Salute the Toff

by John Creasey

  He saw the only man not in the mêlée with a cosh in his hand, and ready to strike Draycott, reached the man and sent him reeling. Draycott was lying on top of Harrison, who was fighting viciously, while the second roughneck was picking himself up and reaching towards his left shoulder.

  The Toff grabbed the chair and flung it at him. It struck his shoulder, and as the man fell back the gun at which he was snatching fell from his fingers. It hit the floor, but did not go off; and as Harrison’s gun had been fitted with a silencer there had been no sound likely to travel as far as McNab and Wilson.

  There was no sign of Jolly.

  Draycott was getting the better of Harrison, and the Toff left him to it. One of the roughnecks was on his feet again, but he did not stay there long, for the Toff went in with vigour and ruthlessness. It might have been the narrowness of his escape from death, or it might have been just that he had reached the end of his patience, but by the time he had finished two men were unconscious, and the knuckles of his hands were grazed and raw. His hair was falling in his eyes, and he brushed it back impatiently, to see Draycott standing up and breathing heavily. Harrison was unconscious: judging from the purplish colour of his face, Draycott had almost strangled him.

  “Well, that’s that,” Draycott said. “Thank God you’re all right, Rollison.”

  “Thanks to you,” said the Toff warmly. “You might dab at your cheek; it probably looks worse than it is, but it certainly looks nasty.”

  Draycott was surprised at the blood on his handkerchief, but the wound was little more than a scratch. When he brushed his fingers through his hair he dabbed blood on his forehead and on the fair strands, and the Toff smiled crookedly.

  “You look the villain of the piece,” he said. “Again—thanks more than I can say.”

  “Oh, that,” said Draycott disparagingly. “You didn’t expect me to let him shoot if I could help it, did you? Anyhow it was your chap. Wonder where he’s gone. What are we going to do now, anyway?”

  “We’ve four prisoners,” mused the Toff, “and we want them kept nice and safe until we can convince McNab that he’s talking through the back of his neck. On the whole, I should say this place is as well as any for keeping them.”

  “There’s another bungalow—little more than a shed, really—half a mile across the fields,” said Draycott. “It’s in a copse of trees, and they’d be a lot safer there.”

  “We’ll use it,” said the Toff.

  It was then that they stopped short, and looked sharply at each other, for they heard a stealthy sound outside. The Toff motioned Draycott towards the door with a quick nod of his head, and himself followed the man behind it.

  The footsteps drew nearer and remained stealthy.

  The Toff, with Harrison’s gun in his hand, waited tensely while the door was pushed wider open: and then he heard a sharp exclamation, and: “Is there anything more for me to do, sir?”

  Draycott drew in a sharp breath. The Toff stepped into full sight and regarded Jolly, who had looked away from the men on the floor and was standing in the doorway.

  “What happened to you?” asked Rollison.

  “I couldn’t have arrived in time, so I shouted from a tree in the back garden,” Jolly said. “Then I checked to make sure there were no others about.”

  “Jolly,” Rollison said, “you have genius.”

  “Thanks.” Almost without a change of tone he added: “Is the water on in this place?”

  “I don’t think so, sir.”

  “That’s a pity, but we’ll manage. How did you know there might be the need for stealth?”

  While they bound the wrists and ankles of the prisoners Jolly explained that there was an old Buick behind the hedge on the left side of the bungalow, and that he had seen it as he had returned from parking the Frazer-Nash. He had approached stealthily in the hope of being useful, and he allowed himself to say that he had been considerably relieved when he had seen that Harrison and not the Toff was on the floor.

  “You were not alone,” said the Toff.

  They did not waste much more time talking, but bundled the four men – after retrieving Gort from the ditch – into the Morris, which Jolly drove to the shed in the copse. Except the cottage and the bungalow there was no building in sight, and as the country about them was mostly gorse-land, and some miles from the village itself, there was little chance of anyone seeing them.

  The Toff made arrangements quickly.

  Jolly was to stay as jailer, and if he would have preferred a more active part he did not say so. The Toff and Draycott were to return to town, after dark, in the Morris – using that car because it would be less conspicuous than the Frazer-Nash.

  “And how long shall I stay here, sir?” asked Jolly.

  “I hope to release you tomorrow,” said Rollison.

  “Thank you. And if Harrison comes round, am I to endeavour to get his story?”

  “Make him talk,” said the Toff.

  “Very good, sir,” said Jolly, and he smiled.

  For some fifty miles Rollison drove the Morris towards London, and Jimmy Draycott sat next to him, making occasional comments. They were near Staines when his self-restraint broke down, and he said with feeling: “You know, Rollison, you and that man of yours are freaks. Anyone would think that this was everyday business with you.”

  “That’s very nearly true,” said the Toff.

  “Do you mean to say that all the stuff written about you in the Press isn’t a lot of make-believe?”

  “Oddly enough, there is crime other than that involving you, and I do play parts in it. However, I wouldn’t like them all to take similar wrong turnings. I’m still hazy about this business. You can put most of it right.”

  “I think I can,” said Draycott cautiously.

  “I hope you can,” said the Toff fervently. “First and foremost, they wanted to kill you.”

  “And don’t I know it! That’s why I hoofed it, although if I’d known Harrison hadn’t given the police everything I certainly would have stayed. I don’t think I’ve ever been so surprised about a man.”

  “Harrison can be left out for the moment. You heard the story he was trying to put over on the police, and it’s remarkable that McNab had it off almost by heart. That suggests that McNab had been given an outline of the so-called mystery before. I don’t like suggesting,” he added thoughtfully, “that McNab has only contacted with Miss Harvey, but—”

  Draycott said shortly: “It certainly looks like that. What is your opinion of her?”

  “I think she allowed herself to be arrested, knowing—or believing—that no charge will ever be carried as far as the jury. Alternatively, I would say that she has been told to do it, and has obeyed because she can’t help herself. I had the impression that she was using drugs. Her manner was too unreal to be natural, and too genuine to be assumed.”

  Draycott said: “I’ve thought she used drugs, for the last six months or so. She wouldn’t admit it, of course, and—oh, Lord,” exclaimed Draycott, “it is a hell of a mess! Back at the cottage I thought everything was working out, but if she’s under the influence of drugs, and controlled by someone else as a result, I can’t let her down.”

  “Meaning that you really would like to?”

  “Like to!” exclaimed Draycott. “I—oh, damn it, I don’t see why I should tell you, but you’ve a way with you. I’ve been wanting to get out of my engagement for a year. But she’s had a bad time, what with her mother going off with people like Lorne—it wasn’t the first affaire—and a pretty miserable home-life with her father, and her Aunt Charlotte ruling the roost, I hadn’t the heart. And then the thing that really seemed to make it unavoidable happened. By ‘it’ I mean marrying her,” added Draycott ingenuously.

  “Meaning what?” asked the Toff.

  “Well �
��” Draycott hesitated, and then said: “When it’s all over she’ll have to have help to recover.”

  Rollison said very slowly: “Your private affairs are nothing to do with me, but if you’re contemplating marriage on those grounds you’re in for trouble.” They were driving along Chiswick High Street as he was speaking, but there was little traffic about. “You knew something that they wanted you dead for. Myra Harvey also knew it, and they killed her to make sure she said nothing—while she lived with Lorne there was no danger for her, but after the quarrel her murder was necessary.” Draycott had heard the full story; he nodded, and waited. “Harrison acted as a go-between for the two parties. Harvey and Lorne. Lorne was the active partner, doing all the necessary dirty work. Harvey pulled the financial strings. You knew that there was a big-scale fraud in the offing. So did Myra Harvey.”

  “You’re getting warm,” Draycott said with a wry smile. “Only warm?” said the Toff. “Then we come to Phyllis Harvey. I’m assuming that she was and is drugged. Drugged, she did what her father told her. She came to me in order to lure me down to Allen Cottage, where you were hiding. I don’t doubt that the idea was to kill us both and for you to leave a confession—forged, of course—to cover the murder at Grey Street as well.”

  “You’re making Phyllis out a pretty bad lot,” said Draycott uncomfortably.

  “Possibly she did it only under threat. Certainly she tried to get me down to the cottage earlier than I went. But what is the game?” demanded the Toff. “I can work out the way it was being worked, I can easily see the careful establishing of a ‘blackmail-cum-passion’ series of crime, and have done so. But I don’t know what is behind it.” Draycott said: “I doubt if anyone in the world could, from your angle. I’ve known Mortimer Harvey for several years, and I was taken in for nearly six months. I stumbled across the truth by accident, and at first I couldn’t believe what was happening. I got proof item by item, and then, like a fool, I confided in Harrison not knowing he was involved. Of course, that’s why I was suddenly attacked—I was nearly killed when a car crashed into mine, and then shot at. I went into hiding. You see, I’d made notes from time to time and kept them on file in my desk. I meant to get Fay Gretton to find the file for me, but decided against it. I was afraid of involving her, and that’s the last thing that I wanted to happen.”

  “Understood. Next?”

  “Sorry,” said Draycott. “It’s so hard to believe. Er—Harvey was ill about a year ago. He went to France to recuperate, and—”

  The Toff said, with a sudden hardness in his voice: “Oh, my Lord! And it’s as simple as that I”

  “So you’ve guessed,” said Draycott quietly.

  The Toff had guessed; and yet for several minutes as he drove along Piccadilly he could hardly bring his mind to believe it. The solution of the mystery was so simple, given the key, that it was incredible he had never thought of it. It explained Phyllis Harvey’s addiction to drugs, and suggested she had not taken them in the first place willingly. It explained the need for the death of Myra Harvey, and it explained why Harvey himself had employed Lorne and his desperate gang of thugs to ensure that the truth did not get out.

  But it was out.

  “Ye-es,” said the Toff very slowly, “I’ve guessed. Harvey isn’t Harvey.”

  “That’s right,” said Draycott after a pause. “The man who came back from France was remarkably like him—even to mannerisms. I was taken in until I found that he didn’t know much about the Mid-Provincial Building Society, from which he’d retired. When he lost me the agency it made me think even harder, and gradually I got the proof together. I’m not sure, but I think the man now calling himself Mortimer Harvey is a brother. I know Mortimer Harvey had one. It’s going to be a devil of a thing to prove, though.”

  “Perhaps,” said the Toff. “Perhaps. I—oh, damn, I’ve missed the turning!” He braked abruptly, backed a little, and then turned into Gresham Terrace. He drew up outside No. 55, his mind still revolting against the thing which he had learned and yet which seemed so incredible. And then his obsession was rudely shattered, for there were two cars standing outside No. 55.

  One was Jamie Fraser’s, and the other a large T-model Ford, by the side of which Bert of Mile Corner was standing.

  The Toff braked, and opened the door. Draycott followed him to the pavement, while the Toff said to Bert: “What’s the trouble?”

  “Strike me, I ’ardly knows ’ow to tell yer,” said Bert, and in the light from a street lamp it was clear that he was labouring under some strong emotion. “The dicks ’ave gorn from Gay Street an’ Ma Kless’s place, Mr. Ar.”

  “Well?” snapped the Toff.

  But he did not get his answer then, for he heard a door open, and saw light streaming into the street. Running down the short flight of steps from No. 55 was Anthea, with Jamie on her heels.

  “Rolly!” she exclaimed. “Rolly, thank God you’ve come! They’ve got Fay again. They—”

  “Mr. Ar!” put in Bert urgently, “that’s wot I’ve been tryin’ to tell yer. They’ve took ’er to Ma Kless’s. Arrived there an hour ago, she did.”

  And then, into the short silence, Draycott said: “If they hurt that girl I’ll kill them. I’ll kill each one with my bare hands.”

  It did not seem to the Toff an extravagant thing to say.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  91 Gay Street

  Had Draycott had his way they would have started for Gay Street immediately. The Toff decided against that, and reluctantly Draycott went with him upstairs. Jamie was in the lounge, while Bert followed Anthea, for whom he clearly had a keen admiration. He touched his forehead whenever she spoke.

  Draycott was the first to speak.

  “Rollison, if we know where Fay is, we’re going there without losing a lot of time.”

  “We’ll lose only the time that’s necessary,” said the Toff. “Rushing at it like a bull at a gate won’t help us or Fay. I want to know when it happened and how,” said the Toff. “And in the second we need a bite to eat, and some tea or coffee. And in the third,” he added for Draycott’s benefit, “we needn’t worry a lot, since four of the men who have worked for Lorne are nicely tucked away, and the Kless brothers can’t do much harm from the mortuary and the hospital respectively. We’ve got Lorne and Harvey to worry about”

  “And Secretary Ramsey,” said Draycott. “He was in the know. So was the woman—Phyllis’s Aunt Charlotte.”

  “Aunt on whose side?” asked the Toff.

  “Her father’s. She’s known about the change-over.”

  “Could we know what this is about?” demanded Anthea.

  The Toff explained, while Anthea and Bert busied themselves in the kitchen, Bert apologising every time he managed to get in her way, and touching his forehead with surprising regularity.

  Bert’s two men had followed Fay from the office to Bays-water Road, and there had been no attempt to molest her. Soon after dark, however, the Mendoz brothers – on night duty – had been viciously attacked by two men, of whom Lorne undoubtedly was one. It had been characteristic that Tibby Mendoz, who recovered and was well enough to walk, had managed to get his brother into a taxi, and get back to Mile Comer, without advising the police. There he had told the story to Bert, who had hurried to Gresham Terrace.

  Anthea had been with Fay in the drawing-room, and Fay had been tired, and dozing. Jamie had been out at his club. There had been a knock at the front door – opened by a maid – a scuffle, a cry, and then two men had burst into the drawing-room. Anthea had been thrust to one side, and silenced with a sack pulled over her head and shoulders and tied about her waist. She had not heard much struggling, although Fay had made a desperate effort to get to the window. That much Anthea had seen; but for the rest she could tell only of banging doors, a crying maid, another servant – a man – and then freedom from the sack,
and realization that Fay had been kidnapped.

  “Jamie wanted to go to the police, but I insisted on giving you until midnight,” said Anthea.

  “A touching faith,” said the Toff slowly. He was eating sandwiches, and despite his impatience, Draycott was also eating and drinking. “I’m glad you did, Anthea. I don’t think McNab or anyone else at the Yard realise what’s at stake, and how desperately these people will act. Does anyone know,” he added, “how much Mortimer Harvey is” – he said ‘is’ deliberately – “worth?”

  “A million or more,” said Draycott.

  “High stakes indeed,” said the Toff. “And don’t ask me what the devil I’m going to do about it. Odd though it may seem, I’ve been thinking. Bert, attention!”

  “Okay, Mr. Ar.” Bert took his eyes from Anthea’s fair face with reluctance, but made a thorough job of it this time. The Toff talked for some three minutes, and when he had finished Anthea said abruptly:

  “That doesn’t leave anything for me to do.”

  “It leaves you to be ready to welcome Fay when we get her back,” said the Toff.

  “I’m coming to Gay Street,” said Jamie, as abruptly as his wife.

  “I hope you won’t insist,” said Rollison. “You’re to stay here with Anthea. If anything should go wrong the other end I’ll need someone here to take messages.”

  In the small house, or more accurately hovel, which was 91 Gay Street, Mile End, a strangely assorted company was sitting in the larger of two upstairs rooms. Downstairs, in the passage and behind a door barricaded with boxes, chairs and a table, sat Ma Kless, a raddled old harridan with greasy hair, and lips which perpetually opened and closed as she sucked at the only three teeth that she retained. The only time she moved was to go into the filthy kitchen, the door of which was protected like the front door, and to empty from a filled pail a certain amount of water. This she replenished from a big kettle simmering on a low gas. The task finished, she would refill the kettle and put it back on the gas, and then carry the pail back to the hall, where the steam from the near-boiling water wafted in her face, so that it was beaded with moisture. She was wearing a grease-stained royal-blue dress; a thin, wiry, flat-fronted woman whose little eyes were filled with evil.