. It wasn’t really feasible. He was giving way to wishful thinking, and——

  He sat up abruptly, for a girl’s voice sounded outside.

  “Is Mr. Rollison in?”

  It was Barbara Allen!

  He had heard her voice often enough to recognise it, but had only once heard anything like the same note of despair— when she had uttered a single “Oh”, over the telephone.

  Jolly said: “Yes, madam, he’s in.”

  Rollison jumped to his feet

  “Bill, sit tight for a few minutes.” He reached the door and called to Jolly, who was taking the girl to the dining-room.

  She was very pale and her eyes were lack-lustre. She wore a wide-brimmed hat which covered most of her hair. Her clothes were crumpled and her shoes dusty, as if she had walked a long way. The tone of her voice reflected her expression—one of dreary helplessness. She looked at Rollison blankly. He took her arm and led her into the study.

  “I’ve a friend with me,” he said. “He knows all about it. Mr. Grice—Mrs. Allen.”

  Barbara nodded, but hardly glanced at Grice. She went to Rollison’s chair and sat down. With a weary gesture she took off her hat. There was a red ridge where it had pressed against her forehead. Some of the long hair fell out of place, and revealed the short tuft. She leaned back and closed her eyes wearily.

  Grice had risen to his feet, and stood looking at her.

  “What’s the trouble, Mrs. Allen?” asked Rollison quietly. “You needn’t be afraid to speak freely.”

  “Needn’t be—afraid,” she said. Her lips twisted, and she gave a bitter little laugh. “I’m so frightened that I don’t—I don’t know how to go on.” Then her voice quickened, she opened her eyes and looked into Rollison’s. “Can’t you do anything? Isn’t there anything anyone can do? Must we go on like this?”

  “Well get over it,” Rollison temporised.

  “Yes, but where?” A momentary fire died from her eyes. “Oh, I know you’re doing everything you can, but somehow I can’t seem to fight any more. It’s been such a long time, he’s worse than ever—you’ve seen him, haven’t you?” She hardly knew what she was saying, but Rollison was glad that Grice could see and hear her. “I’d rather an
ything happen than go on like this. I’d rather be dead.”

  It wasn’t hysteria or anything approaching it; she was just despairing.

  “You must tell me what has happened,” said Rollison. “I know you left home, because you thought you had a message from me. What happened then?”

  “I was stopped in the High Street, and two men made me get into a car,” said Barbara. “I knew who they were and I dared not shout or attract any attention. I thought I might learn something and help Bob. They took me out into the country.”

  “To a house?” Grice interpolated.

  “No, A copse. Near Uxbridge. They just told me to keep quiet. They didn’t do anything. It was—terrifying. The way they looked and talked. They talked about Bob. They didn’t tell me what he’d done, they just said that if he didn’t do what he was told to on Saturday, I wouldn’t—know him—afterwards. And they didn’t tell me what they wanted him to do, they said he’d know. They said they’d drive him mad if he refused, but—he is mad! He doesn’t know what he’s doing or saying. They’ve warped and twisted his mind and now——”

  She broke off, covered her face with her hands and began to cry.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  GRICE PROMISES

  GRICE and Rollison took Barbara back to Byngham Court Mansions. As they left Grice’s car, they saw a furtive figure slip into a nearby doorway, and Rollison recognised Dann, who was back on duty. No doubt Grice also knew that the East Ender was there, but he said nothing. He had been greatly affected by the incident at Rollison’s flat. Barbara sat in the back of the car with her eyes closed.

  She walked listlessly upstairs, and fumbled for her key in her bag. Rollison took it from her, and opened the door. The flat was in darkness.

  “Isn’t Mr. Allen in?” asked Grice.

  “He—he ought to be,” Barbara said. “But I never know what he’s going to do. One day he’ll go out and not come back, I know he will.”

  Rollison switched on the hall light.

  “I shouldn’t worry,” he said, and when she protested against the platitude with a helpless gesture, went on: “Until Saturday, there’s a good chance that you’ll be all right, and there’s also a chance that it’ll be all over.”