John Creasey - The Toff and The Lady
“I don’t” began Phyllis.
“Don’t take any notice of Phyllis,” said Janice, with a moue, “she’s a sober old stick. I’d love a gin-and-It.”
Rollison went to the wall and pressed the bell, although he was quite sure that Jolly was standing near the door. After a discreet pause, Jolly entered. Rollison imagined that the younger girl would get a kick out of having the drinks served by Jolly, and as she preened herself and tucked a few odd strands into the regimented waves of her hair, he knew that he was right to butter Janice Armitage excessively.
“And you?” he asked Phyllis.
“I’d rather not,” said Phyllis, and then relented. “Well, perhaps a sherry.”
“Dry or sweet?”
“Dry, please,” she said, and Rollison beamed at Janice and said that he would follow her example. He watched Jolly’s impassive face as the drinks were poured. Then Jolly retired and Rollison drank to his guests. Janice made it clear that she was mostly pleasantly surprised.
“I don’t know why Phyllis wanted me to come,” she said, “and I don’t mind admitting that at first I didn’t want to—not a bit. I don’t often get on with friends of Phyllis’s. You’re different, though I don’t know where on earth she met you.”
Rollison smiled. “We can’t tell you all our secrets.”
“Oh, go on,” said Janice.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Phyllis. “Mr. Rollison, I told you that Janice was engaged to Marcus Shayle, didn’t I?”
“What does that matter—I’m not now,” said Janice, tartly. “There’s no need to bring that up.”
“There is,” said Phyllis, wearily. “You’ve been hearing from him.”
“I tell you I haven’t! And it’s no business of yours if I have, and I certainly don’t see why it should concern Mr. Rollison. A girl can have a letter now and again, can’t she?”
“Marcus Shayle,” murmured Rollison, “is wanted by the police. Don’t you know that?”
“Well. I don’t know where he is,” said Janice, “and I certainly don’t think Marcus would do anything wrong; the police are fools, everyone knows that. It’s really too bad!” she went on, raising her voice, “you didn’t say you were going to talk about this with Mr. Rollison, he doesn’t want to hear—do you?”
“Only if you can tell me where to find Shayle,” said Rollison, improvising magnificently. You see, he once let a friend of mine down rather badly, and I’d like a few words with the gentleman. Still, if you don’t know where he is” He paused, invitingly, and Janice jumped in.
“I certainly don’t! And I am not receiving presents from him. I don’t have to explain to Phyllis every time I have a new dress, do I?”
Phyllis’s expression told Rollison that he now knew the whole purport of the call. So he sympathized a little with Janice and said that he was sure she deserved every present she received. Janice, elated at scoring a triumph over her sister, grew more and more fulsome, and drank more and more gin-and-Italians. Phyllis sat back, with a look of hopeless resignation.
Finally it transpired that Janice was receiving letters from Marcus Shayle, letters with a Devon address—an address where Janice had once been to see him. Everything was very proper, of course, and after all they had been engaged, hadn’t they? She was nearly drunk by then, and grew a little maudlin, while Phyllis sat back, disapproving and, Rollison thought, angry and hurt by the exhibition which her sister was making of herself.
Then Janice wanted to powder her nose.
Jolly escorted her with great dignity to the bathroom, leaving Rollison free for a word with her sister. Phyllis got up quickly, and said:
“I knew she was hearing from him and that he was sending her money. I couldn’t make her tell me where he is, but I thought you might. I have done right, haven’t I?”
“Perfectly, in more ways than one, but let’s change the subject—have you seen the patient again?”
“No,” said Phyllis, startled. “Isn’t she still at the nursing home?”
“They say that she made a voluntary departure,” said Rollison. “Do you know whether Marcus Shayle has anything to do with the nursing home?”
“No.”
“Have you ever seen him in the company of a fat man with
a nice taste in broad checks?”
“No,” said Phyllis, “but Janice knows him much better than I do.”
Janice was more dignified on her return, and Rollison decided not to press the inquiry about the little fat man. He made an appointment with Janice for the next day, for lunch, and then ushered them out. When they had gone, Rollison drew his hand across his forehead and became aware of Jolly standing at his side.
“Two very different beans out of the same pod,” said Jolly, gravely.
Rollison laughed. “Very different is right.”
“Are we going to Devonshire, sir?” asked Jolly.
“Not yet,” said Rollison, “but we are going to cheer Grice up. If Shayle’s at the Devon address the police will get him before the night’s out.” He went to the telephone and tried Grice’s home number.
“How much is Shayle’s address worth?” Rollison asked.
“What?” cried Grice. “Have you got it?”
Rollison passed on the necessary particulars. The Superintendent was in such a hurry to get in touch with the Devonshire police that he did not even ask Rollison where he had obtained the information, but rang off and said that he would look in later. Rollison replaced the receiver, paused for a moment, and then said slowly: “Jolly.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If she is alive, I am going to find Lady Lost.”
“I am sure you are sir,” said Jolly, “I have no doubt at all about that. I—excuse me.”
He made his dignified way towards the hall and the front door, for the bell had rung. Before he opened it there was another ring, which did not stop until there was an exclamation from Jolly—one so unexpected and so out of character that Rollison was afraid his man had been hurt. He stepped swiftly to the door, putting his right hand to his pocket, an instinctive gesture, for he was not carrying a gun.
Before he looked round the door, some of his fears were dispelled, for Jolly said in a voice that was a little unsteady: “Good-evening, Madam.”
Rollison stepped forward—and he saw Lady Lost huddled in costly furs, bare-headed and very pale, push past Jolly and walk slowly towards him.
CHAPTER NINE
‘COME BACK PETER, FLY AWAY PAUL’
ON the woman’s lips was a smile which made her the living image of that photograph; as indeed, she was. She advanced slowly towards Rollison, her right hand outstretched, and he stood still. The photograph had been a triumph of the camera’s art, but beside this woman it was insignificant, a dull shadow, a paltry thing to be forgotten.
Her eyes were hazel, the brown lashes curled upwards as if nature had been improved upon, and yet Rollison got the impression that their curve was natural. Her eyes slanted ever so little towards the temples, and her cheek-bones were high although not remarkably so; certainly the type was not English. But what most attracted him was her complexion. There was not a tinge of colour in it; it was like alabaster, pale and glowing, so perfect that it did not seem quite real. She had used no make-up, and her lips were only faintly outlined, yet in spite of that warmth and vitality seemed to spring from her.
When he touched her outstretched hand and bowed over it, her fingers were cool.
You are very welcome,” he murmured, and into his eyes there sprang a smile, at once gallant and gay. When Jolly saw it, his own face lit up; here was the real Rollison.
“You are very kind,” said the woman.
Her voice had a huskiness which was attractive. There was a trace of foreign accent, too.
“After all,” said Rollison, taking her arm and leading her into the study, “I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a long time.”
“So I understand,” she said. “You wrote to me.”
Rollison did not correct her.
“And you lied to me,” she said slowly. “I can see that now— you have never seen me before and you do not know who I am, although in your letter you said you did.” Something of her vitality seemed to ebb, and she sat down slowly. Rollison took her coat and handed it to Jolly.
She looked up at him. “Why did you make me hope?”
“Not I,” said Rollison, “but a mutual friend. I’m glad that he wrote to you, because otherwise you would not have come.”
She frowned. “More knavery?” The word came naturally from her lips.
“More knavery which we can counter,” said Rollison, sitting on the arm of his chair and smiling at her. “Will you have a drink?”
She said: “No, but I am very hungry.”
“That can soon be put right,” said Rollison, and he rang for Jolly. “We will have dinner as quickly as possible.”
“Very good, sir.” Jolly retired, and Rollison looked back at the woman.
If she were not lying by inference, her memory was no better than when she had arrived at Barrington House. It was too soon for him to be convinced that she was telling the truth, and yet he wanted to believe her. From the moment he had seen her photograph he had wanted to see her in the flesh, to hear her voice and see the colour of her eyes, to know the living reality of her—and here she was, dressed in a plain black evening gown, with shoes of black satin trimmed with diamante, without other jewellery or make-up, with her brown hair plaited and coiled about her head and shining with a soft lustre.
“So,” she said, speaking with great deliberation, “you do not know me, and you cannot help me.”
“Only the first is true,” he said.
She looked puzzled. “Why should that be?”
“Nearly a month ago, before you arrived at Barrington House, an unknown person sent me your photograph, and I have been at your command from that moment!”
She smiled. “An Englishman who is gallant!”
“There is more in us than you suspect,” he said. “So you know that you are not English?”
“That is one thing about which there is no doubt,” she said.
“The doctors were quite sure of that, and so they tried to make me remember what I am, and yet they failed. I remember nothing, except appearing in that gay ballroom, with many strange people looking at me. Then the room suddenly began to go round, the lights danced, the people swayed as they came towards me—and then, darkness!” Throughout that speech her voice had been pitched on so low a key that he could hear what she said only with difficulty. After a long while, she went on: “Darkness, and the hospital, and all that happened afterwards. I remember quite well.”
“Everything!” asked Rollison.
“Everything,” she said, “and yet not enough, for your police have asked me whether I saw a stranger in my room, and I remember no stranger; I remember only that I was sick, so very sick, and I did not think that I would live. Yet I am here —as I was there—seeking myself:
“With others also looking for you,” said Rollison. “Someone knows who you are.”
Her eyes lit up. “That is the first time I have been given real hope! Can you be sure?”
“Quite sure,” said Rollison. “They would not be so interested in you unless they knew who you were and what you are doing in England.” He remembered himself and offered her cigarettes, but she refused, and also refused another offer of a drink. So he went on: “What they know, we can learn, and when we’ve learned it then the doctors can help you to remember all that you’ve forgotten.”
“Almost you make it sound simple.”
“Few things are as complicated as they look,” said Rollison. “I wonder if the doctors or the police realize one thing that can be helpful?”
“What do you mean?”
“That you learned English in England or from an English governess with whom you spoke the language from childhood,” said Rollison. “Have they said that?”
“No. You are performing miracles, Mr. Rollison! I am already becoming excited.”
“After dinner you will probably get hilarious,” said Rollison, for he heard Jolly coming into the hall. “Now, you must have some sherry.”
“I do not like it,” she said.
He stared down at her, leaning forward a little, his eyes brighter than ever.
You see! Another thing you remember.”
“But”
“They don’t give you sherry in the nursing home,” said Rollison, “so you must have disliked it before you lost your memory. A cocktail?”
She made a face. “They burn one so!” Her eyes lighted up, not with the effort of remembering but because some things were coming to her mind so naturally. “There are two things I do not like about the Americans—they invented cocktails and they invented high buildings.”
“Which are called”
She stared at him, with great concentration, and then said delightedly:
“Sky-scrapers!”
“Sky-scrapers,” echoed Rollison. He was surprised by his own elation.
Jolly came in and laid the table while they talked gaily and irresponsibly, and for the first time a tinge of colour crept into her cheeks. As they talked, he recalled all that he had heard about her. When she had arrived at Barrington House she had no jewellery, no handbag, no papers, nothing but the clothes in which she now stood: clothes which Grice had told him were of American make and could not be traced in England. According to the police no one could be sure who had made her gown or who had supplied her furs.
Marcus Shayle had wanted to know what she said. He or some unknown person had tried to kill her. Another had sent her the letter which had brought her here
“You have thought of something else,” she said, seeing the gleam in his eyes.
“Yes,” said Rollison. “That letter. Whoever sent it wanted you to come here, and the man or woman who sent me your photograph also wanted me to meet you. So they were probably sent by the same person.”
“It is most likely,” she said.
Jolly had been busy with steaks and frozen peas and grilled tomatoes, and murmured that dinner was served. He hovered about them throughout the meal, while they talked and laughed with animation; this was a miracle; They drank sparingly of champagne, but enough to bring an added sparkle to their eyes, and behaved as if they were old friends who had met after a long separation. No stranger would have believed that they had met for the first time only an hour before.
She would have coffee, she said.
She grimaced when she sipped it, and set her cup down, without taking it up again. Rollison noticed that and made no comment. Then being a woman, she rose and looked at herself in a small mirror, and exclaimed in mock horror.
“Mr. Rollison, I am”
“Delightful.” he said.
“But my lips! And my cheeks! I am like a ghost!”
“A very lively ghost,” said Rollison. “Come with me.” He took her to the dressing-table where, spread out, was everything any woman could need for her make-up and her toilet; Jolly had found time to put them ready. She sat at the dressing-table, looking up at him, and he went out and closed the door.
