by John Creasey
But he was not convincing, and the Toff considered this new personal angle to the affair of Fay Gretton. He was not altogether surprised, but there was one thing which puzzled him.
Why had Harrison sent Fay to see him?
Harrison must have suspected that the trouble was serious or he would have offered to try to get into the flat himself. Possibly Harrison felt too keenly the situation which had arisen between Fay and Draycott. Fay’s insistence on avoiding the police – a reasonable insistence as things had been – could easily have made Harrison think of the Toff.
Nevertheless, Harrison had a motive for murder.
The Toff considered that point and decided that the motive was very slim. Had Draycott and Fay been engaged, or had there been any possibility of Draycott breaking one engagement for another, that would have given Harrison’s position a completely new significance. Of course, he had only Harrison’s word that Draycott knew nothing of Fay’s feelings, but he could not imagine Fay showing them.
In a tortuous fashion the Toff had arrived at two suspects, Harrison and Fay: and because he made an unfailing practice of keeping all the possibilities in mind, he did not entirely close the gate on them.
Before leaving the flat the Toff had slipped a small automatic into his pocket, for he did not propose to be taken unawares again. He had not told Harrison that he was carrying it, but he kept it at his side in the bunk, tying it to his wrist with a small strap to make sure that it did not fall.
The rumble of the train-wheels did not disturb him, nor did the piercing shriek of the whistle as the train went through many stations: but a movement at the door did.
He opened his eyes.
There was a small light burning in the middle of the carriage ceiling. On the opposite berth Harrison was lying on his back, with his mouth open and a faint snore coming from his lips. Without his glasses, and in that dim light, he looked older and a little careworn.
But the snoring had not awakened the Toff.
He was facing the door, a position he had taken up deliberately, and he watched it slide open, inch by inch. He saw a man’s hand coming more clearly into view as the sliding door opened. Then he saw the man’s head and shoulders, recognizing nothing and hardly seeing the face, for the man’s trilby was pulled well down over his forehead, and the Toff was unable to move to get a better view.
One thing was certain: it was not Lorne.
This man was shorter, and smaller in every way. He moved with a furtive stealth and yet with such precision that it seemed clear that he had entered feloniously on more than one occasion. He stepped into the carriage as the door was wide enough to admit him, and looked first at Harrison and then away.
Through eyes that looked closed in sleep the Toff saw the man stare at him, and saw the thin lips tighten. He had a better view of the face then, and was not impressed. It was sallow and thin, and the lips were set tightly and showed very little shape. The nose was long, and pinched at the nostrils. The eyes and forehead were completely covered.
The Toff gripped his automatic.
He maintained an even breathing, and the intruder did not suspect that he was being watched. A moment later the Toff relaxed, for the man went to his clothes – on a hanger at the foot of his bunk – and began to run through the pockets. He looked in the wallet, putting aside the twenty-odd pounds in notes which the Toff had with him, but he was not looking only for money.
He did not appear to find what he wanted in the wallet.
Carefully he went through each pocket, examining what few papers he came across, and as the search continued his lips grew tighter, and once, under his breath, he swore. He finished at last, then moved stealthily towards the Toff’s head.
He had stuffed the notes into his breast pocket, and kept his left hand there. The Toff, who knew the ways of many of the criminal type too well to take chances, suspected that he was holding a cosh inside his pocket.
The man’s right hand slid under the Toff’s pillow.
The Toff waited until it was well there, and then moved. He shot out his hand and gripped the intruder’s left bicep. The man gasped with the sudden pain, tried to wrench his arm away, failed, and then pulled his right hand out and punched viciously at the Toff.
The Toff punched back.
His blow landed on the side of the man’s face, going downwards, and it sent him staggering against Harrison’s berth. Harrison woke up with a start, while the Toff changed his grip and caught the little crook’s left arm at the elbow. He increased his pressure, and the man groaned.
Harrison gasped: “What the devil’s all this?”
“Keep quiet,” said the Toff, sotto voce, “and come down. You can look after this joker for a moment.”
Harrison did not waste time. His awakening might have been abrupt, but he was alert and active enough when he slid from his berth, gripped the little crook’s arm, and watched the Toff move a hand to the man’s pocket. When the Toff withdrew it he was holding a black lead-weighted cosh, which could have caused a serious injury.
“Keep him there,” said Rollison.
It was then that the little crook wrenched himself free from Harrison’s grasp and made a leap at the window, which was open a few inches. He wrenched at the door-handle, while Harrison made a grab at him, getting in the Toff’s way.
The door opened.
Harrison cried out, and the other went forward, gripping the side of the door and clearly trying to get down to the footplate. But he slipped, and the Toff saw him disappear into the void. A shriek rang out and died away, but did not lose its horror.
Chapter Eight
The Queen’s Hotel
The Toff stretched an arm upwards and pulled at the alarm cord, the shriek ringing in his ears. Harrison was standing at the open door, gripping the sides and swaying with the motion of the train.
“Move back, old chap.”
Slowly Harrison obeyed. His face was pale, and his lips were parted.
“There’s whisky in my case,” said Rollison.
As he spoke the train was slowing down, and doors were banging farther along the corridor. Lights were shining from carriage windows which a few minutes before had been in utter darkness. A guard came hurrying towards the Toff’s compartment, calling: “Who pulled that cord, please? Who pulled the cord?”
The Toff waited for the man to reach him.
“I did,” he said, to a portly man with a silky brown moustache decorated with breadcrumbs. The guard was hatless, and his bald head was shiny.
“Well, what—’Ere, what are you doin’ with that gun!”
His voice went upwards, and carried far along the corridor. Voices and mutters of conversation ceased, except that a woman said clearly: “Someone’s got a gun, George.”
“All right, m’dear,” said the unseen George. “That’s all right, the guard will look after it.”
Rollison spoke slowly, shaken by the sudden jump from the window.
“Nothing, as it happens. A man has jumped out of my door.”
“Jumped!” exclaimed the guard, and the woman who had called out before repeated in her clear, carrying voice: “He says a man has jumped out of the door, George.”
“All right, m’dear, I can hear,” said George.
It was that which broke the tension that had been in the Toff’s mind from the moment the little man had disappeared. He uttered silent thanks to the unseen George, while two more guards came up to the compartment, both carrying lanterns. The Toff unfastened the gun from his wrist and placed it on his bunk.
“I’ll give you what information you want later,” he said. “Where are we?”
“Just running into Crewe, sir.” The guard appeared to be reconciled both to the gun and the Toff’s manner, but he remained in the carriage while the others jumped down to the track
and walked back along the line. The Toff sat on the edge of his berth, smoking, and a few passengers passed by and stared into the compartment. Harrison glowered at them, and it occurred to the Toff that if ever a man looked guilty – of what it did not matter – Ted Harrison did then. But he had recovered by the time a messenger came to say that the body had been found.
“So he’s dead,” Harrison said.
“We were travelling fast,” said the Toff. “He didn’t have a dog’s chance. The one thing that poor devil knew was that he must not be caught. He preferred to risk that jump.”
“Isn’t it time you told us about it?” asked the guard.
“They’ll want me for an inquiry at Crewe, I take it?” said the Toff. “I’ll get dressed.”
He hoped that there would not be a long delay, and his hopes were vindicated. The assistant station-master on duty was satisfied with a brief outline of the story plus Rollison’s name and address. That was helped by the willingness with which he offered to contact with Scotland Yard. In different circumstances he would have been amused by the officials, who gave the impression that they welcomed the tragedy because of the opportunity to meet him.
The Toff disliked the tragedy intensely.
It was not the death of a man that worried him. As with the man he imagined to be Draycott, the fact of death itself had no effect on him. But the desperation in the crook’s mind had sinister implications.
Why had he been so afraid of being caught?
For the crime on the train he would have suffered no more than three years’ imprisonment, and probably a lesser sentence: yet he had acted like a man who had committed murder and arrest seemed imminent.
Or a man who was afraid of other things.
“What other things?” asked Harrison. Both had dressed, and there was no thought of sleep. The train was moving at speed again.
“I don’t know,” said the Toff slowly, “but our man was possessed by the fear of the devil, and that is not a nice thing.”
“You’re a queer fellow, aren’t you?” remarked Harrison.
The Toff shrugged but did not answer. He was still wondering about the dead man – on whom there had been nothing likely to help identification – when they reached Manchester. It was a fine, bright morning, with the sun just breaking over the horizon, and lending to the Lancashire city a touch of early-morning grandeur. The station was not busy, taxis were available, and the Toff and Harrison went at once to the Queen’s Hotel.
The night porter was heavy-eyed and inclined to be surly. He did not know if there was a Mr. Draycott there, and if he did no one was going to be disturbed by him at six o’clock in the morning without orders. There was no chance of him calling the manager, either: what did he want – the sack?
A ten-shilling note made no impression. The porter was a north-countryman of the rare type who seemed to have a perpetual grievance. He was going to do nothing, although somewhat grudgingly he said that they could wait in the lounge.
“All right,” said Rollison. “Go and make us some tea, will you?”
“Ah don’t mind doin’ that,” said the porter. Harrison waited until he was out of earshot, and then snapped: “I wouldn’t have handled him like that.”
“If a bribe won’t do it, shouting certainly won’t, but our porter is a fool in his way. Come on.” The Toff left the lounge, and, with Harrison on his heels, reached the reception desk. The Toff went to the clerk’s side of the counter and lifted the heavy register.
“We know he’s here, don’t we?” Harrison said.
For the first time that morning the Toff showed signs of irascibility.
“Don’t be a fool! I’d rather deal with a dozen porters than you.”
Harrison stumped off towards the lounge. Rollison ran his forefinger down the list of entries. ‘Draycott’ was there – he had arrived two mornings before, on the morning when Fay Gretton had first missed him. He was in Room 45.
Rollison replaced the register and reached the lounge ahead of the porter, who brought both tea and biscuits. Rollison paid and tipped him. Harrison apologised and started to pour out tea. Rollison watched the porter straightening some tables, and they had nearly finished a cup of tea when the man went out.
Rollison replaced his cup promptly.
“We’re going upstairs,” he said. “We’ll use the staircase, and with luck dodge the porter or anyone else who might be about.”
Harrison drew a deep breath.
“You’re going up, of course, and you got his room number from the book. I’m too tired to have any sense, Rolly. Kick me next time I get obstreperous!”
“It wouldn’t surprise me if I took you at your word,” said the Toff.
They were seen only by a maid as they hurried up, to find a small plaque on the second-landing wall pointing to the room numbers 32 to 50.
The Toff glanced at the door-locks as he went by, and was pleased yet not surprised to find they were of the old-fashioned kind. His pick-lock would make short work of the one on Draycott’s door.
Room 45 was the last one on the right-hand side of the corridor, and an open window was admitting a chilly breeze as they reached it. There were no boots or shoes outside, although there were at most of the other doorways. Rollison would not be particularly surprised to find Draycott – or the man who was calling himself Draycott – had left.
Harrison watched him manipulate the key, and was grinning as the lock clicked back. Rollison took a quick glance along the passage, saw no one, and opened the door.
He stepped through with Harrison on his heels.
And he stopped abruptly, for he saw a man standing opposite the door covering him with an automatic. It was the second time that he had seen a gun in the hand of the man named Lorne.
Chapter Nine
Mr. Lucius Lorne
There was a moment of utter silence.
Earlier that morning the Toff had assured himself that he had been taken by surprise for the first and last time in this affair, but he was wrong, and admitted it. He would have said that the one thing he considered quite certain was that Lorne would not be in Manchester. But there he was, standing and looking as if he had had a full night’s sleep, full of confidence, which was only partly explained by the gun in his hand.
“Come in, come in,” said Lorne, and his voice was deep and mellow, not unlike it had been when the Toff had heard him for the first time chiding the redhead Myra. “I half-expected you, Rollison.”
Harrison said in a hoarse whisper: “I’ll make a dash for it.”
Since the Toff was first in the line of fire, that was a sensible if risky suggestion, but Harrison was wrong, for as he spoke another voice came from behind him.
“Don’t you believe it.”
The Toff did not take his eyes from Lorne’s, but he heard the second voice, and the thump which followed it. He assumed that Harrison had been struck with a cosh. He had walked into as carefully prepared a trap as he was likely to encounter, but even then the most surprising thing was the speed with which it had all been arranged. He was less afraid than puzzled, because it seemed as if Lorne had expected him here.
Lorne must have flown from London.
The Toff went forward a pace as Harrison was lowered to the floor and dragged into the room. Then the door was closed by a chunky, broad-shouldered man dressed in an ill-fitting blue suit.
“I’m sure you won’t make the same mistake as your friend, Rollison,” said Lorne almost jovially. “Quite an unexpected meeting, isn’t it?”
“Up to a point, yes.”
“And such a pity that you did not herald your call with one of those interesting little cards,” added Lucius Lorne. “You are a peculiar man, Rollison, with quite a reputation, and yet interested in such puerilities.”
The Toff, who was some twelve
inches from the wall, went back and leaned against it. He looked a little tired, and his eyes were half-covered by lids that dropped more than he often allowed them, but his poise was a thing to marvel at. His manner gave no idea that there was an armed thug at his side – Harrison was on the floor and still unconscious – and another man in front of him, while he regarded Lorne with no more than polite curiosity.
In fact, the Toff looked bored.
“‘Puerilities’,” he said reflectively. “Quite a big word for you, isn’t it? Or did Myra tell you about it when she jumped at seeing the card?”
Lorne’s eyes lost their humour.
“Keep that mouth of yours shut.”
“And now we sink to a lower stratum,” murmured the Toff. “I hardly expected you to keep it up for long. But about those cards of mine. It’s always interesting to get the other man’s point of view, and if they could be improved—”
“Guv’nor, do we ’ave to listen to this?”
The Toff regarded the man with a fresh interest. The accent was Cockney, which was hardly surprising, for it was not to be expected that Lorne would have natives of Manchester to help him. A short, broad-shouldered, coarse-faced man, with a scar from an old burn under his right eye which did not improve his looks. His eyes were brown and small.
“Please yourself,” answered the Toff, “but if you don’t want to listen, go away.” He smiled at Lorne. “Don’t you get tired, holding that gun?”
Lorne’s lips tightened.
The Toff was satisfied with one thing: he had Lorne guessing, and it was good when the other side was unsure. Lorne had expected him to crack when he was faced with the gun and the knowledge that he had been tricked, but it was not the Toff’s habit to crack, although there were times when he pretended to. His chief interest was to undermine Lorne’s confidence, and he was succeeding, for as Lorne grew angry so his confidence ebbed.
“Rollison,” Lorne’s voice grew high-pitched, “I warned you last night, and you took no notice. I can’t afford to have you around.”