John Creasey - Stars For The Toff
The inspector took the oath.
“. . . and nothing but the truth, so help me God. On the third day . . . and warned them that anything they said would be taken down and could be used as evidence.”
“Did they reply to your charge?” asked Nimmo.
“Yes, sir.”
“What did they say?”
“The younger of the accused said it was a frame-up.”
“Indeed.” Nimmo’s voice was like ice.
“Yes, sir. The older of the accused said she didn’t understand.”
“Did she say what she didn’t understand, Inspector?”
“No, sir, she appeared to be very puzzled.”
“I see. Well, they have been charged and they have entered a plea of not guilty. Have you the necessary evidence to proceed?”
“No, your honour. We should like to apply for a remand so as to complete our inquiries.”
Nimmo’s eyebrows rose.
“Bail?” he inquired.
“We have no objection, sir.”
“Are there any sureties for the accused in Court?” asked Nimmo. No one replied. There was a sense of tension and of waiting, a look of pleading on the older prisoner’s face, and one of defiance on the girl’s. All at once Nimmo came to a quick, brusque decision.
“I bind both the accused over in sums of one hundred pounds each. Are there sureties?”
The magistrate was leaning forward to the dock.
“Can you find one hundred pounds each?” he asked in a clear whisper; and Nimmo, a stickler for the etiquette of the Court, did no more than look his disapproval.
Rollison said very clearly: “I will go surety in those sums, your honour.”
Nimmo, Madam Melinska, the girl, everyone else in Court, turned swiftly towards him. Then Madam Melinska smiled once again.
After that, it was simply a matter of formalities, answering questions from the Press and arranging for an eager-to-help woman journalist—Olivia Cordman, Features Editor of The Day, to see the two accused women to their home. Rollison suddenly realized that he had no idea where they lived; but doubtless Olivia, who was an old acquaintance, would get in touch with him, if not the women themselves.
At last, he was out of the Court.
At last, he was back at Gresham Terrace.
As his taxi turned in from the end nearest Piccadilly, he saw the small crowd gathered outside Number 22, where he lived. Several were young women, several were middle-aged; there were two or three elderly men as well as a young exquisite in a sapphire-coloured velvet jacket, green, cravat-type tie, and stove-pie trousers. He had long, silky, beautifully groomed fair hair. As Rollison got out of the taxi, it was this young man who held his attention, and although he was aware of the others he took little notice of them—not even when a small excited cheer rose up.
Rollison paid the taxi-driver, then turned towards Number 22. On closer inspection the young man’s face was long, thin, hollow-cheeked; he had dark-fringed lashes over disappointingly small and watery eyes.
Beyond him stood a policeman, there doubtless to clear a path.
A girl shouted: “Good old Toff!”
“You’ll be rewarded.”
“They didn’t mean any harm, Mr Rollison.”
“They—”
In a deep, throbbing voice a woman cried: “They killed my husband. And I’d like to kill you.”
As she spoke, she tossed what looked like a small glass ball towards him, and Rollison had a sudden, blinding fear that it might contain some kind of corrosive acid. He saw the liquid inside it, shimmering in the sunlight, ducked, but could not avoid the missile. It struck his forehead, burst with a sharp “pop!” and liquid began to spill down his face, ice cold, yet burning.
A girl screamed.
The policeman roared: “Hey!”
Sharp pain struck at Rollison’s eyes, but even as it did so, panic began to recede; this was ammonia, painful and unpleasant but nothing to cause permanent injury. Yet for the moment he was blinded—and suddenly he was in the middle of a surging furious mob. Above the shouts of anger came a woman’s sudden cry of fear, drowned by the policeman’s bellow:
“Let her alone!”
Car engines sounded, the screams and shouts merged into a dull roar, someone was sobbing, and all Rollison could see through his tears of pain was a haze of light and surges of colour and movement. Helpless, he stood absolutely still until a familiar voice sounded close by—Jolly’s voice.
“Let me pass, please, Let me pass. Thank you. Let me pass . . .”
Then Jolly was at Rollison’s side.
“Is it—” he began, anxiety roughening his words.
“Ammonia,” said Rollison. “What’s going on?”
“If you’ll come with me, sir—”
“What’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you what’s going on,” drawled the young man in the velvet jacket. “The little dears are tearing the old darling to pieces. Preserve, I pray, from the fair sex.”
Jolly ignored him. “There’s no cause to worry, sir. The police have the situation well in hand.”
“I wish to heaven I could see,” Rollison said testily.
“Permit me to be your eyes,” said the youth, still with the same affected drawl. “Two policemen are now protecting the old darling, and several worthy citizens are grappling with the little dears as if it gives them great pleasure.”
“Please come indoors, sir,” pleaded Jolly.
“Did they attack the woman who threw the ammonia?”
“I think so, sir.”
“They did indeed,” murmured the young man.
“Perhaps you’d be kind enough to help me upstairs,” said Rollison. “Jolly, will you go and find that woman and bring her after us—I’d like to talk to her.”
“Very well, sir,” said Jolly, his voice dull with disapproval. He made his way towards the woman, who was leaning against the railing outside the house, hair awry, an ugly weal on her cheek.
Meanwhile the young man had taken Rollison’s elbow and was steering him through the front door of Number 22. Rollison touched the handrail.
“I can manage now, thanks,” he said. “Will you lead the way?”
The young man nodded and went ahead, his footsteps sounding clearly on the haircord stair-carpet. Rollison’s eyes, still stinging, were nevertheless much better than they had been, and by the time they reached his flat he could even make out the number on the door. Groping in his pocket, he took out a key and held it toward the stranger.
“Will you?”
“My pleasure,” the young man said, taking the key.
Once inside the flat, Rollison could find his way blindfolded, and he went straight to the bathroom, the young man by his side. He groped for taps; they were turned on for him, the water mixed to tepid warmth. He bathed his face gently, and when he had finished, the young man handed him a towel. Rollison dabbed himself dry, and found he could see quite well; most of the pain had gone.
“Thanks,” he said gratefully.
“At your service,” the young man said. “Feeling more yourself?”
“Much more. Let’s go into the living-room.”
Rollison led the way, noting how the other’s gaze moved swiftly to the Trophy Wall and was held in fascination. He waved his guest to a chair and proffered cigarettes from a carved Malaysian box. The young man selected one with care.
“My name,” he said, “is Lucifer Stride.”
“Ah,” said Rollison. “Lucifer Stride. Where you in Court this morning?”
“I was. Tell me, Mr Rollison—” the young man leaned forward in his chair— “do you think you can help Madam Melinska and Miss Lister?”
Rollison, vision now nearly normal, was watching him intently. His visitor’s eyes were sharper than he had thought, rather deep-set and close together. His age was around the middle twenties. By the intensity of his expression, Rollison could see that the asking of this question was the entire purpose of his visit.
“I’ll certainly do my best,” he answered lightly. “Though I haven’t had a chance yet to study the case.”
“But Madam Melinska isn’t guilty, sir, I know she isn’t. Nor Miss Lister,” the young man added hastily.
“How do you know?” Rollison asked sharply.
The close-set eyes dropped to the floor, evading Rollison’s penetrating gaze. “I— er—I—”
The front door bell cut sharply across the stranger’s fumbling attempts at explanation.
CHAPTER FOUR
Flat Full
Rollison wondered what was going through the young man’s mind. Who was he, he wondered, and what was his real interest in the case. Oh well, he would have to find out later.
“Come and see this,” he invited.
Followed by the stranger, he went into the hall, and standing a few feet from the door, looked upwards. Over the lintel was a small periscope-type mirror, and this now showed a miniature reflection of Jolly, the woman who had thrown the ammonia, and a policeman.
“Old-fashioned, but effective,” remarked Lucifer Stride. This few minutes respite had given him a chance to recover his sangfroid.
“An anachronism,” thought Rollison, as he opened the door.
Jolly, standing nearest to him, looked searchingly into his face, was obviously reassured, and immediately relaxed.
“Mrs Abbott, sir,” he said.
The woman looked dazed, and now the weal on her cheek was much redder and more noticeable. The policeman was holding her arm.
“Come in, Mrs Abbott,” Rollison said, and for once wished there was another woman in the flat. He led the way to the living-room. Jolly moved ahead and pushed a pouffe into position in front of an armchair. Mrs Abbott was helped into the chair, only Lucifer standing aside with real or affected indifference. Jolly disappeared.
The policeman turned to her reassuringly. “Now don’t you worry, you’ll be all right now you’re with Mr Rollison.” Anxiously he added to Rollison: “You don’t intend to make a charge, do you, sir?”
“No,” Rollison answered.
“Very generous of you, sir. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a lot to do downstairs.”
“What’s happening in the street?” asked Rollison.
“Everything’s quieter, but we had to arrest three of the young women, sir.”
“I see,” said Rollison, glumly. “Was anyone else hurt?”
“No, sir.”
“But don’t be surprised if some are,” interpolated Lucifer.
The policeman looked at him, appeared ready to ask questions, thought better of it and went towards the door. Rollison saw him out, returning to find Jolly sponging Mrs Abbott’s forehead, with Lucifer looking on sardonically. There was now time to study the woman. She was in her middle fifties, Rollison judged—her grey hair seemed to be naturally curly, and in a rather heavy, almost masculine way, she was good-looking. Her eyes were closed, as if she felt relaxed and soothed by Jolly’s ministrations.
Jolly drew back.
“A cup of coffee, madam?” he suggested, and without waiting for a reply he disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.
Rollison and Lucifer Stride stood looking at Mrs Abbott, who kept her eyes closed. After a few moments Stride moved to study the Trophy Wall. Suddenly Mrs Abbott opened her eyes and looked straight at Rollison. Not long before she had cried in rage: They killed my husband. And I’d like to kill you.”
Rollison smiled at her.
“Hallo,” he said. “Feeling better?”
She didn’t answer.
“You look better,” Rollison said. “Why did you throw that ammonia at me?”
Still she didn’t answer.
“Better still,” said Rollison, “who paid you to?”
In a flash, she cried: “No one paid me!”
Lucifer stood with his head tilted back, as if he were trying to see the bullet holes in the crown of the old top hat. The light from the window glinted on his hair, making it look like spun gold. Rollison moved away from the woman, who was staring at him as if in horror and alarm. Jolly came in, with a tray. Rollison did not repeat his questions but turned away.
“I did it because of my husband,” Mrs Abbott cried.
“I’m sorry about your husband,” Rollison said gently. “What happened?”
“That devil killed him.”
Jolly was pouring out coffee.
“Which devil?” inquired Rollison.
“Madam Melinska!”
“When?”
“It was last year, she—”
“But Madam Melinska only arrived in England a few months ago.”
“My husband met her in Rhodesia,” said Mrs Abbott. “She got her talons into him just like she got them into those other poor fools, and persuaded him to give her money. She was going to invest it for him, if you please! I told him not to trust her, but he would do it and he lost every penny.” Her face was twisted, her lips working. “And then he killed himself.” She stretched trembling fingers for the cup Jolly held towards her. “And all because of that woman, that—that bitch!”
“Or witch?”
Mrs Abbott caught her breath.
“What do you mean—witch?”
“Some people call seers witches.”
“She’s no seer, she just pretends she can look into the future. She doesn’t care what lies she tells anyone provided she can get her hands on their money. She—”
The telephone bell rang, and she broke off. Rollison moved towards it and lifted the receiver, thinking more about what Mrs Abbott had been saying than about the call. Was she speaking the truth, and was Madam Melinska responsible for her husband’s death? Or was she lying?
“This is Rollison,” he said into the telephone.
“Hallo again, Richard,” said Lady Hurst. “I will say that you excelled yourself this morning.”
“I’m delighted you approve,” said Rollison mildly.
“I approve very much. There is another thing I would like you to do for me, Richard.”
“What is it?”
“Bring those two unfortunate women here.”
“To the Marigold Club?” Rollison asked, not really surprised.
“Yes. They will be much safer and will certainly be subjected to much less annoyance and publicity,” said his aunt. “I have two adjoining rooms ready for them on the second floor. When do you think they can be here?”
“I really don’t know, Aunt,” Rollison answered. “The Features Editor of The Day took pity on them, and I imagine is now offering them a fortune for their story.”
“Far more than it’s worth, I’ve no doubt,” Lady Hurst prophesied. “But they’ll need all the money they can get. Find them, Richard. I would like them both here as soon as possible.”
