The Toff and the Kidnapped Child

by John Creasey

  “No.”

  “I’ll call you the minute I hear, if they do ring up,” promised Ebbutt, “and I’ll send Percy over in time to get your dinner.” He paused. “Okay, Mr Ar?”

  “Thanks, Bill, that’s fine,” said Rollison.

  He replaced the receiver and went into the kitchen. He saw the toaster in a different position from usual, bread still on the board, a tea tray with dirty cups and saucers. He went to the larder; at least that was well stocked, with ham, bread, butter and cheese. He opened a bottle of beer, made himself a good meal, and at ten minutes to four was standing all the dirty things on the draining board; Percy Wrightson could look after them when he came in.

  Why wasn’t there any word from Harry Mills and Joe Locket? They were middle-aged, able men, and had often helped Rollison when he had been working as the Toff. He had heard Yard men say that those two, as well as others who worked for Ebbutt, would have made excellent detectives with a little more training, for they had a natural intelligence and quickness of eye and mind. Had Rollison himself been able to choose, he would have chosen the pair.

  He went to the big room, hesitated, then turned up the number of the Midpro Bank at Dover Court; there was a chance that the manager hadn’t left the office. The call was answered promptly, and in a moment the manager was on the line.

  “Good afternoon, Mr Rollison! You may remember, we met once last year, when . . .” He was eager to make claim to acquaintanceship.

  Rollison let him finish, and then said: “Yes, of course I remember.” The manager was delighted. “Mr Gray, can you tell me if Mrs Kane has been in today, to take out a large sum of money?”

  The manager hesitated, and then said in a much colder voice: “I’m sure you understand that I cannot betray a client’s confidence, Mr Rollison.” He sounded stuffy and pompous. “But—ah—yes, she has been here. Yes.”

  “Can you tell me what time she left?”

  “At a little after twenty minutes to two.”

  “Was she alone?”

  “Yes.” The manager dragged that word out, and then went on much more briskly: “I am sure that it wouldn’t be breaking a confidence to say that I was very worried about her, Mr Rollison. She looked ill—positively ill. And she was—well, perhaps I shouldn’t say this, but she certainly wasn’t herself. Do you know what she was planning to do with that very large—”

  He broke off.

  “Twenty thousand pounds,” said Rollison quietly.

  “So you know?”

  “I know that she was going to make one or two large purchases, and I wanted to make sure that she wasn’t being swindled,” Rollison said.

  “You can’t imagine what a relief that is to me,” exclaimed the manager. “To feel that you are looking after her interests relieves me of all anxiety. I’m quite sure that...”

  When Rollison rang off, he thought: ‘So she didn’t lose a minute.’

  It was just after four o’clock. He wished even more fervently that there were some news from Harry or Joe. It would be pointless to telephone the hospital, but staying in and waiting was the last thing he wanted to do today. Yet if he went out, he might miss a message. He went to his desk and picked up the photograph of Eve, her husband and Caroline, which Eve had left for him. He did not look at the child or the man, only at Eve. He put it down slowly, frowned and said: “What the devil is the matter with me? Why should she be so important?”

  Was it really that his nerves were frayed because of Jolly?

  The telephone bell rang. He picked up the receiver quickly, gave his number, and heard the pennies drop into a call box at the other end as someone pressed Button A. He was taut and tense as he stood up; then a Cockney voice came very clearly: it was Joe Locket.

  “Mr Rollison there?”

  “Hallo, Joe,” Rollison greeted, and his heart was beginning to thump. “How’ve you been getting on?”

  “Well, to tell you the truth, it’s bin a funny turn up for the book,” Joe declared. “We got to the bank as hinstructed, Mr Ar, no trouble about that, and abaht twenty minutes arterwards, out this dame comes—I mean, this lady showed up. She had a whacking great suitcase, which one of the clurks carried for her, and a taxi was waiting.”

  Joe paused; one of his troubles was that he wanted to make absolutely sure that he omitted no details, and

  Rollison knew from experience that he would lose the thread if he were interrupted.

  “Yes,” Rollison encouraged.

  “Well, ‘Arry followed ‘er in ‘is baby Orstin, I ‘ad me Vespa,” Joe went on. “We didn’t ‘ave no trouble abaht that, neever. Went to the Astor ‘Otel, she did – you know it?”

  “Yes, Joe.”

  “Awkward place, that Astor, ‘cause there are two ways out,” Joe explained. “So ‘Arry stayed at the front entrance and I went rahnd to the back – just in case they went out that way.”

  “They?” asked Rollison quickly.

  “Gorblimey, I’ll forget me ‘ead next,” said Joe, in explosive self disgust. “There was a cove waiting for ‘er – just like the bloke you described to Bill, Mr Ar. Be a Teddy boy if he wasn’t too old. Greeted her like a long lorst friend, ‘e did, and they went inside together.”

  “With the case?”

  “Yes, they took that all right,” answered Joe. “Well, I went rahnd the back, like I said, and a few minutes arterwards this lady and the bloke with her go into a little café, and . . .”

  ‘Get on with it,’ Rollison thought, but he forced himself to listen.

  “. . . when the bloke left I ‘ad to make up me mind pretty damn quick whether to go arter ‘im or whether to stay and look arter the lady, Mr Ar. Which would you have done?” Joe asked naïvely ; and obviously he wanted to be quite sure that he had done the right thing.

  “Watched her, Joe.” Please God, he had.

  “Strewth, that’s a relief! That’s the very thing I did,” declared Joe. “The bloke went back into the Astor and never came aht no more, so I said to myself, Joe I said, it’s okay because ‘Arry’ll pick ‘im up the other side. You stick around. That’s where I come to the funny turn up for the book, Mr Ar. You know what the lady did?”

  Rollison felt as if he were choking.

  “Tell me, Joe.”

  “She went right off to sleep.”

  “What?”

  “Dead to the world,” Joe assured him. “Now and again I got close enough to the window to take a dekko. She was okay, I could see ‘er breaving, but sleep – talk about dead to the wide. They’re just waking ‘er up, Mr Ar – at least, they was when I come away to telephone.”

  “Joe, go and see her,” said Rollison urgently. “Tell her to wait there until I come.”

  “Okay, Mr Ar.”

  “And that was a perfect report, Joe,” Rollison remembered to praise, then slammed down the receiver and swung towards the door. He knew the hotel well, and also remembered seeing the restaurant in Moor Street, opposite the back entrance. Because parking would be difficult he did not take the car, but hurried towards Piccadilly; as he reached the corner he met an empty taxi. In ten minutes he was pulling up near the restaurant. He saw Joe outside, a short, stocky figure, wearing a badly cut suit of light grey, rather shabby brown shoes, and a cloth cap; by him was a smart-looking new Vespa motor scooter, Joe’s greatest pride. As Rollison got out, Joe’s eyes lit up, and he gave the thumbs up sign; so at least Eve was all right.

  He turned into the restaurant, with its green plants climbing up in the corners, a kind of imitation bamboo partition separating the dining-section from the counter service, the shiny red and black topped tables, the wicker-work chairs. He saw Eve sitting in a corner by herself, being watched from a distance by two waitresses; half a dozen people were sitting in the café, equally curious.

  Eve looked up and saw him.


  Dr Welling had been alarmed by her look of distress and near collapse; if he saw her now, he would order her straight to bed, and give her an injection to make sure that she slept. Rollison went across to her. She looked into his eyes, while her own eyes were covered with a film of tears, and her lips trembled. He pushed two chairs out of the way, sat down at the table, and took her hands, holding them tightly. He realised then that above everything else he wanted desperately to see her.

  “Rolly,” she managed to say, “what have I done?”

  16

  BLAME?

  They were back at Rollison’s flat.

  Joe Locket was in the kitchen, Welling was on the way, Rollison was sitting on the arm of the big chair in which Eve lay back. She was a little better than she had been, not so near breaking down, but her eyes were glassy and she could not keep still, even when Rollison was clasping her hand.

  “. . . I could understand it more if we hadn’t done exactly what he told us to,” she said. “If you’d tried to follow him, or if you’d told the police—well, it would be understandable, wouldn’t it? If we hadn’t carried out our part of the bargain we couldn’t be surprised that they didn’t carry out theirs; but we did everything—at least that’s not on my conscience. If we’d tried to follow them, or if you’d followed me, then I would just blame myself.”

  Rollison said: “You did everything you could.”

  “Yes,” she said, and looked up at him, those glassy eyes still touched with beauty, her face pale and yet strangely calm. “So you were absolutely right: they couldn’t be trusted. What do you think they’ll do now?”

  “They’ll ask for more money,” Rollison answered.

  It was hard to get the words out, because of the simplicity of her trust, and because of what he knew; there was a chance that Max and Felix would have made the exchange – but for Joe and Harry. Joe and Harry might have been noticed, might have given the game away. So he might conceivably be to blame for this himself.

  It was useless to keep insisting that it would have been crazy to trust the two brothers; as useless to tell himself that he could not possibly have allowed Eve to go away without making some attempt to help her. The truth was that she believed that they had carried out the terms implicitly; and they hadn’t, because he hadn’t thought it wise. Now he could almost hear himself talking to Ebbutt, just telling the man enough for the other two to work on. He should have gone himself. He should have been on tap to take a message the moment Eve arrived at the Astor Hotel. There was no one else to blame, no matter how he looked at the situation, and if he told her so, then—

  He felt the nervous pressure of her fingers.

  “What are we going to do now, Rolly?”

  “I’m going to see Leah again,” Rollison answered, “and you’re going to rest.”

  “It’s useless to expect me—” Eve began to protest.

  “Eve, if you don’t rest for a few hours you’ll crack up completely.”

  “What about you?” she demanded. “You look as if you could fall asleep on your feet.”

  “I’ve been used to this kind of pressure for twenty years,” Rollison told her, “so that’s nothing to worry about. Dr Welling will be here very soon. You’re going to do whatever he says.”

  “All right,” Eve said, resignedly; and she obviously knew that she could not go on much longer. “Are you going to tell the police what happened?”

  “Not yet. Not until I think it’s vital.”

  “One thing’s certain,” Eve said; “you must do whatever you think best. Anything.”

  Rollison said: “I will, Eve.” He sounded hoarse. When he stood up, he heard a sound of footsteps on the stairs; a moment later, he heard the ring at the front door bell, and felt sure that this was Welling, although there was a possibility that it was one of the men from the Yard; the Yard had been very quiet, except for sending that one man to see him earlier in the day.

  It was Welling.

  Welling had brought a hypodermic syringe and was going to stand no nonsense; Eve must sleep the clock round if she didn’t want to collapse. Within five minutes he was dabbing at the tiny puncture in her arm with cotton wool soaked in spirit; within ten, she was getting into bed.

  “But what she needs is freedom from her fear,” Welling said. “I know you too well to ask questions, but if you want to save that woman from a complete nervous breakdown, then you’ve got to get rid of this fear. From what little I’ve seen of her, I would say she’s been living on her nerves for a long time – years, possibly. Do you think you can help her?”

  “I’ve got to help her,” Rollison said simply.

  Welling looked at him curiously, then said: “Well, don’t knock yourself up in the process. This looks as if it’s taking plenty out of you. I telephoned the hospital just before I came here,” he went on, “and the report on Jolly couldn’t be much better. I don’t think you need worry about him at all. Any other way in which I can help?” he added, abruptly.

  “Yes,” said Rollison after a pause. “You can give me some sleeping tablets that will put me out cold in a few minutes.”

  “For you?” Welling demanded.

  “Call it for me.”

  Welling gave him an old-fashioned look, and said: “Right. I’ll send some over.”

  Eve was sleeping.

  Percy Wrightson had arrived, a lanky, long-faced, lugubrious man, and had immediately telephoned to ask his wife to join him, to help ‘look after the lady’. Joe Locket had gone home. There was no report from Harry Mills, and Rollison found himself thinking anxiously about the man, and remembering the ruthlessness with, which the Hapley policeman, Jeff, had been run down. Rollison telephoned Ebbutt again; there was still no news. He put a call to Superintendent Grice of New Scotland Yard, but Grice was out on a bank hold-up job; his assistant told Rollison that there had been no trace of the driver of the Hillman, no trace of the driver of the Super Snipe. In short, the police had made no progress, and there was no particular reason why they should have done.

  Rollison went out, left the Bentley outside the house, and took a Morris runabout from the mews garage; it would be much easier to handle in the rush-hour traffic. As he drove towards Kensington and the Marple Guest House, he found himself thinking not only of Eve, but of Caroline and her father. He had been consulted in the first place to look for Ralph Kane, and had given him hardly a thought.

  Would it be easier to trace the girl through him?

  Was he making a mistake in concentrating on Caroline through Leah – even if Leah were still at the guest house? He didn’t think she would be; but there was always a chance that Max and his brother would be overconfident, feeling absolutely sure that he would not go to the police. He reached Marple Street and drove past the corner house, sure that he would not be recognised even if Max or Leah were there. He sat at the wheel, smoking. He was quite sure that he had not been followed, and he almost wished he had. There were so many anxieties crowding on him now; not least, Harry Mills. If anything had happened to Harry he would feel the full weight of blame.

  He neared a corner, planning to park out of sight of the guest house, and saw an old Austin seven only fifty feet or so ahead, with a man sitting at the wheel. For the first time that day, Rollison’s heart really leapt; for this was Harry Mills. He got out of the Morris and hurried over, while Harry looked straight ahead, as if completely unaware that anyone was approaching him. Rollison bent down and said: “Haven’t you got the price of a telephone call?”

  “Cor lumme, it’s Mr Ar!” exclaimed Harry, in a squeaky voice. He was a small man, nearly fitting the little old car, which was immaculate inside. His grey eyes lit up, and he thrust his hand out of the window, to grip Rollison’s hand. “Want me to get out, or—”

  “Stay there, and tell me what happened.”

  “Nothing mu
ch,” answered Harry promptly. “That’s the worst of it. Once I got here, I was stuck. There isn’t any telephone kiosk in sight, and if I’d gone away to find one, they might have skipped.” He hadn’t the same pronounced Cockney accent as Joe, had a little round bright face, and was very well dressed; Harry was also a dandy. His black hair was brushed back in waves which seemed to be Marcelled, and it glistened with a well-advertised brand of pomade. “So I thought I’d better stay put, Mr Ar.”

  “The man came here, did he?”

  “He went halfway round London to get here, though.”

  “Did he stop on the way?”

  “Nope,” answered Harry. “Now and again he got held up in traffic, but he’s some driver, I can tell you that.”

  “Did he have a suitcase with him?”

  “Brought it out of the Astor Hotel,” answered Harry, and told Rollison the same story that Joe had, up to the point when Joe had gone round to the other side of the hotel. “And he took it into the guest house, if that’s the right word for it.” He sniffed.

  “Isn’t it, Harry?”

  “Proper tarty lot have gone in and out there since I’ve been waiting,” Harry said scathingly. “Couple of old dears, too, to be honest. Any instructions, Mr Ar?”

  “Have you seen another man like the one you followed?”

  “Nope.”

  “Have you seen a short, big-breasted girl – twenty-three or four, say – come out? Somewhere around 40, 22, 40,”

  Harry’s eyes glistened.

  “I wish I had!”

  “Just stay here until I come back,” said Rollison.

  He left the car just round the corner from Harry’s, and walked back to the Marple Guest House, keeping close to the small areas of the houses on that side of the street so that there was less chance of being seen from the window of Leah’s room. It all seemed too good to be true: Max here, the money here, Leah here. Rollison reached the front door and found it wide open. There was a sound of frying and a smell of cooking, too. No one saw him. A breeze came in at the front door and made the theatre and cinema notices flap a little. He passed the first floor, and saw no one. As he approached the next floor, and room 7, he hesitated, watching all the other doors and looking behind him, in case he had been seen and was being watched.