Accuse the Toff

by John Creasey

  Ibbetson’s messenger was not likely to take the case, say ‘Thanks’ and then hurry off. There was at least a chance that the case would have to be opened in his presence and Rollison was pondering how to evade the difficulties that such a possibility engendered when the taxi drew up outside his flat.

  He climbed out, paid the driver and looked about him.

  Two or three people were in sight but they approached and passed, showing no interest in him or in the case; the paper wrapping remained in the cab. His exhilaration fading, Rollison glanced at his watch and also heard a clock striking twelve; he was there to the moment and no one could complain about that.

  Then he saw Ibbetson.

  He was astonished that the man dared to come in person but there was no possibility of a mistake. The plump man wore the same suit of light grey and hurried along with short steps, eyeing the Toff and the case in his hand. Some degree of bargaining was called for, of course, and Rollison kept a firm hold on the case, tucking it under his arm as the other pulled up in front of him.

  ‘Got it?’ demanded Ibbetson abruptly.

  ‘Haven’t you eyes?’ demanded the Toff and took the case from beneath his arm. Ibbetson’s hand moved to take it but he kept it firmly and said: ‘It’s not going to be quite as easy as that. This is a bargain and there are two sides to it. What are you offering?’

  ‘Now, listen to me,’ said Ibbetson and his queer light eyes were round and hard. ‘Mike’s at the other end of the street and if there’s any funny business he’ll use a gun. I didn’t take this chance without being prepared, Mr. Ruddy Rollison. I know you think you’re smart but you can’t outsmart me. You haven’t got any dicks in sight, none has come into the street in the past two hours. I made sure o’ that. So hand if over.’

  Involuntarily, Rollison glanced over his shoulder.

  Ibbetson was not lying; at the far end of the street, thirty yards away and within easy shooting distance, “Mike” was standing idly with his right hand in his pocket. On the opposite corner stood Charley, probably fondling his knife. Ibbetson was confident that he could handle the situation capably, relied on his aides and was sure that the show of force would silence any argument Rollison wanted to make. The calm effrontery of the man was disturbing but, as far as Rollison was concerned, this was what was wanted. Ibbetson could have the case and then the chase would start in earnest.

  ‘Look here—’ he began, putting up a show of argument for the sake of it.

  ‘Gimme,’ said Ibbetson. ‘I’ve allowed you three minutes—they’re nearly up.’

  As he spoke a car turned into the other end of Gresham Street. It was a small two-seater with the hood down and, although Rollison saw it, it did not register on his mind. Ibbetson’s expression was clearly calculated to intimidate him and there was no purpose in refusing to be intimidated. He held the case forward and Ibbetson’s fingers gripped it. Both of them held it for a moment, Rollison pretending reluctance to let it go. Ibbetson strengthened his hold, tugged it away and then half-turned.

  As he did so the car pulled up alongside them.

  A large, heavily-built and florid-faced man was at the wheel, with dark hair and dark, jutting eyebrows. Rollison caught a glimpse of him and heard a little squeal of brakes. Then the driver leaned over the side of the car, stretching out a long arm and a hairy hand. He took the case from Ibbetson quickly and without a fuss, tossed it over his shoulder into the back of the car and trod on the accelerator. The small car roared forward; the whole thing happened so swiftly that Rollison had little time for thinking; but as he saw the car move past and heard the oath on Ibbetson’s lips, Rollison flung himself to the ground, anticipating shooting.

  “Mike” used the gun at once, firing from his pocket but his first shots were directed towards the car, not the Toff.

  Chapter Ten

  Some Hope Of Salvage

  Ibbetson was swearing deep in his throat when he began to run in the wake of the car. Rollison rolled closer to the house which was denuded of iron railings but with a small ridge of stone work where they had been embedded before the war time drive for scrap iron. He was thinking only of the man who had so neatly lifted the case and the possibility of being used as a target but, as he heard a bullet strike the wing of the small car without stopping it, he rose to his feet and backed into the porch of the house.

  He took out his service revolver while, on the other side of the road, a woman with a perambulator began to run, tight-lipped, in the opposite direction.

  From an open window a man said clearly: ‘What the devil!’

  Rollison saw Ibbetson tearing along on his short, stubby legs, Mike firing towards the car and the driver nearing the comer as if impervious to danger or at least ignoring it; the back of his head seemed a black mat of hair. He slowed down a little as he reached the comer and swung round on two wheels. He went so near the opposite comer that Mike leapt away and his next shot was spoiled. The engine snorted, the exhaust gave out a cloud of dark blue smoke and the thief disappeared from sight.

  No one appeared interested in Rollison.

  Grice would condemn him for not shooting to wound Ibbetson or the other gunman but he saw no point in that then; he preferred to let the men escape unless they were caught by policemen on beat duty or by passers-by. His immediate fear was that, in their anxiety to get away, Ibbetson and Mike might start another orgy of shooting like that in Chiswick.

  Rollison left the cover of the porch and hurried after Ibbetson who had reached the comer and swung round it, his coat-tails flying behind him. From the end of the street there came the snort of another engine and a taxi passed. Mike was on the running-board, opening the door. Ibbetson jumped in and fell into the back. Dexterously Mike following him inside and then the taxi gained speed and went on, presumably in the wake of the two-seater.

  At the corner, Rollison was in time to see the taxi disappearing into Piccadilly; there was no sign of the smaller car.

  Rollison re-holstered his revolver, turned and strolled back towards the flat. The terrace was crowded with people who had rushed from the houses and passers-by who had gathered as if by magic from nearby streets.

  A neighbour who knew Rollison, and much of what he did, snapped at him harshly: ‘I wish to heaven you’d move, you’re always making trouble!’

  ‘Not I,’ returned Rollison placidly. ‘Others make the trouble, I try to stop it.’

  ‘Pah!’ exclaimed the neighbour, a tall, long-moustached man who affected high-winged collars and long cigars. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Someone shot at someone,’ said Rollison vaguely. ‘Dangerous things, firearms, they ought to be banned.’ He raised a hand in amiable salutation and walked to the house, going up the stairs slowly and thoughtfully.

  No one was on the landing.

  There were scratches on the lock of the front door but probably they had been made when the thieves had first forced entry and there was nothing to be judged from them. He opened the door quietly, pushed it open and stood aside. There was no sound, no hint of movement. Revolver in hand again, he entered the foyer and stood listening. The silence was complete, no rustle of movement reached him. He frowned at the sight of the ruined furniture and general chaos but ignored that long enough to look into every room, examining it closely: the flat was empty, Ibbetson had set no further trap.

  ‘Or,’ decided Rollison, ‘no obvious one. That man is getting me worried; he’ll start using infernal machines before he’s finished.’

  Nevertheless he felt reasonably secure, although very rueful after his further survey of the damage. No bed was fit to sleep on, hardly a chair offered any comfort. He was reluctant to move to a hotel for the night but was contemplating the possibility as he moved to the telephone. He called Harridges and was soon talking to a quiet-voiced man in the Furniture Salon. He put the position fairly: if he, the man at Har
ridges, was called upon to furnish a five-roomed flat at short notice with reasonably good furniture, could he do it?

  ‘It is possible, sir,’ said ‘Harridges’ softly, ‘but it would be expensive. Our range of goods—’

  ‘Just for once, never mind expense,’ said Rollison recklessly.

  The gentle voice grew warmer and enthusiastic. The goods were there, ready for inspection at any time. Rollison corrected him promptly: he did not want an inspection of the furniture but delivery that afternoon, plus the services of several men and an empty van to remove some damaged goods before the new furniture was delivered. The soft voice thought that perhaps he had best come to see the flat to better estimate the requirements. Delivery that afternoon was asking rather a lot but in a case of real necessity—

  ‘If you must come, come at once,’ implored Rollison.

  The soft voice declared that it would and took the address.

  Rollison had not closed the door of the flat while telephoning and had been aware of footsteps approaching and a shadow on the threshold. There was nothing menacing about the approach or the shadow and, when he replaced the receiver and turned, he saw Grice standing with his hands in his pockets regarding the disorder. On the Superintendent’s ascetic face there was an expression not so much of stupefaction as of incredulity, as if Grice were looking at something which could not be.

  ‘Hallo,’ said Rollison cheerfully. ‘Gaze upon the result of the visit from four human tornadoes. It was quite a breeze, wasn’t it? All this for the little black case which proves that they needed it badly.’

  ‘I’ve never—’ began Grice, seeking a suitable adjective, and then threw his hands towards the ceiling. ‘I’ve never seen its equal in my life! Was this all done this morning?’

  ‘Some of it under my own eyes,’ admitted Rollison mournfully. ‘There were some cherished pieces, too, but nothing that really mattered is beyond repair. A furniture man is coming to put me to rights shortly and you’ll be able to convince him of my bona fides. Have a drink?’

  ‘No thanks,’ said Grice, still looking dazed.

  ‘And you can’t even find the spirit to ask me what happened at zero hour,’ said Rollison, in a rare good humour. ‘I’ll volunteer a statement that’ll give you time to gape and gloat. I came here with the dummy case. Ibbetson met me outside and after a short argument I handed it over. Then on to the scene pounced another human cyclone, complete with an MG two-seater. He grabbed the case and careered off and, after some fireworks, Ibbetson and the others followed him in a cab which probably doesn’t ply for hire in the approved fashion. We do see life, don’t we?’

  Grice pulled himself together.

  ‘I had a word with a constable outside and gathered what had happened. Did Ibbetson say anything else?’

  ‘Except to threaten me with extermination if I didn’t hand over, no,’ said Rollison. ‘He had his preparations well in hand but he was nervy and wanted to get the case and be off. Whether he had a surprise packet waiting for me I don’t know but the intruder took the limelight and I just watched and waited—after taking due precautions, of course.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have stopped them?’ demanded Grice. ‘Or even one of them?’

  ‘Probably,’ admitted Rollison. ‘Ibbetson runs like a duck; he was very nearly a sitting bird.’

  ‘Then why the devil—’

  ‘Grice, Grice!’ remonstrated Rollison. ‘When I first knew you anything approaching strong language was verboten, you were nothing like a policeman at all. Now you’re almost running true to type. Of course I didn’t stop them or try to. We don’t want them stopped yet; we want to find out what it’s all about and you won’t do that by cross-examining Ibbetson or his brood. Let’s be reasonable about this show, if nothing else. Are you sure you won’t have that drink? I know you’re the most abstemious man at the Yard but in the circumstances—’

  ‘I’ll have a lime juice, if you’ve got one,’ said Grice, smoothing his hair. His taut skin, with its odd, transparent look, was slightly flushed and his movements towards what was left of an easy chair were quick and mechanical. ‘I’m trying to believe all this, you know.’

  Rollison mixed a lime juice and soda then poured a lager for himself. The fire was burning well and the windows were closed against the cold. They sat on hardwood chairs and Rollison eyed the other whimsically.

  ‘You aren’t trying to believe this, you’re trying to convince yourself that 1 know a lot more than I’ve admitted. I don’t. I’ve heard funny stories but that’s not evidence and I’ve introduced you to the new Ibbetson, the real Ibbetson. You’ll try to trace him, of course; you have to do that but I think he’ll be well enough under cover to dodge you for a while.’

  ‘Don’t sound so pleased about it,’ grunted Grice.

  ‘I am pleased about it,’ said Rollison blandly. ‘If you arrest Ibbetson now we may never get right to the bottom of it and you know that as well as I do. But as an officer of Scotland Yard, with presumptive evidence of Ibbetson’s waywardness, you have to look for him. I suppose,’ he added hopefully.

  Grice regarded him without favour.

  ‘Why are you so anxious that we shouldn’t get any of them?’

  ‘I’m not. I just want the day for the darbies delayed,’ Rollison assured him. ‘You remember my beautiful allegory about the bud and the flower? The midday sun has brought a swelling of the bud but the bloom isn’t out yet. Still, you’re the policeman. Of course, the only evidence you have against Ibbetson is what I’ve told you and hearsay doesn’t really amount to evidence.’

  ‘I’ve a clear-sighted policeman who saw him running after the car,’ said Grice heavily.

  ‘But not shooting or otherwise misbehaving. As far as the policeman is concerned Ibbetson, whom he wouldn’t know by name anyhow, was the victim. Hang it, no one can blame a man for chasing after another who had snatched a valuable Moroccan case from his hands. But that’s up to you,’ continued Rollison. ‘I’ve made it pretty evident now that I think Ibbetson would be better on a long leash than in Cannon Row. As for why—well, who employs Ibbetson? That has its place in the scheme of things.’

  ‘Ibbetson would probably talk if there is an employer, which is purely guesswork on your part,’ opined Grice. ‘Isn’t it?’ he added sharply.

  ‘Not guesswork, no. Deduction, or whatever word you like to use. The Ibbetsons of the world don’t work for themselves; they organise, they plan, they execute but they don’t get the major part of the rake-off or they wouldn’t go about London as the OC of a pernicious little mob. Besides, there are other indications, you know. All Ibbetson wanted was the case. He was satisfied at the sight of it and showed no desire to look inside. That might have been because he thought things were hotting up for him but it’s as likely that he didn’t want to look inside because the contents didn’t interest him. Ibbetson’s job was to get the black case and, but for the dark-haired man who manoeuvred the car so neatly, he would have had it. Talking of getting cases, have you looked inside the original yet?’

  ‘No,’ said Grice. ‘I haven’t had time.’

  ‘You only just kept to the letter of the agreement,’ Rollison reproached him. ‘You were here by twelve-thirty but at least it was too late to do any damage. You’ll let me know what’s in it, won’t you?’

  ‘Ye-es,’ said Grice. ‘Are you sure it’s Brett’s?’

  ‘I’m told it is.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘Let’s say the daughter of a Rumanian prince,’ beamed Rollison with bland humour. ‘But don’t look as impatient with me as that, old man; I’m as much at sixes and sevens as you are and I always did talk a farrago of nonsense when things wouldn’t work out as smoothly as I’d like them to.’

  ‘Only then?’ demanded Grice sarcastically.

  He showed a disposition to stay and was there when a
small dapper man in morning clothes tapped on the front door, to be admitted flourishing a card from Harridges. Rollison watched his round, bland face as he surveyed the lounge. Few men could have seen such a sight; lining, webbing, and springs were spread about in confusion, there was a litter of papers, feathers from a cushion which had been slit open, a disorder of disorders shown in sharp contrast against the well-dressed Grice and Rollison in uniform. But the owner of the soft voice did not widen his eyes while he surveyed the scene but slowly inclined his head.

  ‘I think I see what you require, sir. If I may make a suggestion, it would not be economic to replace all of the pieces here. Many of them can be repaired and I can assure you that they will be as serviceable and attractive as before they were damaged. In view of the shortage of furniture, may I suggest that you have just what you need for the time being and allow us to take the damaged articles to our workshops?’

  ‘Do that,’ said Rollison.

  ‘Thank you, sir. Would you care to advise me which pieces you feel in need of immediate replacement?’

  ‘Two beds and some easy chairs and other obvious necessaries will be all right,’ he said. ‘I haven’t time to go into detail.’

  ‘Will someone be here all the afternoon to receive our men?’

  Rollison widened his eyes and Grice smiled ironically.

  ‘I’ll lend you a man, Rolly.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Rollison, knowing that Grice would like nothing better than to station one of his men at the flat for the rest of the day. There was no workable alternative, however, and Grice left to arrange for the man while Rollison prepared a snack in the kitchen and made further half-hearted attempts to tidy it up.

  He was fully aware that Grice was dissatisfied and unconvinced of his ignorance of the affair until the previous day and, with each incident, the justification for Grice’s suspicions grew. To Rollison that mattered little; so far as he could judge the next real step would be made after he knew the contents of the Moroccan case and there was little that he could do until Grice telephoned him. He preferred not to visit the bomb-damaged block of flats where June Lancing lived and where Ibbetson had a flat – although it was possible that Ibbetson had moved already. Not greatly concerned by the likely difficulties of tracing Ibbetson, Rollison spent an hour considering all that had happened, finally deciding that three things were of paramount importance; the others were incidental.