Accuse the Toff (5 page)

‘Very good, sir,' said Jolly inadequately.

Rollison's heart was beating fast with excitement as he stepped from the porch of the house and entered Gresham Terrace. This time no milk-van passed and there was silence in the street; no chink of light showed and it was too early for even the faintest trace of dawn. The air was piercingly cold and a keen wind was blowing from the north. Rollison clenched and unclenched his fingers inside his fur-lined gloves to keep them warm and supple. He walked cautiously at first, because of the blackout, but deliberately eschewed a torch for it would betray his presence too easily and, in his mind, there was the possibility of a shot being fired at him out of the blackout. No one would set such a trap without being ready to turn it to full advantage.

His mind roamed. Someone knew of his interest in the affair and wanted him to leave the flat, baiting the trap as a message from Grice. One question raised itself above all others: who knew of his interest?

The Jamesons all knew, of course; and possibly Bimbleton. Beyond that, no one could have an opportunity of knowing and he had little doubt that the news had been circulated through the Jamesons; it was too early to decide how it had been done; there would be time enough to learn that later. One fact did evolve; the ‘someone' knew enough about him to fear that his intervention might lead to unwanted hindrances. He remembered how young Jameson had recognised him after a few minutes and knew that many others, familiar with the more sensational stories of crime in the Press, either remembered his photograph or could call it to mind. That was one of the penalties of his earlier enthusiasm, a youthful longing for publicity which had been amply satisfied but had become a disadvantage.

He shrugged the thought aside and continued to walk slowly along the dark streets, turning into Piccadilly and keeping to the buildings opposite Green Park. A few taxis, buses and other vehicles were on the move and the steady tramp of feet came regularly. He heard people hurrying, often the light tap-tap-tap of a woman's heels. His eyes grew accustomed to the darkness and he could see vague shapes a yard or two away from him but recognised none; no one could possibly recognise him.

He wondered whether Jolly was following satisfactorily and, outside the Piccadilly Hotel, paused long enough for the bowler-hatted figure to loom in ghostly silhouette against the insufficient lights of a bus.

‘Close up a bit,' said Rollison.

‘Very good, sir,' whispered Jolly.

The presence of so many unseen people, the sound of movements divorced from sight of those who were making them and the awareness of the trap which might be sprung at any moment gave an eeriness to the walk which began to play on Rollison's nerves. Near Trafalgar Square he paused again on the pavement of Whitehall and waited for Jolly who appeared rather clearer for the early dawn was lessening the blackness of the eastern sky.

The one place where I'm sure to go is the Yard,' said Rollison. ‘Whatever is coming will happen there.'

‘Very likely, sir.'

‘Look here,' said Rollison with a touch of irritation, ‘I may like an automaton to work for me but I don't like one following me about. Be human. Five yards,' he added and started off again with an echo of ‘Very good, sir,' from his man. He smiled wryly at his own touchiness then drew near to the gates of Scotland Yard.

He took off his glove from his right hand and gripped his service revolver inside his greatcoat pocket, keeping his left hand about his torch, still switched off. He reached the gates and grew aware of two dark figures, standing side by side, both wearing steel helmets and blocking his path.

The policemen on duty, of course.

A rustle of movement ahead of him preceded a respectful inquiry: ‘Who is that, please?'

‘Colonel Rollison,' said Rollison and shone his torch fully into the man's face. The other went back a yard, blinking and surprised, but Rollison recognised the features of a constable whom he had often seen before; the other man was also familiar.

‘And a friend,' put in Rollison hastily, to explain Jolly, who had hurried up at the hint of a disturbance. He apologised for his clumsiness with the torch and with Jolly passed between the iron gates. The dark and empty courtyard yawned before him and he said bewilderedly: ‘Can anything happen here? Or …' He paused and then exclaimed: ‘No, confound it! They wanted us out of the flat! I've been too clever. Come on!'

For the first time since leaving Gresham Terrace he hurried, surprising the constables and escaping collision with them only by a hair's breadth. The glowing silhouette of the word ‘taxi' in front of a vehicle passing by made him call out and the cab drew into the kerb.

‘22G, Gresham Terrace,' said the Toff hurriedly and bundled Jolly in.

He wasted no time in saying what he thought of himself and they sat in silence for ten minutes until they reached the flat in the increasing light of dawn. Rollison jumped out before it stopped moving and hurried into the house and up the stairs, convinced this time that he would make discoveries of importance. The sight of a crack of light beneath the door confirmed this and made him stop abruptly.

Jolly joined him, sedately.

‘We've visitors,' whispered the Toff. ‘Go to the back door. I'll give you three minutes. Then wait unless I shout for you.'

 

 

The illuminated dial of his wrist-watch told Rollison when the three minutes had passed. For that time he had waited without making any movement, his ears strained to catch sounds inside the flat. Whoever was there was as careful as he for there was no sound. Once he saw a faint shadow darken the sliver of light but it disappeared quickly. It confirmed that someone was inside and quickened his pulse.

On the tick of three minutes he inserted his key in the lock. It made a faint scratching sound but not one likely to be audible inside. Cautiously he opened the door, as cautiously pushed it wider.

No sound came through.

He stepped over the threshold with his gun in his right hand. His eyes narrowed against the light coming from the lounge which he also used as a study. The small foyer, itself furnished as a lounge where Jolly kept casual callers, was in perfect order except that the drawers of a small bureau were half-open; they had been closed when he had left.

Soft-footed, he crept towards the lounge proper.

The absence of sound was uncanny, unless it meant that he had been heard and the uninvited guest was waiting to strike. Rollison drew near enough to see inside the room then stopped and glared at four easy chairs, their short legs poking towards the ceiling, the light gleaming on the castors. The webbing beneath each chair had been ripped open and the springs revealed in all their nakedness. Against one wall he saw his desk, littered with its contents; the floor was strewn with papers and souvenirs, little things he treasured. Behind it there should have been two etchings in black frames; they had been taken down.

‘All in half an hour!' he said inaudibly. ‘All right, my fine gentleman.'

Then he heard a movement.

It came from the lounge, a shuffling sound which puzzled and yet made him act swiftly. He pushed the door wider open and covered the room with his gun, saying sharply: ‘That's enough!'

Then he peered at what seemed an empty room, chaotic with upturned chairs and emptied drawers and bureaux. Even the long wall opposite his desk, usually filled with souvenirs of cases in which he had been concerned, was stripped; an assortment of curios was piled on the floor. But despite the movement he saw no one
and there was no other door in the lounge.

The heavy curtains at the windows were drawn.

Rollison drew a deep breath and stepped farther forward, feeling slightly foolish. As he moved he saw someone behind a chair, someone who appeared to be kneeling. He moved closer to the chair swiftly, to avoid any shot which might be fired from behind it and said again: ‘That's enough. Come out.'

Peering over the top of the chair, when there was no response except another faint shuffling movement, he saw a girl. He judged that from the long hair; she was kneeling, or in a similar posture, and he could not see her face. As she made no attempt to look up or to move, Rollison put caution aside and rounded the chair, worried then more than puzzled.

The girl was not kneeling; she was crouching against the open back of the chair and one hand was clutching a spring. Her head lolled forward and about her neck was tied a white scarf. Rollison exclaimed, bent down and raised her to a more comfortable position; relief followed that for the scarf had been used to gag, not strangle, her and her eyes were wide open. She had dark hair, waved slightly and dressed as a page-boy bob; her eyes were enormous, fringed with long dark lashes.

Her feet were tied together and there was a piece of cord about her right wrist; obviously she had freed her wrists and been trying to stand up.

Rollison lifted her to an easy chair and rested her in it. He did not spend time in unfastening the gag or the bonds at her ankles but said quickly: ‘I'll be back in two minutes.'

He left the lounge, went into the kitchen and unlocked the back door, whispering: ‘Has anything happened there, Jolly?'

‘No, sir,' said Jolly softly.

‘All right, come in. We've had our birds but they've flown, I think.' He hurried into the living rooms again, switching on the lights of all of them. Three bedrooms were in the same chaotic state as the lounge and the dining room was in no better state. The wardrobes were empty and, after satisfying himself that no one lurked in any corner, Rollison went back to the lounge.

There Jolly had put a couch on its legs and rested the girl on it full-length; he was unfastening her ankles and the gag was removed. The girl was working her mouth to and fro and there were red marks at the corners where the gag had been drawn tightly.

‘I'll get you some water,' he said quickly.

‘I have a kettle on, sir, for tea,' said Jolly. ‘I'll go and make it.'

He finished his work on the bonds at the girl's ankles then left the Toff with her. She was lying with her head on a cushion, staring up at him but not trying to speak. Instead she rubbed the corners of her mouth gingerly with her right hand; about the wrist, beneath the loose cuff of her black silk dress, the flesh was red and puffy except for a white ridge where the cord had been tied.

‘I'll do that,' said Rollison and smiled down at her.

As he massaged her lips he appraised her more thoroughly. Her dress and shoes were of good quality and good taste; she wore a single string of pearls and, although it was impossible to be sure without closer inspection, he imagined that they were real, not cultured. She had a three-diamond ring on her engagement finger and the man who had bought it had not been forced to worry about fifty pounds either way; her watch was of diamonds or diamante; if diamonds it was worth a fortune. Her stockings, laddered about her ankles, were of lustreless silk and the slim lines of her ankles made it plain that they had not been so cavalierly treated as her wrists.

After those things, Rollison studied her face.

She had a smooth complexion, the kind which no artifice could contrive in itself but could not be achieved without art. Her nose was rather short, her upper lip also short, the blue of her great eyes a deep, limpid blue. Her hair swept back from a high, broad forehead; but for the redness at her lips she looked perfectly groomed, a picture enough to make most men's hearts beat fast.

Rollison stopped at last and asked quietly: ‘Is that better?'

‘Ye-es,' said the girl after a pause and then more quickly: ‘Yes, oh, thanks so much.' The trite words would have amused him in other circumstances but he saw nothing funny in them then. ‘Who are you?' she went on urgently. ‘Do you live here?'

‘It's my flat,' Rollison assured her.

She glanced away from him and about the room. Then she shifted her position, sitting up against the end of the settee. The expression in her eyes puzzled him but he made no comment and she went on: ‘What a foul mess! But—they didn't find it.'

‘That's good,' said Rollison heartily. ‘What didn't they find?'

‘Don't joke, please,' said the girl and glanced towards the door as Jolly entered with a tea tray. He put it down on a table which had not been overturned, bowed and went out; Rollison knew that he would keep within easy hearing distance.

Rollison righted another chair and poured tea, deliberately eyeing the girl as he handed her a cup and she took it with a commendably steady hand.

The electric fire made the room so warm that he took off his greatcoat.

‘Oh, that's good,' said the girl when the cup was half-finished. Then she said again: ‘Who are you?'

‘Rollison,' he said. ‘Richard Rollison.'

She looked clearly disappointed.

‘I haven't heard of you,' she told him. ‘I thought you'd be Peveril, but—' She broke off abruptly and took another sip of tea while Rollison asked: ‘Who is Peveril?'

The girl finished drinking, put her cup down and returned his gaze evenly.

‘I don't really know but I've heard him mentioned. He—don't
you
know him?'

‘Not yet,' said Rollison.

He found it difficult not to laugh at her expression; it was bewildered and just a little irritated. That in itself would not have been enough for laughter but the general situation, with all its inherent absurdities, struck him as comic. Thought of the long walk through the blackout expecting an attack to develop at any moment, while the flat was being ransacked and the girl left there, had its own peculiar humours. He repeated gravely: ‘Not yet but there's time and I've a number of things that need clearing up. How are you feeling?' He glanced at her long and shapely legs and added: ‘Can you walk, do you think?'

‘I—I expect so.' She put her feet to the floor and he helped her to stand. She was a little unsteady but did not fall or lean upon him too heavily. She was tall, the top of her head on a line with his eyes. ‘Yes, I'm all right. I wish—I wish I knew what to say. You
aren't
Peveril?' When he shook his head she shrugged and added: ‘I was sure that was where they were coming, they were sure Peveril had it last night. I heard them talking, there isn't any doubt about it.'

‘Of course not,' said Rollison drily. ‘There's no doubt about it at all. After all, it must be about somewhere.' His eyes were smiling at her and for a moment she eyed him uncertainly, sober-faced and not catching his mood. Then she realised that he was laughing at her and her expression changed; the slightest upwards curve of her reddened lips brought a dimple in either cheek and her eyes held a gleam.

But she still sounded puzzled.

‘Don't you know anything about it?'

‘I know that someone telephoned me to get me out of the flat and visited it while I was gone,' said Rollison. That—and no more and it isn't a great deal. Given time it will work itself out, I suppose.' He pulled a chair towards her and grimaced when she sank low into it because of the damaged webbing. Sitting on the arm of another, he commented: ‘They forgot that it might have been hidden in the arms, didn't they?'

‘No,' said the girl. ‘They heard your taxi and hurried out the back way before you came. They were just going to start on the arms.'

‘Oh,' said Rollison blankly. Then tentatively: ‘You heard them say that, too, of course.'

‘Yes, I—oh, you fool!' She smiled more widely and there was a measure of relief in her manner. ‘This isn't half as bad as I thought it was going to be,' she said. ‘I'd imagined Peveril coming in and shouting and bellowing right and left.'

Rollison put his head on one side.

‘You don't know Peveril but you know his temperament?'

She frowned a little.

‘Yes, I've heard about it.'

She stopped abruptly for Rollison was chuckling and making no attempt to hide it. After a moment, she joined him. By then the constraint between them had quite disappeared and as Rollison leaned forward and poured out more tea he took his cigarette case from his pocket and proffered it. Smoking, he said: ‘Now tell me all about it, Miss—!'

‘Lancing. June Lancing.'

‘Thanks,'said Rollison. ‘
Richard
Rollison.'

She laughed again; it was easy to see that she had not suffered much more than inconvenience and her experience did not weigh heavily upon her. He even wondered whether it weighed too lightly and if she had been left at the flat with the sole purpose of confusing him. He did not set the thought aside, nor did he brood upon it. ‘Now let's get started,' he said. ‘It's going to be easier for you to start at the beginning and tell the story, isn't it? I hope you will. I've some right to know what it's about, even though I'm not Peveril.' He streamed smoke towards the ceiling as he waited for her reaction, seeing her frown with indecision and then nod abruptly.

‘Yes, you have, but—well, I was going to advise you to have nothing to do with it but if they searched your flat you must be involved somewhere, mustn't you?'

He did not answer and she went on with sudden excitement: ‘Unless they came to the wrong fiat. Do you think that's happened?'

‘No,' said Rollison with emphasis. ‘They took too much trouble getting me out and they knew both mine and my servant's name.'

‘Oh,' said June. ‘That rather spoils the idea. I—I hardly know where to start but I'll do my best.'

‘Supposing we start with the ‘it'?' asked Rollison. ‘What is it?'

She eyed him blankly.

‘
I
don't know. I only know they're looking for it and thought Peveril had it. But as they came here they must think that you know where it is. When I say I don't know,' she added hastily, ‘I mean that I'm not sure what's in it, in fact I haven't any idea. It's a black case, something like a jewel case. I've only seen it once and I didn't look inside. There's rather a queer story attached to it.'

‘Rather queer!' exclaimed Rollison. ‘You beat the band on understatements! But we aren't making a lot of progress and I have to be at the office before long. Can you give me just the essentials?' He was no more interested in going to the office than he was with the eight o'clock news, which he had missed for the first time in weeks, but spoke casually to try to get her started. He had not yet tried to reconcile the visit and the guest who could not help herself with the affair of Jameson but it had not occurred to him that they were unconnected.

‘It really begins before I had the black case. My fiancé's father owned it and whatever is in it. He sent for me a week or two ago and acted rather strangely.' She paused and then lost herself in her story; Rollison could almost see her trying to read reason into what had happened while she talked. ‘He seemed rather scared, as if something might happen to him, and talked rather morbidly. Lionel's out East and he said he didn't think he would ever see his son again—you know the way oldish people do get, sometimes, don't they?' Rollison said that he did. He did not add that either June Lancing's attitude towards ‘oldish people' had more than the average heedlessness of youth, or else she had no great regard for her future father-in-law.