The Toff at Camp

by John Creasey

  Middleton’s eyes were closed, his lips were parted slightly; his face looked very pale, his lips, nose, and ears were blue-ish grey. The stocking was tied with cruel tightness. Rollison could not get a finger between it and his neck. Middleton seemed not to be breathing, was like a corpse. But his hands and face were warm.

  Rollison slid the cutting blade between his neck and the stocking, and began to cut the nylon with slow, sawing movement; twice he nicked the skin, and blood began to flow.

  Middleton didn’t move; nothing suggested that there was any life left in him.

  It became easier to cut.

  The stocking fell apart.

  There were deep ridges in Middleton’s neck – ugly, red marks and swollen veins. Rollison saw these as he put the knife on the dressing-chest, then turned Middleton over on his back. His movements were swift, decisive. He pulled the single bed away from the wall, knelt beside the limp body, and began artificial respiration. It was too early to tell whether there was any hope at all for Middleton. The continual movement was exhausting; Rollison knew that he would need help if it had to be kept up too long.

  He went on.

  The eerie encounter with Beck – had it been Beck? – oppressed him. But he thought of Middleton’s manner, Elizabeth Cherrell’s anger, and Uncle Pi’s disappearing figure. Uncle Pi had gone from this doorway, and Beck – call him Beck – had been near; either or both could have done this thing.

  Where was Elizabeth?

  Why hadn’t he brought Jolly with him?

  How long dare he handle this by himself?

  Rollison could see Middleton’s profile; a good one. In his way, Middleton was a handsome chap. His face was moving because of Rollison’s pressure. Was there a little more colour in his cheeks? Was there a suggestion of movement at his lips? At his eyes?

  Rollison quickened to the hope.

  He began to sweat; next to feel sweat running down his forehead, down his neck, round his waist. It had seemed cooler outside, but was hot in here. His muscles began to flag. He would not be able to keep this up much longer; he would have to go for help. There was a First Aid station at the Camp, and night nurses; but why spread news of this? Jolly could—

  Who had attacked Middleton?

  Where was Elizabeth?

  Why had Middleton been attacked?

  Whose stocking was it?

  Rollison felt that he couldn’t go on. He knelt there, supporting himself with his hands on the sides of the bed, and looking down. His vision was blurred with sweat which had run into his eyes. Middleton’s face was there in vague outline.

  Then he saw Middleton’s lips move, his eyes flicker.

  Excitement surged through Rollison, hope that he could save the man drove exhaustion away.

  Chapter Nine

  Frightened Girl

  Rollison sat on the chair against the wall, looking at Middleton, who was on his back on the bed; almost comatose but alive. He was breathing regularly. Rollison had piled all the clothes he could find on to the bed – two suits, as well as blankets, an overcoat, and, on top of the pile, Middleton’s red coat. These covered the man, and hid the ugly red weals at the neck.

  The nylon stocking lay across Rollison’s right knee.

  He felt rested and relaxed. Nothing took so much physical energy as keeping up artificial respiration for a long time; but there was the deep satisfaction of this reward.

  He lit a cigarette, stood up, and began to search the room. He found nothing which indicated that Middleton was involved in any crime; nothing which justified questioning the man about the missing Redcoats.

  Why had he been attacked?

  Whose stocking was it? Had Uncle Pi been in here?

  Rollison stopped searching, reminded himself that he hadn’t yet been through Middleton’s pockets. He went through one after the other, putting the clothes back on the man, to keep him warm. In a wallet in the red coat there was a postcard picture of Elizabeth Cherrell; and a snapshot of the two of them together, at some beach, with a background of sea and rocks.

  There was some money; several pound notes and, folded and tucked away, two $100.00 bills.

  So there was some kind of link between the Redcoat and Cy Beck.

  Rollison went out.

  A few spots of rain fell on his face before he turned and closed the door. He had the key in his pocket. He hurried towards his own chalet, glancing round every now and again; no one appeared to be following. Two minutes after reaching the chalet, he had Jolly wide awake and struggling into his clothes.

  In ten, Jolly was entering Middleton’s chalet.

  ‘Just watch, and if he comes round before I get back, come and get me—I’ll be at Miss Cherrell’s chalet.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ Jolly’s gaiety had gone, and he still had the bemused look of a man woken from a deep sleep. ‘Be careful, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rollison said, and had never meant it more.

  He went out. It was raining quite heavily now, and he shivered again. He knew where Elizabeth’s chalet was – two minutes’ walk away. All the chalets except one were in darkness; and as he passed that, he heard a child whimpering.

  Six thousand Campers and fifteen hundred workers were sleeping here; and an attempt had been made to kill Middleton. He kept that well in front of his mind – attempted murder, and all that it meant. There was the shadowy figure of the tall man, almost certainly Beck, with the tell-tale flat voice and the menace and the talk of murder – and a pistol which could spray ammonia gas.

  Rollison could still feel the soreness at his mouth and nose, and his eyes felt as if a gust of wind had blown sand into them. All that had been forgotten in the emergency.

  He reached Elizabeth’s chalet; like the others, it was in darkness. He forced the lock, hearing little sound until he stepped inside. The door didn’t squeak; after a few seconds he could hear the girl’s even breathing.

  He shone his pencil torch.

  The beam fell on Elizabeth, and she stirred. He moved the light quickly. She was lying on her back, looking quite normal; sleeping beauty. He closed the door, then began to search the chalet, his torch his only light.

  He found a photograph of Middleton.

  He found no dollar bills.

  He heard a stirring of movement, and turned to look at the girl. He sensed that she had woken up, then heard her sharp intake of breath. He moved the torch again. The light shone on her eyes, and she closed them against the glare. He backed away, standing by the door. Her breathing was fierce and agitated, but she didn’t cry out.

  At last Rollison switched on the light.

  She was sitting up in bed. She wore a flimsy nightdress, white and frilly at the shallow V of the neck. In spite of the fear in her eyes, her beauty shone through, hardly real. She hadn’t known who he was, until now; he saw the shock of recognition. She leaned back on her pillows, staring, her lips parted. Her hair was an untidy halo.

  ‘Hallo, Liz,’ he said, ‘sleeping nicely?’

  She didn’t answer.

  He moved towards her. He felt that he had to find out, now, whether she knew anything about the strangling, and he might be able to frighten her into confession. She didn’t cringe away, just stared fixedly. He picked up a stocking, one stocking, which lay over the foot of the bed. It looked the same shade as the strangler-stocking, which was now in his pocket; and as sheer and soft. He ran this over his hands, gently, and she watched. She hadn’t yet spoken, but she had recovered from the first shock.

  ‘Where’s the other one?’ he asked.

  ‘Oth—other what?’ He could only just hear her voice.

  ‘Stocking.’

  ‘It’s—there.’

  ‘Sure?’

  She looked towards the end of the bed. There was a brassiere; a pair of panties; a slip; that was all.

  ‘It must—have fallen.’

  ‘Think so?’ he asked. He held the stocking in front of him, stretched between his two hands, and went slowly toward
s her. She didn’t cringe away, but moved back defensively. Her gaze was on his eyes at first, and then on the stocking. He drew very close to her, then stopped, with the stocking stretched out above her head.

  ‘What—’ she began, and couldn’t get another word out.

  Rollison lowered the stocking behind her, until it touched the pillow; then he pulled it against the back of her neck, crossed it, and twisted. She snatched at it. Terror filled her eyes – those eyes which were so beautiful. She plucked at it, although for a moment he held it tightly and she could hardly breathe.

  She didn’t scream.

  He held it tight.

  ‘What do you think he felt? That’s how you did it, isn’t it? That’s how you killed him, how—’

  He let the stocking relax. Elizabeth’s hands went to her neck and she fingered the flesh, but she didn’t speak, just looked at him with her great eyes. She was breathing heavily; gaspingly.

  ‘Let’s have the truth, Liz,’ he said. ‘You killed him. Why?’

  ‘I don’t—I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Why did you kill him?’

  ‘I didn’t kill anybody!’

  ‘Your stocking was round his neck.’ Rollison took the strangler-stocking from his pocket; it was in two pieces. He took the other from Elizabeth’s neck, and laid it on the bed, then put the two pieces of the other stocking together. They looked identical in colour, gauge, and size. He felt sure that they made a pair.

  ‘See,’ he said. ‘Yours.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she repeated. She was still breathing hard, but was calmer; he admired the way she fought against panic, and kept her head. ‘Who am I supposed to have killed? Who—’

  ‘Middleton.’

  Her whole face changed; horror, dread, shock sprang into her eyes, her body seemed to go stiff. Until then she hadn’t been able to understand what he was doing, she had been puzzled; or she might have been trying to convince him that she was. Now he had no doubt that he saw her true reaction – she could not pretend about this.

  ‘No!’ she cried.

  She flung back the bedclothes. Her legs were golden, lovely. She slid them out of bed to the floor, and stood up. The nylon nightdress was a sheath for a figure of beauty which could take his mind off thought of murder and violence – could compel him to look only at her.

  ‘It isn’t true,’ she said, in a hoarse, broken voice. In a moment she was by Rollison, holding his hands, gripping them tightly, fiercely. ‘Dick’s not dead, you’re frightening me, Dick’s not—’

  She caught her breath.

  He flashed: ‘Why should I try to frighten you?’

  ‘He’s not dead!’

  ‘What’s he been doing, why should anyone want him dead?’

  ‘He’s not dead!’ She snatched one hand away, and struck at Rollison’s face. ‘He’s not, you’re lying, he can’t, he—’

  She struck him again, then took him off guard by thrusting him vigorously to one side. He staggered, caught his foot on a shoe, and fell against the wall.

  Elizabeth reached the door.

  ‘Liz—’

  She opened it. Wind bowled in, blowing her flimsy nightdress against her body, making it billow out behind. She was barefoot, bareheaded. She rushed into the night, and before Rollison could reach the door, she was running along the path. He snatched up the torch and ran after her. A light went on at a chalet. He could hear the pattering of Elizabeth’s feet and her breathing as it floated back to him. The lights at the corner chalets showed her white, ghostly figure as she raced across a lawn towards Middleton’s chalet line.

  Rollison caught up with her.

  ‘Liz—’

  She shot out a hand, to strike him. He grabbed her arm.

  ‘Let me go!’

  ‘Liz—’

  She pulled herself free.

  The rain was hissing down and the wind was blowing, and her nightdress was moulded to her. He gripped her round the shoulders, and her body struck cold through the nylon; cold but soft.

  ‘Liz, listen to me, don’t—’

  She tried to free herself, but could not. Then Rollison heard someone else coming, across the lawn with swift, light footsteps. Still holding her, he turned round. He saw a man dressed in something pale; pyjamas? He didn’t recognize him.

  Liz wrenched herself free.

  The man leapt at Rollison. He was much smaller than the big man who had pretended to be drunk. He cracked a fist on Rollison’s jaw, but wasn’t much of a boxer, and lost his balance. Rollison hit him, saw him fall back, and turned and raced after Liz. She was very near Middleton’s chalet, where the light was on. There wasn’t a hope of catching her until she reached it.

  The rain beat down.

  Rollison saw her disappear, and immediately heard the din as she beat upon the door of Middleton’s chalet. He could imagine Jolly, startled. He ran on through the rain, slipping on the cement path. He glanced round, but didn’t see the man who had attacked him. He reached the chalet as Jolly opened the door and the light streamed upon the girl.

  She looked like marble.

  ‘All right, Jolly,’ Rollison said.

  Jolly stood aside.

  ‘Tell anyone who comes out that it’s all right.’

  Jolly went out.

  The girl rushed into the chalet. Rollison couldn’t see her face, but hardly needed to. She flung herself on her knees by Middleton’s side. She gripped his shoulders, and began to talk to him in a wild, hysterical voice.

  ‘Dick, you’re not dead, tell me you’re not dead. Dick, Dick, wake up! You’re not dead, I don’t believe you’re dead, Dick—’

  Middleton opened his eyes.

  It was probably the first time he had come round. He looked blankly at Elizabeth, couldn’t have had any idea what this was all about. Then Elizabeth moved her head forward, and hid her bewilderment from Rollison. She began to cry.

  She was still crying, but less wildly, when Rollison drew her away. Middleton looked dazed, but watched her. There was a moment of quiet, the first since she had reached here.

  ‘I’ll take her back to her chalet,’ Rollison said quietly. ‘Middleton, I’ll see you soon. Keep warm.’ Rollison looked at Elizabeth, then suddenly put an arm beneath her shoulders and another beneath her knees, and lifted her.

  Jolly appeared, and said something that sounded like: ‘All’s well, sir.’

  Rollison stepped out into the rain. A fierce squall struck at him. He was going into the wind, and Elizabeth was lovely but not a light weight. He hurried, but couldn’t run. It wasn’t far. Elizabeth was wet through; she needed a hot bath or a shower, a brisk rub down.

  They reached her chalet.

  Uncle Pi, in a dressing-gown, hair wet and dishevelled, stood just inside.

  Chapter Ten

  Uncle Pi

  ‘Just put her in that chair,’ Uncle Pi said, ‘and then put a blanket round her. I’ll get a couple of the girls to lend a hand.’ His voice was clipped; he gave an impression of fighting back his rage.

  His brown eyes usually had a soft, a gentle light. They changed as he looked at Elizabeth, and in that moment Rollison knew that he was in love with the girl. It was only for a moment; then Rollison put Elizabeth on to the chair, and Uncle Pi went out.

  Rollison heard a tap at a nearby door, as he put a blanket round Elizabeth’s shoulders. She had started to shiver, and couldn’t control it. Rollison knew that nothing would help until she was warm again.

  He heard voices.

  Uncle Pi came back. He glanced at Elizabeth with familiar gentleness in his eyes, and then at Rollison. His gaze hardened; it was easy to believe that Uncle Pi could hate.

  He said: ‘They’ll be here in a jiffy.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Pi,’ a girl called out, ‘why don’t you take her across to the baths?’

  ‘Good idea,’ Uncle Pi said.

  He moved towards Elizabeth. He looked down at her; she was
shivering violently, and her eyes were closed.

  ‘I’ll take her,’ Rollison said.

  ‘I’ll lead the way.’ Whatever Uncle Pi was thinking, he kept himself under stern control.

  The blanket was already damp from her body, so Rollison did not take it away. Light shone out from a chalet two doors removed; and there was another light above a doorway marked Lasses on the other side of the lawn which ran between the chalet lines. Rollison took Elizabeth across, and inside. Uncle Pi followed. There were rows of showers and ordinary baths.

  ‘Better fill a bath,’ Rollison said.

  ‘Here we are,’ a girl called, and came hurrying, ‘you two had better get out, or there’ll be a scandal.’

  She was short and plump, and had frizzy hair in a net. The girl with her was tall and on the lean side. Rollison had seen neither of them before. They bustled him and Uncle Pi out. Water was splashing into the bath before the men left the building.

  The plump girl came hurrying.

  ‘We’ll put her in my bed. Have it ready, Pi.’

  ‘Right.’

  The two men walked across the lawn together. Lights were at other windows, two doors were open, someone called out in a muted voice.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Uncle Pi called. ‘Forget it.’ He looked round at Rollison. ‘Wait for me at Liz’s chalet, will you?’

  He went into another, and Rollison saw him bending over the bed. Two men came along to speak to the Pied Piper, and he satisfied them.

  Rollison, soaked to the skin, would leave tell-tale signs if he searched again. So he struggled to light a cigarette, and succeeded as Uncle Pi came in.

  The brown eyes were cold and hostile.

  ‘I don’t care who you are,’ he said very carefully. ‘I don’t care if you’re the best detective in England, Europe, or the whole damned world, but keep your hands off Liz. Understand?’

  Rollison said: ‘Listen, Wray, she—’

  ‘Just keep your hands off Liz,’ Uncle Pi went on. ‘She can’t have anything to do with—whatever you’re here to do. She doesn’t know a thing about the fellows who’ve disappeared, if that’s what you’re after. Just leave her alone—understand?’