The Toff at Camp

by John Creasey

  ‘Jolly suggests that the best place for you and Mr. Ebbutt to meet might be in the Church of England building, next to the bicycle store,’ the nice woman went on, smiling again. ‘It’s always open. Mr. Ebbutt will be there at ten o’clock.’

  ‘Tell him fine,’ Rollison praised her.

  ‘Thank you so much.’ She smiled as if she really meant that. ‘Jolly himself will be at the chalet,’ she added.

  ‘Will you keep him company?’

  ‘I’m just going on duty.’

  ‘Sad for Jolly,’ Rollison said, and managed to grin without having to force it.

  He felt perkier. Ebbutt was a monumental tower of strength, and still possessed that terrific and devastating punch. He had three men with him. If, as Rollison now felt convinced, things were not altogether what they seemed, it would be possible to take some action without relying on the police.

  Davies was in Aird’s office, with Aird and the Colonel. Llewellyn wasn’t there. On the desk was a tray, glasses, whisky and soda, gin and vermouth.

  ‘What will you have?’ asked the Colonel, and Aird moved, to pour out.

  ‘Whisky-and-splash, please.’

  ‘Cigarette?’ said the Colonel, and thrust out his case.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ said the Colonel, as if he meant it. He flicked his lighter. ‘Light?’ He paused. ‘If it weren’t for you, we shouldn’t have got anything like as far as this. Understand your reputation now—not afraid to work with the police when necessary!’

  Davies was looking steadily at Rollison.

  Aird held out a glass.

  ‘Ah, thanks,’ said Rollison. ‘Damnation to all murderers and handcuffs to all crooks.’ He drank; he drank again. ‘That’s good.’ He drank, and Aird hovered hospitably near. ‘May I?’ Rollison beamed. ‘I feel as if I haven’t had a drop for an age,’ he went on, and dropped on to the arm of a chair. ‘What’s doing, Inspector?’

  ‘I’ve telephoned to Harlech,’ Davies said, ‘and my men are on the way to help, now, by sea. Within an hour, men who know that coast as they know the palms of their hands will be searching.’

  ‘Just a risk—’ the Colonel began, and stopped; as if he were reluctant to go on.

  ‘That they might have been moved,’ said Davies. ‘And although the woman has implicated her husband, it doesn’t prove anything.’

  ‘Holding Beck?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Davies, ‘unless you can give us evidence.’

  Rollison could – but once Beck were in a charge-room he would be right out of reach; and that wouldn’t do.

  ‘Would a man attack his own wife like that?’ Rollison asked.

  ‘Well, would he, now?’ Davies was perplexed. ‘I don’t know. But I’m having him watched, and the man Rickett, also.’

  ‘Middleton?’

  ‘Yes,’ Davies said. He did not seem to be really pleased with life. ‘But if they want to leave the Camp, we can’t very well keep them here, can we?’

  Rollison shrugged.

  ‘What we can do is to search Miss Cherrell’s chalet,’ Davies said. ‘Like to be present when we do?’

  ‘I would,’ Rollison said, and glanced at his watch. It was twenty minutes to ten. ‘But I’m famished, and there’s a snack in my chalet. Shouldn’t think you’ll find any caves still occupied,’ he added.

  ‘I’ll let you know,’ Davies promised.

  Jolly was in Rollison’s chalet. The ‘little snack’ was a cold collation of generous proportions. There was also beer and, for consolation afterwards, whisky and soda.

  A subdued Jolly watched Rollison eat and listened to everything that had happened and all that he didn’t know. It was quite a story.

  ‘Now put a finger on the weak spots,’ Rollison invited.

  Jolly considered.

  ‘This peculiar influence of the man Beck,’ he said at last. ‘It is greatly exaggerated, I think. It is obviously true that he can frighten people, but hypnotic—I wouldn’t say that, sir. I think he has set out to create exactly that impression.’

  ‘And succeeded.’

  ‘Too well, I imagine,’ said Jolly.

  ‘Probably.’ Rollison speared a piece of tomato. ‘Next?’

  Jolly didn’t answer immediately. He studied Rollison, his eyes slightly narrowed and very thoughtful. He began to smile. There was no doubt that the holiday atmosphere or the woman with the nice wrinkles had made a great difference to Jolly.

  ‘Will you forgive me, sir, for asking what has happened to make you lighter-hearted?’ He almost purred.

  ‘Wrong,’ Rollison said. ‘Until we get Elizabeth Cherrell free, I’m a man of Stygian gloom.’

  But he wasn’t.

  There was something new, brighter, in his mood. He felt, if not light-hearted, then at least past the worst of the black depression. He no longer felt that the odds were hopelessly against him.

  ‘I can’t imagine that Ebbutt’s arrival alone would be quite so refreshing,’ said Jolly dryly.

  ‘Call it that. Or say that I’m soon going to fire a broadside at Cy Beck. There’s a flaw in Beck’s campaign. A big one. He hopes I won’t see it.’

  ‘If you say there is I am fully prepared to agree,’ conceded Jolly, ‘but—’ He shrugged. ‘I confess that I haven’t seen it yet. Do you mean that he will have assumed that his wife made some kind of statement, and that he will move the missing men, perhaps Elizabeth Cherrell also, from the caves?’

  ‘No.’

  Jolly shrugged again.

  ‘Work at it,’ Rollison urged. ‘It’s much better if two of us reach the same conclusion. I’ll bet all Butlin’s to a Bournemouth boardinghouse that the police don’t find anyone in any cave near Harlech.’ He obviously delighted in being mysterious as he stood up. ‘I’m going to see Ebbutt at the Church of England building.’

  Before he reached the door, there was a tap.

  ‘Allow me,’ said Jolly, and went forward swiftly.

  Rollison felt quite sure that he half-expected trouble. Instead, there was a policeman in uniform, a large and stolid man; in the quiet light outside half a dozen Campers stood about.

  ‘Mr. Rollison, please,’ the constable said.

  ‘I’m Rollison.’

  ‘Inspector Davies’s compliments, and would you be good enough to come with me to Miss Cherrell’s chalet?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Rollison. ‘Yes.’

  He went out. He knew that he could rely on Jolly telling Ebbutt that he had been delayed. With the constable, he walked the few hundred yards to the girl’s chalet – and they were followed by at least a dozen people and by silence. Everywhere the atmosphere was uneasy.

  A crowd outside Elizabeth’s chalet was silent and watchful, too. Several policemen stood about. Then Uncle Pi and Middleton showed up, kept away from the chalet door by a policeman. Middleton was talking in a low-pitched, angry voice: ‘It’s absolutely crazy. Madness! She wouldn’t—’

  He didn’t finish.

  Uncle Pi’s eyes had a glow in them; there was also hostility when he looked at Middleton and, for that matter, when he looked at Rollison. He didn’t smile.

  ‘What’s that?’ Rollison asked.

  ‘The police have found stolen jewels in Liz’s chalet,’ Uncle Pi said. ‘Middleton has another crazy idea. He thinks you put them there.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Search By Night

  Davies and two others were in the chalet. It looked quite tidy. The bed had been moved away from the wall, and there were some chippings of cement on the floor; one of the men had dusty clothes.

  On the small dressing-chest was a little heap of jewels.

  They scintillated brilliantly as Rollison stepped inside. The police still held Uncle Pi and Middleton back; Middleton forcibly. Inspector Davies, his hat on the back of his head, smoothed down his silvery hair and spared Rollison a preoccupied smile.

  ‘Didn’t you find these when you searched this chalet?’ he asked.

 
That showed the cunning of a skilled hand.

  ‘Would I search anyone’s chalet?’ asked Rollison, blank-faced.

  Davies smiled, almost dreamily.

  Rollison had searched, even if he were not going to admit it to the police; and he had moved the bed out and seen nothing on the floor which might suggest a hiding-place.

  This had been done since.

  ‘How did you find it?’

  ‘Obviously a new patch of cement,’ Davies said, ‘and the jewels were in a box under it.’ He smoothed down his hair again. ‘I can be sure that one or two of them are stolen, for certain,’ he added. ‘I recognize them from Scotland Yard circulars. I expect the others will be identified, also.’

  Rollison said: ‘I wouldn’t be surprised.’

  He studied the jewels. Most of them had been taken out of their settings, but some had not. There were diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and emeralds; some gems were large, by normal standards, huge. Staring at precious stones had a curious effect on him; they seemed to fascinate. The size of this haul did. He liked to be conservative in estimating such things, but would be astonished if the total value of the jewellery was less than ten thousand pounds.

  It looked so clear, now; smuggling precious stones out of the country, selling them for dollars.

  Davies said: ‘I’m going to have each one tested for finger-prints, mind you, we can’t take them away yet.’

  ‘No,’ said Rollison. ‘You can’t.’

  Then the muttering from Middleton grew into a shout. There was a scuffle, and he rushed forward. His eyes were wild, he looked like a man demented.

  ‘Liz wouldn’t know anything about it, this is a foul trick to frame her. It must be!’ He glared at Davies. ‘If you think Miss Cherrell had anything to do with this, you’re mad. Why don’t you ask Rollison what he knows?’

  ‘Now, come! The last time we were talking you thought that—’

  ‘Oh, you’re all the same,’ cried Middleton. ‘Police and private detectives are as thick as thieves. I’m sick to death of the lot of you, but—find Liz. Understand?’ He almost choked. ‘Find Liz, or they’ll kill her.’

  People were listening outside.

  There was Uncle Pi.

  He came in, quietly.

  ‘Dry up, Dick,’ he said in his calmest voice. ‘You ought to know better than to start shouting the odds about murder in the Camp, it will only put the wind up Campers without doing any good. Let’s get along.’

  ‘They’ve got to find Liz!’

  ‘They’ll find her,’ Uncle Pi soothed. ‘Come on.’ He slid his arm through Middleton’s, and led the way out.

  Rollison half-expected Davies to stop them, but he didn’t. Rollison watched Uncle Pi’s shoulders, hunched beneath that red coat; and remembered that he had been in Elizabeth’s chalet; he could have planted those jewels.

  Anyone could have planted them.

  The sure thing was that they had not been there that morning. Whoever had hidden them had used quick-drying cement. It might have been Liz; there was no certainty. Liz could be a party to these crimes, might have been spirited away because she was suspect and might lead Rollison or the police to the truth.

  Davies said: ‘What would be the point of framing her and kidnapping her at the same time?’ He smoothed down his hair, and seemed to be talking more to himself than to anyone in the chalet. ‘Isn’t it much more likely that she knew these were here, and was so frightened that she made off?’

  ‘Much more,’ Rollison agreed. ‘Logically.’

  Davies looked at him. ‘What do you think?’

  Only the police were within earshot; there were two or three dozen people outside now, looking in; unless he raised his voice, they wouldn’t hear him.

  ‘I think this is part of a magnificent bluff,’ he said. ‘A gem of a bluff! I think we’re supposed to be spending all our time worrying about Liz when something or someone else is much more important. I think’ — he smiled beautifully — ‘that you ought to take your men off Cyrus Beck and Rickett, and leave them to me. You won’t, of course.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘While they’re followed by the police, they won’t do a thing. If they think the police have lost interest in them, they might.’

  ‘What would they do?’

  ‘I’m not clairvoyant,’ Rollison protested. ‘I’m suggesting that these jewels have been planted here to blind us to the real game. That we’ve been shown the finger pointing this way, and it’s the wrong way. I think there must be much more than this packet of jewels.’

  ‘They must be worth at least ten thousand pounds,’ Davies reasoned.

  ‘Some sprat,’ Rollison agreed. He gave the smooth smile which Jolly had noticed; the same gleam was in his eyes. ‘I think I’m beginning to see what’s on, Inspector.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Davies, warmly. ‘Do a little mental arithmetic about jewel robberies in the past few months. Start with the Minchester House affair in London, with twenty-five thousand pounds worth; add the Manchester one, the Bond Street robbery, the country house burglary in Leicestershire, and the big job at Knyton Hall, in Kent. They all topped twenty thousand pounds, didn’t they now? That’s a hundred thousand, and worth a few risks for any man. Remember that it’s the work of a gang, and we have only mentioned the big jobs—there have been dozens more little ones. Say two hundred thousand pounds, man! It would be worth losing ten thousand pounds worth or so to give them time to take the rest to safety, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘There would indeed,’ murmured the Toff.

  ‘See that rose-coloured diamond with the broken claw setting?’ Davies asked. ‘It’s part of the Knyton Hall robbery—there’s a picture of it in the Police Gazette. They made a mistake, leaving it in the setting, but they were so sure of themselves, weren’t they?’ He gave a little crow of a laugh.

  ‘So very sure. Will you take your men off Beck?’ asked Rollison.

  ‘He must be watched,’ Davies said emphatically. ‘I don’t want to be unhelpful, but—’

  ‘I’ve some friends here who can replace them,’ Rollison declared. ‘Good chaps, too.’

  ‘Ah, but we can see what’s happening now,’ said Davies, greatly excited. ‘The jewels from these robberies are brought up here for disposal—for handing over by the thieves to the fences, the buyers. It has probably been happening all the season. People staying at the Camp can bring in guests, in early and late seasons there are a lot of week-enders. To keep the flow running smoothly, the gang would need one man here all the time; at least one. That could be a Camper or a Redcoat—we’ll find out soon now. Every now and again, negotiations are necessary, and Beck or whoever is Boss comes here to do it. This time, they were really important negotiations—and things went wrong when you were asked to look round.’

  He stopped, and waited as if for approval; even congratulation. Rollison did not have the heart to express doubts.

  ‘Could be,’ he said. ‘We’ll see. Be a friend, Davies, let me have a little chat with Cy Beck, without being followed or watched.’

  Davies had obvious doubts; but agreed.

  Cy Beck was in his chalet. Rickett and another man whom Rollison couldn’t see clearly, were just outside. Beck looked more than ever like an Old Testament prophet – except for the viciousness which lived in his eyes.

  ‘What do you want?’ His voice was gruff; he was nervous, and the Toff loved dealing with nervous bad men.

  ‘Just a little chat, Cy,’ he said. ‘About caves in cliffs and aeroplanes and dollar bills and things.’

  Beck caught his breath.

  ‘Don’t say that stung,’ said Rollison, as if startled. ‘My dear Cy, I know a lot more than that, and guess much more. The police would clap you in a cold, cruel cell on suspicion the moment I told them about those dollar bills, too. But I’m less interested in currency frauds than in Liz Cherrell and the three Redcoats. I want them here. Quick. Say by tomorrow morning. If they don’t turn up—’

  He didn�
�t finish, but waved brightly at Beck, went out, ignored Rickett and the other man, and whistled as he walked away.

  Beck would have to act fast, now, and with luck would make serious mistakes.

  He wasn’t followed.

  He went back to Elizabeth’s hut; Davies was still there, but before he spoke, Rollison saw a woman, hurrying along. She pushed past a policeman, but he caught her arm.

  ‘Mr. Rollison!’ she called.

  It was Jolly’s girl-friend with the nicely lined face, but her charming expression had gone. She was touched with the Thing which had touched so many people here: fear. It showed in her eyes, her expression, her tension.

  ‘Sorry,’ Rollison said to Davies. ‘Hallo?’ He didn’t know her name.

  ‘May I speak to you, please—urgently.’ She glanced at Davies. She seemed to be trying to pass on a message of great urgency – and that fear was in her. What should she fear, unless it were something to do with Jolly? ‘Confidentially, please. It’s desperately urgent,’ the woman added. ‘Please don’t waste another word.’

  Jolly might have said that; and in the circumstances he would have meant: ‘Please don’t say another word.’ The woman was straining against the barrier of the policeman’s arm. ‘Please, please, please understand,’ she seemed to plead.

  Rollison hurried out to her, and the policeman lowered his arm.

  ‘Trouble for Jolly?’ asked Rollison sharply.

  ‘Yes.’

  So this was Beck’s answer; and it could be deadly.

  ‘All right’ Rollison turned to Davies, heart thudding. ‘I’ll be seeing you. Soon.’

  He took the woman’s elbow, and hustled her through the crowd. It had become very thick; dozens were here. Most of the people were middle-aged, but some were youngsters – only the youngsters seemed to find a thrill in this. The rest looked worried; anxious. There were the whispers, the rumours: a murderer, a killer was at large. There loomed the threat of panic, an intangible thing it was hard to beat. Uncle Pi had tried, and Middleton had undone everything he had attempted. From Middleton’s wild words rumour would have spread fast – would now be carried to the dance halls, the theatres, the games rooms, the bars.

  Two or three youths followed them.