John Creasey - Stars For The Toff
“I’m—I’m a private inquiry agent.”
“You’re a what?
“I’m a private inquiry agent.”
“You won’t be any more,” Rollison said grimly. “What work have you been doing?”
“Finding—finding out about Madam Melinska.”
“Did you prepare that dossier?”
“I—er—we—yes.”
“Who paid you?”
“Mrs—Mrs Abbott.”
“Why did you go to her flat to steal the report you yourself had prepared and given to her?” This was a shot in the dark, but Rollison hoped it might pay off.
“I didn’t steal it.”
“You went to Tillson Street and broke into her flat. While you were looking for the report she returned unexpectedly, and you killed her.”
“I didn’t kill her!”
“And you killed Charlie Wray, a harmless little man who—”
“I didn’t kill anyone!”
“You ran him down.”
“That—that wasn’t my fault, he ran right into my car.”
“Oh-ho, so you did go to Tillson Street.” Rollison’s shot in the dark had paid off. “And this evening you followed me from Gresham Terrace and tried to run me down on the Embankment.”
“I never ran you down.”
Rollison moved forward and gripped Robert Webb’s lapels, drawing him close. He could feel the man trembling, sensed the depth of his fear. He held him for several seconds, then thrust him away. Webb staggered backwards, stumbling against the far wall.
“I tell you I didn’t run you down!”
“You’re lying,” Rollison said ominously.
“I’m not lying. I wasn’t on the Embankment tonight.”
“Perhaps you didn’t kidnap Miss Cordman.”
“Of course I did! I’d been to your flat to see what had happened to my brother. When I got there, your man was unconscious, and Lucy— Lucifer Stride—looked as if he were dead. Frank was just coming round. I managed to get him downstairs and into the car, and then she—” he nodded towards Olivia— “began to follow me. I didn’t—”
He was interrupted by a groan from his brother.
Rollison turned to Olivia. “I’m going to tie Frank to the chair,” he said. “I want you to get a detailed statement from him. I’ll take his brother in the next room and get one from him. If their stories tally, there may be some truth in what they’re saying. If they don’t—”
“They will!” gasped Bob Webb. “They will, I swear it.”
* * *
The two statements tallied in practically every detail. The brothers were private inquiry agents, they had been employed by Mrs Abbott to get information regarding Madam Melinska, they had got the information statement by statement, they had compiled the dossier and had brought it to her in London. Bob had been to see her that afternoon, not to get the dossier back but to give her further information. And he swore that she had been alive when he left.
Once Mrs Abbott had realised that Rollison was going to help Madam Melinska, she had bribed the brothers to help her frighten him off. Bob had made the ammonia bomb which Mrs Abbott had thrown at him screaming that she wanted to kill him. Frank had threatened him on the staircase of his flat. When Jolly had locked him in the bathroom he had, as Rollison had suspected, taken morphia so as to be proof against questioning. Both brothers admitted carrying morphia—they sometimes smuggled political prisoners over various borders in Southern Africa, said Frank, and morphia kept their charges quiet. He had come round to find both Jolly and Lucifer Stride unconscious, and a few minutes later his brother arrived and helped him downstairs and into the car, and they had driven straight here.
“But why here?” Rollison had asked sharply. “This is Lucifer Stride’s flat. What connection have you got with Stride?”
“Stride’s flat be damned,” Bob had exclaimed. “It’s ours. Stride was only staying with us. He’s been working for us. We paid him to get information about Madam Melinska from the girl—Mona Lister.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Clean Sweep
“The problem is, what are we going to do about the Webbs?” Olivia demanded. “I don’t think—”
She was interrupted by a heavy knock at the front door, followed by a long, loud ring.
“It looks as if we don’t have to make a decision,” Rollison said.
“What do you mean?”
“Only the police would make such a din,” Rollison told her, and opened the living-room door as a man called out in a deep but clear voice:
“Open, in the name of the law!”
“Coming!” Rollison moved towards the front door and opened it on three men, one of them Clay. He stepped aside and two of them pushed past, while Clay stayed with him.
“We know Miss Cordman’s here,” said Clay. “One of our boys saw the Morris in the drive.”
“Perceptive of you.”
“And the Webbs.”
“So you know who they are,” sighed Rollison.
“We had a long cable from Bulawayo,” said Clay with obvious satisfaction. “We know what they’ve been doing—and we know how well they succeeded. We took the opportunity of visiting Miss Cordman’s apartment—just in case she had been attacked there.”
“Oh,” said Rollison, his heart dropping.
“What’s that you said?” demanded Olivia, coming out of the living-room. “You went to my apartment?”
“And found the reports on Madam Melinska,” announced Clay with heavy satisfaction. “I’d like to know where you got those, Miss.”
Rollison answered for her, telling Clay the story of his visit to the Space Age Publishing offices. As he finished, the two brothers slouched into the hallway, each handcuffed to a detective.
“We only did our job,” blustered Frank, “we didn’t kill anybody, Inspector—straight up we didn’t.”
Bob was more truculent.
“He’s the guy who’s caused all the trouble.” He nodded towards Rollison. “Just like the bloody police to pick on us. We’ve done nothing. Why don’t you arrest him?”
“That’ll do,” said Clay sharply. He nodded to the detectives. “Take them to Cannon Row, I’ll be over soon.”
The men went out, leaving Olivia, Rollison and Clay alone. Clay turned to Rollison. “Found out what Stride was up to?” he demanded.
“According to the Webbs, he was using Mona Lister to get information about Madam Melinska—for which the Webbs paid him.”
Clay pursed his lips.
“Sounds a bit far-fetched to me. Would the girl be likely to betray her accomplice? She must have realised that if Madam Melinska ended up in the dock, she’d end up in the dock with her—as she has done. There’s more in this than meets the eye.” He studied Olivia thoughtfully. “What do you think about it all, Miss Cordman?”
“What do I think? I think the whole thing’s ridiculous. Why the police want to bring this absurd charge against Madam Melinska I can’t imagine. She’ll be acquitted, of course,” added Olivia, with well-assumed confidence, “and then you’ll all look pretty silly, won’t you?”
Clay said drily: “From what I’ve seen from those reports, she’ll get seven years at least.”
Olivia gasped. “Oh, no!” She swung round to face Rollison, seizing his hand. “You’ve got to save her. You’ve got to, it will be a tragedy if you don’t.”
“For you and The Day because you’ve sponsored her?” asked Rollison mildly.
“Rolly, you are a beast. She must be innocent. She must be.”
Very slowly, Rollison said: “I certainly hope so, Olivia.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then Olivia passed a weary hand over her forehead.
“But what about the murder? What about the attack on you on the Embankment? What about the attacks on Lucifer and Jolly? If the Webbs weren’t responsible, then who was?”
“Let’s make quite sure that the Webbs weren’t responsible,” Clay said smugly. “And now there’s no need for us to keep either you or Mr Rollison any longer.”
Rollison smiled. “Thank you, Inspector. My car’s just round the corner, but I don’t expect Miss Cordman feels much like driving, so I’d be grateful if someone could run the Morris back for me.”
Clay nodded, and taking Olivia’s arm, Rollison ushered her out of the flat and led the way downstairs.
Several policemen were stationed outside Number 5, but no one was near the Bentley.
Rollison saw Olivia in, then got in himself and took the wheel. She sat very still and was uncharacteristically silent as he drove. There was little traffic going in the London direction, but a lot coming towards them.
“Clay will be good when he’s had more experience,” Rollison said.
Olivia sniffed.
“I won’t be sorry to get some sleep,” he added, pulling up at the traffic lights at Swiss Cottage. Olivia sniffed again, and glancing down, he saw that she was crying, big tears rolling down her cheeks. “Hey, hey!” Rollison protested, with the embarrassment of seeing a woman cry. “It isn’t as bad as that!”
Through her tears, Olivia said: “Yes, it is.”
“But surely—”
“You don’t understand at all!” cried Olivia. “Tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands of women believe in Madam Melinska. Unhappy women, aging women, women with no hope, no purpose, no will to go on living. And she’s given them that hope, that purpose, that will. What do you think will happen to them if she’s found guilty? Oh yes, I know—”
A car behind them hooted impatiently.
“The light’s green!” ejaculated Rollison, and started off. The car behind roared past.
“—I know you think it’s a lot of poppycock, but whether it is or it isn’t—and it isn’t, actually—doesn’t matter. What matters is that all these people have faith in it. Most of them are simple, unsophisticated, decent people leading drab and dreary lives—they need this faith. You and that stuffy old establishment policeman think it’s merely a question of whether one woman goes to prison for a few years, but it’s much more than that. You don’t even begin to understand.”
Rollison pulled into the side of the road, which ran through Regent’s Park, took a handkerchief from his pocket, and dabbed Olivia’s cheeks. She took the handkerchief, dabbed more vigorously, and added:
“But don’t think I’m not grateful for what you’ve done.”
Rollison smiled gently.
“You’re quite a person, Olivia,” he said. “I’d no idea. I’ll take you home, and in the morning we’ll size up the situation and see what we can do.”
“So long as you’ll do something,” she said gruffly. “I have to admit, I am tired.” She smiled up through the drying tears, and added: “You’re quite a person, too.”
Half an hour later, he left her at Chelsea.
A quarter of an hour after that he reached Gresham Terrace, to find Jolly up and in a dressing-gown, but everyone else gone. Jolly looked more than his age, but seemed very relaxed and was obviously pleased to see Rollison.
“. . . Lady Hurst felt it wiser that they should all go back to the Marigold Club, sir, and of course they had police protection. I am sure there is no cause at all for alarm. Coffee, sir? Or tea? Or something stronger?”
Tea,” said Rollison, “and we’ll talk in the morning.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Jolly.”
“Yes, sir?”
“What happened tonight?”
“Lucifer Stride called, sir, to ask your opinion of Madam Melinska’s chances of being proved innocent. While we were talking I heard the prisoner stirring in the spare room, and went to investigate—and as I went through the door I was attacked from behind. But not by Stride, sir.”
“Can you be sure?”
“He uses a quite unmistakable perfume, sir. I feel quite certain I would have noticed it.”
“So you don’t know the attacker. Jolly, what do you think of Madam Melinska?”
Jolly looked upon him earnestly, obviously weighing his words with great care.
“If I may say so, sir, I think she is harbouring a viper in her bosom. I would not trust the young woman an inch, despite her quite remarkable gifts. Apart from that—we did agree that we might be aptly described as anachronisms, didn’t we, sir?”
“We did.”
“At the risk of appearing to be old-fashioned, sir—my impression is that Madam Melinska is a very good person, quite incapable of deceit or trickery, fraud or dishonesty of any kind. It is an opinion which your aunt shares fully. In fact, sir, Lady Hurst will be deeply distressed and—ah—displeased if you are not able to establish Madam Melinska’s innocence.”
Rollison lifted his brows quizzically.
“Even if she is guilty?”
“I don’t think Lady Hurst or I consider it a possibility that she is guilty, sir.” After a pause, Jolly asked: “Will you have your tea here, sir, or in your room?”
“In my room,” said Rollison, faintly.
* * *
Rollison woke to an unusual sound at this hour; men’s voices. First Jolly’s then the voices of strangers, one deep and somehow not English, the other native Cockney. Police? wondered Rollison. Ebbutt’s men? Then he heard the man with the deep voice saying:
“I think that’s the lot, sir.”
“I certainly hope so.” Jolly sounded unbelieving. Five sacks, did you say?”
“S’right,” the Cockney said. “Full to blinking overflowing, mate. S’long.”
Heavy footsteps followed, and the front door closed. There was silence. Five sacks? What would come in sacks and astonish Jolly? Rollison got out of bed and pulled on a blue dressing-gown, then went to the door and peered out.
Jolly was saying in a baffled voice: There must be a thousand in each.”
A thousand what?
Rollison reached the door of the living-room and saw five postal sacks dumped near the desk. Letters, thought Rollison, startled. Jolly, in his shirt-sleeves, stood and stared gloomily at the sacks.
“Someone’s written to us,” Rollison remarked.
Jolly started and turned round.
“Good morning, sir. I didn’t hear you. Yes, they have indeed.”
“I wonder if these could be letters of encouragement from strangers rooting for Madam Melinska,” mused Rollison. He untied one of the sacks and took out a handful of letters. “London, W.l—London, S.E.7— Guildford, Surrey—Amersham, Bucks— Isleworth, Middx. You try a few, Jolly.” He sat at his desk and slit open the five letters, then unfolded the first; a cheque fell out, for three guineas. The letter read:
