John Creasey - The Toff In Town
“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.
She picked up the brush.
“Throw it,” said Rollison, and she did so. He caught it deftly by the handle and beat the air with it. “This is almost as good as a cosh,” he mused aloud. “You know what a cosh is, don’t you chum? A shiny sheath of leather filled with lots of lead shot. On the whole I think this will hurt more. Now what were you saying about those diamonds?”
The man glanced at the brush, as if trying to make up his mind whether Rollison meant to use it—and Rollison darted forward and struck him on the top of the head.
“Just to show you that I mean business,” said Rollison. “And if you get really awkward, I’ll try your knife. Think how much trouble and pain you can save by opening your mouth.”
The man darted a swift glance at Barbara.
“She—she’s got them!” he gasped.
“Don’t be silly,” said Barbara, as she sat down again.
“She has!” barked the man.
“She has—she hasn’t—she has—she hasn’t—now there isn’t any more fluff on the puff-ball,” said Rollison, his voice hardening. Mrs Allen, whom are those letters addressed to?”
“Letters?” Barbara was startled.
“Those you took out of his pocket.”
Barbara picked them up; there were three. The man by the wall looked from Rollison to her and back again as she read.
They’re all addressed to—to Harold Blane,” Barbara said quickly.
“Harold Blane,” echoed Rollison. “Harold, I am not fooling. I’m going to hear your story before you leave here if I have to break your bones to make you talk. You came here to get some diamonds which you think Mrs Allen keeps in the flat —what makes you think so?”
“They must be here,” muttered Blane. “They must be !”
“Oh, a case of logic, is it?” asked Rollison. “Some of your boy friends searched the flat this afternoon and found nothing. Others—maybe you were among them—persuaded Bob Allen to take a little ride with you, and you made sure he hadn’t got them on him, so—they must be here. Right?”
“You—you know,” gasped Blane.
“Just a little guess-work, Harold,” said Rollison, and turned to Barbara. “Ever seen this creature before?”
“I—no, no. He wasn’t one of the gas-men.”
“I shouldn’t imagine he’s a gas-man by profession,” murmured Rollison. The question is whether he’s one of the same party or whether there are two parties with the same idea.”
He moved again, and caught the burglar’s chin between the fork of his finger and thumb and banged his head against the wall. The movement startled Barbara almost as much as the victim, it was so swift and violent. And it was followed by a harsh-voiced:
“Are you one of the gas-men’s friends?”
“Yes!” gasped the burglar.
“That looks like the set-up, Mrs. Allen,” Rollison said. “Your husband’s supposed to have some diamonds, and some bad men want them. Simple greed, you see. Have you——”
“I’ve never seen any diamonds!” exclaimed Barbara. “Bob can’t have them!”
“They aren’t on Allen,” Blane said. They weren’t found here this afternoon, so they must——”
Two things are possible,” interrupted Rollison judicially. “Either Allen has hidden them in a safe place, or he never had them.”
“He had them all right!”
“As you’re so sure, where did he get them from?”
“I—I don’t know,” muttered Blane. He drew back, as if frightened of being hurt again. “I don’t know! I was told——”
“Who told you?”
“The Boss!”
“So the Boss told you,” said Rollison, shaking his head. “When in doubt, invent an all-powerful Boss and blame everything on to him, as with Cabinet Ministers. Who told you?”
“It’s true!” gasped Blane. “I’ve told you the truth, the Boss——”
“Who is this gentleman?”
“I don’t know!” Blane’s voice grew hoarse as Rollison took a step towards him, and raised the hair-brush.
“Well, well, isn’t that a remarkable thing,” marvelled Rollison. The Boss gives you orders and sends you out with a knife, and knows everything about Bob Allen and the mysterious diamonds, but you don’t even know the Boss’s name.”
He struck out with the brush.
Blane kicked at his groin, letting fly with all his strength, but Rollison moved again with bewildering speed, grabbed Blane’s ankle and thrust his leg aside. Blane crashed—the loudest crash of all.
“You hurt yourself that time,” said Rollison mildly. “Whichever way you move you’re bound to get hurt—one way more badly than another. Now, Harold!”
He yanked the man to his feet, pushed him into an easy chair, and demanded with deceptive gentleness:
“Who sent you here?”
Blane didn’t answer, but was desperately frightened now. His lips twitched, he didn’t know what to do with his hands.
Barbara broke across his words with a startled cry, Blane glanced towards the door. Rollison backed swiftly away—and saw another man standing on the threshold, gripping a walking stick in his right hand.
CHAPTER FIVE
CURIOUS BEHAVIOUR
“BOB!” cried Barbara, and jumped from the bed, sending Blane’s possessions flying about the floor. “Bob !”
There was anguish in her cry.
It was understandable, Allen’s face was bruised and scratched, there was an ugly cut on his forehead, and his clothes were torn. Although his eyes were glittering and he held the walking-stick as if it were a weapon, his mouth was wide open, and he breathed laboriously; he must have held his breath to keep silent while coming across the hall.
“Bob!”
“Keep away!” gasped Allen. “Don’t——”
Blane jumped out of his chair.
“Get me out of here!” he rasped. “If you don’t, you know what’s coming to you. Get me out!”
“We’ve different ideas about that,” said Rollison. “You stay where you are. Allen, I’m——”
“I don’t give a hoot in hell what you are,” growled Allen, motioning to Blane. “Get out—I’m not stopping you.”
“Now, Allen!” began Rollison.
“Bob—” Barbara’s voice broke.
Allen glared at his wife and advanced a step into the room, raising the stick threateningly. Blane went towards the door, watching Rollison out of the corner of his eyes. Suddenly he made a dive—for the knife, which was still on the bed. Rollison shot out a hand and pushed him away, then tossed the sheet over the knife.
Blane hesitated, and Allen shouted:
“Get out, you fool!”
“Allen——” began Rollison.
“Shut your mouth !” roared Allen, and when Rollison grabbed at Blane, he struck out with the stick. The carved handle caught Rollison on the shoulder. Barbara cried: “Bob, don’t!” but Allen pushed Rollison aside. Blane paused on the threshold, then turned and disappeared.
The front door slammed.
“Oh, you’re mad!” gasped Barbara. “Bob, you’re crazy!”
Allen tossed the stick on to the bed, and limped across to the chair. He sank into it. Perspiration beaded his forehead and his eyes looked glassy. The blood on his face had coagulated and was a dark-brown colour except in one place, where it still welled up a bright crimson. He leaned back, resting his head on the top of the chair, but didn’t close his eyes.
He looked at Rollison.
“Bob——” began Barbara.
“For pity’s sake, shut up!” muttered Allen. He winced, and pressed a hand against his stomach. He couldn’t breathe through his nose. As he looked at Rollison, he seemed to sag, and couldn’t meet that unnerving gaze. There was a moment of almost unbearable tension—then Rollison broke it
“Mrs. Allen, get a bowl of water and a towel.”
“But——”
“Please hurry,” said Rollison.
Barbara shot a glance at her husband, who did not look at her, then went out. Rollison stood a few feet in front of Allen, who looked towards the ceiling, wincing every now and again. Rollison kept silent until Allen cried:
“Who the devil are you?”
“A friend of Snub Higginbottom,” said Rollison promptly.
“Snub’s? Did she—send for you?” “For him, but he’s away. She’s had a rough time.”
“She’s had a rough time,” gasped Allen. It was nearly a sneer. “What do you think I’ve had?”
Rollison said slowly:
“You’ve had a beating-up, and from what I can see of things, you asked for it, and you’ve just asked for another.”
Allen said: “Okay, give me one. I can’t stop you.”
Defiance and challenge showed in his eyes, in spite of his plight; no one could question his courage. But Rollison’s manner changed, the pity faded, contempt replaced it
They heard water running in the bath-room; something clattered in the bath, loud enough to make Allen jump. Barbara had dropped the bowl.
“Well?” muttered Allen. “Get your damned questions out.”
“When you let Blane go, you invited another beating-up because he and his friends will come after you again,” said Rollison. “The police——”
“Keep your damned nose out of my business !” shouted Allen. “If you go to the police——”
“It might save your wife’s life,” said Rollison.
That broke Allen’s defiance and made him silent.
“It might even save yours,” went on Rollison, “but I don’t think that matters so much. At this rate, you’ll continue to make a little hell on earth both for her and for yourself. “Why were you beaten up to-night?”
That’s my business.”
“Did Blane do it?”
“Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t.”
Rollison said gently: “All right, Allen, have it your own way. The police——”
“You mustn’t call the police!” Allen cried. He tried to sit up. “I’ll tell you what I can. It was Blane and two other men. I’d been to the B.B.C.; they were waiting for me when I came out, and made me get into a cab. They—they wanted to know something I couldn’t tell them and—and they beat me up. They blind-folded me and took me to a house, and beat me up again, but I convinced them that I couldn’t help them——”
He stopped, leaving the sentence in the air.
“And couldn’t you?” asked Rollison softly.
“No!”
Barbara came in with the bowl of water and towel.
Rollison took a sheet from the bed and put it round Allen’s shoulders. Barbara went out again and returned with a bottle of antiseptic, another towel, some lint and adhesive plaster.
Together, they worked on Allen’s face in silence, cleansing and bathing the cuts. The only serious one was that on the forehead, but Rollison did not think it needed stitching. In a box which Barbara had brought was a tube of zinc ointment, and Rollison spread some on a piece of lint, placed it gently on the long cut, then kept it in place with plaster.
At last the task was done.
Rollison said: “Now what’s the matter with your stomach, Allen.”
Allen muttered: “A kick, that’s all.”
“Better let’s have a look at it,” said Rollison.
He helped Allen to undress and lie down on the bed. There were red marks on the skin— “a kick” probably meant several. There were bruises at his waist, too, where the skin was broken in places. Rollison washed the bruises with iodine; then, without speaking, he helped Allen to sit up against the pillows.
“Easier?” he asked.
“I’m all right,” muttered Allen.
“I think a doctor ought to have a look at your midriff,” Rollison said, “there might be more damage than we can see.”
“I’ve had a kick in the belly before!” snapped Allen. “And you’ve over-stayed your welcome, it’s time you went.”
Barbara opened her mouth to speak, but at a glance from Rollison, gathered up the soiled towels and the bowl, and went out without a word. Allen didn’t watch her; he seemed to take no interest in her.
“You deaf?” demanded Allen.
“I’m not quite ready to go,” said Rollison, looking up as Barbara returned. “Could there be hot coffee, with plenty of sugar?” he asked, and she went off again. Rollison pulled the blankets and eiderdown over Allen, then stood by the side of the bed. He lit a cigarette and put it to Allen’s mouth.
“Allen,” he said, “you’ve scared your wife so much that she hardly knew what she was doing when she asked Snub for help.”
“What do you know about him?” demanded Allen. “Why did you——”
“He works for me. And he’s on holiday.”
“And you’re King Arthur,” sneered Allen.
Rollison said: “Blane might knock his moll about, but he wouldn’t be so viciously cruel as you are to your wife.”
“You needn’t read the Riot Act,” growled Allen.
“It’s time someone did,” said Rollison. “You’re so full of yourself and your own miserable skin that you haven’t even the grace to ask why I’m here, or what made your wife send for Snub. You’ve been living so long with savages who’ve looked on you as a god that you’ve forgotten how to behave in England. It’s a pity you ever got back.”
A curious gleam sprang into Allen’s eyes.
“Go on, finish it,” he sneered.
“You can finish it yourself,” said Rollison. “Maybe if you tried to forget your own troubles and think of your wife’s, you’d improve, but there doesn’t seem much chance of that She was nearly murdered this afternoon.”
“That’s a lie!”
“That’s the truth,” said Rollison. “She was attacked by two friends of Blane—friends of the man you helped to escape. They chloroformed her. But she’s so loyal to you that she didn’t send for the police because that might come back on you. But I’m not interested in your safety, Allen.”
Allen took the cigarette from his lips, and mocked:
“You seem pretty interested in something.”
“I’m interested in a friend of Snub,” said Rollison. “Still glad you let Blane go?”
“I—I had to let him go.”
“Because you’ve lost everything, even the will to make a fight of it,” said Rollison bitingly.
“What’s the use of fighting?” asked Allen. He drew on the cigarette again, and stared at the glowing tip. “You’re right, I’m a heel—I told Bar so this morning. She’s a fool to stay with me. I didn’t know—anything had happened to her, or would happen.”
“You must have known there was a risk.”
“I wouldn’t tell her anything, in case the others tried—tried to find out what she knew.”
