John Creasey - The Toff and the Fallen Angels
“Six,” answered Ebbutt. “I should’ve known you—” He broke off and lunged past Rollison, who turned round in alarm, but it was only one of the men whom he had gassed, coming down the stairs a step at a time, tears streaming from his eyes. Behind him came Angela, a handkerchief over her nose and mouth, her eyes tear-filled. She stopped halfway down the stairs at the sight of Ebbutt, who touched his forehead and said smartly : “Good morning, Miss. I—strewth. It’s Miss Angela, I didn’t recognise you for a moment.” He pushed forward and gripped Angela’s hand—and as he pumped her arm up and down, Jolly appeared, and asked in a voice hoarsened by the tear gas :
“Is everything satisfactory here, sir?”
“Yes, Jolly,” Rollison said. “What about the back?”
“The situation is quite under control,” Jolly assured him. “We need the telephone repaired of course, but apart from that all is well. Good morning, Mr. Ebbutt.”
“Hallo, Jolly me old cock,” wheezed Ebbutt, squeezing Jolly’s hand in turn. “I might have guessed. Mr. Ar had torn a strip off them before we got here. Came the minute we learned—” He broke off, as the others stared at Rollison and Rollison looked as if he was appalled. “What’s up, Mr. Ar? What’s the matter?”
“You were to have been at Smith Hall,” Rollison said in a hoarse voice. “Those girls—”
“Oh, don’t you worry about those little angels,” said Ebbutt, bluffly. “Old Bill Grice isn’t so bad when you get used to him. There was a demolition charge under the house, all set to go off at seven ack emma, but Grice had the place combed. Found the charge underneath the kitchen, the whole place would have been wrecked, Gawd knows what we could have done to help the little loves. But it’s okay. Caught a couple of chaps, too. They say it was done by Guy Slatter or whatever his name is. Was, I mean. But one of them had a sledge hammer in his sack, and the hammer was the one used to crown Guy. Grice will sew it all up now, Mr. Ar, don’t you worry.”
“What brought you here?” asked Rollison.
“Well as a matter of fact, Mr. Ar, we caught one of the slickers when he was sneaking away.” Ebbutt raised and clenched his first, and it looked like a small ham. “I persuaded him to talk a bit, and he said they was going to blow your place up. Said something about you finding out who was behind it and they were going to shut your trap. Mr. Grice and the cops were busy, so we got a move on here. But I should’ve known,” he went on with that enormous grin. “You didn’t need us.”
“I never needed you so much,” said Rollison. He gripped Bill Ebbutt’s shoulder for what seemed a long time, and then turned to Angela. “Why don’t you stay and help Jolly clear up?” he suggested. “I’ve got to see Grice but I don’t think you’ll find it very interesting.”
“Roily,” said Angela, in a small voice, “I don’t want to be a detective any more. But you—you were wonderful. You—” She stood on tiptoe and kissed him. “You really were!”
“What I don’t understand,” said Grice, half-an-hour later, “is why you were so sure there was to be an attack on Smith Hall.”
“I didn’t see how it could be avoided,” Rollison replied. He was standing in the cellar of the house, where the charge of dynamite had been discovered. “Savage murders galore, and millions obviously at stake. They had done their absolute damnedest to get everyone out of the house, and they weren’t going to stop at anything. When they had reason to believe that Slatter would relent, they had to make a final grand slam, and we knew life didn’t mean anything to them—other people’s, that is. I didn’t know what they would do but I was sure it would be something disastrous and final.”
Grice, looking saturnine in the dimly-lit cellar, nodded for him to continue.
“It was pretty clear that they would need a scapegoat, a man who would take the blame,” Rollison went on. “Guy Slatter was the obvious one. He had been involved: he may or may not have committed the murders, but they could certainly be traced to him.”
“And what motive could he have?” asked Grice. “It would have to be a big one, to be convincing.”
“Oh, that was simple enough,” said Rollison. “He was the heir to Sir Douglas Slatter, who was holding out on the sale of this house and the one next door. Bensoni and Tilford had bought every other piece of property on this block. Once they had the lot, they could sell it for millions—but Sir Douglas had enough millions and didn’t want any more.”
“Very interesting,” said Grice. “But if Guy were going to inherit his uncle’s millions anyway, why should he help Bensoni and Tilford—or whoever was involved?”
“Sir Douglas had strong views about young people who had children without first getting married,” answered Rollison. “Guy’s view was far less rigid—so much so that the evidence of it could have caused his uncle to leave his money elsewhere. One of Guy’s girls was Winifred de Vaux, and I don’t doubt she’d told Webberson. I can only guess that Webberson tried to make Guy influence his uncle. I imagine that was how Webberson and gentle Dr. Brown became involved, and thus, a danger to Guy, who feared disinheritance if the truth came out. Remember how Naomi Smith was so sure their troubles were over—before the murders. Keith may well have told her he could and would bring pressure to bear on Sir Douglas Slatter.”
“Yes,” agreed Grice, hesitantly. “Yes, I suppose it all fits in. You can fill in gaps with your imagination which I can’t fill in without evidence. But there is one piece of evidence which you’ll find very interesting.”
“What is it?” asked Rollison.
“The firm of Bensoni and Tilford is on the rocks,” said Grice. “Labour troubles and the loss of some big contracts led to it. They needed the Bloomdale site desperately. They’ve borrowed to the hilt on the other properties, and Sir Douglas Slatter’s refusal to sell was likely to ruin them. I can tell you another thing,” Grice went on, after a pause. “Guy’s telephone call last night wasn’t from Bensoni. It was from the foreman of the gang which raided your place. Guy, knowing of the impending raid, told him to ring him at the club if it were successful. The man gave Bensoni’s name rather than risk his own. No doubt he invented some inducement to get Guy back to the house, where he intended to murder him. It is possible that it was he who committed one or more of the earlier murders, and Guy knew of it.”
“It could be,” conceded Rollison. “The fatal flaw in criminality, that each must trust the other. Do you—erdo you want me for anything else?”
“No,” said Grice. “Not for a while. Naomi Smith would like to see you.”
“I’d like a word with her, too,” said Rollison. “What about Anne Miller?”
“She’ll be remanded for a week,” Grice said, “and then be bound over as a first offender. She’s lucky, in a way.”
“Yes,” said Rollison. “I suppose she is.”
He went up to the ground floor, a little surprised to see no-one about, tapped at the door of Naomi Smith’s room, went in on her call—and stood aghast on the threshold. For every single one of the girls was there, and every single one rose spontaneously, and began to cheer. Then they rushed forward to surround him, each in turn giving him a demonstrative hug. When at last Naomi had called them off, and they were gone, he was quite breath-less.
“I’ve never known them so happy,” Naomi said. “Never known them so eager to work, either. And they’re quite sure that you’ll get them out of their troubles one way or another. So am I,” she added. “So am I.”
“Naomi,” said Rollison, firmly, “you have always known more than you’ve admitted.”
“Nothing that I believed could affect the case,” Naomi said. “But yes—I did, Richard.” She had never used his Christian name before. “I guessed for instance that Guy Slatter was the father of Anne Miller’s child. She never disclosed that, though she hated him and hated Sir Douglas. I guessed, too, that she had intercepted the letter, and was at my wits end to know how to shield her. Can you help her?”
“Yes,” said Rollison, and told her what Grice had said.
“I’m so very glad,” said Naomi. “So deeply grateful, too. When it began, of course, Keith and George Brown knew Guy was a profligate, and could prove it. They believed that to avoid disclosure, Guy could use his influence with his uncle to renew the lease. Afterwards—”
“You should have told the police,” said Rollison sternly. “Oh, I did,” said Naomi unhappily. “And it was in the letter I wrote to you that Anne intercepted.”
“I see,” Rollison said heavily, and stood up. As he looked down at her, his gaze was kindly and understanding. “How is Douglas this morning. Do you know?”
“I’m told he’s recovered from the shock, and I’m going to see him soon,” Naomi said. “I can only hope that this new shock won’t cause a serious relapse.”
Naomi telephoned Rollison, later, to say that Sir Douglas had taken the blow well.
And Grice telephoned, also, to say that Iris Jay had been found, safe but in hiding, and that Bensoni had confessed complicity but blamed the murders on to Guy and the foreman ganger : sorting the details out was only a matter of time.
And in time, Bensoni was tried and found guilty and sentenced to life imprisonment.
So was the foreman, whom Rollison saw for the first time when he went to give evidence at the trial.
And a little later, Rollison went to a very different ceremony, with Angela and Gwendoline Fell, with twenty-five girls including Anne Miller, and with Naomi Smith—who, on that day, married Sir Douglas Slatter. She had solved the problem of the noise and his studies very simply indeed.
Sir Douglas now had his study on the other side of the house, where no children cried.
The End
