The Toff In Town

by John Creasey

  But Allen didn’t wake.

  Rollison pulled up his eyelids and examined his eyes; they were contracted to tiny pin-points, and he judged from them that Allen had been drugged with morphia. He felt his pulse; it was very sluggish. He did not think the youngster was in any danger, the dose was enough to make him unconscious, but was not fatal.

  He told Barbara, and added:

  “It’s probably as well; at least he won’t be worried for a few hours. Keep him warm—and then go to bed yourself. There’s absolutely no danger. If I had my way, I’d give you a shot, that would send you off to sleep.”

  “I haven’t slept—not really slept—for days,” she told him.

  One of the most expert cracksmen in the East End of London had long since retired but, because of a service which the Toff had rendered him some years ago, agreed to have a look at the flat in Lilley Mews and to open the door. He found little difficulty in climbing over the back of the garage and dropping into Lilley Mews, without being seen by the two police-constables who were unostentatiously hovering near the entrance. What was more, he discovered an, easy way over the old buildings of the mews, and several of Bill Ebbutt’s men followed him.

  The flat was entered.

  No one was there; nor was there anyone in the upstairs flat.

  It was after three o’clock when Rollison went to bed, and after eleven when he woke up. His head still ached and was tender where he touched it, but his eyes were clearer and he could move about without difficulty or pain. So he bathed, shaved and breakfasted, much as if it were a normal morning.

  After telling him that Mrs. Allen had telephoned to say that Allen had come round about nine o’clock, but was still in bed, Jolly said little. The obvious thing to do was to tell Grice, but every time Rollison thought of that, a picture of Snub hovered in his mind’s eye.

  He had no clue as to where to find Pauline Dexter, no idea where Blane, Max and the little man might be. Beyond inquiring at the Meritor Motion Picture Company’s office, there was little he could do to trace her. He telephoned a friend, who immediately assumed that his interest in Pauline was amatory, and promised to find out whether she had a cottage in the country or a pied á terre anywhere else in London. He warned him that Pauline was going about with a big South American. Rollison promised to take heed of the warning, then rang off, thinking about Merino. He had assumed that there would be nothing in the dead man’s pockets which might help, but it was possible that some fragmentary clue would be found, so he went to the garage.

  In the street he was met by two men, one young and earnest, the other middle-aged and genial. One represented the Morning

  Cry, the other a Sunday newspaper. It was a quarter of an hour before they left him, apparently convinced that there was no “copy” to be got out of him at the moment. Because of them, he went the long way round to the garage, and looked up and down the narrow road where it was situated, before unlocking the door. His heart began to thump; perhaps he was a fool to come here in broad daylight

  Even with the door open the garage was poorly lit by day, because of the backs of tall houses on the other side of the road, which hid the sun, and in any case Merino was dumped well down, out of casual sight.

  He slipped inside.

  “Going places, Mr. Rollison?” a man asked.

  Rollison stiffened, but forced himself to turn round slowly and to look at the speaker, who stood outside the garage, showing a polite smile.

  It was the middle-aged reporter of the Morning Cry.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  TRICK TO JOLLY

  ROLLISON turned his back on the car and leaned against it, maintaining his smile, and slipping his hand into his pocket for his cigarette-case. The reporter, named McMahon, was a friendly soul whom he knew well—but he was first and last a good reporter.

  Rollison held out his case, standing so that McMahon could not get too near the car.

  “Thanks,” said McMahon, who had no accent to justify his Irish name. “Well, are you?”

  “I’m always going places,” said Rollison. “You take a lot of satisfying, don’t you?”

  “I was taught to believe only half what I see and nothing that I hear,” said McMahon. “Come off it, and give me the story. And before you say there isn’t one, listen to me,” he went on. “Two or three of Bill Ebbutt’s bruisers were out all night and I heard a whisper that they’d been on a job for you. There was that explosion on the staircase yesterday. Is somebody trying to get a flat by bumping you off?”

  Rollison said: “Well, you seem to know a lot.”

  “Be yourself,” urged McMahon. “You’re not usually like this, you don’t hold out on us.” He stretched out a hand and pressed it against the corner of the M.G., and if he came a yard nearer, he would be able to see Merino. “Let’s have it, Roily. I’ll keep it off the record, if you like.”

  “Nice of you,” murmured Rollison. “Perhaps you’re right, Mac——”

  “Now you’re talking!”

  “That’s the trouble, I’m not at liberty to talk.” Rollison smoothed down his hair, wincing when he touched the bruise. “I might drop you a hint, if that’ll help.”

  “Maybe it will,” said McMahon.

  “There might be something interesting in Saturday’s show of In Town To-night.” he began, cautiously, “and——”

  “Oh, come off it,” said McMahon. He took his hand from the car and came forward, and Rollison’s heart beat faster, he found it almost impossible to keep quite steady. “In Town To-night’s a nice gossip column, but——”

  “Oh, this is special,” Rollison assured him. “It might be sensational. Among others, the police will be present—although the B.B.C. may not know it. If you know anyone who can get you in——”

  “I know Hedley,” said McMahon, and his eyes gleamed. “Okay, Roily I’ll be there—I’ll just breeze in.”

  “For the love of Mike, keep it to yourself!”

  “You bet I’ll keep it to myself—one reporter’s quite enough if anything’s going to happen there! Got any background stuff, so that I can write it up beforehand? I’d like to catch the Sunday Cry—don’t forget we’ve got a Sunday paper, will you?”

  “I won’t forget, but I can’t give you any background,” said Rollison. “Aren’t you ever satisfied?”

  “No, never,” said McMahon, “but thanks. Nice car you’ve got here,” he added, and looked deliberately into the back through the rear window.

  Rollison stood waiting for the outburst, screwed up to a pitch of icy tension.

  “Very nice,” said McMahon. “Which way are you going? If it’s Fleet Street, you might give me a lift——”

  Rollison gulped. “I came to get some papers out of the car,” he said, and for the first time ventured to look into the back.

  If Merino’s body were invisible from the rear window, he might yet get away with it; it was quite possible that the corpse had sagged down during the night

  He couldn’t see the body.

  The body wasn’t there.

  Jolly looked up as Rollison entered the flat and remarked that he hadn’t been gone long. Rollison gravely agreed and went into the study, calling: “Jolly!” in a loud voice, as he reached his desk. When he turned round Jolly stood respectfully in the middle of the room, his brown, doleful eyes showing no expression.

  “The body isn’t there any more,” announced Rollison slowly.

  “I’m afraid I must accept full responsibility for that, sir,” said Jolly. “After you had dropped off to sleep, I couldn’t rest for thinking about it, and I put the situation to Ebbutt, over the telephone. He immediately agreed to take the necessary steps. I understand that the corpse now reposes in a box in the cellar of a disused warehouse.”

  “Oh,” said Rollison heavily. “Trick to Jolly. You gave me the worst five minutes and the best split second I’ve had for a long time, and I freely forgive you.”

  “Thank you, sir. And I have cleaned the back of the car and
made sure that it can be used,” said Jolly, “There is no fear of any fingerprints being found. Unfortunately there was nothing in Merino’s pockets which would help us. But at least we have to-day in which to work without undue anxiety here. If only we had some indication of where Mr. Higginbottom might be, we could feel so much easier in our minds. I suppose you will find out what alteration was wanted in Mr. Allen’s script as soon as you can, sir?”

  “Yes,” said Rollison. “I——”

  The telephone bell rang.

  He broke off and motioned to the instrument, and Jolly lifted the receiver, saying as if it were a refrain: “This is the Hon. Richard Rollison’s residence.” He had hardly finished before he lowered the receiver from his ear, and stared in astonishment at Rollison.

  “It’s her!” he exclaimed.

  “Pauline!” cried Rollison.

  He should have expected a call, should have known that her daring outclassed even Merino’s. She would be as calm as she had been at the flat, and he must match it

  He took the receiver and said:

  “Good-morning, Miss Dexter.”

  “I’m so glad we’re on friendly terms,” said Pauline, gaily. “I heard you call my name out when Jolly told you I was on the line. How is your poor head this morning?”

  “Rather battered,” confessed Rollison.

  “I hope it’s not so painful, you looked terrible last night,” said Pauline. “I knew you’d feel like murder when you reached home, that’s why I left the flat—and I shall stay away for a few days. I rang up to remind you that you must persuade Bob Allen to do what I’ve told him.”

  “Not easily,” said Rollison. The way she had brought in the word “murder” was clever—she used the same method of oblique approach as with her threats.

  “That’s good,” she said warmly. “And please don’t try to find me, you won’t succeed, I’ve been so careful about everything. You found that package in your car, I expect?”

  “Package?” echoed Rollison.

  “Yes, in the back.”

  “I found nothing worth looking at,” said Rollison. For the first time, his spirits rose. Pauline should have let well alone, and not given him a chance to confuse and puzzle her. This was the first mistake she had made, and had slipped into it so unwarily. There was certainly nothing in it this morning; the car’s been thoroughly cleaned and the upholstery vacuumed. What was in the package?” Rollison sounded genuinely curious.

  Pauline did not answer.

  “You may as well tell me,” went on Rollison, earnestly. There isn’t much you’ve kept back from me. By the way, how is Mr. Merino this morning?”

  “What a beautiful liar you are,” said Pauline.

  “My dear Miss Dexter,” Rollison said reproachfully, “I don’t understand you. I thought we’d sworn not to deceive each other. Let me go over the details again. I’m to persuade Allen to incorporate certain alterations in his B.B.C. script, so that your message can go out to your friends. That’s it, isn’t it?”

  “I said nothing about a message.” Her voice was sharp.

  “But you talk so obscurely that I have to read between the lines,” protested Rollison. “And if the message doesn’t go out as you’ve instructed, one of your thugs will be on duty in the studio to take aggressive action. Very thorough, Miss Dexter.

  Shall I see you there?”

  “You will not!”

  “Oh, what a pity,” said Rollison. “Because I think we ought to meet again before long—in fact before to-morrow night. I’m not at all sure that I’m doing the right thing by taking your instructions, but you may be able to convince me if we have a little chat. How about Blott’s, at twelve-forty-five? I won’t leave you in the lurch this time, and the waiter won’t spill your soup.”

  “Obviously you’re feeling very much better,” said Pauline. I hope that doesn’t mean that the police have been consulted. If they show up, you won’t see Higginbottom again.”

  He had so shaken her composure that she came out with a direct threat!

  “No police—I always prefer working without them,” said Rollison firmly. “If I were to tell them about you, my pet, I wouldn’t be able to wring your neck myself. I’m looking forward to doing that later, but I’ll do nothing violent at Blott’s:

  Her voice lost all trace of its silvery note, became coarse, ugly.

  “I’ve warned you what will happen if Allen doesn’t alter that script.”

  She was badly shaken, she had been living on her nerves, a tiny crack in her armour had quickly grown larger, perhaps large enough to destroy her defences.

  “But he isn’t even going to broadcast,” he said gently.

  “What!”

  “I’ve been thinking about it, and I’ve just decided that it will be much better for him to stay at home to-morrow night,” Rollison said. “Pity in some ways; I think he would sound well over the air, don’t you? But it just won’t do, we can’t use the B.B.C. for such dark deeds as yours. And you’ve slipped away into the country, after giving him a dose of morphia, so I’ll give him another dose and take him away for a day or two. You’ve got Snub, I’ve got Bob Allen, and that about makes us equal. Good-bye, my pet!”

  “Rollison!”

  “What, are you still there?” asked Rollison, sweetly.

  “Rollison, if you stop Allen from broadcasting, you——”

  “Sorry, my love, but there’s no drawing back. Good-bye!”

  “Rollison!”

  He rang off.

  Jolly stared at him with glowing eyes.

  “And that was a nice instalment of reward,” said Rollison. “Jolly, telephone Ebbutt and tell him that I want to hide Allen away for a day or two. He must be able to collect him at short notice. I’ll go and get Allen, and take him straight to the gymnasium. “Right?”

  “Very good, sir!”

  Rollison hurried across the hall and downstairs, gladly enduring his aches and pains. The morning was much brighter, almost another day. He was angry with himself for not having thought of this before; it was so obviously the right thing, the only thing. Pauline desperately wanted Allen to broadcast. If anything could lure her out of hiding, making him vanish would do it.

  He turned right, towards the garage, but before he had gone two steps a cheerful Cockney voice sounded.

  “Want me s’morning?” demanded Perky Lowe.

  Rollison swung round.

  “You’re just the man,” he said. “Byngham Court Mansions, in a hurry!”

  He was hardly inside the cab before it started off. He watched the passing traffic and the passing people with a benevolent eye, and now and again burst into a chuckle. He pondered over the new move, trying to see any way in which it would work to his disadvantage and perhaps put Snub in more danger; none presented itself. From the beginning, Merino and Pauline had been determined to make Allen do exactly what they wanted, and—he was necessary to their plot, necessary because of the proposed broadcast. Spiriting Allen away was the perfect answer to the threat to Snub.

  A plain-clothes detective was in the street near Byngham Court Mansions, and undoubtedly he noticed who climbed out of the taxi which Perky pulled up close to the front door. Rollison hurried upstairs. When he reached the top, his head began to ache more painfully, but he was still in high feather. Sam was on the landing, and greeted him cheerfully.

  Rollison rang the bell, and this time Barbara was no longer answering it. She looked surprised to see him, and her eyes were swollen, as if she had been crying.

  “Well, how’s the invalid?” asked Rollison cheerfully.

  “He’s—a bit better.”

  “He’s still here?”

  “Yes—yes, of course,” said Barbara. “He’s getting up now.”

  “And in a bad mood, is he?” asked Rollison gently. “I shouldn’t be too worried this morning. Tempers get frayed after you’ve been drugged.”

  “He seems to have gone right back,” said Barbara. “There are moments when I almost
——”

  She broke off abruptly.

  Rollison said: “What was this morning’s trouble about? Any particular thing?”

  “Well, yes—but that was the excuse, not the reason,” said Barbara. “He’s lost a piece of paper, on which there were some notes. I destroyed them by accident, and—oh, but it doesn’t matter !”

  She turned away.

  “Don’t let it get you down,” Rollison said quickly. “I’ve an idea which will help, I think, and—we’ll see it all through.”

  Barbara didn’t answer.

  Rollison called out: “Allen! Are you up?”

  Allen called a surly answer from the big bedroom.

  He was dressed, but hadn’t shaved. He stood by the window, with smoke curling from a cigarette which drooped from the corner of his mouth. His eyes were lack-lustre, and he showed all the symptoms that might be expected in a man who had been given a dose of morphia.

  “Now what do you want?” he demanded.

  Rollison said: “About this broadcast—Pauline Dexter wants you to make an alteration or two, doesn’t she?”

  “I don’t see that it’s any of your business,” growled Allen. “In fact I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. Things aren’t any better, they’re worse than they were when you joined in. I was right when I told you to take your nose out of my affairs.”

  “That’s a bit hard,” said Rollison mildly.

  “Maybe it is, but now you know,” Allen put a trembling hand to his lips, to take the cigarette out “I’m tired of it all !” he went on unsteadily. “I’ve fought as much as I can, but I’m not going to fight any more. Pauline wants to have a say in the script—okay, she can have it. That’s final. And when I’ve broadcast on Saturday night, it’ll all be over—thank God, it will all be over!”

  He turned away from Rollison.

  Barbara in the doorway, looked from Rollison to her husband, but did not move.

  Rollison looked at Allen’s set profile and squared shoulders

  —and the three of them stayed like that for a long time. All was quiet in the room. In the street, traffic passed noisily; a boy walked, whistling shrilly, along the pavement.