John Creasey - The Toff In Town
He stopped abruptly; there was something in the back of the car—something he hadn’t seen before.
A hand lay on the back seat!
Someone was huddled on the floor of the car. Was it—was it Snub? Had that damned woman
He peered inside.
He saw a pale face and a black beard and a small hole in the middle of the man’s forehead.
This was Merino I
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CORPSE
EVERYTHING changed . . .
Rollison stared down at the dead man, hardly realising then that he had driven through the streets with a corpse in the back of the car, without even a rug thrown over it. He saw, not Merino, but Grice. Murder—and one could not play with the police when murder had been committed.
Everything he had planned, the half-formed idea with which he had been toying, all faded.
He straightened up, unaware of pain.
The light shone on Merino’s closed eyes.
Rollison moved slowly away from the car; he had not touched the corpse. The little bullet wound was a familiar enough sight to him; and the dark ridge round the edges, the trickle of blood; he had been presented with the corpse of the man whom he had thought responsible for all that was happening.
Grice’s picture faded . . .
Pauline Dexter’s replaced it, looking as she had when sitting in front of him, innocent-eyed, her brow puckered, her voice so light and silvery.
Rollison shivered.
Then, throwing off the tension which had fallen on him, he went forward again, opened the rear door and stood looking at Merino, who was squashed into the back of the car, one hand lying on his stomach, the other on the seat. He stretched out his hand and touched Merino’s; the flesh was warm, practically normal heat. The blood, glistening, looked as if it had just trickled out
Merino had been dead half an hour, perhaps, possibly an hour, certainly no more.
Rollison closed the door.
It would be pointless to go through the man’s pockets; anything which might help him or the police would have been removed. He did not doubt why this thing had been done; “They” were determined to prove they were capable of murder, and it would make him understand Snub’s danger still more clearly. Everything fell into place, except
Had the girl done this?
Or Max?
Was the girl or Max the real ring-leader of this series of crimes?
Had they fallen out with Merino, because of what had happened that afternoon?
He went out of the garage and closed the doors, locked up and walked through the empty street with a chill wind blowing into his face. He walked slowly up the stairs at Gresham Terrace, and was relieved to see a light under the door. Only then did it occur to him to wonder what the time was; not very late, or there wouldn’t have been so much traffic about. He fumbled for his keys, but before he could find them, the door opened.
“I’m glad to see you back, sir,” said Jolly quietly.
“Yes,” said Rollison. “Thanks.”
When they were in the hall and Rollison was plainly visible, Jolly began to speak—then closed his mouth and hurried ahead, to open the study door.
“What can I get you, sir?” he asked.
“Aspirins,” said Rollison.
“Some coffee——”
“Just aspirins.” Rollison went to his arm-chair and sat down. Jolly returned with three aspirins and a glass of water. Rollison swallowed the tablets, sipped, said “thanks” and then groped for his cigarette-case. Jolly took it from his hand and lit a cigarette for him.
“No one lets me light my own these days,” said Rollison.
•Indeed, sir?”
“But I’m not blaming you,” said Rollison. “Jolly.”
“Sir?”
“I’ve just driven through the streets of London with the corpse of Merino in the back of the car.”
Jolly backed a pace, and looked appalled. But in a moment his mask fell back into place. It was some time before he spoke, and throughout the long silence he stared into Rollison’s glassy, bloodshot eyes.
Then he said: “Where is the corpse now, sir?”
“Still in the car—in the garage.”
“Isn’t that a little unwise?” asked Jolly.
Rollison’s lips puckered into a smile.
“Sometime or other Barbara Allen told me that I was like a breath of fresh air,” he remarked. “You are obviously of the same breath, Jolly. Yes, it’s damned silly, but it took me rather by surprise. You see, I didn’t know it was there when I started out.”
“I see, sir,” said Jolly. “You didn’t, then, shoot Mr. Merino?”
“No, Jolly. I’m sorry.”
“I think perhaps it’s as well, sir. I feel sure that had you done so, Mr. Grice would have felt that you were taking too much on yourself. The—er—body was planted on you, then.”
He broke off, and this time could not keep back his exclamation of surprise.
“But—but you didn’t take the car, sir!”
“No Black Magic; it was borrowed for the occasion,” Rollison said. “Jolly, we’ve much too much on our plate, and I’ve some really bad news. We could shed the body——”
“I was going to suggest, sir, that I should take the car and endeavour to do some such thing,” said Jolly. “I feel sure that in the circumstances, it would be better if it were not generally known that we were concealing a corpse. I—did you say you had worse news, sir?” He looked appalled.
They’ve taken Snub,” announced Rollison.
Only then did he realise fully the regard which Jolly had for Snub Higginbottom. Jolly’s eyes half-closed, he raised his hands in a helpless gesture of dismay. Without asking if he might, he went to a chair and sat down heavily.
“Get yourself a drink,” said Rollison. “I’ll try one now, too.”
“Very good, sir.” Jolly went to the cabinet and poured out whiskies-and-soda, one weak, one strong. The weak one he gave to Rollison. He sat down again at a word from Rollison, and sipped.
“You—you’ve no idea where Snub is, sir?”
“Not the foggiest,” Rollison told him. “No easy way out of this, Jolly. I’ve been given an ultimatum, too. Er—what’s the time?”
“A little after twelve-thirty,” said Jolly. “I was getting worried, and would shortly have telephoned Ebbutt, in the hope that he knew something of your most recent movements. Snub— Snub did telephone though, it was his voice, I’m quite sure.”
“Oh yes No blame on Snub or you. They let him send for me and then shanghaied him. And they weren’t exactly gentle with me. A man named Max . . .”
Jolly listened to the ensuing recital without making any comment; and Rollison told it at some length, because that helped him to fix the details in his mind. He did not even hurry over the interview with Pauline Dexter, because he wanted to picture her, with that curious blend of naivete and blaseness, wanted to remember the inflection of her voice when she had “threatened”.
“And the question now is, what to do,” he said finally. “I’m empty of ideas, Jolly.”
Jolly, looking a better colour, stood up.
“We must do something about that corpse,” he said worriedly. “In most circumstances I would say that Mr. Grice should he consulted, but——”
“This being murder, he couldn’t hold his hand,” said Rollison. “He would immediately see Pauline and her staff, and might detain them. But Pauline was so very sure of herself. She must have other friends who are looking after Snub. She’s relying on the danger to Snub forcing me to keep silent. And she isn’t far wrong. There isn’t much we can do, Jolly. Grice will have Lilley Mews watched by now; we can’t take Bill’s boys along and raid the place. Even you’d like to use them for this, wouldn’t you?”
“I would, sir,” said Jolly. “You—ah—might make a further attempt to persuade Mr. Allen to talk. If you know what is behind all this, you will have a much stronger hand.”
“Oh, I’ll have another go at Allen,” said Rollison.
“On the other hand,” said Jolly, “I really don’t think you are well enough to see Mr. Allen to-night. I don’t like advising it, but the best immediate course is for you to have some rest. Your head looks very nasty, sir.”
“Oh,” said Rollison.
“I hope you will agree,” said Jolly. “Meanwhile, there is the question of the disposal of the body.”
“That must stay where it is,” decided Rollison, “we can’t cart a corpse about London. Jolly, bad head or no bad head, I must tackle Allen to-night. Get me a cab. And if this doesn’t work, I’ll get Ebbutt’s boys to tackle Lilley Mews, police or no police. I mean it,” he added, getting up with an effort.
Jolly was about to protest but changed his mind.
Barbara Allen opened the front door of the Byngham Court Mansions flat so quickly after Rollison’s ring that he knew she hadn’t been asleep. In fact she was fully dressed although she looked tired out. A gleam of hope sprang to her eyes when she first saw him, but he shook his head.
“Nothing new, Mrs. Allen, but I want a word with your husband.”
“Oh, please don’t wake him up,” she begged. “He’s dropped off to sleep, and——”
“I must have a word with him,” insisted Rollison. “I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t essential.”
She gave in.
“I suppose you must if you must. He’s in the spare room he went straight in there when he came in. He hardly said a word, and wouldn’t have anything to eat.”
She led the way to a tiny room, where there was a single bed, a small table and a corner cupboard. Allen lay under the sheet, wearing his singlet and trunks. He breathed evenly, and when Rollison called his name, did not stir. Barbara looked tense when Rollison shook Allen’s shoulder vigorously.
But Allen didn’t wake.
Rollison pulled up his eyelids and examined his eyes; they were contracted to tiny pin-points, and he judged from them that Allen had been drugged with morphia. He felt his pulse; it was very sluggish. He did not think the youngster was in any danger, the dose was enough to make him unconscious, but was not fatal.
He told Barbara, and added:
“It’s probably as well; at least he won’t be worried for a few hours. Keep him warm—and then go to bed yourself. There’s absolutely no danger. If I had my way, I’d give you a shot, that would send you off to sleep.”
“I haven’t slept—not really slept—for days,” she told him.
One of the most expert cracksmen in the East End of London had long since retired but, because of a service which the Toff had rendered him some years ago, agreed to have a look at the flat in Lilley Mews and to open the door. He found little difficulty in climbing over the back of the garage and dropping into Lilley Mews, without being seen by the two police-constables who were unostentatiously hovering near the entrance. What was more, he discovered an, easy way over the old buildings of the mews, and several of Bill Ebbutt’s men followed him.
The flat was entered.
No one was there; nor was there anyone in the upstairs flat.
It was after three o’clock when Rollison went to bed, and after eleven when he woke up. His head still ached and was tender where he touched it, but his eyes were clearer and he could move about without difficulty or pain. So he bathed, shaved and breakfasted, much as if it were a normal morning.
After telling him that Mrs. Allen had telephoned to say that Allen had come round about nine o’clock, but was still in bed, Jolly said little. The obvious thing to do was to tell Grice, but every time Rollison thought of that, a picture of Snub hovered in his mind’s eye.
He had no clue as to where to find Pauline Dexter, no idea where Blane, Max and the little man might be. Beyond inquiring at the Meritor Motion Picture Company’s office, there was little he could do to trace her. He telephoned a friend, who immediately assumed that his interest in Pauline was amatory, and promised to find out whether she had a cottage in the country or a pied á terre anywhere else in London. He warned him that Pauline was going about with a big South American. Rollison promised to take heed of the warning, then rang off, thinking about Merino. He had assumed that there would be nothing in the dead man’s pockets which might help, but it was possible that some fragmentary clue would be found, so he went to the garage.
In the street he was met by two men, one young and earnest, the other middle-aged and genial. One represented the Morning
Cry, the other a Sunday newspaper. It was a quarter of an hour before they left him, apparently convinced that there was no “copy” to be got out of him at the moment. Because of them, he went the long way round to the garage, and looked up and down the narrow road where it was situated, before unlocking the door. His heart began to thump; perhaps he was a fool to come here in broad daylight
Even with the door open the garage was poorly lit by day, because of the backs of tall houses on the other side of the road, which hid the sun, and in any case Merino was dumped well down, out of casual sight.
He slipped inside.
“Going places, Mr. Rollison?” a man asked.
Rollison stiffened, but forced himself to turn round slowly and to look at the speaker, who stood outside the garage, showing a polite smile.
It was the middle-aged reporter of the Morning Cry.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
TRICK TO JOLLY
ROLLISON turned his back on the car and leaned against it, maintaining his smile, and slipping his hand into his pocket for his cigarette-case. The reporter, named McMahon, was a friendly soul whom he knew well—but he was first and last a good reporter.
Rollison held out his case, standing so that McMahon could not get too near the car.
“Thanks,” said McMahon, who had no accent to justify his Irish name. “Well, are you?”
“I’m always going places,” said Rollison. “You take a lot of satisfying, don’t you?”
“I was taught to believe only half what I see and nothing that I hear,” said McMahon. “Come off it, and give me the story. And before you say there isn’t one, listen to me,” he went on. “Two or three of Bill Ebbutt’s bruisers were out all night and I heard a whisper that they’d been on a job for you. There was that explosion on the staircase yesterday. Is somebody trying to get a flat by bumping you off?”
Rollison said: “Well, you seem to know a lot.”
“Be yourself,” urged McMahon. “You’re not usually like this, you don’t hold out on us.” He stretched out a hand and pressed it against the corner of the M.G., and if he came a yard nearer, he would be able to see Merino. “Let’s have it, Roily. I’ll keep it off the record, if you like.”
“Nice of you,” murmured Rollison. “Perhaps you’re right, Mac——”
“Now you’re talking!”
“That’s the trouble, I’m not at liberty to talk.” Rollison smoothed down his hair, wincing when he touched the bruise. “I might drop you a hint, if that’ll help.”
