The Toff and the Fallen Angels t-53

by John Creasey

  “An excellent point,” said Rollison. “Do you know who is trying to kill you? And do you know why anyone should try to kill you?”

  “If we know, we tell the police,” rasped Offenberger.

  Rollison’s gaze moved slowly to the other men, and rested finally on Carfax, who looked almost cherubic, his fair hair concealing any streaks of grey, and whose head and shoulders and torso gave a remarkable impression of strength, in sharp contrast to the thin legs which dangled over the edge of the chair.

  “Supposing you don’t know, but only guess,” Rollison asked mildly. “Would you tell the police whom you suspect?”

  “It would be a waste of time,” said Carfax, his voice beautifully modulated. “We believe—”

  “You must speak for yourself,” Naomi broke in quietly. “Yes, Naomi, I am doing so, and I speak also for Arthur, and probably for Otto. What kind of man would wage a war of persecution like this? Do we need to ask? We believe that the man involved is a fanatical bigot, probably extremely religious, who did his best to prevent us from launching this scheme, and when that failed has resorted to this hideous campaign. And the man we have in mind is so highly regarded at Westminster and in Whitehall, so immensely wealthy, that the police simply cannot agree as to his involvement. I speak, of course—” Carfax paused, to look round at each of the others, and received a nod from both men— “of Sir Douglas Slatter.”

  “I simply cannot believe it,” Naomi said in a husky voice. She sat with both hands clasped tightly on the desk in front of her. “I know he has been difficult, and that some of the girls imply he has made approaches to them, but they could have been—either wilfully or sincerely—mistaken. In their circumstances it is understandable that they should be suspicious and oversensitive.”

  “If he’s the puritanical fanatic Dr. Carfax suggests he might be, would he make passes like that?” Rollison wondered aloud.

  “I’ve known some of these religious maniacs—” began Nimmo, only to break off. “That isn’t a fair thing to say. If a man’s a pathological sex case, he can still be honestly religious. And we’ve something more than suspicion and prejudice to go on, Rollison. The lease of these premises is virtually up, and Sir Douglas, who is the landlord, will not extend it. I feel that the timing of these attacks is too much for coincidence.”

  “I can see why you do,” agreed Rollison. “Sir Douglas—”

  “According to his own lights I believe Sir Douglas is a good man,” interrupted Naomi, stubbornly. “Mr. Rollison—” She broke off.

  “Will you check more closely on Slatter?” asked Car-fax. “You may not have the same prejudices as the police.”

  “I shouldn’t under-estimate the police,” Rollison said drily. “So yes—I will see what I can find out about Slatter. But before I do—are you seriously considering closing down Smith Hall?”

  “How can we go on?” demanded Offenberger. “How is it possible? I have been warned like the others—stop coming here, finish the work—or you will be killed. I do not want to be killed. And I say to you all, let us not be obstinate. There are other girls, other men, who are very clever. These girls will be the loss, yes, but not irrepairable.”

  “Irrepar—” Carfax began to correct, but stopped.

  “Are they then?” Offenberger demanded fiercely. “It has been a good and courageous experiment but this is not now a matter for private individuals. The brains of the country, they should be looked after by the country itself. Professor Nimmo has spent a fortune here, all of us give what we can but it is—no good. We stop. I vote for we stop.”

  “Is that what you’re here to decide?” asked Rollison.

  “I’m afraid so,” said Nimmo, running a hand over his shiny pate, “and although I don’t like it, I think Otto is right. Unless we can put an end to this campaign of violence quickly, we must do what we’re told.”

  “I disagree,” said Carfax. “And if George Brown were here, I think he would disagree. And I am not considering only the girls—I’m thinking that we owe at least something to Keith.”

  After a short silence, Nimmo said : “An unfair appeal, Will. Whatever we decide won’t make any difference to the thoroughness with which the police search for the murderer. We won’t be letting Keith down—or the dead girls, for that matter.”

  “Girls?” exclaimed Naomi, shrilly.

  “We don’t really need telling that they’re both dead,” argued Nimmo. “Surely you aren’t buoying yourself up with false hope. I—”

  The shrill ringing of the telephone bell made them all start, and it seemed to ring on for a long time before Naomi picked up the receiver, it was almost as if she were afraid that this call would bring bad news.

  “This is Mrs. Smith . . . Oh ! Yes, he’s here. Please hold on.” She looked at. Rollison, and held the instrument out towards him. “It’s for you, Mr. Rollison—Superintendent Grice.”

  “Ah,” said Rollison, taking the telephone. “Thanks. Hallo, Bill.” This must be very urgent or Grice would not have interrupted the meeting, and his heart began to thump at the possibility that there was, after all, bad news of Angela.

  “Can anyone else hear?” asked Grice.

  “Not unless there is an extension,” Rollison said.

  “No, that is the direct line,” said Naomi Smith hastily. “No,” said Rollison.

  “I thought I would give you this piece of news first, and you can break it to the others if you think the time is right.” Grice paused long enough for Rollison to wonder why he said ‘break it to’—and then he had a sudden flash of understanding only a split second before Grice went on. “Dr. Brown was murdered last night. He was found slumped over the steering wheel of his car, in a deserted spot on Wimbledon Common. It looks as if he was forced to drive there by someone who had hidden in the back seat of his car, and struck from behind as he stopped.”

  Rollison tried not to show the slightest reaction in his expression or in the tone of his voice.

  “Do you know what time?” he asked.

  “Yes—about ten o’clock, comfortably before the attack on Mrs. Smith,” answered Grice. “Do the others there appear to be frightened?”

  “Yes,” answered Rollison. “Thanks, Bill. Will you leave this to me for a while?”

  “Yes,” replied Grice. “Not too long, mind.”

  “Not too long,” promised Rollison, and rang off.

  The others were concealing their interest in the call, and he did not think they would have done so had they suspected what he had heard. He had no doubt at all what they would decide if he told them of Brown’s murder, and it did not need Grice to emphasise that they could not be left in ignorance for long. There was only one way of preventing them from withdrawing their support, and that was by finding who was behind the murders. And if they were to keep Smith Hall and continue its activities, they would have to know quickly.

  “You can’t seriously suggest that Slatter is behind this,” Carfax protested. “I can’t believe—”

  “Will you adjourn the meeting for, say, eight hours,” suggested Rollison. “And I will pull out all the stops to investigate Sir Douglas Slatter’s recent activities.”

  There was only a perfunctory pause, before Nimmo gave the others the lead by a grave nod of agreement.

  “Good,” said Rollison. “Thank you gentlemen. But wherever you go, be sure you have a police escort. I have the very sombre duty of informing you that Dr. Brown was murdered last night, in the same way as Keith Webberson.”

  After a stunned silence, Rollison expected Offenber-ger, at least, to make a passionate plea for retraction. But no word was said.

  CHAPTER 12

  Adamant Old Man

  ROLLISON left the study, the expressions on the faces of the three men and the one woman vivid in his mind’s eye; all were appalled. No one was in the hall, but as he glanced up at the gallery, Anne Miller appeared from one of the rooms, and raised a hand in greeting. He stopped and looked up at her.

  “Any new p
roblems?” he asked.

  “It depends what you call problems,” she answered. She leaned over the wooden railing, her hair drooping downwards in a long, silken fringe, covering her eyes.

  “Anything you find worrying is a problem,” he answered.

  “Three of our little darlings have a rash this morning,” said Anne. We think it may be chicken pox, and if it is they’ll all get it. You haven’t visited our Baby Farm, have you?”

  “Not yet,” said Rollison.

  “Then postpone your visit if you haven’t had chicken pox,” advised Anne. “Have you proved that our ancient neighbour next door is the murderer yet?”

  “No,” answered Rollison. “I’m just going to ask him.”

  She gave a sardonic smile. The young policeman on the porch smiled too, as if he had heard the exchange. He watched with some surprise as Rollison walked to the wall and vaulted over it. The grass on the other side was much firmer, flanked by a drive and carriageway of grey macadam. The house appeared to be in immaculate con-

  dition. Rollison stepped on to the porch, which was supported by two white-painted pillars with the Number 29 painted on each, and rang the bell.

  Light, quick footsteps approached—and Angela opened the door.

  She gave a sharp, quickly suppressed, gasp.

  “Good afternoon,” said Rollison. “Is Sir Douglas Slatter in?” And as he spoke, he winked. The muscles of Angela’s face worked as she tried to recover from the surprise.

  “He, he’s having lunch,—sir !”

  “Take my card in, will you?” said Rollison, and he stepped past Angela into the hall. It was larger, yet not so impressive as next door, although at a glance the antique quality of every piece of furniture was obvious. “Tell him the matter is urgent, please.”

  Recovering her poise, Angela took the card, a little uncertain whether to show pleasure or fury at her uncle’s unexpected appearance. Deciding to give nothing away, she turned towards a wide passage alongside the stairs, disappearing into a door on the right. There came a rumble of voices. Immediately, a massive young man appeared.

  “Massive’ was the word that first occurred to Rollison, as he noted the thick, bull neck, the powerful shoulders. Yet the man moved lightly on small feet.

  “I’m afraid my uncle doesn’t wish to see you, Mr. Rollison,” he said. “He sees no purpose in a meeting.”

  “Oh,” said Rollison, as if baffled. “That’s a pity. I thought it only fair to have a word with him before I went to the police.”

  “You appear to spend most of your time with the police —judging from the morning papers. It really isn’t any use, Mr. Rollison. He won’t see you.”

  Rollison frowned, looking even more baffled—and then, watching very warily, he moved forward, as if to pass Slatter’s nephew. With a swift movement, showing reflexes at least as fast as the assailant’s of the previous night, the young man flung out an arm, a barrier as firm as a piece of iron. Rollison, under no illusions as to the other’s strength, grabbed his wrist, spun him round, and sent him crashing, halfway towards the front door. He did not look round but judged by the lightness of the thump that the other had fallen as an athlete should.

  He went on, and entered the room from which the man had come.

  Sir Douglas Slatter, sitting at the head of a table with his back to the long window, looked up with a laden fork only an inch from his mouth.

  “Good morning,” said Rollison. “I’m sorry if I chose a bad time.”

  Slatter put his fork down slowly, and said. “Get out of my house.”

  “The moment I’ve said what I have to say—”

  “Get out of my house, or—”

  “No doubt you’ll have me thrown out,” said Rollison pleasantly. He heard a sound behind him and moved swiftly to one side, so avoiding a swinging blow from the nephew. “Do stop this young man,” pleaded Rollison. “I really don’t want to hurt him.”

  “You don’t want to—” Slatter caught his breath, and then said gustily: “Guy—throw this man out.”

  Rollison spun round on the instant, grabbed Guy’s wrist, twisted his arm behind him in a hammer-lock so that he was utterly helpless, and smiled amiably.

  “There really isn’t any need for this horseplay,” he insisted, “and I don’t want to break this young man’s arm —but I can do it as easily as you could smash his skull in with a sledge hammer.”

  Guy had gone very pale. He was breathing hard, and as he faced his uncle, it was easy to realise that he was pleading with him.

  Slowly, Slatter stood up.

  Deliberately, he turned and went to a large fireplace and bent down, to pick up a brass poker. He held the poker by the handle with his left hand—and he raised it, more as a sword than a hammer.

  “Let my nephew go,” he ordered.

  “Or what will you do?” demanded Rollison.

  “Break your neck.”

  “With that? You might crack my skull, but—”

  “I won’t tell you again : let him go at once.”

  He took a step forward. A larger man than his nephew, although he was nearing seventy he looked no more than sixty. There was no doubt at all that he was prepared to strike.

  “You’re a great believer in violence as a means to getting your own way,” remarked Rollison.

  “You are a fine one to talk of violence. Let my nephew go.”

  “I release ten minutes of your time. Give it to me, and I’ll lea

  Almost as soon as the words were out, Guy back-heeled—an action for which Rollison was fully prepared. He dodged the kick with little difficulty, then pushed Guy’s arm up a couple of inches further. Guy gasped, but managed to say :

  “Don’t—don’t give in to him!”

  “Blind courage and brute force,” said Rollison. “They often go together.”

  Slatter lowered the poker. His face was set in furious anger but his voice was even and controlled.

  “I will hear what you have to say,” he said.

  Rollison immediately released the young man, who moved slowly away, half-turning, so that he showed the pallor of his face and the sweat beading his forehead and his upper lip. He stood close by, holding his right arm.

  Slatter put the poker back in the fireplace.

  He looked at Rollison with nothing but acute dislike on his handsome face. “Handsome?” Rollison asked him-self. Certainly striking, certainly strong.

  “What is it you wish to say to me?”

  “It’s very simple,” Rollison said. “I want you to know that I have acquired a certain amount of evidence that suggests that you attacked Mrs. Smith last night—and that you killed Professor Webberson and Dr. Brown. Be-fore I hand it over to the police, I want to hear what you have to say about it.”

  “I have just one thing to say,” answered Slatter. “It is ludicrous nonsense.” After a pause, he went on in a steely voice : “And a second thing to say : I don’t believe you have any evidence at all.”

  “Don’t you?” said Rollison.

  No, I do not.”

  “I am the evidence,” stated Rollison.

  “That remark makes no more sense than the rest of your assertions.”

  “It will make sense to the police when I identify you as the man whom I saw attack Mrs. Smith last night.”

  “Even the police wouldn’t be deceived by such a lie,” said Slatter. He had a deep but not powerful voice and spoke with complete composure. If his expression said anything, it was that he had nothing but contempt for the man who had invaded his privacy and manhandled his nephew.

  “If I make a statement on oath, not only the police but a judge and jury will take me seriously,” said Rollison.

  “Even you cannot seriously doubt that.”

  Slatter did not immediately deny it, and for the first time what might have been a look of apprehension showed in his eyes, but it soon vanished, and in an offhand voice which was slightly gruff, he said:

  “You must make your own decision. You
know well enough that it wasn’t I.”

  “I don’t know anything of the kind,” said Rollison. “Even that is a lie.”

  “Uncle—” Guy began, but a glance from the older man silenced him.

  “Is that all you have to say, Mr. Rollison?” Slatter had fully recovered his poise.

  “No,” said Rollison.

  “Will you please finish your charges and leave me to finish my lunch?”

  “Will you grant an option to renew the lease of Number 31?” asked Rollison.

  Slatter drew his heavily marked brows together in concentration, and then very slowly shook his head. “No,” he said. “I want them out.”

  “To get them out you might have to get a court order and —”

  “They wouldn’t go that far,” interrupted Slatter. “They are ready to pull out already.”

  “Driven to it by murder,” observed Rollison.

  “Driven to it by their own stupidity. However I will not bandy words with you. The answer is no, I will not grant an option, even if you offer to withdraw your identification of me as a criminal. That is a very cheap trick, Mr. Rollison—I nearly said that it was not worthy of you, but that would be paying you a compliment.”

  “Why do you want them out?”

  “That is my business.”

  “Is inhumanity your business?”

  “Mr. Rollison,” said Slatter, with great precision, “I do not regard myself as a judge of what is humane and what is not. I want those harlots out of my house. They would never have gone there but for a trick—I was not informed of the kind of hostel it was to be. Hostel?” His voice rose. “Or brothel? You no doubt know, Mr. Rollison.”

  “Hostel,” said Rollison.

  “I don’t believe you, and nothing will change my mind.” Slatter held Rollison’s gaze for a long time, and Rollison felt quite sure that he meant what he said. “Make your absurd charges against me if it amuses you, but you are wasting your time, Mr. Rollison. I hope you realise that, and will now leave.”

  “Do you really feel utterly indifferent about the infants next door?” demanded Rollison.

  “No, I do not feel at all indifferent.” Suddenly, Slatter was enraged, even his cheeks were tinged with pink, and his hitherto cold eyes flashed. “I am intensely concerned with them—determined that they will be taken away from the whores who brought them into this world and placed in the charge of proper authorities. Those women have no right at all to be in charge of children. They may care for them physically but their moral and spiritual life will be ruined. And —”