The Toff at Camp

by John Creasey

  To those who did not know him well, Jolly in this guise might not have appeared remarkable. To Rollison, whom he had served for over twenty years, it was a revelation, a phenomenon, a cataclysmic upheaval, and even a fantastic volte face. It was simply not Jolly’s nature to display joie de vivre; his contentment was the contentment of the solemn face and the occasionally twinkling eye.

  Rollison finished his tea, got out of bed, heard Jolly’s door slam, and went into Jolly’s room. He watched from Jolly’s door as his man walked away briskly, shoulders squared and well back, feet planted firmly on the path, arms swinging; and a faint but distinct sound of whistling came back to Rollison – Jolly was at La Ronde again.

  ‘Hum,’ breathed Rollison. ‘Who?’

  His own mood was heavy.

  It was not lightened by a glimpse of the drawing. That told him that someone had been able to pick the lock of this door and leave the sketch with its implicit threat.

  There had been the tall, shadowy man with the ammonia gas, who had exerted a curiously dominating influence; and who, above everything else, had been so confident and so sure of himself.

  Cy Beck?

  There were the disappearances.

  There was the fact of Elizabeth’s stocking round Middleton’s neck.

  There was Middleton’s hysteria and the possibility of bitter rivalry for Elizabeth’s hand.

  Rollison was glad of the telephone specially installed for him, and put through a London call, to Superintendent Grice’s flat.

  Grice hadn’t left for the Yard. He listened, and then said: ‘I remember Clark, Rolly. We always suspected he was one of a big gang of jewel thieves, but we never found the stuff he took. We didn’t know he was in any dollar racket. Cyrus Beck doesn’t ring a bell, but I’ll check—I’ve noted that description. You might have uncovered something.’

  ‘My usual luck,’ murmured Rollison.

  ‘That’s right! As for this chap Middleton. I’ll find out what I can. Anything else?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Rollison protested. ‘I’ve only had a day to work in, you’ve had weeks.’

  The Yard man had the grace to laugh. Feeling rather better, Rollison rang off and went across to the Lads. He had a cold bath, for the morning was warming up, returned to the chalet, shaved, and dressed. His brief brightness faded. Susan Dell had disappeared, Elizabeth Cherrell took some explaining; the eyes of each girl were so beautiful.

  The eyes of the blonde he saw on the way to breakfast, with the music of the radio in his ears, were not beautiful. There was nothing particularly wrong with them, however. They were quite nice grey eyes, brightened by mascara put on expertly. The blonde was nicely made up and nicely turned out. She was probably in the early thirties. She did not make the mistake of overdoing make-up or under-doing her clothes. Her tennis skirt was knee length and not, like many, an abbreviated version which showed much thigh. Anyone with eyes could see that she had quite a figure. Her white blouse, without exactly disguising this, at least did little to exaggerate her charm. She had a pleasant face, perhaps a little hard when one came to look into it, and her hair was too fair; almost brassy. But on the whole, not bad at all.

  A little later, Rollison found her at his table instead of a greybeard who had mumbled over his plate.

  ‘Why, hallo!’ he said. ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Good morning.’ She was opposite him. ‘I do hope you don’t mind, but I changed tables—I do like to be near the window, it gets rather warm, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Can do,’ he agreed. ‘I’m delighted.’

  He was gallant. He was so gallant that the youths who came along late for breakfast appeared to be spellbound by his flow of small-talk. He himself seemed to be genuinely regretful when they’d finished the meal.

  Was he going to the morning-coffee dance?

  ‘I may be able to get there,’ Rollison said. ‘One never knows— duty, and all that.’

  He beamed, saw her to the door, bowed. She didn’t look back. He didn’t stare after her, but was very thoughtful.

  Redcoats waved.

  Uncle Pi came out of a shop, hurrying, and with a preoccupied air. Nothing he did suggested that he knew that eleven small boys and seven small girls were following him. These came out of the shop in twos and threes, hurrying, gazing, worshipping. Uncle Pi caught sight of Rollison, waved, and went on. The crocodile of children followed – and grew longer. Children ran across the roads towards him, called, ‘Oo, there’s Uncle Pi,’ or laid wait for him at the corners, greeted him, and then fell in behind. To each greeting, he returned a word or two which satisfied; or patted a curly head, pulled a pig-tail, or tweaked an ear.

  He vanished.

  His tail vanished, too.

  ‘Wonderful, isn’t it?’ The speaker was Aird, who approached from a corner as Rollison turned. Aird looked smaller, more compact, and less right for the Camp than ever. He took out cigarettes. ‘Uncle Pi, I mean—the best uncle we’ve ever had here.’ His eyes smiled. ‘Weren’t you detailed to assist him?’

  ‘I may do yet,’ Rollison said. He did not add that that was because Middleton had detailed the vanished Peverill to help Uncle Pi.

  ‘How are things going?’ Aird asked. ‘No news of Clark or the girl?’ The morning seemed to have removed most of his fears. It would be interesting to see his face if he knew about a near-strangling and hysteria. ‘Anything news from you?’

  ‘There were night excitements, I’ll tell you about them later,’ Rollison said. ‘Had any complaints?’

  ‘Several—that there were too many people shouting about late last night.’ Aird smiled again. ‘They came from Campers near Middleton and Miss Cherrell. Nothing serious, I hope.’

  He knew quite a lot; it must be hard to keep secrets here.

  ‘As it turned out, no.’

  Aird said: ‘Like that, is it?’ He looked into Rollison’s eyes. ‘Don’t let anything get out of hand, will you?’

  ‘I don’t quite follow,’ Rollison said.

  ‘I’ve been thinking that these people have had things all their own way. If they come up against some stiff opposition, they might turn nasty. Llewellyn told me about the fight in the Viennese Bar. Be careful.’

  ‘I’m fond of life, too,’ Rollison smiled. ‘And I must hurry.’

  As he went off he knew that Aird was standing and watching him, thoughtfully.

  Elizabeth was still asleep …

  Middleton was no longer in his chalet …

  Rollison went on to the ballroom in the South Camp, where the children were assembled. Outside it was bright sunlight, inside shadowy, gloomy – and fantastic. The great room was swarming with children. A few parents sat round the walls watching the mass of children laughing, shrieking, running, fighting, crying, eating, blowing up balloons, bouncing balls, laughing.

  At the far end of the ballroom, where by night the band would play, were Uncle Pi and two girl Redcoats. As Rollison reached them, they were in a huddle. Uncle Pi broke it. He saw Rollison and grinned.

  ‘Aren’t they having a wonderful time? You’re off duty,’ he said. ‘I’ve got someone else for the under-fives! Meet Aunt Alice, who’s a regular, and Aunt Hilda, who’s volunteered to help out instead of you.’

  Both girls were nice to look at; pleasant.

  ‘Now watch this,’ Uncle Pi said. He tapped the microphone in front of him, to check that it was live, then began to whistle into it.

  The whistling was soft and gentle, with nothing piercing or shrill about it. The amazing thing, the miracle, was the way it affected the children. The shrieking, screaming, crying, laughing tumult died away; there was a hush. Even the toddlers, down to the very youngest, stopped and gazed at Uncle Pi as he stood swaying gently, smiling, whistling.

  The parents were quiet, too.

  Then a man appeared at the door, a silhouette against the bright sunlight. It was Jolly.

  Chapter Twelve

  A Man Named Cyrus

  Rollison walked round the sides
of the ballroom towards Jolly, while Uncle Pi went on whistling, and children and parents watched, enraptured. Only two or three babies in arms were fractious. As Rollison met Jolly, Uncle Pi stopped whistling. In spite of his eagerness to know what Jolly wanted, Rollison turned round.

  Uncle Pi was smiling.

  ‘Good morning, children,’ he said.

  ‘Good morning, Uncle Pi!’ came back in unison. It wasn’t exactly a roar, but every child who could frame the words seemed to call out. The sound filled the great room, gave a clear indication of contentment.

  Rollison forced himself to go out into the blazing sunlight. It was now very warm; there was a beading of sweat on Jolly’s forehead and lips.

  ‘Any luck, Jolly?’

  ‘I think there might be a little, sir,’ Jolly said. ‘I was anxious to let you know as quickly as possible, I thought you might go off with the children, and it would have been difficult to find you. I have the names of two people who were at the Camp at the same time as the men Clark and Beck—and as Susan Dell.’

  Rollison said softly: ‘Very nice work.’

  ‘There are two men,’ Jolly said. ‘One is no stranger, sir—a Eustace Rickett, an ex-prize-fighter, who—’

  ‘My Viennese Bar pal?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And Mrs. Beck,’ Jolly said. ‘She’s a blonde, much younger than Beck himself, quite personable.’

  ‘What’s her first name?’

  ‘Rosa.’

  ‘Rosa?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ve been through the records with the help of a—ah— friend, and it is virtually certain that we now know the only people who were at the Camp during the disappearance periods.’

  ‘Your friend deserves a medal.’

  Jolly beamed.

  ‘I fully agree, sir,’ he said. ‘One other thing: I’ve talked to the night-patrol who was on duty in Beck’s chalet line last night. He didn’t see Beck go out, but there was a light on in the chalet, and man and wife were talking a little while before you came for me last night. So the man who used the gas pistol could well be Beck.’

  ‘I’m longing for a chat with our Cy,’ murmured Rollison. ‘Thanks. Keep your eye on the ball.’

  ‘I will indeed,’ said Jolly. ‘Unless there is something you need now, I will return to the offices. I’ve found that arranging the accommodation for Bill Ebbutt and his men is a little more difficult than I expected. But it can be done, sir, it shall be done!’

  ‘Off with you,’ said Rollison, faintly.

  Jolly turned and positively bounded towards the railway bridge, the Middle Camp and the offices. As he disappeared over the bridge, a Camp bus stopped by Rollison’s side. He jumped on, and passed Jolly near the office.

  Rollison went into the main office, to watch as his man appeared. Jolly went straight towards one of the reception clerks, and beamed.

  She was the woman Jolly had been with on Rollison’s arrival.

  Her face lit up. It was a nice face, round, with a nose that wrinkled easily and lips which puckered and eyes which looked as if they could laugh easily. Her hair was a mass of greying curls. She was smart in black, trimmed with white.

  ‘Incredible,’ said Rollison, in an almost strangled voice. ‘Not Jolly.’

  He felt as if he were wilting, when he turned round, and almost banged into Middleton. Middleton had a white choker round his neck, to hide the fact that it was red and swollen. He looked tired; worn out.

  ‘I—er—can you spare me a minute, Mr. Rollison?’

  Rollison grinned. ‘Ryall, cappen!’

  ‘Middleton’s answering smile was strained.

  ‘Difficult to keep that up, now. I think we’ll he able to talk better outside.’ They went out, walking towards the swimming-pool, which presented exactly the same scene as it had yesterday; if anything, more people were in the water, and more clambering up the diving boards. A big ex-Army truck pulled up with a Redcoat in it, a cheery youth who called: ‘Whose for the next flight over the Camp?’

  A dozen people moved forward.

  Rollison and Middleton went towards a putting-course, also crowded. Rickett’s wife, the woman with the big, wet mouth, watched and followed.

  ‘I just had to say that I realize how much I owe you for last night,’ Middleton said abruptly. ‘I didn’t, until your man told me—’ He broke off, and fingered his neck. ‘What—what made you come to see me?’

  ‘I wanted a chat.’

  Middleton might have asked how Rollison had got in; he didn’t. He watched the road, in sight from here. Several cars passed beneath the flags of all nations which fluttered from tall poles. Middleton could not have looked more uneasy; his heart might have been fluttering as much as the flags themselves.

  ‘Have you—have you any idea who did it?’

  ‘I know that Liz Cherrell’s stocking was used.’

  Middleton said: ‘I—I can hardly believe it. I’ve just come from her. She—’ He closed his eyes, moved back to a wooden seat, and dropped into it. ‘She told me what happened. Rol—Rollison, have you any real reason to believe that she did it?’

  Rollison murmured: ‘Just the stocking.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Absolutely all. You say you were attacked outside your chalet. Was it by a man or a woman?’

  ‘Wouldn’t have been a woman, I struggled,’ Middleton muttered. ‘I suppose she could—’ He broke off again. He looked up into Rollison’s eyes, and his own were tormented. ‘Find out for me,’ he begged. ‘I—’

  ‘It’s time you told me what’s worrying you,’ Rollison said gently. ‘Why you even think it possible that Liz would want to kill you?’

  Middleton cried: ‘It isn’t possible!’

  ‘Listen, Dick—’ Rollison began.

  ‘Ahoy there, Dick!’ A Redcoat came hurrying towards them. ‘Where the hell have you been? The Great White Chief wants you, and there are a dozen of us in your office—been looking for you all over the place.’

  ‘Er—sorry,’ Middleton said. ‘Not feeling so good this morning. Sorry, Rol—Ryall. Must go. See you later.’

  He hurried off.

  Rollison watched him go. It was a pity; Middleton had a lot on his mind, and might have unloaded some of it. It would be worth trying to break him down. The certain thing was his fear; he was living on raw nerves.

  Ten minutes later, Rollison walked past Beck’s chalet. It had a red door and red paint work, a blue roof, red curtains at the windows. The door was ajar. Someone was moving about inside. A pair of grey woollen socks hung on a piece of string tied from a corner of the roof to a window.

  Rollison watched, from the cover of some bushes.

  A woman came out.

  It was the brassy-haired woman of his table, carrying several fragile-looking garments. She stretched up and pegged these on to the improvised line. She had quite a figure, and nice legs. She went back into the chalet.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, a few minutes later, ‘I’ll be seeing you, Cy.’

  She came out.

  She wore exactly the same clothes that she had at breakfast, walked gracefully, and seemed in a hurry. She disappeared. Rollison heard her speak to a cleaner coming out of a chalet.

  Beck appeared at the doorway of his. It was the first good look Rollison had of him.

  Beck was very tall, about the height of the man who had used the gas pistol. His jet black hair was wiry and unruly, a great mane of hair. Even from this distance, his eyes looked almost black, too. The most remarkable thing about him was his thinness. His cheeks sunk in, the bones jutting out; his jaw seemed like bone covered with tight skin. His eyes might have been little more than sockets.

  He moved easily, slamming the door. His hands were bony and thin, too, his clothes seemed to flap about him.

  He walked towards the playing-fields, along one of the footpaths which bisected the chalet lines. He wore rubber-soled shoes, and made little sound. It could not have been brighter sunligh
t; the green of the grass was vivid after the rain, the flowers were a glory of colour. A few people were playing tennis; others were playing netball, some children were running about the grass.

  But about the thin Beck there was something eerie.

  Rollison watched him walk towards the playing-fields. He couldn’t follow without being seen, so moved in a different direction. By hurrying, he might be able to reach the spot where Beck would come out. He had to pass the two churches and the bicycle store. Two youths on a red tricycle came hurtling along the road towards him. A woman with two children clinging to her skirts swung them out of the path of the oncoming machine.

  ‘They ought to be stopped, tearing about like that,’ she said angrily. ‘They—’

  The machine changed direction, as if to avoid a girl on the other side of the road, and swung towards Rollison. It was travelling at twenty miles an hour, a crazy speed on Camp roads. The two youths were grinning, teeth showing, eyes shining. They weren’t so young.

  Rollison saw the danger, and leapt for safety.

  He felt something tear at his coat, and was nearly thrown, recovered, and kept his balance. The woman screamed. Rollison turned, to see the tricycle crash against the kerb, and turn over. One rider leapt clear, the other went under the machine. One of the children, frightened by the mother’s scream, began to cry. Several people hurried up, including two Redcoats, a man and a girl.

  Someone called: ‘Accident.’

  ‘Anyone hurt?’

  ‘No accident,’ Rollison thought coldly. He dodged the crowd, and hurried to the spot where he hoped to see Beck. There were more chalets, and another dining-hall on his right. From a corner, he saw the tall, gangling figure of Beck stepping out towards a garage; there were petrol pumps, vans, and lorries with Butlin’s painted all over them, and several jeeps.

  The Camp radio was switched on.

  Rollison heard snatches; the morning’s programme, Camp flights, something special for the afternoon.

  He reached a spot from which he could watch Beck without being seen. Beck went to the car park and got into a grey Vauxhall. He drove off, without looking right or left; without suggesting that he thought that he was being followed.