John Creasey - The Toff and The Sleepy Cowboy
“Why don’t you go and see?” suggested Homicide, in his gentlest voice.
2
Rush!
THE YOUNG MAN with the long face and the spade of a chin was on his back in a room which had three beds, although he was the only occupant. The young doctor went in ahead of the nurse on duty, who said:
“I came in ten minutes ago, doctor, and he hadn’t moved.”
The doctor stood looking down, and after a few moments, said: “He’ll move soon.” There were changes in the breathing, in the firmness of the lips and eyes; a kind of relaxation. The doctor touched one of the large, pale eyelids and the young man flinched. The doctor turned round, almost cannoning into the Homicide sergeant, who had come silently on his heels: “Not a case for Homicide,” the doctor remarked.
“How soon will he be able to talk?”
“May be half an hour. Morphine patients vary.”
“Doc,” asked Homicide. “You’re sure he’s not an addict?”
“I’m sure.”
The sergeant nodded, but it was impossible to say whether it was with satisfaction or not. He asked: “Will you let me know when he can talk?” and went out on the doctor’s nod of assurance. But he did not immediately go back to the others. He went to the exit doors, which opened electronically, and out to his car, parked across the driveway from the taxis. No one else was in it. He slid into the seat and lifted the radio-telephone; soon he was talking to his lieutenant, who had detailed him to this inquiry. He reported lucidly in his gentle voice, and the lieutenant replied:
“So what next?”
“So next we look for a man who jabbed the needle in this guy’s arm, a man who could be anywhere in the Metropolitan area of New York, which means one of thirteen million people. And the man we want could have flown out of Kennedy in any one of the three hundred and seven flights which left in the past three hours. If we had a body, we might look. If we have a big heist, we could look. What do you want me to do, Manny?”
“You’ve got judgment,” the lieutenant said. “Why don’t you use it.”
“That’s what I’ll do,” the sergeant said.
“Luigi,” said the lieutenant in a sharper voice : “Are you telling me you’ve got ideas?”
“Feelings,” Sergeant Luigi Tetano retorted. “You mean a hunch.”
“I mean I would like to know more about this Thomas G. Loman and what he’s had stolen from him.” When he received no answer he went on: “We’ve been so blinded by hi-jacking we’ve forgotten the other things that happen. How many passengers from Kennedy complain that their luggage is stolen before they get to the baggage claim?”
“Too many,” the lieutenant replied.
“And La Guardia?”
“Too many.”
“And sometimes the passengers who lose their bags are called to the telephone on phoney messages and sometimes they go into the rest rooms and sometimes they make a telephone call and sometimes they’re met by their families and the reunion takes a lot of time. So when they reach the baggage claim, no baggage.”
“Right,” the lieutenant confirmed.
“It’s wrong,” said Luigi Tetano. “This time they dope the guy so they can take his hand baggage as well.”
“Luigi,” the lieutenant observed, “it doesn’t have to be the same gang. Okay, there is a gang operating and okay, we haven’t found it, but this could be different. It is different in one way, because of the fact the guy was doped. So it could be a different job altogether, different people — oh, come on you know what I mean.”
“Sure,” said Luigi. “It could also be the same mob going a step further.”
“So it could be.”
“Do I get to follow my nose?” asked Luigi.
“Sure.”
“Wherever it takes me?”
“Sure,” the lieutenant answered.
“That’s fine,” breathed Luigi. “That’s very good, Manny. I’ll call you again.”
He replaced the receiver and switched off, then sat back with his eyes half-closed. This made him look a little younger: baby-faced. Overhead a four-engined aircraft roared, others seemed to be landing and taking off every minute. Taxis were arriving, picking up passengers, going off into the complex of roads which served the mammoth airport. Dusk was falling, and lights were beginning to show in the sky and on the ground. He opened his eyes wide and looked at his watch : it was seven-fifteen. He got out of the car and went back to the room where the others were sitting, and as he opened the door the Security Officer was saying:
“Should I go look for him?”
“I want to go home,” complained the pilot. “I’ve got a date.”
They looked round as he entered — including the young doctor, who was sitting against a table, hands at the side. Sergeant Luigi Tetano ignored the others and looked at him.
“He come round, Doc?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll come and see him.” Luigi looked round at the others and went on in the same flat voice: “If anyone wants home, okay. But maybe I’ll have to call him back. And maybe we’ll need to see all members of the crew of that flight. In half an hour I should know. Can your date wait for half an hour?” He looked at the pilot.
“My wife is a patient woman,” answered the pilot.
Luigi and the young doctor went across the crowded terminal building to the hospital, and heard the nurse in the private room, talking; protesting. When the two men entered, the long-faced young passenger was on his feet, and he proved to be very tall and lean. He was standing on one leg, pulling his trousers on, pyjamas were loose on the floor. The nurse was saying :
“You’re crazy to behave like this. You ought to rest.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the young man drawled. “I always was kind of crazy.” But he dropped on to the side of the bed, obviously with weariness, and there was a worried expression on his face : “I sure could drink some coffee.”
“If you will stop acting like a big boy —”
“Could you use some coffee?” the doctor asked Luigi. “Sure could.”
“Honey, why don’t you go and get us some coffee from the restaurant,” suggested the young doctor. “They could send it over with a boy.” He opened the door for her and she went out, while the tall young man sat on the edge of the bed. He had on a brown and yellow checked shirt, open at the neck, and well-tailored, sand-coloured slacks. His legs and arms were more muscular than one might have expected, and he had surprisingly broad and powerful-looking shoulders. He gave a slow, lazy smile, showing teeth both big and white.
“Thanks,” he said. “Will one of you tell me what happened?”
“You were drugged with morphia,” Luigi told him. “You were unconscious with morphine poisoning.” The doctor was more precise.
“Your hand baggage and your checked baggage was stolen,” the Homicide man stated, “but no one took your money or your travellers’ cheques.”
The young man named Thomas G. Loman put a hand to his forehead; that might have been to hide his expression of bewilderment. And no wonder, thought the Homicide man, the fellow had plenty to be bewildered about. Apart from the movement of his arm and hand, he kept very still. He seemed to be like that for a long time, before he asked in a muffled voice :
“Do you have the time?”
“Twenty of eight,” answered Luigi. “Still nighttime!”
“I have to be on a flight to London, England, at ten-thirty.”
“You have to check in at nine-thirty,” said Luigi. “You have plenty of time.”
“You need to rest,” the doctor said.
“I can rest on the flight, I guess.”
“What about your baggage?” Luigi asked.
“So I’ve no baggage.” At last Thomas G. Loman lowered his hand — and on the same instant the door opened and the nurse came in with a tray. “I’ve lost baggage before.”
“You mean you’ve had some stolen before?” Luigi demanded.
The young man looked at him levelly, and slowly shook his head. The nurse put the tray down on a bedside table and began to pour coffee. She had some cookies on a plate, also.
“I said lost,” repeated Loman.
“I said stolen.”
“Can you prove it was stolen?”
“I can prove you had a shot in the arm. Look hard enough and you will see the puncture.”
The young man said: “So I put myself to sleep.”
“With what?”
“A shot,” Loman answered.
“Where did you put the hypo?”
“Down the pan,” Loman answered. “I went along there and gave myself a shot and put the plastic hypo down the pan and came back to my seat.”
The nurse managed to ask : “Do you use cream in your coffee?”
“Sure,” said Loman.
“Not for me,” answered the doctor.
“I use facts,” Luigi said. “Why did you dope yourself, Loman?”
“Like the doctor said, I need sleep.”
“Like I said, I need facts,” retorted Luigi. He picked up a cup of coffee which had neither cream nor sugar, and sipped; his gaze did not once leave Loman’s face, but the young man stared back without apparent embarrassment.
“What did you have in your baggage?” Luigi asked. “Clothes.”
“In your hand baggage?”
“A razor and toiletries and two books.”
“What kind of books?”
“Adult books,” the young man answered amiably. “I’m an adult.” He finished his coffee, and turned to the doctor as if he were no longer interested in the policeman. The nurse had moved away and was looking from one to the other as if she could make nothing of the conversation or of the situation. “Doctor,” went on Loman, “I’m appreciative of the trouble you’ve taken and I’ll be glad to pay your fee right now. That’s if someone will hand me my billfold,” he added with a boyish grin.
“The nurse will get that,” the doctor replied. “You take it easy.”
“As soon as I’m dressed and in the B.O.A.C. lounge I’ll take it easy,” Loman assured him. “I don’t need to eat, there will be food on the aircraft.” He finished the coffee, and smiled at the nurse. “Okay for me to have the rest of my clothes now?”
She answered: “I still think you’re crazy.”
“My folks often used to say just the same thing,” Loman assured her, but now there was something so attractive in his smile that she half-laughed, and fetched his jacket.
Luigi went outside, and found the Security Officer hovering. The man crossed to him at once, and asked in his hard, controlled voice:
“Is he making a complaint?”
“He will, if he’s no fool.”
“Luigi,” the Security Officer said, “you don’t have to be like this.”
“It’s just the way I am,” replied Luigi, and went on: “He’s going to fly on to London. He’ll ask you to look for his luggage and send it on to him, and if I were you that’s exactly what I would do.”
The Security Officer said: “So there’s no complaint.” He looked relieved as he nodded and moved away, almost as Thomas G. Loman came out. He pretended not to notice the man from Homicide but went with long strides towards the air line’s desk and made his complaint about lost luggage, asking for it to be sent on. A young girl with a magnificent honey-brown skin took details, then asked:
“What is your forwarding address in London, sir?”
“Care of Richard Rollison,” Loman answered. “Number 25g, Gresham Terrace, London, W.I.” He spelled out both the name of the man and the street, then moved away. He did not bump into Luigi, only because Luigi darted back quickly. Loman towered a head and shoulders above the policeman, who asked:
“You want to go to the B.O.A.C. terminal?”
“I don’t want to go to police headquarters.”
“Something on your conscience?” flashed Luigi. “I’ve got a flight waiting for me.”
“Loman,” Luigi said. “I won’t give you the runaround. I’ll take you to B.O.A.C. departures if that’s where you want to go.”
“That’s where I want to go,” the man from Tucson declared.
Luigi Tetano drove him there with the speed and roadway knowledge more characteristic of a taxi driver than a policeman, and watched him check in. No one appeared to be surprised that he was early, the only surprise was about his lack of luggage. Soon, he went up the escalator and out of Luigi’s sight. The policeman left his car again and went to a telephone booth just inside the departure building, while aircraft roared and screeched overhead. He dialled a friend on the staff of the New York Times, and when the other man answered, said:
“Ben, you know London pretty well, don’t you?”
“I’m not sure I don’t know it better than New York,” answered Ben. “Are you forgetting I was the London correspondent for five years?”
“I half-remembered,” Luigi replied drily. “Can you tell me anything about a guy named Rollison?”
Without even an instant’s pause the other repeated, like an echo: “Rollison! Richard Rollison?”
“That’s right, he lives —”
“Luigi,” the newspaperman said, “I know plenty about Rollison. If you take my advice, you won’t tangle with him.”
“I don’t believe the criminal I won’t tangle with exists,” retorted Luigi. “What’s so special about him?”
“He’s not a crook,” answered the Times man.” ‘Private eye’ isn’t the right description but you would call him one. He doesn’t know the criminal he won’t tangle with, either. He —” there was a pause, a sharp intake of breath, another pause, then a deep-voiced question redolent of suspicion. “What do you want with the Toff ?”
“The who?”
“The Toff. T — O — F — F,” the Times man spelled out. He allowed just enough time for the spelling to register on Luigi’s mind before repeating : “I’ll tell you what I know about the Toff when I know why you want the information. You come clean, Luigi, and I will.”
“Off the record,” Luigi said.
“Off the record,” agreed the newspaperman. “In the beginning, anyway.”
“Okay,” agreed Luigi. He told the story in outline, answered a few questions, and then in a tone of deep finality he declared: “That’s plenty, Ben. Now you tell me all you know about this Rollison — this Toff. What is a Toff, anyway?”
3
A Toff is a Toff
THE HONOURABLE RICHARD ROLLISON, known to SO many as the Toff, stood at a corner of his large, flat-topped, heirloom desk on the top floor of 25g Gresham Terrace, London, W.’, the telephone held in one hand and a pencil in the other. Silence was coming from the telephone, the faintest of aromas creeping from the domestic quarters of this unusual, indeed unique flat, as Rollison gazed pensively at his Trophy Wall.
He was a tall man, and lean.
Like Thomas G. Loman, he was surprisingly strong and muscular.
Unlike Thomas G. Loman, he was remarkably hand-some, classic in the Ronald Colman style, with the same hint of virility and humanity in his good looks. The years had passed lightly over him despite many dangers and crises, his hair was dark with only a touch of grey here and there, adding a note of distinction. He had well-marked eyebrows and his skin had a weathered look; what few lines there were at forehead and eyes seemed due more to concentration than to years.
