by John Creasey
“Good girl!” repeated the Toff, and meant it.
He left Anthea after an hour, knowing that she was considerably cheered. He was cheered himself, for he had been afraid that her interest in him had been mainly personal. It was a relief to know that this was not so. He could, however, easily understand that a girl of Anthea’s type would blame herself for precipitating the affair on which he was engaged.
A nice person, Anthea.
He hoped her Jamie was worthy of her, hoped too that she would make some discoveries about James Wrightson – who, of course, was Paul Renway’s nephew. He considered that one way and the other, he was making all the progress that he could expect.
Leopold Kohn and Irma, for instance, were not likely to be feeling on top of the world.
He smiled sombrely, and walked along Park Lane to Arch Mansions. He went up the stairs, stopped outside Kohn’s door, drew out his wallet and selected one of the little cards which he had shown to Anthea. He slipped it under the door, hesitated for a moment, and then decided that he would let Kohn find it later. That done, he went back to Gresham Terrace and considered the position – a thing he was doing more often than his reputation made likely.
In the life of Leopold Kohn so many things had seemed simple.
The outline of his upbringing and education was accurate – Jolly’s information, through the old servant, had been well founded. But Charterhouse and Yale had contributed nothing towards making Kohn a gentleman nice to know.
There was in him a streak of ruthlessness too often found in the Prussian – for his father HAD been a Prussian – which enabled him to consider killing as a minor incident, provided it was the killing of someone else, preferably by someone else. Only twice had Kohn’s own hands been soiled by murder, but at least a dozen murders were directly attributable to him.
He had operated as a confidence trickster on a scale rarely conceived before in America, France, Monaco, India and South Africa. He used men of the Benson kind frequently, and he had a valuable connection among such criminals in many capitals. It was his habit, if any man appeared to become dangerous by demanding more than Kohn cared to pay him, to arrange his murder; he had done just that with Sidey, and would have no hesitation in doing the same thing with Benson or Charlie Wray if the need arose.
Operating in London for the first time, he had discovered in Renway an excellent victim, in Irma a perfect bait for Renway, and until that night when Irma had been seen at the Embassy, the affair had appeared to be progressing well. Since then, and since the Toff’s visits, too many things had misfired.
There was the disturbing appearance of the boot, for instance, a story from Wray about Benson’s nervousness, and the fact that the Toff had been seen in the East End.
The acquaintance that Rollison was striking up with Renway, too, was far from reassuring.
The decision to get Rollison out of the way quickly, Irma’s idea of keeping Rollison on the phone while he was shot from the door had seemed one that could not fail, but it had failed – and Kohn was beginning to feel the effect of the Toff, beginning to understand why Irma hated him so bitterly, to know something of the thing which the Toff called psychological terrorism.
Kohn was considering the situation, which meant that he was considering the Toff. Irma was at the Embassy again with Renway, for the millionaire had to be kept sweet. Kohn would have preferred to talk with Irma, and even contemplated going to the Embassy on some excuse that would hold water.
And then he saw the card beneath the door.
It was lying with the little drawing upwards, and he stooped down slowly, stared at it – and the colour drained from his face. Rollison would have been the most satisfied man in the world had he seen the effect of that card on Leopold Kohn.
“The …” said Kohn, and there was murderous viciousness in his voice as he turned back to his desk and sat down heavily. He took a decanter of whisky, poured himself out a drink, and took it neat. His hand was still a little unsteady, and he cursed himself for it – but he was not the first man and would not be the last to feel the effect of the Toff when the Toff was a long way away from him.
Renway and Irma had returned from the Embassy before midnight, Jolly reported, and Irma had gone straight to her flat.
“Nothing to do now, then, but sleep,” said Rollison.
He slept until nine, and felt the better for it. The day turned out to be one of those when everything seemed at a standstill. He did not propose to go out and look for trouble: better to let Kohn and Irma stew for a while, for he believed the utlimate brew would be one disastrous for them both.
Anthea telephoned at four o’clock.
She had a little news, for she had located a James Wrightson, who was the nephew of that stuffy old millionaire, named Renway. Was that the man? The Toff said it was, and Anthea rang off so quickly that the Toff knew she was eager to get her teeth into the job.
In truth, he had wanted to keep her mind occupied, and through that get information which he or Jolly could obtain with little effort. There was, of course, the feminine angle of the Wrightson love-affair, which might prove useful and which Anthea would diagnose better than they could.
At five, Rollison presented himself at Renway’s St. John’s Wood house.
Renway was affability itself, made many sly digs at the gullibility of men who knew nothing about Art, and showed Rollison some of his collection.
Rollison’s ignorance was not as great as Renway imagined, and Rollison was impressed. He recognised that in the present state of the market, the value of the pictures was likely to be enormous. He could not fail to see the reason for Irma’s and Kohn’s interest. He made the necessary admiring comments, and was then led to a small library.
It was a pleasantly furnished room, panelled in light oak. A glance about the shelves told Rollison that although Renway might be an expert on the Renaissance period as far as pictures were concerned, his literary pretensions were not high. There were, of course, the classics, leather-bound, and of the type of edition rarely read. One section of the library was filled with modern novels, mostly on the light side; there were plenty of thrillers and even light romances. It was ordinary, average taste, and it reflected no more credit on Renway than his choice of Irma as a bride.
Could that be serious? wondered the Toff.
He had let Renway get away with it fairly easily so far, but as the other brought out sherry, and was obviously prepared to be expansive, Rollison put a few gentle, leading questions. He found Renway almost maudlin on the subject of women, although he did not make any direct personal comments.
“Young and old, all get it sooner or later,” said Rollison. “I suppose the older a man is the better his judgment as far as women are concerned. Particularly the woman he’s thinking of marrying.”
Renway frowned.
“Yes, Rollison, you’re right. My nephew, now, the young fool. He’s getting himself tied up with a woman who won’t be the slightest use to him in the future. Oh, she’s pretty enough now, but she’s got no intelligence. It can’t be denied that intelligence is far more important than physical attraction.” Renway uttered the statement with the air of one who had thought of it before any of his fellow men, and went on worriedly: “It will have to stop. He’s spending too much money, far too much of my money. He doesn’t seem to appreciate the importance of conserving money, and …”, Renway broke off for a moment, and the Toff was almost afraid that the stream of confidences would dry up. But Renway went on slowly, and without prompting.
“Money doesn’t make money, Rollison, in spite of fools who like to think that adage worth following. Money means work, care, consideration, judging the right moment to sell, the right to buy. I resigned from several companies at a time when I considered they were on the down grade, and that their Board was not following a money-making policy. In each case I was prove
d right.”
Rollison raised his eyebrows, and said with the air of a man inviting a confidence which he would regard as a favour: “Is that so, Renway? Can I take it as a hint?”
Renway looked at him squarely.
“What company are you interested in?”
“I’m holding a big parcel of Bi-National Electric.”
“Oh …” Renway hesitated, and then rested a scrawny hand on Rollison’s arm. “Don’t worry about Bi-Nationals, they’re as safe as any industrials in the country. I retired from there for private reasons. But don’t run away with the idea that I’m finished with business, Rollison. I’ve heard it said that I’m retiring because I’m old. But the older the fox the craftier. I’ve something up my sleeve that people like Waterer won’t forget in a hurry. I’ve left business, but I’m coming back with a bang, and …”
He broke off, abruptly, and to Rollison it seemed that he was almost frightened. He muttered something under his breath which was inaudible, and then added clearly: “All this is in the strictest confidence, Rollison. I’m sure I can rely on you.”
“You can, completely,” said the Toff, and his manner was sufficiently reassuring to make Renway relax.
“Excellent, excellent! And I’ll forget the fact that you bought a cheap imitation of a de Rossi for the real thing, eh?” He laughed, and patted Rollison on the back, then suggested that they should go into his study where – he said – he kept the only sherry worth drinking in the house. “Amontillado, of course, on a par with yours, Rollison.”
The Toff was interested in Amontillado just then only in so far as it might help to loosen Renway’s tongue, and he doubted whether it would. On the whole, however, he could not complain. He knew more about the domestic discord which was blowing up and a little about a new business venture which Renway wanted to keep secret.
Which of those two things was of importance to Irma? Or was it those pictures?
Renway opened the door of his study, and then stopped abruptly on the threshold. He hesitated, as if uncertain whether to go in, then stepped through quickly. Rollison understood why when he saw the young man who was sitting at a desk, writing.
This, then, was the nephew.
Rollison saw the frown on young Wrightson’s face as he stood up quickly. Also he covered what he had been writing, and to the Toff it seemed likely that it was a letter to his lady.
“Hallo, Uncle.”
“Hm. James, meet Mr. Richard Rollison. Rollison, my nephew, James Wrightson.”
Wrightson nodded, stiffly, and started for the door.
“Don’t let me drive you away, please,” said the Toff quickly. “I’m not staying long.”
Wrightson hesitated, and glanced towards his uncle. To the Toff it seemed as if he was trying to gauge which the older man would prefer – for him to stay, or to go. Renway did nothing to help him, and Wrightson turned back into the room, taking cigarettes from his pocket and proffering them.
Renway refused, abruptly.
The Toff took one, and struck a match. Wrightson lit his cigarette, and as he did so the Toff looked closely at his face.
“Thanks,” said Wrightson stiffly, and drew back. “Has Uncle been showing you the collection?”
“Yes.” Rollison talked of it enthusiastically, and decided that in spite of a marked lack of response he liked the look of Wrightson. He was a little shorter than the Toff, but broader across the shoulders; and he had a rugged face that could be called attractive, but certainly not handsome. His hair was fair and crisp, and his lips well-shaped and generous. His whole expression at the moment was one of resentful sullenness.
Yet he did not look the type of man to be habitually bad-tempered.
That there was an estrangement between the uncle and the nephew would have been obvious even had the Toff not possessed prior information. Both men created the impression that they were finding it an effort to be polite to each other. The Toff chatted for a few minutes, the better to gauge the atmosphere of the house, then made his excuses.
When he left he was all smiles and thanks, but his smile disappeared as he climbed into his Frazer-Nash.
“There’s a flare-up coming in that quarter,” he mused. “I wonder if Irma has been fanning the flames?”
He meditated on the three obvious possibilities as he drove to his flat. One, that Irma was actually contemplating marriage with Renway for the sake of his money. Two, that the new business surprise that Renway had talked about was being ‘nursed’ by Irma and Kohn. That would be one explanation of Renway’s need for secrecy. Three, that there was a plan afoot to steal the art treasures.
For the first, there was some evidence. Possibly Irma had helped to widen the older man’s breach with his nephew over the association with a girl, hoping to get James Wrightson disinherited. On the other hand, neither this nor the possible art theft was the kind of crime Irma was likely to specialise in. The business angle was the one to concentrate on, as far as Rollison could judge. But while concentrating he would keep an open mind.
Meanwhile, he doubted whether trouble between Renway and Wrightson would come to a head quickly.
The Toff might have revised that opinion – or, at least, suspended it – had he been at the millionaire’s house twenty minutes after he had driven off. Renway returned to the study, and his first words were anything but conciliatory.
“Well, James? I’ve given you until this evening to decide whether you will cease this absurd defiance, or …”
“Be kicked out,” Wrightson finished for him in a low voice. “You know quite well what the answer will be. I’m marrying Phyllis at the first opportunity, and if you can’t approve, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry!” Renway barked the words. “You’ll be the biggest fool in creation if you insist. Give the slut up, and …”
He realised before he had finished the sentence that he had gone too far. Wrightson’s cheeks flamed, and he stood up, pushing his chair behind him sharply. It crashed to the floor, but neither man heeded it as their gaze met stormily.
“That’s more than enough,” Wrightson said, and his voice shook with suppressed anger. “I’ve stood a lot too much from you, and I’m through, do understand? Through. I’ve done my best to serve you, and I’ve tried to save you from making a fool of yourself over the Curtis woman. Now the quicker I’m away the better for us both.”
Renway’s lips tightened, but the Toff, had he been present, would have seen the anxiety in his eyes.
Outwardly, only his anger showed.
“An inheritance of a million isn’t to be thrown away for nothing,” he said stiffly.
“Nothing? I’d rather have Phyllis than all your filthy money!” The younger man’s voice was harsh, strident. “Spend it on that doll who’s following you around! Put your precious million into any crazy scheme you like, I don’t want it!”
“No,” said Renway, more slowly than before, “and certainly you won’t get it. Before I leave you a penny piece I …”
He stopped suddenly, and as the younger man glared at him his face seemed to change colour.
Wrightson stepped forward quickly, putting an arm out to support his uncle; without it Renway would have fallen. For a moment they stood very still, with Renway breathing stertorously.
There was a bluish tinge to his lips that worried Wrightson. He knew his uncle’s heart was not as strong as it might be, and, before the quarrel which had now been going on for weeks, he had been fond of the old man.
He led Renway to a chair, and poured out a little brandy. Renway gulped it down, still breathing hard. After a few seconds his colour grew more normal.
“That’s—better! I–I thought I was going.” The eyes of the two men met, and, surprisingly, Renway’s thin hand went out and his fingers pulled Wrightson’s sleeve. “James, don’t make a hasty decision. I�
�m sorry if I said anything to offend you; temper is an ugly thing. Think things over well, my boy.”
Wrightson’s eyes were troubled, but unrelenting. He had no desire for the break, but he knew the choice had to be made eventually, doubted whether his uncle’s attitude would alter; but the issue could be postponed.
“All right,” he said. “We’ll forget it for now, Uncle.”
“Good!” said Renway. “Good! Now help me upstairs, there’s a good fellow. I must go out tonight, and if I don’t get a rest I’ll be like nothing on earth. Old before my time, eh, Jimmy, and that won’t do.”
Wrightson did not say that the rest of the world believed his uncle to be ten years older than his age.
Chapter Nine
Of Phyllis
James Wrightson had a blank evening before him, and he did not feel like spending it at the St. John’s Wood house. There had been times when he had been quite contented to browse among the classics, evenings which he had spent with his uncle and had enjoyed. The days for that were past, he knew, and he wondered how long it would be before the final break came.
Renway was with the Curtis woman, of course.
Wrightson, possessed of a sense of humour which had been sadly repressed of late, smiled crookedly at the thought of his uncle condemning Phyllis while being condemned for the Curtis woman. Irma had a beauty that Wrightson thoroughly disliked. The hot-house type, the siren-type; as different from Phyllis as the proverbial chalk from cheese.
It did not occur to him that he might be wrong. It did occur to him that Irma had been responsible in a large measure for the change which had come over his uncle, a change he did not consider was for the better.
There seemed nothing he could do to alter it.
He sat for a while in the study, which he had always shared with his uncle, brooding over the quarrel of that evening, and the heart attack which had followed. Such spasms were growing increasingly frequent, and Wrightson believed that the faster tempo of the life Renway was leading with Irma Curtis – he knew nothing of her real name – was responsible for it.