John Creasey - The Toff In Town
“Let me help you,” said Rollison gravely.
“I can manage quite well, sir, thank you,” said Jolly. “I must have been nearly asleep,” he remarked. “I’m sorry sir.”
“I wish I were nearly asleep,” said Rollison smiling into Jolly’s brown, soulful-looking eyes. “But I’m going out.”
“Can I get you anything?” asked Jolly.
“I hope I’m not going to need anything,” said Rollison. “Jolly, between these four walls——”
“Yes, sir?” A hopeful, inquiring note sprang into Jolly’s voice.
“Snub isn’t in love or anything like that, is he?” asked Rollison.
“Mr. Higginbottom, sir? I have not been informed of any such phenomenon.” Jolly was now quite wide awake. “He does from time to time form attachments, but I believe they are always short-lived.”
“But how deep while they last? Has he ever mentioned a Mrs. Allen?”
Jolly pondered, and shook his head. “I don’t recall the name, sir.”
“Or Barbara Allen? Possibly shortened to Bar or Babs?”
“Definitely not, sir,” said Jolly. “I hope that Mr. Higginbottom has not been getting himself into difficulties.”
“So do I,” said Rollison. “But a tearful young lady wants to see him urgently, and doesn’t mind how late it is when he calls. She’s undoubtedly in trouble. Snub’s in Blackpool, disporting himself with the Lancashire lasses, and so——”
“You are going to see Mrs. Allen,” concluded Jolly.
“Admirable deduction,” said Rollison. “And I’m going at once because I don’t want to be too late! Her address is Byngham—with a “y”—Court Mansions, St. John’s Wood, and her telephone number is St. John’s 81312. So if I’m not back by the morning, you’ll know where to find me.”
“Very good, sir,” said Jolly primly.
“Good-night,” said Rollison.
After Rollison had gone, Jolly shook his head and smiled —a rather solemn smile, as one might give when brooding over the follies of youth or the idiosyncracies of men in love. He knew that Rollison had lately been lured into a series of social functions which he seldom enjoyed, and this was his first early night for a week. Moreover, Rollison—sometimes called the Toff—did not make up in the morning for sleep he lost at night He was busy with a variety of jobs, many self-imposed, and missed the services of Snub Higginbottom, his secretary.
The unexpected visit had driven sleep away. Jolly got up, put on a dark blue dressing-gown, made himself a cup of tea, and took it into the study. He enjoyed an hour there when Rollison was not in. To-night, he found himself contemplating the trophy wall.
At one time he had disapproved of it, for the trophies were not of ordinary hunts, but of man-hunts. And in most of them Jolly had played a part, not always willing, but often important There were, for instance, the two umbrella-handles. With one, Jolly had hooked the feet from under a man who might easily have mortally wounded his employer; with the other, Jolly had knocked a man out simply by striking him over the head. Curiously enough, these incidents were the only ones for which Jolly had been formally thanked by a magistrate or a judge for contributing to the success of the law over lawlessness, which was why Rollison had selected them as Jolly’s trophies.
There was the top hat, right at the top, with a hole drilled through the crown. There were chicken feathers. There were knives, automatics, curious and ingenious weapons, some of which hardly looked lethal. There were glass cases in which were tiny quantities of deadly poisons. There was a cosh, one of the earliest trophies; it was after Rollison had won the cosh, that Jolly had first heard him called “The Toff”. And there was a visiting-card—one of Rollison’s, with spots of dried blood on one side and, on the other, a simple drawing of a top-hat, a monocle and a swagger cane. The Toff seldom used such a card these days
Jolly sipped his tea, and remembered.
At five minutes past twelve, the front door bell at No. 31, Byngham Court Mansions rang. Barbara, still on the bed, sat up abruptly, and her heart began to thump. It wasn’t Bob, he had a key. The last time the front door bell had rung, she had opened it to admit the two “workmen”. Getting up, she glanced in the mirror, but there was nothing she could do about her appearance, her lips and nose were even puffier now. She hurried out and opened the front door.
The hall light shone on a tall, dark-haired man. She saw in the first glimpse that he was good-looking, and she liked the way his lips curved. He wore a light-coloured raincoat but no hat. He wasn’t Snub Higginbottom. Snub had earned his name through the shape of his nose, and this man’s nose was aquiline. Then she saw his eyes; grey, clear, with a curious brilliance.
“Mrs. Allen?” It was the voice she had heard over the telephone.
“You—you’ve come yourself!” She stood aside, and was vividly aware of his searching glance. What should she tell him now that he was here? She hadn’t dreamed he would come himself, and it would have been difficult enough to tell Higginbottom, who had known Bob for years.
The stranger closed the door gently.
“You’ve had a rough time,” he remarked. “Nasty stuff, chloroform.”
“Chloro” she began, and choked on the word.
“When carelessly applied, it has a colourful effect. I can smell it, too,” said Rollison. He gave her another penetrating stare, yet his eyes had softened. “Are you alone here?”
“Yes. My husband—hasn’t come back. That’s why——”
And suddenly it was easy to talk.
When she had finished the story, Rollison was sitting in Bob’s easy chair and Barbara in a fireside chair, hugging her knees. She had started off by intending to tell him a little— about the attack on her and Bob’s long absence, but he prompted her so shrewdly that she kept nothing back. One of his comments had been: “I’m not a policeman, you know,” and that had done more than anything else to make her talk without reticence.
Now that all was told, she still felt desperately anxious, but relieved. He offered her cigarettes, then laughed at himself because obviously she couldn’t smoke with any enjoyment. His naturalness won her completely.
“But you smoke, please,” she said.
“Thanks.” Rollison lit a cigarette. “Did anyone else know where your husband was going?”
“No, not a soul. There was hardly time to tell anyone. In any case, the people in the next flat are away, and we don’t know them downstairs, they’re comparatively new.”
“How new?” asked Rollison quickly.
“Well—six or seven months.”
They came before your husband returned?” “Oh yes, some time before.”
Rollison lost interest in the “new” people downstairs.
The men who telephoned to say your husband would be late must know where he is,” reasoned Rollison. “Cases of kidnapping in broad daylight are rare, it’s much more likely that someone persuaded him to go with them, and although he may not have gone willingly, he probably went of his own volition. What time did the gas-men come?”
“At ten past four exactly.”
“A gas-man and his mate are among the least noticed people in London,” remarked Rollison. “I suppose you haven’t noticed anyone loitering about the street outside in the last few days?”
“No, no one,” said Barbara, after a moment’s reflection.
“Other people may have noticed them. Have you any idea what they wanted?”
“No,” answered Barbara.
“Sure? Not even a notion?”
“Yes, I’m quite sure.” The importance of the question struck home to Barbara now. “Bob told me nothing at all until this morning, when—well, I’ve told you——” She broke off, leaning back and half-closing her eyes. “And all I know is, he’s afraid of the police and—and hopes that he’ll have nothing to worry about after Saturday.” Rollison nodded understanding, and she went on: “I can’t imagine why he should be so frightened of the police. I can’t imagine Bob committing a crime, or even thinking of it——”
“Let’s not forget that he had several very rough years, and when a man comes out of the hell that’s Burma jungle, he isn’t going to be quite himself for some time,” said Rollison. “And like a lot of people he may be more nervous of the police than necessary. They’re not so bad, you know. Human beings and all that kind of thing. No malice or vindictiveness. I have known people nearly off their heads with worry, when ten minutes with a detective-sergeant would have set their minds at rest.”
“You’re like a breath of fresh air!” exclaimed Barbara.
“You want something to blow the cobwebs away,” said Rollison.
As he finished speaking, there was a faint sound somewhere in the flat. Barbara hardly noticed it as she studied him. He had brought calm and commonsense to bear on her problem, and she felt soothed and reassured.
When the noise was repeated, she noticed it
Rollison’s smile remained, but a little vertical furrow appeared between his eyes. Barbara opened her lips to speak, but he raised his hand for silence.
“What——” she began huskily.
“Hush,” murmured Rollison. He put his hands on the arm of his chair and stood up, a swift movement. He looked towards the closed door, and when the sound came again.
“What room is next door?” asked Rollison softly.
“The—the kitchen.”
“And a door to the fire-escape is there?”
“Yes.” She caught her breath.
“Is the kitchen door open or closed?” As he asked that, he approached her. “Don’t get worked up. This may be a false alarm—or it may be just the thing to put us right. Is the kitchen door——”
“It’s closed.”
“Good, said Rollison. “I’m going to put the light out. Just stay where you are, I’ll be back in a moment.”
He crossed the room and put his hand to the switch; there was a faint click, and the light went out. Barbara stood in the darkness, staring towards the door. She heard it open and thought there was a faint creak as Rollison went out. A second creak was much louder; the kitchen door squeaked, he was opening that. A moment later a window rattled—very loudly.
It kept rattling, as if a high wind were buffeting it, but the window of the sitting-room didn’t move, so it couldn’t be the wind.
CHAPTER FOUR
INTRUDER
INSIDE the flat all was quiet. Rollison stood by the kitchen door, seeing the outline of the window and the starlit sky beyond— and the head and shoulders of a man outside.
He waited only long enough to convince himself that a man was standing on the fire-escape, then closed the door. The key was on the outside; he turned it, and went back to the sitting-room. He could just make out Barbara Allen, standing in front of her chair.
“Can you see me?” he called softly.
“Ju—just,” she answered unsteadily.
“A man’s trying to get in,” said Rollison in a matter-of-fact voice. “Will you do exactly what I tell you?”
“Yes.”
Then go to your bedroom, undress and get into bed,” said Rollison. “He’s probably come to question you, as the flat’s already been searched. We might find out what he’s after. You’ve several minutes to get ready, I’ve locked the kitchen door. All clear?”
“Yes,” whispered Barbara. She was shivering.
“We might find out what’s behind it all,” Rollison said. “He won’t dream that I’m listening. Which is your bedroom?”
“Opposite this room.” She was calmer now; he’d given her both confidence and hope.
“Good—come on,” said Rollison
He drew to one side as she came towards him, her figure a clear silhouette against the window. She made no fuss, passed him and went through a doorway—he couldn’t see her then. The bedroom door closed. The rattling at the window stopped and after a pause he heard a thud; the man was now in the kitchen.
There was no sound at all from the bedroom.
Rollison backed towards the telephone, groped cautiously, touched the table, pressed close to the wall and squeezed into a recess.
Scratching sounds at the door told him that the intruder was working on the lock. Soon, the kitchen door squeaked open loudly.
The light from a torch flashed on, striking the wall opposite, and was reflected from the glass of one of the small pictures. The intruder lowered it and moved it round slowly. It shone on the telephone, and Rollison, pressing tightly against the wall, prepared to act if he were seen.
The beam of light moved away, missing him, and made a complete circuit of the hall until finally it came to rest on the bedroom door-handle. The circle of fight on the door grew larger, and in the reflection Rollison could just make out the man’s figure. The light grew whiter as the torch drew closer to the wall. Suddenly part of it was hidden by the man’s figure. A short, squat fellow, he moved with great stealth. The shadow of his hands appeared on the door as he changed the torch a florid, ugly-looking creature with powerful shoulders and a thick barrel-like torso.
“Get up,” ordered Rollison.
The man didn’t move.
“Get—up.” Rollison leaned over the bed, bent down and grabbed the man’s wrist, pulled him to his feet and gave him a shove against the wall. He came up against it with another thud and nearly fell again. He shot out a hand and clutched the dressing-table for support. The trinkets rattled, a brush fell to the floor.
“I should get back to bed if I were you,” Rollison said to Barbara.
She obeyed; her nightdress was thin and the room cold. She sat down and pulled a blanket round her shoulders, looking first at Rollison and then at the burglar.
“Take off your coat,” Rollison said to the man.
After a short, tense pause, the man did so.
“Throw it on the bed,” ordered Rollison.
Again the man obeyed, and the coat fell on the bed, near Barbara.
“Pick it up, Mrs. Allen, and empty the pockets,” said Rollison, “We’ll see what we can learn about the gentleman.”
He looked into the scared brown eyes of his victim, who moistened his lips again and stood up more comfortably. Barbara began to go through the pockets, but kept looking at the burglar and at Rollison. Oddments piled up on the bed by her side, and Rollison did not speak until every pocket was empty.
A wallet, some letters, a gold watch, a slim gold cigarette-case and a lighter, a piece of billiard-chalk, a green comb, a small ring of keys, a book of stamps and some other oddments came to light.
“Now I wonder where you won the gold watch,” said Rollison, with a touch of mockery. “The last crib you cracked, I suppose. What’s all this about diamonds?”
The man didn’t speak.
“I shouldn’t hold out on me, chum,” Rollison said mildly. “The telephone is in the hall, and the police will be here in five minutes if I dial 999. What’s all this about diamonds?”
“Why the hell don’t you ask her?” growled the intruder.
“Because I prefer you to tell me,” said Rollison. Mrs. Allen, pick up that hair-brush and give it to me, will you?” He glanced at the silver hair-brush on the floor and Barbara got off the bed. She looked a comical figure with a blanket clutched round her, one corner trailing on the floor. Instinctively, she looked at herself in the mirror, and felt her hair again.
