John Creasey - Stars For The Toff
“Make sure she couldn’t fool anybody else,” answered Rollison.
“If the charge against her is proved she’ll go to prison, won’t she?”
“She will indeed.”
“What about—what about the girl?”
“That depends on how deeply she’s involved.”
“She isn’t involved,” Fraser said. “She’s an innocent tool in the hands of that infernal woman. Mona’s a natural clairvoyante; sometimes she really can see into the future, and the Melinska woman uses her to win her victim’s confidence before she steps in and wrings every penny out of them. If I can convince you of this, will you help Mona? And give up Madam Melinska’s defence?”
Rollison nodded.
“Michael, don’t trust him,” Jane called out.
“I don’t see what else we can do,” said Fraser. “If Mrs Abbott’s dead then we really are in trouble and we’ll need someone to get us out of it. Rollison, Madam Melinska is a confidence trickster on a big scale. She takes nothing for her readings, but by conning her clients into giving her large sums of money which she tells them she’ll invest on their behalf, she makes a fortune. She daren’t admit she has any money now because this would give the game away—so she’s relying on credulous fools—I mean good-hearted people—to put up whatever she needs for her defence. It’s all there.” He waved a hand towards the brief-case. “Mrs Abbott has it all down in black and white.”
Rollison frowned. “Why did you steal this “evidence” from Mrs Abbott? And how did you know Mrs Abbott had it?”
“I knew because she told me about it. Oh yes, I used to know the Abbotts quite well, and when Mrs Abbott came to London she looked me up. I lived in Bulawayo for some years, I—I was engaged to the Abbotts’ niece, Mona Lister. But then Mona left home and got herself involved with this Melinska woman, and somehow things started going wrong between us. Another reason I’d like to get my own back.” Fraser added wryly. “Mrs Abbott was so upset, both about Mona and her husband—” He paused. “You know about Abbott’s suicide?”
Rollison nodded. “Yes, I heard about it. Carry on.”
Fraser frowned. “Where did I get to? Oh yes, Mrs Abbott was so upset that she decided to collect sufficient evidence to prove that Madam Melinska was a fraud. And she collected it. But I was afraid of what she might say about Mona—when Mona left home and went to live with Madam Melinska Mrs Abbott turned completely against her, she seemed to hate the girl as much as Madam Melinska—and I was worried in case she implicated her in Madam Melinska’s swindles.”
“So you persuaded Ted to steal the evidence,” Rollison finished for him.
“Yes, I stole it, but I didn’t kill the woman,” insisted the man in the chair. He was looking better now. “I tell you the flat was empty.”
Rollison said: “You may have a lot of trouble proving that. Did you see anyone else near the flat?”
“No one I recognised.”
“Lucifer Stride, for instance?” Rollison suggested.
He expected the name to cause something of a sensation, but the two men took it without blinking.
“Oh, Lucy,” Ted said derisively. “He wasn’t there.”
“How well do you know him?” asked Rollison.
“He’s my brother—half-brother actually,” said Michael Fraser impatiently. “I gave him a job in the office here for a few months, but it didn’t work out. He certainly wouldn’t have anything to do with killing Mrs Abbott. He might ask for a little—more than a little— financial support but—oh, I’m sorry if I sound cold-blooded,” Fraser interrupted himself, “but my brother and I don’t have much in common. All the same, he wouldn’t hurt a fly, and as for murder—well, you can certainly rule him out. Rollison—will you help us expose Madam Melinska?”
“Yes—if she’s guilty,” said Rollison.
“We can’t afford to pay—”
“If Madam Melinska has fooled me I won’t deserve any payment,” said Rollison. He was aware of a growing uneasiness, a fear that these men might be right about the woman whom his Aunt Gloria trusted so implicitly.
He was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. Fraser hesitated, glanced at his watch in surprise, then picked up the receiver. A moment later, in even greater surprise, he said: “It’s for you, Rollison.”
As far as Rollison was aware the only person who knew that he might be here was Olivia Cordman.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Welcome Home
It was not the Features Editor of The Day, it was Jolly. The first syllable of his man’s voice warned Rollison that all was not well, and he steeled himself to receive bad news.
“Miss Cordman advised me where you might be, sir. I’m sorry to bother you, but I think you would be well-advised to come home immediately.”
“Why?” asked Rollison.
“The—ah—police are in possession,” Jolly told him.
“What?”
“They are in truth, sir. I tried to communicate with Mr Grice, but he is said to be out of town.”
“What are they doing?” inquired Rollison.
“Searching most extensively, sir. However, I am less concerned with the attitude of the police than with another situation which I think you should see for yourself.” Hurriedly, he went on: “Would you care to speak to Chief Inspector Clay, who is in charge here, sir?”
“Just tell him I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Rollison said.
He rang off on Jolly’s “Very good, sir.”
He was quite sure that Jolly would have told him more but for Clay’s presence. Rollison knew the man slightly—a shrewd and patient detective, but with little imagination and an unyielding faith in the rule book—exactly the type of man whom Grice would second to an investigation into his, Rollison’s, activities.
All three members of Space Age Publishing, Limited were watching him; his apprehension must have sounded in his voice. He looked at each in turn, and then said:
“Jane, let me have your own and the men’s home addresses and telephone numbers—I may want to get in touch with you. Fraser, I’d like you to send me a written report stating everything you know about Madam Melinska.” He turned to the man the others had called Ted. “What’s your surname?”
“Jackson.”
“I’d like you to send me a report of all your movements when you visited Mrs Abbott, everything you noticed, everyone you saw—a fully detailed description of exactly what happened at the flat.”
Jackson looked uneasy. “Do you think the police will get on to me?”
“They might.”
“You won’t tell them I was—”
“As long as you play ball with me I won’t tell the police anything,” Rollison said. He took a card from his pocket, with his name—The Honourable Richard Rollison, O.B.E.—and the Gresham Street address on one side, and a pencilled sketch of a top hat, a monocle, a cigarette and a bow tie on the other, and handed it to Fraser. Once, this had been used as a form of psychological terrorism, a melodramatic threat—The Toff’s on the trail. There were still times for melodrama, he believed; this might be one of them.
Picking up the brief-case with one hand and taking the slip of paper Jane held out to him with the other, he walked out of the room and across the outer office, leaving the three members of Space Age Publishing, Limited staring after him. Unlocking the passage door, he stepped outside. The automatic self-service lift was still working, and a small door in the large doors of the building had not yet been locked. Rollison stepped out, cautiously.
No one was in the street, but that did not mean that the police weren’t at either end, watching; or that the men who had killed Charlie Wray and attempted to kill Lucifer would not be lurking close by. He turned towards the Strand. The brief-case must not be taken to the flat while the police were there, nor must it be taken anywhere the police might search. His club, for instance. Hailing a taxi, he went to Charing Cross station, left the brief-case in a locker, pocketed the key and looked about cautiously, but no one appeared to be paying him any particular attention.
Outside, he bought a newspaper.
His own face, Madam Melinska’s and Mona’s stared up at him; and there were front page headlines.
TOFF TO THE RESCUE
£100 BAIL FOR MADAM MELINSKA
GALLANTRY IN COURT
The story, as a story, was factual enough; what Rollison hadn’t expected was the space and prominence the evening papers gave to it.
There was a long queue for taxis, so he walked down Villiers Street, and through the Embankment Gardens to his car. A ticket was wedged under his windscreen-wiper and he realised that he had only put two six-pences into the parking meter. He drove off very thoughtfully, half wishing he had looked in the brief-case.
Half an hour later he turned off Piccadilly and was in sight of Gresham Terrace. The first thing to startle him was the sight of the policemen, three of them; the second, the stream of people; the third, the fact that the police were sending cars straight past the end of Gresham Terrace. His heart thumped. Had there been an accident, or—
A policeman came up to him.
“The street’s barred for the next hour or so, sir. You can only get into Gresham Terrace on foot. I—” the man broke off. “Aren’t you Mr Rollison?”
“Yes. I’ll get rid of the car and come back.”
“One of our men will look after the car for you, sir. Chief Inspector Clay would like to see you as soon as possible. He’s waiting at your place.”
Rollison looked along Gresham Terrace.
It was a seething mass of people, mostly women. At this end of the street they were fairly thinly spread but farther along they were packed so solidly that no one could pass. Two or three cars were completely hemmed in; until the crowd was cleared there would be no chance for them to move.
“That’s a welcome if you like,” the policeman said with reluctant admiration. “They’re waiting for you, sir. Lot of half-wits!”
Rollison chuckled and then said: “I don’t want to run that gauntlet, I’d better go the back way.” He opened the far door of the car and stepped out, but as he did so a middle-aged woman coming along the street cried:
“There he is!”
Someone else shouted: “There’s the Toff!”
“You haven’t a hope,” said the policeman, sotto voce.
Rollison stood by the side of the car and watched the crowd bear down on him. Suddenly he was surrounded, engulfed, enmeshed in hundreds of seemingly bodiless hands stretched frantically to clutch his own.
Rollison thought with alarm: “They’ll mob me.”
Then he thought: “They’re here to help.”
“You will get help from many unexpected sources.”
“Sir!” hissed the policeman, “Chief Inspector—”
“God bless you, sir.”
“She didn’t cheat anyone! She couldn’t do it.”
“She’s an angel, that woman is.”
“Don’t let them put her in prison, Mr Rollison.”
“Sir, Chief Inspector Clay wants—” The policeman tried again.
Rollison stood perfectly still by the side of the car, with the crowd pressing nearer and harder; it would need only a sudden surge from behind to crush him and those nearest to him against the Bentley, and once that happened disaster could follow.
Very clearly, Rollison cried: “What I would like to do is to talk to you all from my window—if I could just get through to my flat . . .”
“The Toff wants to get through.”
“. . . a speech.”
“Make room.”
“Clear a path.”
“The Toff’s going to talk to us!”
“Stand aside, there,” the policeman said, as if he did not believe he would have the slightest effect.
“Stand back!” a little woman shouted shrilly.
Another began to push.
“Make a path.”
“A path!”
“Get back!”
“Link arms—make a chain . . . chain . . . chain . . .”
And as if by magic a path appeared among the crowd, as those standing nearest to Rollison linked arms in time-honoured policeman fashion and pressed back on those behind. There were outbursts of cheering, and two men started to sing “For he’s a jolly good fellow.” Immediately the refrain was taken up by the crowd, louder and louder, until the whole street was singing.
* * *
At the window of the big living-room at Rollison’s flat, Chief Inspector Clay stared down, watching the seething, excited people, seeing the way they moved aside for Rollison, noting the respect, the affection, almost the love they had for him. After a few minutes he turned round and bumped against Jolly, who had also been staring down, his eyes quite moist.
“Nothing like this can ever have happened before,” muttered Clay. “It’s crazy.”
“It’s happened at least three times to my knowledge, sir,” Jolly said. “I remember—” He broke off, for Clay was at the telephone, and turned back to watch the scene below. Rollison was now almost directly beneath the window. The singing rose to a crescendo as he reached the steps leading up to the front door downstairs.
Jolly moved to open the door of the flat. Two of Clay’s men were in the hall, looking ill-at-ease. Jolly opened the door and went to the head of the stairs. The noise was fainter here, and sounds from the downstairs hall were sharp and clear; a key in the lock, footsteps, the closing of the door, then Rollison’s footsteps on the stairs.
Then a man said clearly:
“Stay there, Rollison.”
Rollison, out of sight, seemed to catch his breath.
Jolly, startled and alarmed, stepped forward. “Who are you?” he heard Rollison ask.
“Never mind who I am. What did you find at Mrs Abbott’s flat?”
Jolly began to creep very slowly down the stairs.
“Mrs Abbott—dead.”
“If you try to be funny you’ll be dead.”
“Put that gun away and stop talking like a fool.” Jolly, nearer now, detected a steely note in Rollison’s voice.
“Don’t call me a fool. All those screaming half-wits out there—they’re the fools. And they’re wrong, that damned fortune-teller has fooled them. However, that’s their funeral— but it will be yours too if you don’t tell me what you found at Mrs Abbott’s.”
Jolly held his breath as he peered down the well of the staircase.
He saw his master and a tall, dark-haired young man; and he saw the gun in the young man’s hand. If he touched the trigger, there wouldn’t be a chance for Rollison.
