John Creasey - Stars For The Toff
“I meant to ask you to send someone to the Marigold Club, Madam Melinska and the girl—”
“You needn’t worry about them,” Clay said impatiently. “In view of what’s happened you wouldn’t expect us to let that pair roam about loose, would you? They’ll be looked after. Did Miss Cordman give you any clue where she was being held prisoner?”
The question was whether to tell Clay or not. Once the police knew, they would want to take action, and Rollison was well aware that this might be disastrous. Any appearance on the scene by the police would not only tell the Rhodesian that he, Rollison, was not going to give up the case, but that he was working with the law. And yet—
Clay had surprisingly clear grey eyes, and a sensitive mouth in spite of his square face and massive chin. There was a pleasing quality in him, and quite suddenly it showed in his face and in his manner.
“Mr Rollison,” he said, “I want to help, you know. We’ve got off on the wrong foot and no doubt it’s as much my fault as yours, but that doesn’t matter now. I know you’ve often done a great deal on your own and—” he waved at the Trophy Wall— “there’s the proof that it hasn’t been a waste of time. But if you go off on a lone wolf act without consulting us, well, it does make things a bit difficult. But I’m as ready to listen to reason as Mr Grice.”
Rollison watched, listened, and warmed to this man; such a speech must have cost a considerable effort.
“She did give me a clue,” he said simply. “Two clues. Lucifer Stride and Mona Lister could help us—presumably to find out where she is. Stride can’t at the moment, so Mona will have to. Only—” he paused.
“She won’t talk to the police?”
“I doubt it,” Rollison agreed. “But I’ve just thought of something. Supposing I fooled these people into thinking I would do a deal and that I would give up Madam Melinska’s defence. Only this would have to be another of my lone wolf acts.” He smiled. “Once you had anything to do with it they’d know I was working with you.”
Clay looked dubious. “But you’ve no assistance to call on—apart from us. Your East End pals won’t play, Jolly’s in no condition to help, so if we weren’t in on it you’d be entirely on your own.”
Rollison shrugged. “It’s the only chance we’ve got. Clay, all you need do is let me have my head. Or close your eyes when I slip away.”
Clay grunted. There was no reason to expect him to commit himself, and Rollison dropped the subject until, ten minutes later, Lady Hurst, Madam Melinska and Mona arrived.
Clay was hearty.
“Time I went, Mr Rollison. Hope you have a quiet night.” He disappeared down the stairs.
“I don’t know whether I like or dislike that man,” Lady Hurst said, as Rollison led his guests into the living-room. “I don’t think I would trust him too far.”
“Never mind him!” said Mona. “Is there any news from the hospital?”
“Not yet,” Rollison said gently.
“Oh, it’s awful!” Mona cried. Her eyes were closed, now. “I hate it, I hate it. Being able to see what’s happening to people and not being able to help.” She shivered. “I know he’s lying very still, there are people in white all about him, it’s an operating theatre, I’m sure of that. But I can’t see his face, I know he’s there but I can’t see!” She began to scream.
Rollison thought, there’s only one way to get her out of this, smack her out of it. As the thought entered his head, Madam Melinska got up very deliberately, went across to the girl and slapped her on each side of the face.
Mona’s eyes opened and she stopped screaming.
“She will be very tired now,” Madam
Melinska remarked calmly. “But we should not leave her alone. If you could get some coffee—”
“Mona,” Rollison said sharply, “how long have you known Lucifer Stride?”
She gaped at him.
“Tell me—how long?”
“Why—why, we only met today. We—”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“But it’s true!”
“You met him only this morning and you’re almost off your head with anxiety for him now. Tell me the truth.”
The girl said desperately: “It is true. We only met today.”
“How long have you known Lucifer Stride?” Rollison thundered.
The girl’s lips quivered, her whole body shook. Lady Hurst glanced anxiously at Madam Melinska, who kept a hand on the girl’s arm but did not interfere. Rollison leaned forward, accusingly, anger showing in his eyes and echoing in his voice.
“How many more are going to die before you tell the truth? He might die.”
“Oh, no. No!” Terror flared up in her. “He mustn’t, he mustn’t die.”
“How long have you known him?”
The girl closed her eyes and began to rock to and fro, to and fro, as if in an orgy of grief.
“Richard—” began Lady Hurst.
“Quiet!”
“Mona, my child,” Madam Melinska interpolated, “you must tell all the truth. Lying won’t help you or your friends any more. It won’t help Lucifer and it can greatly hurt you. What is the truth?”
“I hate you, I hate you, I hate everyone!” Mona cried. “I can’t help it if I can see what’s going on somewhere else, I wish I couldn’t, I don’t want to, don’t you understand, I don’t want to!” Tears began to spill from her closed eyes, but the body tension had eased. “I—I’ve known him for years. He—he came to Rhodesia to visit his brother, Mick—Mick Fraser.”
Madam Melinska glanced at Rollison and then asked the question which he was about to put. “Where does he live, Mona? Have you been to see him?”
“Ye—yes, I have. And I’m grown up, no one can tell me what I can do or what I can’t. Where I go is nothing to do with anybody.”
“Of course it isn’t,” said Madam Melinska soothingly, “no one’s going to stop your seeing him. Where does he live, child?”
“He—he—he has a flat in Hampstead.”
“What is the address?” Rollison asked sharply.
Lucifer and Mona, he thought. Lucifer and Mona. If he had read Olivia’s message correctly, she had been trying to tell him that both Lucifer and Mona knew where she was held prisoner. Could this be in Stride’s flat?
“It—it doesn’t matter—”
“Mr Rollison only wants to help him,” said Madam Melinska.
“He’s in hospital—only the doctors can help him now.”
Rollison stood up abruptly.
“It’s no use,” he said. “I’ll have to get on to the police.”
“Police?” echoed Madam Melinska.
“They’ll be able to find out where he lives. In fact it might be better if they had a look round instead of me. I must hurry,” Rollison added, and turned towards the door, wondering whether such a transparent ruse could possibly work. He was halfway across the room when Mona sprang from the couch and rushed at him, snatching his arm, pulling him round, beating at his chest and face.
“I’ll kill you; I won’t let you go to the police, I’ll kill you!”
He fended her off, gripping her wrists.
“If you give me Lucifer’s address then I won’t have to go to the police,” he said.
“Why do you want it?” she screamed.
“I want to learn all I can about Lucifer Stride. Mona, if I find anything bad—”
“There isn’t anything bad!”
“—I’ll come back here and tell you, then we can both decide what to do about it,” he said gently.
She stood silent, and he let her go. Her arms dropped to her sides, all the fight gone out of her; but her fear was very deep. She moved away a little, and then said:
“It’s 5 Hill Crescent Road. The house is divided into four flats. His is upstairs—Flat A. But you won’t find anything bad.”
Obviously she was terrified in case she was wrong, thought Rollison; and she would not feel so keenly unless she had reason to fear that she might be.
* * *
Rollison pulled the Bentley up in Hill Crescent, from which led Hill Crescent Road. Outside, the calmness of the night was in strange contrast to what had happened before. Cars were parked at intervals, here and there a light glowed at a window, and the street lamps were alight but strangely remote. Rollison approached Hill Crescent Road. Not far away was the dark silence of Hampstead Heath; in the distance, a glow in the sky from London’s West End, where the lights would soon begin to dim, for it was past midnight. Rollison, wearing rubber-soled shoes, reached the iron gate which led to Number 5. It squeaked as he opened it. A porch light glowed softly, but all the windows were in darkness. He closed the gate gently, stepped to the right, off gravel and on to grass, and approached the front door.
No one stirred.
Taking a pencil torch from his pocket, he shone it on to the lock. It was a straightforward Yale and easy to force, and in a few moments he was standing in the hall-way.
A flight of carpeted stairs led upwards to a small landing, and Rollison crept towards it. Soon he was standing outside a door beneath which shone a narrow band of light.
This was Flat A.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Spell-Binder
Somewhere in the flat across the landing, faint music came from radio or record-player. Apart from this there was silence. Rollison examined the lock, and found that this also could be forced without difficulty. Very soon the door was open and he found himself in a small, brightly-lit hall, from which led four doors.
A voice sounded in the room straight ahead, and for a moment Rollison stood still—then he breathed a sigh of relief. His hunch had paid off. It was the voice of Olivia Cordman.
“. . . you’re both utterly wrong. Madam Melinska is probably the best seer in the world—certainly she’s the most famous—”
“Infamous, you mean.” A man’s voice this time, and Rollison at once recognised it as that of the man who had telephoned him.
“That’s not true.” Olivia sounded angry. “If you knew what I know about her—”
“And if you knew what we know about her. All this second-sight and fortune-telling nonsense, it’s the biggest racket out.”
Rollison started. Surely that was the voice of the man who had held him up on the staircase at Gresham Terrace. Very gently, very quietly, he pushed the door open.
Olivia was sitting tied to a high-backed chair. The two men were watching her, their backs to the door.
“Pity you don’t have second sight,” said Rollison easily, “or you might have seen me coming.”
Both men swung round to face him.
There was just time for Rollison to see that one of them was indeed the man who had threatened him on the stairs, then to notice, with a start of surprise, the strong physical resemblance between them, before they sprang at him, their reflexes so perfectly in tune that they both moved at the same instant. He had anticipated what they would do and was ready for them; and hatred of what they had already done added power to the blow he rammed into one man’s jaw, the kick he landed on the other’s stomach. As they staggered back he went for them with a fury which almost frightened him, drawing back only when one lay in a crumpled heap on the floor and the other was draped across a chair. Rollison, breathing hard, brushed his hair back and smiled at Olivia.
“Aren’t you going to untie me?” she asked.
“Aren’t I going—”
“I thought you always moved fast:
He saw her mischievous smile, chuckled, then took a pen-knife from his pocket and cut the rope which bound her. “Have they hurt you?” he asked gently.
“No. But I do feel a bit tottery.” She stood up gingerly and almost collapsed; Rollison grabbed her and she leaned against him. “Rolly dear, am I glad to see you! What are you going to do with them?”
“Hand them over to the police. What else?”
“Sure they wouldn’t talk more freely to you?”
“If you mean will I do a deal with your two nice young friends, the answer is no,” Rollison said flatly.
“You could pretend to.”
“There’s no need, now that you’re free.”
“What do you mean, there’s no need?” she demanded. “Catching them’s not the main job, clearing Madam Melinska is. Have you cleared her yet?”
“No, but—”
“There isn’t any “but” about it. Until she’s proven innocent you can pretend anything; you don’t have to play by the Queensberry Rules with that lot.” She seemed angrier with Rollison than with her abductors. “If you hand them over to the police they’ll only tell them all about that beastly old dossier, and that won’t do Madam Melinska any good at all—oh yes, they know all about it, Lord knows how, but they do. And once the police get on to that, Madam Melinska won’t stand a chance.”
Rollison said slowly: “I don’t think she will.”
“There you are then!” Olivia was triumphant. “You’ve got to make them talk. And if you can’t, I can—everyone talks to me when I set my mind to it.”
“That I can believe,” said Rollison. He chuckled as he looked down at her. “You take some beating!”
“You’re not so bad yourself. I thought you’d tumble to what I meant when I talked about Lucy being a moaner. How is he?”
Rollison told her the latest news about Lucifer Stride. Then he turned towards the two men. The man who had threatened him on the stairs still sprawled across the chair, motionless; but the man who had telephoned him was beginning to stir.
Rollison leaned over him. “I’ll take this one first. Any idea who they are?”
“That one’s Bob. The other’s Frank. Or that’s what they called themselves. They didn’t tell me any more—except that they’re brothers.”
Rollison pulled the man to his feet.
“Don’t worry, we’ll soon find out all we want to know. Got that famous reporter’s biro of yours? I’d like you to take down what they say.”
Olivia rummaged in a sideboard, found pencil and paper, and sat down, crossing her legs. “Okay, Rolly, I’m all set.”
Bob was moistening his lips.
“What’s your name?” demanded Rollison.
“Webb. Robert Webb.”
“Where are you from?”
“Bui—Bulawayo, Rhodesia.”
“What work do you do?”
Robert Webb hesitated. “I—we—”
“Just answer for yourself.”
“I’m—I’m a private inquiry agent.”
