The Toff In Town

by John Creasey

  “Oh, how priceless! Why, it would almost be a relief to him to die, wouldn’t it, with a name like that?”

  Then she lit her cigarette, and let smoke trickle from her lovely lips.

  Her manner hadn’t changed; she was almost frivolous, like a young girl let loose in adult society for the first time. And she was provocatively attractive, but for the first time since he had come round, Rollison felt real alarm.

  “You do understand, don’t you?” she cooed.

  “Yes,” said Rollison. “Fully.”

  “And you will persuade Allen?”

  Rollison said quietly: “Yes, I will.”

  Her eyes shone. She jumped up and clapped her hands.

  “I knew you’d be sensible! I could tell it from the moment I first met you—Merino would have been much wiser to let me see you before he did, instead of playing that foolish trick with the nitro-glycerine. It was a risk anyhow, because there was no knowing who would be the one to stumble over it. It might have been Jolly, and although he wouldn’t have been much loss to anyone, I expect you would have been angry—even angrier than you were. So that’s settled.”

  “That’s settled,” said Rollison, heavily.

  “I’m so glad!” He thought it wouldn’t take much to make her pat him approvingly on the head. “Of course, you’ll have to play fair,” she went on. “You see, a friend of mine will be in the studio—it’s so easy to get people into that particular studio—and he’ll be listening. If Bob Allen should say the wrong thing, or anything foolish—well, then there would be an unexpected sound over the air. A shot. I wonder if a real murder has ever been broadcast?”

  “And whom would your friend murder?” asked Rollison.

  “Well, Allen perhaps—or you.” Pauline laughed. “I know you could tell the police or warn the officials, and try to keep suspicious persons away on Saturday night, but that won’t help you. You see, unless Bob broadcasts exactly as we want him to, you won’t see that delicious Higginbottom again. It must be vexing for you to be trapped like this, but I think you’ll be wise and not fight against it. A sensible man always knows when he’s beaten.”

  “Yes, doesn’t he?” asked Rollison. “Where is Merino?”

  “He’s gone into the country for a day or two, just in case there should be any trouble over the explosion,” said Pauline. “You haven’t told the police about that, have you?”

  “No,” lied Rollison, without a qualm.

  “I felt sure you wouldn’t. You’ve something in common with Merino,” she went on musingly, “you’re so fond of your own way.”

  “And where is Allen?” asked Rollison, interrupting.

  “Oh, back at Byngham Court Mansions by now,” answered Pauline. “He didn’t stay long. I told him what was wanted and gave him a copy of the new script—it’s not altered very much really—and told him he’d have to do it, or he’d know what to expect. I will say this for him, he’s not a coward, we haven’t been able to frighten him into submission. And I sent him away quickly because one of those pug-nosed men you’ve employed followed him, and I wanted to get the man away before you arrived. As soon as he’d gone, Higginbottom was dealt with. We’re efficient aren’t we?”

  “No doubt about that,” said Rollison. “Is there any more coffee?”

  “Of course !” She took his cup, filled it and brought it back. “I’ve given you a dash of milk this time, and not quite so much sugar. You’re looking rather better. I suppose it’s because you’ve a load off your mind now you’ve decided to take the sensible course.”

  “Oh, do you?” said Rollison. “Supposing I were to get up and tie you in a chair, telephone the police and tell them all about this—what would you do?”

  “I’d keep saying “Higginbottom”,” she declared and giggled. “Or else “Snub”. Don’t be awkward, will you?”

  “Are we alone here?” asked Rollison.

  “Oh no,” she said, “I didn’t take a big risk like that—one can’t always be sure that a gamble will come off—and you’ve such a reputation as a lady-killer!” She turned away swiftly and pressed a bell-push near the door. Almost at once there was a sharp tap. She called: “Come in,” and a short, stockily-built man appeared, wearing a handkerchief over the lower half of his face. And just behind him stood a still shorter man, also wearing a handkerchief mask.

  “All right,” she said. “I just wanted to convince Mr. Rollison that I was telling the truth.”

  The taller of the two promptly closed the door.

  “And with a head like yours, you can’t be feeling much like fighting, can you?” condoled Pauline. “I wonder if you can drive yourself home?”

  “I can get a taxi,” said Rollison.

  “You may as well drive if you can, your car’s in number 5,” said Pauline casually. “We sent Hig—Snub off in the one he’d hired. He told us about that, he wasn’t feeling very brave and I don’t suppose he thought that would do any harm. Then we brought yours round here. Oh, you’ll want the key of your garage.” She took a key from a pocket in her dressing-gown and handed it to him. “We took it from Snub,” she told him. “I like that year’s M.G., don’t you? The acceleration is good and the springing first-class. Can you get up?”

  She stretched out a hand to help him.

  “I can manage,” said Rollison.

  He did not trust himself to say much. The girl’s composure, the way in which she hammered every nail right home, was quite remarkably devilish. And yet, as she stood back and watched him with rounded eyes, she looked innocent, beautiful and delightful.

  He stood upright; and his head did not ache so much.

  “Why, you’re almost yourself, you’ll be able to drive without any trouble,” she said encouragingly. “I’ll get Max to take you over to the lock-up—unless there’s anything else you’d like to say?”

  “There’s plenty I’d like to say, but it had better keep for another day.”

  “Any day but Saturday.” Pauline went to the door and pressed the bell again. “Don’t try any tricks Mr. Rollison, will you? I really like your Higginbottom, and I could easily get fond of you. I don’t think very much of the Aliens, but that’s beside the point.”

  There was a tap on the door.

  “Good-night,” said Pauline. “Come in, Max.”

  The smaller of the two men appeared; and Rollison had no doubt that it was the “boy” who had been with the “gasman” when this affair had first broken out into violence. Max showed a glimpse of an automatic, then put it into his pocket, holding it all the time. He opened the front door and a cool blast of air swept in.

  Good-night!” called Pauline sweetly.

  Rollison didn’t answer.

  Max led the way across the dark mews to number 5 and opened the door. He switched on a light which cast a glow enough for Rollison to see about the garage. He went between the wall and the car—it was Rollison’s M.G.—and opened the driving door. Then, keeping his distance, and obviously pre-pared for Rollison to strike back, he watched while Rollison squeezed himself in and took the wheel. Rollison gave Max a sickly grin, pulled the starter and put the gear into reverse.

  “Good-night!” called Pauline sweetly.

  Rollison backed into the mews without mishap, although normally he would not have taken the wheel while feeling as he did now. He glanced round at Max, who stood by the open door, then drove off.

  There was nothing unnusual about the streets of the West End. Occasionally a policeman plodded past, taxis and private cars moved about, there were a few pedestrians but not many in these side-streets. It was a bright night and cooler than it had been by day. Rollison found driving less nerve-wracking than he had expected; he could spare time to think. He wondered whether he had been right to come away—but he had been in no shape to plan and think, certainly not to take aggressive action.

  He reached the garage at the back of Gresham Terrace, pulled up close to the closed doors, opened them and switched on the light; this was bright, an
d showed the neatly kept garage, two spare tyres, tins of oil and a few tools. He went back to the car and drove it in, pleased with himself because he judged it to a nicety, stopping an inch from the end wall, and then angry because he could dwell on such trivialities. He got out again, slammed the door and wished he hadn’t because it sent a stab of pain through his head, and then turned to leave.

  He stopped abruptly; there was something in the back of the car—something he hadn’t seen before.

  A hand lay on the back seat!

  Someone was huddled on the floor of the car. Was it—was it Snub? Had that damned woman

  He peered inside.

  He saw a pale face and a black beard and a small hole in the middle of the man’s forehead.

  This was Merino I

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CORPSE

  EVERYTHING changed . . .

  Rollison stared down at the dead man, hardly realising then that he had driven through the streets with a corpse in the back of the car, without even a rug thrown over it. He saw, not Merino, but Grice. Murder—and one could not play with the police when murder had been committed.

  Everything he had planned, the half-formed idea with which he had been toying, all faded.

  He straightened up, unaware of pain.

  The light shone on Merino’s closed eyes.

  Rollison moved slowly away from the car; he had not touched the corpse. The little bullet wound was a familiar enough sight to him; and the dark ridge round the edges, the trickle of blood; he had been presented with the corpse of the man whom he had thought responsible for all that was happening.

  Grice’s picture faded . . .

  Pauline Dexter’s replaced it, looking as she had when sitting in front of him, innocent-eyed, her brow puckered, her voice so light and silvery.

  Rollison shivered.

  Then, throwing off the tension which had fallen on him, he went forward again, opened the rear door and stood looking at Merino, who was squashed into the back of the car, one hand lying on his stomach, the other on the seat. He stretched out his hand and touched Merino’s; the flesh was warm, practically normal heat. The blood, glistening, looked as if it had just trickled out

  Merino had been dead half an hour, perhaps, possibly an hour, certainly no more.

  Rollison closed the door.

  It would be pointless to go through the man’s pockets; anything which might help him or the police would have been removed. He did not doubt why this thing had been done; “They” were determined to prove they were capable of murder, and it would make him understand Snub’s danger still more clearly. Everything fell into place, except

  Had the girl done this?

  Or Max?

  Was the girl or Max the real ring-leader of this series of crimes?

  Had they fallen out with Merino, because of what had happened that afternoon?

  He went out of the garage and closed the doors, locked up and walked through the empty street with a chill wind blowing into his face. He walked slowly up the stairs at Gresham Terrace, and was relieved to see a light under the door. Only then did it occur to him to wonder what the time was; not very late, or there wouldn’t have been so much traffic about. He fumbled for his keys, but before he could find them, the door opened.

  “I’m glad to see you back, sir,” said Jolly quietly.

  “Yes,” said Rollison. “Thanks.”

  When they were in the hall and Rollison was plainly visible, Jolly began to speak—then closed his mouth and hurried ahead, to open the study door.

  “What can I get you, sir?” he asked.

  “Aspirins,” said Rollison.

  “Some coffee——”

  “Just aspirins.” Rollison went to his arm-chair and sat down. Jolly returned with three aspirins and a glass of water. Rollison swallowed the tablets, sipped, said “thanks” and then groped for his cigarette-case. Jolly took it from his hand and lit a cigarette for him.

  “No one lets me light my own these days,” said Rollison.

  •Indeed, sir?”

  “But I’m not blaming you,” said Rollison. “Jolly.”

  “Sir?”

  “I’ve just driven through the streets of London with the corpse of Merino in the back of the car.”

  Jolly backed a pace, and looked appalled. But in a moment his mask fell back into place. It was some time before he spoke, and throughout the long silence he stared into Rollison’s glassy, bloodshot eyes.

  Then he said: “Where is the corpse now, sir?”

  “Still in the car—in the garage.”

  “Isn’t that a little unwise?” asked Jolly.

  Rollison’s lips puckered into a smile.

  “Sometime or other Barbara Allen told me that I was like a breath of fresh air,” he remarked. “You are obviously of the same breath, Jolly. Yes, it’s damned silly, but it took me rather by surprise. You see, I didn’t know it was there when I started out.”

  “I see, sir,” said Jolly. “You didn’t, then, shoot Mr. Merino?”

  “No, Jolly. I’m sorry.”

  “I think perhaps it’s as well, sir. I feel sure that had you done so, Mr. Grice would have felt that you were taking too much on yourself. The—er—body was planted on you, then.”

  He broke off, and this time could not keep back his exclamation of surprise.

  “But—but you didn’t take the car, sir!”

  “No Black Magic; it was borrowed for the occasion,” Rollison said. “Jolly, we’ve much too much on our plate, and I’ve some really bad news. We could shed the body——”

  “I was going to suggest, sir, that I should take the car and endeavour to do some such thing,” said Jolly. “I feel sure that in the circumstances, it would be better if it were not generally known that we were concealing a corpse. I—did you say you had worse news, sir?” He looked appalled.

  They’ve taken Snub,” announced Rollison.

  Only then did he realise fully the regard which Jolly had for Snub Higginbottom. Jolly’s eyes half-closed, he raised his hands in a helpless gesture of dismay. Without asking if he might, he went to a chair and sat down heavily.

  “Get yourself a drink,” said Rollison. “I’ll try one now, too.”

  “Very good, sir.” Jolly went to the cabinet and poured out whiskies-and-soda, one weak, one strong. The weak one he gave to Rollison. He sat down again at a word from Rollison, and sipped.

  “You—you’ve no idea where Snub is, sir?”

  “Not the foggiest,” Rollison told him. “No easy way out of this, Jolly. I’ve been given an ultimatum, too. Er—what’s the time?”

  “A little after twelve-thirty,” said Jolly. “I was getting worried, and would shortly have telephoned Ebbutt, in the hope that he knew something of your most recent movements. Snub— Snub did telephone though, it was his voice, I’m quite sure.”

  “Oh yes No blame on Snub or you. They let him send for me and then shanghaied him. And they weren’t exactly gentle with me. A man named Max . . .”

  Jolly listened to the ensuing recital without making any comment; and Rollison told it at some length, because that helped him to fix the details in his mind. He did not even hurry over the interview with Pauline Dexter, because he wanted to picture her, with that curious blend of naivete and blaseness, wanted to remember the inflection of her voice when she had “threatened”.

  “And the question now is, what to do,” he said finally. “I’m empty of ideas, Jolly.”

  Jolly, looking a better colour, stood up.

  “We must do something about that corpse,” he said worriedly. “In most circumstances I would say that Mr. Grice should he consulted, but——”

  “This being murder, he couldn’t hold his hand,” said Rollison. “He would immediately see Pauline and her staff, and might detain them. But Pauline was so very sure of herself. She must have other friends who are looking after Snub. She’s relying on the danger to Snub forcing me to keep silent. And she isn’t far wrong. There isn’t
much we can do, Jolly. Grice will have Lilley Mews watched by now; we can’t take Bill’s boys along and raid the place. Even you’d like to use them for this, wouldn’t you?”

  “I would, sir,” said Jolly. “You—ah—might make a further attempt to persuade Mr. Allen to talk. If you know what is behind all this, you will have a much stronger hand.”

  “Oh, I’ll have another go at Allen,” said Rollison.

  “On the other hand,” said Jolly, “I really don’t think you are well enough to see Mr. Allen to-night. I don’t like advising it, but the best immediate course is for you to have some rest. Your head looks very nasty, sir.”

  “Oh,” said Rollison.

  “I hope you will agree,” said Jolly. “Meanwhile, there is the question of the disposal of the body.”

  “That must stay where it is,” decided Rollison, “we can’t cart a corpse about London. Jolly, bad head or no bad head, I must tackle Allen to-night. Get me a cab. And if this doesn’t work, I’ll get Ebbutt’s boys to tackle Lilley Mews, police or no police. I mean it,” he added, getting up with an effort.

  Jolly was about to protest but changed his mind.

  Barbara Allen opened the front door of the Byngham Court Mansions flat so quickly after Rollison’s ring that he knew she hadn’t been asleep. In fact she was fully dressed although she looked tired out. A gleam of hope sprang to her eyes when she first saw him, but he shook his head.

  “Nothing new, Mrs. Allen, but I want a word with your husband.”

  “Oh, please don’t wake him up,” she begged. “He’s dropped off to sleep, and——”

  “I must have a word with him,” insisted Rollison. “I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t essential.”

  She gave in.

  “I suppose you must if you must. He’s in the spare room he went straight in there when he came in. He hardly said a word, and wouldn’t have anything to eat.”

  She led the way to a tiny room, where there was a single bed, a small table and a corner cupboard. Allen lay under the sheet, wearing his singlet and trunks. He breathed evenly, and when Rollison called his name, did not stir. Barbara looked tense when Rollison shook Allen’s shoulder vigorously.