Salute the Toff

by John Creasey

  “Draycott?—Draycott?—I don’t remember.”

  The Toff was silent for a moment, and when he smiled there was a grimness in his eyes. He stood up, then sat in the chair instead of on it, took cigarettes from his pocket and lit one with exaggerated sang-froid. He closed his case and put out his cigarette-lighter.

  “An interesting bluff, but I don’t think we need carry it too far. You know quite well that your wife brought me here because both of you were wondering who had been to Draycott’s flat. Probably she hoped to get the story out of me, when she had me drunk, but I’ll give her the credit by saying that she didn’t act her part as if she lived it.”

  “Don’t talk nonsense that I don’t understand,” said Lorne. “I have apologised for my wife. Now be good enough to go.”

  The Toff stared at him, smoked for some seconds in silence, and then stood up. He looked at Myra Lorne – if Lorne was her name – and raised one brow above the other.

  “You should be very careful,” he warned. “You’re too highly strung to be safe, and when the police ask questions they won’t consider your nerves. Good night, Delilah, and thanks for breaking up my boredom.”

  He looked from her towards Lorne, and there was mockery in his smile. And then he turned towards the door, as if he had no anxiety and no thought other than going out. But as he turned he saw the stealthy movement that Lorne made towards his right-hand pocket.

  The Toff reached the door, stretched out a hand for the knob, and then jumped to one side. He heard a sharp zutt! and a split-second later saw a bullet bury itself in the wood of the door. He did not stop moving, but picked up one of the tubular-steel tables and flung it at Lorne; and the man ducked, so that his second shot went wide.

  Chapter Six

  Night Train

  Things happened so quickly that there seemed no measurable gap between the moment of starting and the moment of ending. Lorne’s quick movement to avoid the table failed, and he was struck on the shoulder. He staggered, and the silenced automatic in his hand fell to the carpet. A third shot, released by the concussion, cut across the carpet and sent small pieces of fluff flying upwards, but it was well away from the Toff.

  He went forward very quickly and picked up the gun.

  He backed towards the door, covering the man and the woman, and pushing a hand through his hair as he went. He was smiling, but not amused. He saw Lorne rubbing at his shoulder, and saw the glitter in the man’s blue eyes. He heard a gasp from the woman, and when he glanced at her could see that she was staring in horror and dread.

  “Well, that’s that,” said the Toff without heat. “We do see life, don’t we?”

  Lorne said harshly: “Myra, keep your mouth shut!”

  “Come,” said the Toff, “that’s no nice way to talk to a lady, and Myra probably feels she would like to get the thing off her conscience. All I want is to know why Draycott died. I could fill in the rest.”

  “You can’t prove that anyone killed anyone, and if you’re crazy enough to go to the police you won’t get any satisfaction there.”

  Rollison said easily: “The shooting here is a criminal offence.”

  “Perhaps it is,” said Lorne, and he drew a deep breath. The Toff admired his nerve, for he stepped to the walnut cabinet, opened it, and brought out a bottle of whisky. He poured out a finger and swallowed it neat, and then pushed the glass away from him.

  “Better?” asked the Toff.

  “Your damned words don’t worry me,” snapped Lorne. “You’re making a mistake if you think you can use this against me. If you go to the police I shall say that I came home unexpectedly and found you with my wife. If you make a charge you’ll get into the headlines in a different way from usual. Clear out, or I’ll ‘phone the police myself.”

  The Toff sat down on the edge of the settee again. He smoked in silence, regarding Lorne as he might have done a biological specimen under a microscope. At last: “I now have the measure of Mr. Lorne, Christian name unknown,” he said. “Of the nasty things I’ve heard, that was one of the nastiest, but from Myra’s point of view and not mine.”

  “I’ll worry about her.”

  “Which is precisely what you don’t seem likely to do,” said the Toff; “but I suppose I can’t help that. However, I’ll meet you halfway. I won’t go to the police yet, and you will keep your pretty little story for another day. Let it be understood,” he added gently, “that I act out of consideration for Myra, not for myself. It suits me to let it pass.”

  “You damned liar!” said Lorne roughly. “You’ve been pushed into a corner.”

  “Suit yourself,” said the Toff. “We’re not getting anywhere. I’m interested chiefly in Draycott.”

  “I don’t give a damn who you’re interested in. Clear out!” He would not have welcomed scandal, but would not lose Lorne and the woman because of that. The fact was, he had nothing to use against either to implicate them in the murder of the man in Grey Street. To make a formal charge out of the present shooting without bringing proof of the strangling would defeat his own ends.

  There was, moreover, the possibility that Lorne’s story, supported by Myra, would be more convincing than the Toff’s.

  He said slowly: “We can almost call it stalemate, but for a very simple reason. Draycott was one of a series, of course, and I want more than proof of his murder. There are others involved, and I want them all. And so,” he added, “I’ll be back.”

  “You’ll have to hurry,” sneered Lorne.

  “Oh, I’ll come in my own good time,” said the Toff, and he backed towards the door. He reached and opened it with his left hand, still covering the couple with the automatic. “For the gun,” he said, “many thanks.”

  He went out.

  He closed the door with a bang and moved quickly but heavily along the passage. He heard the door open again, but resisted a temptation to look round. It closed, and then he turned and went back, moving very swiftly but without a sound. He could hear a mutter of conversation inside the room, and when he went down on his knees, could hear the words coming through the gap at the bottom of the door.

  Lorne was saying: “You damned little fool!”

  “I—I was scared, Luke.” The woman’s voice was shaky.

  “Next time you get scared, hold your tongue. You told him that we’d heard of him, and if you hadn’t he wouldn’t have known any different from what you tried to put over at first. God, you women!”

  “I’m sorry; I lost my head.”

  “Sorry!” barked Lorne, and the Toff knew that he was working off not only his temper, but his fright. “I’ll say you’re sorry! Now we’ve got Rollison interested, and that’s the one thing we were told not to do.”

  “I—I know.”

  There was a silence, broken by the chink of glass, and then the banging of a door. The man or the woman had left the room, while the Toff was straightening up considering the most important thing he had heard.

  “Now we’ve got Rollison interested, and that’s the one thing we were told not to do.”

  There were questions of importance arising, and they would have to be answered before he could get a clear picture of what was happening. He took a visiting-card from his pocket, one inscribed with his name and address. He took also a pencil, and in a few short lines drew on the reverse side of the card a top hat set at a rakish angle, a monocle with its string dangling, and a swagger-cane. He slipped the card through the letter-box of the flat, which was No. 81, and walked quietly away.

  The card was typical of the Toff, one of those gestures which added melodrama to his adventures. It was difficult to explain just why he had started it, but long experience had told him that the cumulative psychological effect of similar cards was considerable, and in a way he worked on the psychological angle a great deal.

  He was puzzled but not
dissatisfied.

  He made sure that he would not forget the doorway out of the block of flats, which were called Dring Mansions, and as he walked back towards Gresham Terrace he took particular care that he was not followed. The brilliant moon was helpful, and he was quite sure that he finished his journey alone. He let himself in with the key, and as he opened the door he heard a movement inside the room. Harrison was stepping towards the door. Rollison saw his relief, but Harrison scowled.

  “I thought you said twenty minutes? You’ve been gone nearly an hour.”

  “Which is an exaggeration,” said the Toff. “I’ve been less than forty minutes. But you haven’t cooled down, I see.” He grinned as he stepped past him to the telephone, and Harrison – behind the Toff’s back – smiled. But aloud he complained: “Do you think all these telephone calls are necessary?”

  “Great Scott, no!” said the Toff. “I like ’em.”

  He dialled a number, without saying that he was calling a certain public house in the Mile End Road. For the Mile End Road it was a pretentious establishment, with a saloon bar and a private bar, as well as the usual public and jug-and-bottle departments, while in the large shed at the back of it there was a place called: ‘Bert’s Gymnasium’.

  The Toff had first come across that gymnasium after watching a bout at the Ring, Blackfriars, and having a sharp disagreement with a would-be bilking bookmaker. His method of handling the bookmaker had so intrigued a large and barrel-shaped gentleman called by all and sundry ‘Bert’ that the Toff had been invited to ‘come rahnd and ’ave one privit’. To which suggestion the Toff had agreed, and he had been introduced to the Mile Corner, by which the pub was known, and later to the gymnasium, where Bert trained or tried to train an amazing miscellany of would-be boxers. Old-timers who wanted exercise, present-day champions who needed to keep their muscles supple, and promising beginners who would otherwise have gone through the full horrors of the chopping-block stage were welcomed at the gymnasium. Bert, who owned the gym as well as the inn, was an ex-middleweight county champion, an honest-to-God East Ender who was something of a fairy godfather to the aged and infirm and the unlucky of the boxing game.

  Thereafter the acquaintance had ripened into friendship, for Bert had discovered that the Toff had no particular dislike of smallpart crooks, knowing they were simple folk and honest according to their lights. Moreover, anything or anyone whom the Toff saw at Bert’s was safe from the police as far as he was concerned.

  And then, one day when the Toff had been in need, Bert had sent two or three of his clients on a punitive expedition at the Toff’s behest, and thereafter they had a working arrangement.

  Bert answered the telephone.

  “Bert’s gym,” he said, and hiccoughed.

  “I thought it might be,” said the Toff, and instantly Bert said how glad he was to hear from Mr. Ar, how was he? why hadn’t he been over lately, and what was he up to now?

  “I’m not too sure about that last,” said the Toff, “but I could find a job for two or three of the boys, Bert.”

  “Name yer men,” said Bert simply.

  “I’ll leave that to you,” said the Toff. “But get them off quickly, and have them watch Dring Mansions in Park Lane. There’s a couple named Lorne living in Flat 81. A small red-haired woman and a big blond bloke not unlike a Swede to look at. I’d like to know where they go, and when.”

  “Leave it ter me,” said Bert.

  “Good man,” said the Toff. “I’ll call or phone in a day or two, but don’t be surprised if I’m longer.”

  “You,” said Bert, with something that sounded like a hoarse chuckle, “won’t never surprise me, Mr. Ar. Nuthink you does ever surprises me.” He chuckled again, and the Toff said goodbye, to turn and find Ted Harrison staring at him.

  “I suppose I’ll get used to you,” the Toff said, “but whenever I’m at the telephone you give me the impression that you’re staring in a mood of complete hero-worship. It’s embarrassing.”

  “Hero-worship!” exclaimed Harrison. “I’ll have you know that I think most of this is nonsense!”

  “As you told Fay,” said the Toff gently.

  Harrison grinned, and went off at a tangent.

  “I’ve packed a few things for you, and if we’re going to catch that train we ought to hurry. I’ll ask questions on the train.”

  “Thanks very much,” said the Toff humbly.

  After leaving a note on the table, lest his man Jolly should return first, they left the flat and went by taxi to Euston. Again the Toff went to considerable trouble to find whether they were being followed, but they reached the station without any indications that they were, and found their carriage with its two berths.

  “Night trains are never cheerful,” said the Toff, “and if you continue to scowl like that this will be a record bad journey. What’s on your mind?”

  Harrison continued to look worried.

  “Draycott, of course. I can’t make head or tail of the business, and I’m wondering if we’ll find him up there.”

  “Oddly enough,” said the Toff. “I’m wondering exactly the same thing.”

  Chapter Seven

  Night Journey

  When they were on the way, and before they had changed for the sleeping-berths, Harrison demanded to know why the Toff was interested in the tenants at Dring Mansions. The Toff told him a little, although he did not mention that he had seen the red-haired Myra at Grey Street.

  “If I’d been you,” Harrison said, “I’d have had the police on them like a shot.”

  “And confused the trails and probably given yourself a lot of trouble.”

  “I don’t see it.”

  “Well, look for it,” said the Toff dryly. “Lorne and Myra were interested in me, and presumably the reason for their interest was Fay’s call earlier in the evening. Obviously, she’d been followed.”

  “All right, there’s no need to be so clever about it. I’m not used to working these things out like you. But why should anyone follow Fay?”

  “Because they wanted to know why she was interested in the flat at Grey Street, and whether she would discover the dead body.”

  “That seems to fit,” acknowledged Harrison.

  “Thanks,” said the Toff sardonically. “However, we can safely say that Fay was followed, and that the Lornes wanted to know whom she had come to see. Consequently Myra put over her act, but she was startled when she learned who I was. That’s the queerest thing yet. Why should anyone suspect that I would become interested?”

  “I don’t know,” said Harrison. “Except that you do turn up at awkward moments, don’t you?”

  “It has been known,” said the Toff, with considerable understatement. “But even that doesn’t explain why anyone should suspect that I might be involved in this particular case. The other factor is that there’s someone who can give the Lornes orders.”

  “I suppose that is implied.”

  “It’s more than implied, it’s shouted at us,” said the Toff. “But I think Bert Ebbutt’s boys will look after the Lornes. Our worry is Draycott, or, more correctly, Fay. How well do you know her?”

  “We’ve been friends for years.”

  “Good friends?”

  “As good as I could make it. If I’d had my way, we would have been married a couple of years ago. But Fay always says ‘No’ in the nicest of ways. It wouldn’t have been so bad,” added Harrison quietly, “if there’d been someone else, but she just told me that she was never likely to feel more than—well, friendly. She had a tough time a year ago, and was six months without a job. She didn’t tell me about it, but I discovered it by accident. I put her on to Draycott right away, and he fixed her up.”

  “Why didn’t she tell you how things were?”

  “It was my own fault, I suppose. She knew that I wou
ld start the old ‘marry-me-and-have-no-worries’ tune, and she preferred not to risk it. Anyhow, that’s nothing to do with the case in hand.”

  “Except one angle,” said the Toff.

  “I’d rather not discuss it,” said Harrison.

  “It needn’t take long. You’ve known Draycott for a long time, and you’ll know whether he’s the type to appeal to Fay.”

  “Do we have to go into that?”

  “I’d like to.”

  “Oh, all right,” growled Harrison. “I don’t know about the ‘type’ to appeal, but I gathered that Fay had fallen for him. I worried her for years, and she kept putting me off, but she meets a man, her employer who’s engaged, and she loses her head. I met her a fortnight after she’d taken the job, and …” Harrison cleared his throat and looked out of the window, and the moon shining on pale fields. “Jokingly I asked her whether she would give it up and change her mind about me. She just said: ‘Especially not now, Ted. I’m sorry.’ And that,” went on Harrison, with a harsh note in his voice, “gave me a bad time for a day or so. I knew Jimmy Draycott wasn’t the man to let anyone down, and even if he did respond to Fay’s feelings nothing could come of it. Not that I think he dreamed—dreams, I mean—of what she thinks.”

  Rollison said reflectively: “Well, it’s an odd mix-up, and a month—she’s been working for him for a month, hasn’t she?”

  “It might be five weeks.”

  “A month isn’t likely really to secure her interest, and when he’s married that will probably sort itself out. Provided,” added the Toff, “that he’s alive.”

  Harrison took out his pipe and began to fill it, while the Toff leaned back against the cushion and appeared to doze. He heard Harrison say abruptly: “Now you’ve dragged this out of me, how does it help?”

  “I don’t know yet,” said the Toff. “It’s a bad break, but you’ve had time to get used to it.”

  “Oh, it doesn’t worry me much now,” said Harrison.