Accuse the Toff (19 page)

‘Great Scott, no!' exclaimed Rollison, wondering how best to encourage the man to go on talking. He was eager to learn all he could of June's Gerry and it was not yet half-past two; the car would not be ready until three o'clock.

The other car, with the two men it it, was approaching York and a few miles beyond York was Bedloe aerodrome. Neither of them had spoken for some time but both were thinking of the precise instructions they had been given and pondering the chances of being able to carry them out before morning.

‘Paterson always gives me the impression that he'll do a dam' fool thing one day and pay for it,' the Squadron Leader commented next. ‘Man with a problem, I'd say. I mean, a few nights back—Monday— he dashed down to London. Didn't stay long but came back looking like death. I'd like to help him. If you do learn anything, give me a tip.' He cleared his throat and went on: ‘I dropped in here a bit earlier, spot of bother with the kite. My station's Bedloe and I'd like to help Pat, as I say. All this strictly between ourselves, of course.'

‘Of course,' echoed the Toff. ‘He came to London on Monday, you say?'

‘Yes. Good man, thanks a lot.' The Squadron Leader proffered cigarettes, then glanced at the clock. ‘Our car won't be long. I'm coming with you. Er—you are Rollison, aren't you? I mean the fellow who gets about one way and the other. Dubbed the Toff, eh?' A slow, shy smile curved the other's lips and he added: ‘I thought so, wouldn't have worried you otherwise. I mean, you coming up to see Paterson like this.' He waved a hand uncertainly and smiled more widely. ‘Worst of having a reputation. Of course, mum's the word from me. Let's go out and see about that car, shall we?'

A little tensely the Toff agreed and they sauntered into the night. The Toff was trying to digest the disquieting fact that on Monday, the day of the first murders in Chiswick, Paterson had flown to London and returned ‘looking like death.' He remembered, too, that an RAF man had been seen near the shop but hurried away.

Fifteen miles away the two men were huddled together in a kiosk and one was saying to an Adjutant at Bedloe: ‘If I can have a word with him, I'd be very glad. It's particularly important … Yes, I'll hold on, thanks very much.'

 

 

After a long wait the telephone crackled in the ear of the man from London. He nudged his companion quickly, waited for a man to say ‘Hallo' and spoke in a low-pitched, urgent voice: ‘Is that Flight-Lieutenant Paterson? My name is Edgley and I—'

‘I'm sorry, sir,' said the voice at the other end of the wire. ‘Mr. Paterson is out and isn't expected back for another twenty minutes.'

‘Out!' The voice lost much of its culture. ‘At this time of night he can't be. He—oh, I see what you mean.' He broke off as in turn he was nudged sharply. ‘You mean he's flying. Oh, er—then I'll ring him later.'

‘Can I give him a message, sir? Or ask him to ring you back?'

‘I won't give him that trouble,' said the man who called himself Edgley. ‘I'll call again in about half an hour.'

He rang off and, into the quiet darkness of the kiosk, swore unrelievedly for thirty seconds, finding neither echo nor reproof in his companion. Both of them left the kiosk and went to the car, parked in a nearby field without lights. They lit cigarettes and settled down to wait while above them the air was filled with the droning of aircraft returning from ‘flights over Germany.'

At regular intervals the great bombers came, quivering the air and shaking the ground as they drew near and landed. From time to time flares were shown to lead them in and once there was a crash loud enough to make Edgley jump.

‘What's that?' he demanded, and peered through the rear window of the car. ‘It must have been—say, look at that!'

‘Look at that,' commented the Toff as he settled down in the tonneau of an RAF car and, with a girl driving and the Squadron Leader at his side, he contemplated the light which had suddenly appeared in the eastern sky. It was not the beginning of dawn but a red and yellow flare, a streak of flame growing rapidly larger. In the distance the roar of engines could be heard clearly; the operations from the station they were just leaving had been completed before the Bedloe flights and the air nearby trembled less.

‘Eh?' asked the Squadron Leader, who had introduced himself as Conway just before climbing into the car. ‘Oh, that. H'm. One of them has had a spot of bother. He'll make it.'

To the Toff the complete detachment of flying men had always been a thing of wonder and it grew no less then as he watched the streak of flame growing nearer. It was an aircraft returning and the familiar radio phrase ‘one of its engines caught fire' was vivid in his mind. He had seen the same thing a hundred times in the first battle of Libya and, although at that time he had grown used to it, he had never ceased to marvel at the coolness of the men who handled burning machines with precision and competence which made courage take on a new and deeper meaning.

As they drew nearer to Bedloe, so the returning bomber drew nearer to them. The fire in the sky became a great beacon and they could see the tail-end of the flames and picture the nose of the bomber, made a silhouette by the engine fire. The droning roar of engines grew louder, not drowned by the sound of the car engine. Rollison found himself fascinated by the sight but forced himself to turn and peer at the vague profile of Conway's face: the light from the returning ‘plane was good enough to show the man's features and the glow in his eyes.

Rollison saw a chance of learning more about Paterson and said quietly: ‘You weren't far out in guessing, Conway. I want to see Paterson because his girlfriend is having a spot of bother but I have wondered if he knows anything about it. I'm briefed for her, in a manner of speaking.' Having delivered that half-truth, he went on quietly: ‘Has Paterson given you any indication of what's bothering him?'

‘Afraid not,' said Conway. ‘Something eating at his vitals, you know what I mean. Not uncommon, of course. Fellows whose people have been bombed out take it hard, sometimes, but I needn't go into that. Paterson hasn't any people except his girl. Haven't seen her but he showed me a photograph. If she'd turned him down or had gone on the loose, I might have put it down to that but she writes regularly. Not much you don't get to know about the other fellow, of course. It's not that and—anyhow, you may find out something. If I can help, say the word.'

‘I've been able to get him a few days' compassionate leave,' said Rollison. ‘I pulled a few strings. He doesn't know it yet. I'm told he's flying tonight, by the way.'

‘Oh, yes, he's out,' said Conway. ‘Due back about now, in fact.' As he spoke he turned towards the other window, seeing the great ball of fire which was now so near and low that it seemed as if they could feel the heat from it. That was an illusion for it was six or seven miles away, although few seeing it would have believed that. It flew lower and lower and against it the tall trees of the surrounding countryside, the roofs and chimneys of many cottages, the square outlines of a huge barn, were all shown in vivid relief. About the burning ‘plane there was a great radius of light which remained when the fire itself disappeared from sight.

Conway's teeth clamped together and Rollison heard them.

The glow remained enough for him to see the other's profile. Conway's lips were set, his eyes narrowed and he was looking straight ahead of him, rigid and unmoving. For some seconds he did not even draw on his cigarette but, at last, he relaxed and grunted: ‘All right, I think. Damn' kites blow up sometimes.' The red tip of his cigarette glowed as he pulled at it and he added: ‘We won't be long, now.'

A few minutes later they passed the open gate of a field where a car was standing but they did not see that, nor the two men from London sitting in it. Then they passed through a tiny village and turned right. Hardly had they left the main road before the car slowed down and figures loomed out of the glow of the headlamps which also glistened on fixed bayonets. A torch was shone on the face of the WAAF driver and then into the tonneau. Rollison already had his special pass out and Conway was recognised. After a brief inspection they passed on.

Half a mile away a dozen or more tiny little black figures were shown against the blazing red of a fire. By it were several small cars and a fire-fighting unit and they could see the men working hard to put out the flames, which were bright enough to show the men's quarters and the other buildings outside which the car stopped. By the door two or three men were standing, all of them in flying kit.

‘Who was it?' asked Conway, as he climbed out.

‘Pat,' calmly a voice replied.

‘All right?'

‘I haven't yet found the ruddy Hun who can really damage me,' said a negligent voice from a doorway. ‘You caught a packet, Con, didn't you? I think—what's that?' he added as a voice called: ‘Mr Paterson, sir.' ‘What's that, telephone at this time of night? All right, I'll come.'

Standing by the car, the Toff caught Conway's arm and spoke
sotto voce.

‘Can you arrange for us to see him without a crowd?'

‘Glad to,' said Conway. ‘Come on.' He pushed his way through the waiting people with half-jocular comments as he went and passed the open door of the mess-room. From another room Paterson's rather touchy voice was coming as he spoke into the telephone and he said abruptly: ‘Where do you say? What time is the train … are you sure? All right, thank you, goodbye.'

The
ting!
as he replaced the receiver sounded clear in Rollison's ears. By then Rollison was wondering, as Paterson had done, who had called the man in the early hours of the morning. He had little opportunity for pondering that, however, for Conway pushed open the door of a small room containing two or three tables and writing desks and then called: ‘Pat, half a minute.'

‘That you, Con?' Paterson came along the passage, his voice tense. ‘I say, old boy, I'm in a spot. I simply must get down to London in a hurry. Can't help it and I don't know whether to wake the Old Man for permission or push off. Can you fix it for me if I do?' He completely ignored Rollison, who was taking stock of his man and liking what he saw.

Paterson was tall, spare-boned, good-looking in a rugged and masculine fashion; his photograph did not bring that out properly. His nose was on the short side and rather broad and his eyes were blue, not unlike June's, although a lighter shade. He had fair, crinkly hair and a close-clipped moustache; his mouth was wide and full but well shaped and, Rollison thought, his chin suggested a man who would not sit back while things were happening elsewhere.

‘Don't worry about that,' said Conway. ‘Your good angel is on the spot, Pat. Colonel Rollison, Flight-Lieutenant Paterson.' Conway's voice grew formal and then he broke again into the jerky sentences which he had used most of the time. ‘Here's your man, Rollison. Call me if I can help. Oh, I forgot—there's a ‘plane going down south from Batley around five o'clock: you ought to make it if you hurry.'

Rollison had already shown Conway the authority for Paterson's leave and the Squadron Leader nodded and went out, closing the door behind him.

Rollison saw Paterson's eyes widen and then narrow, as if he were recovering from his surprise and beginning to assess his visitor. There was a momentary silence while Rollison judged the best means of approach. Here was a man who had just force-landed after a bombing sortie over Germany, who had flown for miles with one engine burning, landed and got out without turning a hair. To tell him that his fiancée was likely to be put under arrest at any time, and that the police would probably discover the details of a death he himself had caused, was not much to the Toff's liking.

‘Well?' asked Paterson, giving the impression that he did not intend to beat about the bush. ‘What is this? A man's just ‘phoned me to say that a friend of mine is ill—are you on the same errand?' He looked perplexed, clearly unable to understand why two people should take such interest.

‘More or less,' said the Toff. ‘Paterson, I'm going to give it to you straight, without any frills. I don't know anything about the other call but I suspect that it's an attempt to get you away from here before I see you.' He prevented an interruption and went on quickly: ‘No-one is ill, but your fiancée is recovering after an attempt to murder her.'

‘June?' said Paterson in a low voice. ‘Do you mean
June's
been attacked?'

‘I do. I've just come from her. I persuaded her to tell me all that she could and it included the story of Brett's black case and its contents.'

‘You're sure June's all right?'

‘She's in no immediate danger.'

‘What do you mean by immediate danger?' snapped Paterson.

‘I mean that she's being watched by the police and that there aren't likely to be any more attacks,' said Rollison bluntly. He saw the man's lips tighten, his hands bunch together. ‘Paterson, June's been trying to get at that box and as a consequence she's implicated in a dangerous business which doesn't exclude her from suspicion of murder. She tried to avoid telling the truth and I've had the devil's own job to make her promise to repeat it to the police. She's told me most of it and made me promise to see you before I pass the whole story on. Trying to keep your name out of it she's gone near to getting herself killed but the case has reached a stage where you can't be kept out. I want you to come down, tell me your story on the way and then come to the police with it. We can arrange details later.'

Paterson eyed him steadily for some seconds and then glanced up at the clock on the wall.

‘Come on,' he said. ‘We'll only just get that ‘plane.'

He led the way out of the room and Rollison caught him up outside, where he was shouting for a car. One was brought immediately and they climbed in as Rollison said: ‘Take it easy, Paterson. I want to know something more about that telephone call you had.'

‘Oh, that,' said Paterson disparagingly. ‘As you say, someone wanted to prevent you and me getting together. Now, when did it start? Just what's happened?'

Rollison said: ‘It's too long a story to be told just like that but there are one or two things we can handle right away. But first, I'd like a direct answer. Is it true that Lancelot Brett's case contained the evidence that you killed his secretary?'

‘Yes,' said Paterson briefly and, after a pause, went on: ‘I suppose I seem to take this damned coolly, Rollison—your name is Rollison?—but I've been worrying about it night after night as I've been out on operations. It's got into me. I'm nervy and irritable, life's just not worth living. I'd pretty well made up my mind to tell the police and get it over. You came just at the crucial moment. Of course there isn't a ghost of a chance of my proving anything against Brett and they'll think it's all a tissue of lies but at least I'll have it off my mind and if I'm hanged—'

‘You won't be hanged,' said Rollison with brusque confidence. ‘And no man's proof against the law, you know, not even Brett. But

I wish I could understand more about the telephone call,' he added slowly. ‘I'm not too sure that we'll get by without trouble.'

‘Trouble?' asked Paterson.

As he spoke two figures loomed out from the darkness of the side of the road, so close to the car that the WAAF driver pulled up sharply, shooting the occupants forward in their seats. The men who had caused that reached the tonneau doors and wrenched them open while Rollison and Paterson were recovering from the jolt. A torch shone into the tonneau, and one of the men said: ‘
That's him!
'

And he pointed an automatic towards Paterson as the pilot steadied in his seat.