Double for the Toff

by John Creasey

  Dwight was drawing nearer, his eyes glowing.

  “Why should I?” growled Ribble.

  “I might be able to get more out of the chap who came to see me than you can,” Rollison said. “If the Divisional men question him, and he closes up, neither of us will get anywhere. Please yourself, of course,” he added, carelessly, and felt almost sure that Ribble would make the concession.

  “Conditionally,” rasped Ribble.

  “What condition?” inquired Rollison, politely.

  “That you keep the person concerned secure in your flat until you’ve told us what it’s all about.”

  “Granted,” agreed Rollison, promptly.

  “All right, then. I’ll fix it. Good—”

  “Don’t go!” exclaimed Rollison, and Dwight came towards him, hands raised as if in a kind of prayer to the worker of miracles. “This man is named Dwight, Cedric Dwight, and he has been to see you recently about being followed and his life being in danger. Someone at the Yard suggested that he was suffering from delusions.”

  “You mean Dwight?” gasped Ribble. “That pansy in a purple coat and lavender socks and tie?”

  “The description could fit him,” agreed Rollison, solemnly.

  “If you have anything to do with him, you’re nuts,” declared Ribble. “I saw him myself, in person. Anyone would think we were wet-nurses around here. Don’t tell me anything actually happened to him.”

  “I’ll tell you all about it later,” Rollison said. “Are you sure that Grice will be back by six?”

  “Certain.”

  “So long,” said Rollison.

  When he rang off, Cedric Dwight had shifted to a position from which he could look straight into Rollison’s eyes. The man was now obviously delighted, for quite unexpectedly he clapped his hands together and waved them above his head. Rollison waited patiently for him to speak.

  “You certainly know how to handle the police,” Dwight said warmly. “I saw a shocking type there this morning—and yesterday afternoon. Fellow comes from the Midlands, I should say. Got a voice like a band-saw, and hands like hams. Ugh.”

  Dwight gave an impressive shudder.

  “I think I know who you mean,” Rollison said. “In fact he’s a Londoner.”

  “Then he must have a father from the north,” said Dwight. Now he was talking for the sake of talking, and was obviously much more sure of himself. He turned to look at the Trophy Wall, and appeared to notice what was on it for the first time. He advanced towards it, wonderment in his eyes, one hand outstretched delicately to touch the noose. “Is this a real hangman’s rope?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good lord! And this knife …” Dwight touched the handle of a stiletto. “Don’t say that was used to kill a man.”

  “Three men,” announced Rollison, flatly.

  “And—there’s a stain on the blade. Is that—blood?”

  “The chemical analysis says so.”

  “Good lord!” breathed Dwight, and his hand roamed from souvenir to souvenir, touching phials of poisons and guns and knuckle-dusters, nylon stockings and locks of hair, feathers and shoe-laces – a dozen more different articles, each of which had played some part in a crime of murder. Then he turned to Rollison, his eyes glowing. “This is as good as the Black Museum at Scotland Yard! Did you solve all these cases?”

  “I helped to.”

  “Well, I’m damned!” exclaimed Dwight, and moved towards Rollison with both hands outstretched, although Rollison made no attempt to take them. “I’ll make it two thousand pounds if you’ll drop everything else and help me,” he declared. “Two thousand pounds, in advance.”

  “We’ll wait until morning,” Rollison repeated. “What about things for the night? I can probably fit you up, but would you like to telephone home for them?”

  “I’ve a service flat at Apex House,” Dwight told him. “I don’t run to a manservant.” He said that casually and it was almost a contradiction, because Apex House was the most expensive block of service flats in the West End of London, and no flat in it, even the smallest, could be rented for less than nine hundred pounds a year. To this young man, money and water must be very much alike. “If you can lend me a pair of pyjamas and a razor, and your man can get me a tooth-brush, I’ll be all right. You’ve no idea what a relief it is to feel that I’m not going out again. I—good lord! What about my car?”

  “If the police haven’t moved it, my man will take it round to the garage,” Rollison said. He went to the window, where Dwight quickly joined him. Two men in plain-clothes were standing by the side of the modest little car, and talking. Someone had drawn chalk lines round its wheels, and other chalk lines where it had rested on the pavement. Then a police car turned into the street, and Rollison imagined that this was with a message from the yard. “Dwight,” he said abruptly.

  “Yes.”

  “What makes you drive about in a secondhand car?”

  “Oh, that’s easy,” Dwight answered, and grinned. “I thought I would escape attention if I were in that kind of a jalopy, instead of my Allard or the Jag. But the swine on the motor-cycle found out what I was up to.” His smile faded, and something of the earlier tension returned. “There didn’t seem a thing I could keep from him. He knew exactly where I was all the time. I might be at a club, or a pub, or even at a theatre, and be called to the phone and find out that he was there, with vague threats and menaces—just putting the wind up me. I tell you I haven’t been able to call my life my own since he started. I was absolutely driven to go to the police, but—”

  “Driven by whom?”

  “This chap, of course. I was scared into going to them,” Dwight said, abruptly. “I felt that I couldn’t carry on by myself any longer.”

  “Are you sure you’ve no idea why you should be attacked? Why anyone should try to kill you?”

  Dwight answered, curtly: “No. I’ve told you I haven’t,” but that was obviously not the truth. Rollison told himself that until he had decided what to do, there was no need to probe any deeper. If he did decide to work on Dwight’s problem, he could dig out the truth later.

  They were still at the window, and the two detectives got into a police car and were driven off. A policeman walked up and down the street, and by craning his neck, Rollison could see that a plain-clothes man was on duty opposite the car, obviously there to make sure that Rollison’s guest did not leave. Ribble had carried out his part of the bargain.

  The door opened, and Jolly came in, carrying each of London’s three evening newspapers on a salver. He put these on the desk, and Rollison knew that there must be some special reason for this: Jolly would not have interrupted unless he was anxious to draw Rollison’s attention to something he did not yet know. Rollison walked to the desk as his man went out, while Dwight continued staring at the Trophy Wall, as if it still fascinated him.

  Rollison saw a photograph on each of the front pages; the same photograph, of a nice-looking lad with wide-set eyes and a good, strong chin. It did not surprise him to read the caption under the Globe:

  Robert Charles Benning,

  remanded in custody on

  a charge of murdering

  Marjorie Fryer.

  It would be hard to think of two more different-looking young men, or men from more different backgrounds. And Rollison knew that Jolly was throwing his weight on to the side of Benning and the earlier callers.

  Chapter Four

  Advice From Grice

  “Jolly,” said Rollison, ten minutes later.

  “Yes, sir?” Jolly was in a white apron, and in the small, modern kitchen.

  “Mr. Dwight will be staying to dinner and for the night. He wants a tooth-brush and everything else you can think of for the occasion.”

  Jolly showed neither approval nor disapproval as he said: “Very good, sir.”

  “And Jolly—”

  “Sir?”

  “He will need a bath, of course. Tell him in about half an hour that his bath is read
y. When he’s in the bath, get the keys from his pocket and take an impression of them. See if we can make a duplicate of anything that’s obviously a Yale type. He lives at Apex House, and—”

  “Apex House keys have an identification mark on them, sir,” Jolly informed him. “It is in the form of a mountain top rising out of the clouds. Is it only the front-door key you require?”

  “I think I need a new lease of life, to cope with you,” Rollison said dryly. “See if anything else is useful. Dwight says that he doesn’t know why he was attacked and why he’s being harassed, but I don’t believe him.”

  “The obvious possibility is that he is being frightened so as to pay blackmail, sir,” remarked Jolly. “I scrutinised the front door and the porch as you instructed, and found no trace of a bullet. Moreover, I was able to stand on the spot where the motor-cycle stopped for a moment—I could see the tyre-marks and where the machine wobbled to a standstill. I had a comprehensive view of the doorway of Number 29, and it would have been impossible to miss the doorway, even if possible to miss the actual target. So—”

  “You think the idea is to terrify the young gentleman, and the bullet was a blank?”

  “It does seem the obvious possibility, doesn’t it?”

  “It could,” agreed Rollison, musingly. “Never trust the obvious, Jolly. I seem to have said that before.”

  “You have also made it clear that you agree, sir, that sometimes the obvious is in fact the only possible solution to a problem, and have acted upon that.”

  “You’re too good for me,” Rollison conceded sadly. “I must be getting old. So you liked Isobel Cole, too.”

  “She is a very likeable young lady, sir, but I think my chief concern is for Mrs. Benning.”

  “I see what you mean. I’d much rather work for Benning than for Dwight, but we’ll see what Grice has to say. If I don’t hurry I’ll be late, and we wouldn’t like that, would we?”

  Rollison hurried out, passing the spare bedroom where Dwight was now established. He went to the front door and down the stairs, treated the detective on duty to a broad smile, saluted the constable at the far end of the street and, because it was rush hour, did not take his car or a taxi, but walked across Piccadilly, then along the path between Green Park and the Ritz, next into St. James’s Place, and thus to Pall Mall and Trafalgar Square. Then it was a matter of striding along Whitehall to Parliament Street and New Scotland Yard. It was pleasantly warm but not too hot, he was in admirable physical condition, and his mind was stimulated by the challenge which faced him: which job should he tackle? And could he wisely take both? There had often been times when a choice had lain before him, but none quite like this. The investigation into the charges against young Benning would probably take a long time, entail much patient work, and force him to call upon the many people whom he knew in the East End. With luck, the Dwight affair could end within twenty-four hours or so. He had only to find that motorcyclist, for instance, and make him talk.

  Only!

  He might have some luck, though. He had seen both machine and rider, knew exactly what they looked like, and could describe them. The other two people who had seen the machine had only glimpsed it from some distance away; it was almost certain that they would give differing descriptions. These thoughts were chasing one another through Rollison’s mind as he walked, a head taller than most of the people among the crowds thronging the pavements and standing with irked patience at the bus stops, or swarming towards the underground stations. Now and again he stepped into a shop doorway, or into a side street, to try to see if he was being followed. He saw no one and expected no one; it was just his habit to take no chances.

  Big Ben stood high and majestic against a cloudless, pale blue sky. A phalanx of scarlet buses was moving slowly from Parliament Square towards Westminster Bridge, and a solid mass of people, some carrying their topcoats, surged across the end of Parliament Street towards the bridge and the river. Rollison turned off in the direction of the Yard and reached the gates as the first chime from Big Ben, heralding six o’clock, rang out above the sounds of traffic and people. When he stepped into the large hall at the top of the steps, a grey-haired sergeant with very red cheeks greeted him with a broad smile.

  “Six o’clock on the dot, sir. Mr. Grice said to go straight up.”

  “Thanks, Jim,” Rollison said. “How’s your wife’s mother?”

  “Well, sir, not too good, I’m afraid, but you’ve got to expect it; she’s turned eighty.”

  “Trying for your wife, though,” Rollison said, and went striding towards the stairs, completely oblivious of the fact that his stock had risen several places in the eyes of the sergeant and two elderly constables also on duty.

  Rollison did not take the lift, but found his way along pale, severe-looking passages towards the Criminal Investigation Department Building, and then to Grice’s room, which overlooked the Embankment and the inevitable stream of traffic. The sun glistening on the Thames greeted Rollison as he opened the door on Grice’s “Come in.” Grice was getting up from his desk, a tall, broad man who looked rather thin, was dressed in brown, had brown hair flecked with grey, and a sallow skin. The skin at the high bridge of his nose was almost white, and looked as if it were stretched taut. This gave Grice a severe appearance; as did the rather tight lines at the corners of his mouth. He could be severe; he could be the kindliest of men. Just now he looked as if he were tolerantly amused. He shook hands with Rollison, ushered him to a chair, and pushed a box of cigarettes across his polished desk; the desk was almost clear of papers, but had three telephones and a dictating machine on it.

  “Well, how’s the great Toff?” he inquired.

  “Reeling,” announced Rollison.

  “From what?”

  “This VIP treatment.”

  “That’s just to let you down lightly. Don’t say you’ve given up smoking?”

  “No. Thanks.”

  Rollison took a cigarette and lit it while studying Grice’s face. He had known the other for over twenty years, and there was very little he did not know about Grice’s moods, his ability, and his weaknesses. Now he felt sure that he had news which would not please his visitor and, as he was a policeman and the Toff a kind of private competitor, that amused him.

  “Dwight is going to be a great disappointment to you,” he said.

  “Deluded is he?” asked Rollison.

  “Yes.”

  “Sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “By?”

  “A kind of persecution mania.”

  “Since when?”

  Grice chuckled.

  “Let’s leave the monosyllables,” he said, and sat on the corner of his desk, a position he liked because it enabled him to look down on his callers; he was a great believer in the simpler forms of psychology. “He was here yesterday morning and again this morning. The first time he was so convincing that we took him seriously, and he saw Superintendent Morrow.” Morrow was an able but earnest officer. “Morrow decided that he ought to check with Dwight’s family. He has an aunt and uncle, but he’s been an orphan for several years, and lives on his own. The trouble is old-standing, they say. From childhood he has always been frightened of the dark. He imagines shadowy creatures in dark passages, and that kind of delusion. It’s so frequent these days that it’s almost normal. And if that doesn’t satisfy you,” went on Grice firmly, “I checked with his family doctor. The doctor knows nothing about this particular delusion, but he does know that there is a history of nervous ailments and tensions—hysteria as a child, too. I could give you chapter and verse, but I don’t think you’ll want it.”

  “Not for a moment,” agreed Rollison, as if truly humbled. “Never be surprised at what’s round the next corner, eh? How rich is young Dwight?”

  “Very.”

  “Sure?”

  “By normal standards, yes. He inherited forty thousand pounds and a business which the family runs for him, and he has a big private income. Did he offer
you a large sum to work for him?” asked Grice, and laughed, appreciating this joke to the full. “Money still talks, even to the Toff! But you could be had up for fraud if you accepted this from him.”

  “Interesting case to take to court,” said Rollison, as if earnestly. “We’ll have to think about it, Bill. I would say that it’s no crime to accept a thousand or even two thousand pounds from a man who honestly believes that you can help him. He’s at my flat now, as calm and collected as a millionaire, and safe from all his fears.”

  “You wait until the lights go out.”

  Rollison grinned.

  “I’ll try it, and see. But Bill—”

  “Yes?”

  “He was chased. Positively. I saw the motorcyclist. I heard the shot.”

  “There was no sign of a bullet, the Divisional man checked,” said Grice. “Two people who were in the street say that Dwight—they identify him only as the driver of a small car—behaved like a madman because the motor-cycle nearly touched him by cutting in to avoid a dog which ran into the road. The motorcyclist actually came back, to see if he’d done any damage, and drove off when it was obvious that he hadn’t. The so-called shot could have been a back fire.”

  “Ah,” said Rollison, solemnly. “I stand defeated. Jolly couldn’t find the bullet, either.”

  “I know. The Divisional chaps saw him looking for it, and would have stopped him if he’d found anything.”

  “My, my,” said Rollison, as if acutely distressed. “It looks as if both Jolly and I ought to be put out to grass.” He smiled into Grice’s face, realising that the Yard man believed he had come only to talk about Cedric Dwight and did not yet know of his interest in young Benning. Rollison did not broach the second subject yet; he was too preoccupied with the one fact he knew and no one else did: the motorcyclist had held a gun. That had not been imagination. Rollison had seen the flash and heard the report, and he was not being deluded. There remained the possibility which Jolly had suggested: that the motorcyclist’s purpose had been simply to frighten Dwight. A blank cartridge could make a realistic noise. But whether he took Dwight’s retainer or not, Rollison meant to do all he could to trace the motor-cycle and the rider. He liked to know whether he had been fooled.