Here Comes the Toff (6 page)

He stood up.

“If you learn anything, let me have it quickly. Don't keep things back—it's your husband they've killed, remember that.”

“I won't forget,” she said, tight-lipped.

“That's right,” McNab hesitated, and then said less formally, “I'm sorry, Minnie. Anything I can do?”

“No.”

“Money all right?”

“If you think I'll let the bleedin' dicks pay fer his funeral, you're wrong! Get out, get out, damn you, I …”

McNab, knowing that hysterics were near, went out quickly, but stayed by the door for some minutes. He heard first the shouting, and then the sobbing – and decided that another woman was wanted. He knocked up a neighbour, who went at once to Minnie's flat, and then walked slowly back towards Westminster Bridge and the Yard.

Had she really been upset?

Or had that scene been staged for his benefit?

He did not know, and he had to admit that he could not be sure of anything with Minnie. He sighed, for at the back of his mind there was a fear that she had put something across him. It had happened in the past, and yet there seemed no way in which he could make sure that it had not happened again.

He took all the precautions he could by having a plainclothes man detailed to duty outside the flat until further notice, while he sat back in his office and grumbled about the fog. It stopped everything, and it had made the murderer's job so much easier.

McNab had an uncomfortable feeling that things were not as they should be. It was a popular fallacy among many people that Scotland Yard had their fingers on the pulse of the underworld – which, McNab would say, was a theory that might fit if anyone knew where the underworld was. He and the other officers knew as well as Rollison that many things happened which did not reach the ears of the police – the history of the post-war years was one crime wave after another.

McNab shrugged, and decided to go down to the canteen for a cup of tea. After twenty minutes he returned, and as he opened the door his shoulders drooped a little, and he looked a tired man.

He straightened up abruptly a moment later, however, and his shaggy eyebrows moved. For there was only one voice in McNab's world quite as nonchalant as the one that addressed him unexpectedly from an armchair in front of the coal fire, in that office which normally sheltered four Chief Inspectors.

“You've kept me waiting a long time, Mac,” he was assured, “and I hope you've a pick-me-up waiting.”

“What are
you
doing here?” said McNab, as the Toff stood up from the chair and smiled at him.

“Only great detectives can identify men so fast,” said the Toff amiably. “I always said your gifts weren't fully recognized, Mac.”

“Who,” demanded McNab, “let you in?”

“Whoever it was, I told him I was calling on you by appointment, so don't start reducing him to the ranks.”

McNab knew Rollison well – too well at times – and he needed no telling that a visit so late on a foggy night was important. Most of the things which the Toff discussed with McNab were important, or they developed in a big way. If the Inspector did not approve of the Toff's methods, he admitted their efficacy, and at times they were on friendly terms.

“Well,” he demanded, as they both sat down, Rollison looking as if he owned the place, “what do you want?”

“That's all the reward I get,” said the Toff, “for reporting a murder an hour after it was committed. Are all Scotsmen as mean-minded as you, Mac?”

McNab did not let him finish, but demanded a full story. The Toff thereon explained a little, but McNab guessed he was holding a great deal back.

According to the Toff's statement, he had been prowling about the wharves when he had heard a scuffle and a cry. He had investigated and seen the dead man and chased after the murderer.

“I lost him in the fog, Mac, it's just as simple as that. I hate to admit it, but there it is.”

“I doubt you've told me everything,” said McNab dubiously, “but I know you won't until you're ready.”

The Toff's expression changed to one of bland innocence, and with that McNab had to be satisfied; but he still doubted whether the Toff had confided more than a bare outline, and he started his report in a glum frame of mind. It seemed that both Minnie Sidey and the Hon. Richard Rollison were holding out on him – which was not far from the truth.

 

 

There were many things on the Toff's mind as he made his way back to Gresham Terrace, and one of them was the possibility that Irma and Kohn would begin to act against him tonight. Once they started he knew that they would be serious about it, and since he was convinced that Kohn, as Mr. Brown, was connected with Sidey's murder – via Benson and perhaps via Irma – there was every reason to believe that his death would be preferred to his company.

He had few illusions about Kohn – although more about that impressive-looking man with the high forehead than about Irma, however, for he had never met Kohn, until that night. He judged him to be as ruthless as Irma, and perhaps more clever. Certainly Irma lacked the “something” to make a Big Shot, although she was an admirable lieutenant.

Rollison looked up and down Gresham Terrace, which was off Brook Street, before he entered the house where his flat was on the first floor. He saw no lurking figures, and only two pedestrians, and it seemed that he was not yet being watched; he would be before the night was out, or he had over-estimated Kohn's prowess.

He rang the bell of his flat, and Jolly opened the door. There were few occasions when the Toff went into his flat with his key while an affair was in progress: he knew the possibility of an unexpected guest waiting to welcome him. The simple things, the old-tried methods, were the ones more likely to succeed against him; he knew that well enough and took the necessary precautions.

Jolly stepped towards the cocktail cabinet.

“I wonder why,” said the Toff, not a little testily, “you always make a beeline for that, Jolly? Do I strike you as a toper, a two-bottle man, or …?”

“You look tired, sir.”

“I don't believe it,” said the Toff.

Thereon he stepped into the bathroom and examined himself in the mirror at close quarters. He disliked admitting it, or affected to, but he did look tired. There were lines at his eyes which should not be there, and the eyes themselves looked heavy. He shrugged his shoulders, washed, and went back into the living-room, where Jolly had poured out whisky and soda. The Toff drank, without comment.

“Well, Jolly, what have you been doing?”

“Nothing of much value, sir”

“Hmm. Kohn?”

“There is little information about him, sir. He is English, of a German father and an Austrian mother.”

“Very English indeed,” said the Toff, cocking an eyebrow.

“His father was naturalized in nineteen hundred and three,” said Jolly, with a slightly disapproving note in his voice, “and the child, of course, took on his father's nationality. Kohn was educated at Charterhouse …”

“Was he, by Jove!”

“And went to America, where he finished off his education at Yale. He returned to this country, an orphan, in nineteen twenty-one, and has since travelled a great deal. He is reputedly rich, although his father's source of income is not disclosed, and it is not known whether much money was left to Leopold Kohn, sir. Kohn has been in England for some six months, and Miss Cardew for three. Miss Cardew, I understand, was not living at the Arch Mansions flat until ten weeks ago.”

“Hmm,” said the Toff. “So that's all you know about our Leo?”

“I'm afraid so, sir,” said Jolly, and he sounded genuinely apologetic. There was reason, for although the Toff had given him instructions to find all that it was possible to find about Irma's new mentor, the idea – as Jolly knew well – had been to try to trace his recent activities. About that there was nothing to report.

“I see,” said the Toff. “Not bad, on the whole. How did you manage to get hold of his history?”

“I learned from the porter at the flats that he employed an old servant when he first went to the Mansions, but afterwards dismissed the servant without a pension. The servant was old, sir, somewhere near seventy. I paid him five pounds for this information.”

“It was worth it. Would ten bring any more?”

“No, sir, not in my opinion. The servant, a naturalized German named Schmidt, does not appear to have a high opinion of his late employer, whom he complains gambles excessively, and is often without money. But he continues to live well.”

“Ye-es. Keep an eye, or let someone else keep an eye, on friend Schmidt. Now what about Renway?”

“Nothing very startling, sir. You know most of what there is to know. He has recently retired from business …”

“What?”

“He has retired from business, and …”

“Are you sure?”

Jolly looked hurt.

“Of course, sir. May I ask why you consider the question necessary?”

“Yes, you may. Sir Matthew Waterer claimed that it was past time that Renway retired, and suggested that he was no longer fit for business, Jolly. How long have these retirements been effective?”

“He was on the boards of several companies, sir, and relinquished the last in the spring of this year. The Bi-National Electric Corporation, I am told.”

“Hmm—a sound enough concern,” said the Toff, who knew something about companies, particularly those which were in any way unsound. “Right, Jolly, it will all help. You may now listen to me.”

Jolly listened, proving a better listener than the Toff, for he made no interruptions. When the Toff had given him a resume of his adventures, Jolly remained silent for some seconds, and then pulled tentatively at his underlip.

“Why did you see McNab, sir?”

“Why not?” asked the Toff, and then more generously: “It was as well, Jolly. I want to know all I can about this business, and we're by no means sure of getting to the Sidey angle now that Sidey is dead. McNab can help us more about him than we can help ourselves, and we'll know just what he has been doing of late. If the police know, of course, which is by no means a certainty. However, we can but live in hope. The main issues, then, Jolly, are: “First—Irma and Kohn are working on Renway.

“Second—Renway is lousy with money, without-business interests, with one nephew—we haven't met him yet—and an eye for beauty as represented by Irma. Also a collection of Old Masters is in his possession.

“Three—Charlie Wray is concerned in the business, and his man, Benson, killed Sidey …”

“Is that a fact, sir?”

“You may accept it as one, but I haven't enough evidence to take to McNab, and if I had I doubt whether I would. I want to save that for the time being, Jolly, it might be useful if we ever want to talk to Benson. Don't interrupt, and where was I? Oh, yes:

“Four—Wray does not approve of my sudden interest, and doubtless will soon suspect something about the boot.”

“Dare I ask, sir, what boot?”

“My dear Jolly,” said the Toff with some show of indignation, “the boot is the key to the whole business, the one thing that lifts it out of the rut. Sidey was killed by Benson, when Benson had nothing on his feet but socks. If he wears socks. I wonder how many other murders have been committed with stockinged feet? Or by a man wearing no shoes or boots? Try to visualize the psychological effect of that boot which I gave to Irma—she stumbled over it—and the fact that there is another boot missing. Imagine what happens to Benson and Charlie Wray when they know all about the boot I sent back, and nothing about the boot I still hold. They'll know that someone was close enough at hand to see and hear that murder, it will have them so jittery that they'll always be looking over their shoulder. Have I made the significance of the boot clear?”

“Perfectly, sir, thank you.”

“Right. Then we're all set for sparks. Irma and Kohn are in the middle of something, they would not kill at the end of a show—not that way, anyhow. We've got them worried, which means they'll get active. We're to be prepared for all emergencies, Jolly, until Kohn and Irma are no longer worrying us.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And now,” said the Toff, “there is the matter of Renway. I have telephoned him, and he's coming to see me. I told Irma about that, and she wasn't pleased.”

“Dare I ask why you told her, sir?”

“You dare. It's all part of the Rollison service,” said the Toff, sipping at his whisky again, and lighting a cigarette. “It will make them move hurriedly, and when in a hurry things are apt to be done carelessly. I'm expecting an attack or assault at any moment, remember that.”

“Yes, sir. You were talking of Mr. Renway.”

“Was I? Oh, yes. I want an Italian panel that I think is by de Rossi. Renway is coming to see it, and to advise me. So get out quickly, and buy the cheapest imitation of a de Rossi that you can find. An old one, preferably, you'll get one in the Strand, if nowhere else. All understood?”

“Yes, sir,” said Jolly. “I'll go at once.”

Rollison sat back for some minutes, and then stood up and examined himself in the bathroom mirror again. He grimaced, for he did not like to think that he was tired at the beginning of an affair. There were, of course, good reasons. Prior to the arrival of Anthea there had been several quick
affaires
, and the Toff had spent ten days on the social whirl. They included very late nights, and he could do with some sleep.

Renway, however, was due at seven.

The Toff bathed, leisurely, still pondering the murder and the motive behind it, and was rubbing himself down when the telephone rang. He draped a towel about him and went into the living room, to hear a pleasing feminine voice which he recognized immediately.

“Mr. Rollison, please.”

“And you really don't know me?” mourned the Toff.

“Oh—Rolly!” Anthea's voice sounded relieved, and a moment later her words confirmed it. “Are you all right?”

“Of course I'm all right.”

“I—I had an awful fear that something might have gone wrong.”

“Don't get that kind of anxiety-complex,” said the Toff laughingly, although he did not feel amused. He hoped that Anthea was not going to become too attached, and he groaned when she went on: “I'm not sure about that. Rolly, Jamie's been delayed.”

“Oh,” said Rollison. “Too bad.”

“And I'm alone, cooped up in the house because of my beastly ankle.”

“I'm awfully sorry,” said the Toff, who seemed off form conversationally.

“Ye-es,” said Anthea, and she laughed a little. “You're blessing me, aren't you, Rolly? Wishing I wouldn't pester you, and hoping I won't fall for your grey eyes! There's no need for worry there, either; Jamie's just right for me, but …” she paused for a moment, and when she went on sounded a little forlorn: “If you have a little while to spare tonight, or tomorrow, I'd love to hear what's happening.”

You would, would you?” said Rollison, and he laughed, for there was something very appealing about Anthea. “I'll see what I can do for you, my infant, but don't expect too much. And if I come, remember that I'm already in bad with your mother.”

“You're not. I told her about the visiting card, and she …”

“I can see my sympathy is wasted on you,” Rollison said. “Nevertheless, I'll slip round if I can.”

“I'd love you to, Rolly! Goodbye.”

Rollison replaced the receiver, arched his eyebrows, shrugged, and then turned away from the telephone. He was feeling chilly, and he stepped towards the bathroom, still a little uncertain in his mind about Anthea. She was an amazingly fresh youngster – fresh in the vivid sense – and yet although she laughed at the idea, it remained a possibility that she was thinking about him too seriously.

It was the last kind of complication that Rollison wanted.

He finished drying himself, dressed quickly in a dinner-jacket, and then stepped from his bedroom to the living-room. Jolly was not yet back, but it did not occur to the Toff that his man would fail to get the picture. Renway, however, was due at seven, and it was now a quarter to.

The telephone rang again, abruptly.

Rollison lifted the receiver, thinking of Anthea – and then he forgot her completely, although it was a woman's voice, and one he would have recognized anywhere, at any time.

“Rollison …”

“Ye-es,” said the Toff very gently. “A moment, while I get a chair. I shall love a chat with you.”

“You won't need a chair,” said Irma Cardew abruptly. “You'll need wood made up into a box unless you get out of London quickly.”

“My dear Irma!” Rollison sounded genuinely startled, and in truth he was. “You're not trying that very old one, are you?”

“I'm telling you the truth,” said Irma, icily.

The Toff hesitated for a moment, completely at sea. He did not believe that Irma would telephone him to tell him that he was being advised to leave London. It was the kind of puerile threat which some men – and women – made when they first met him, but Irma would not make that mistake. There was an ulterior purpose, and he could not see what it was.

“You heard me,” she went on, still sharply. “I'm not fooling, Rollison.”

“No-o. What was it you really wanted to say?”

“I've said it,” said Irma, and then she drew a deep breath – one audible enough for Rollison to hear. “Rollison, I'm going to marry Renway.”

“Yes?”

“Don't talk like that! I need the money, and …”

“If I could think it were all,” said Rollison with a mocking note in his voice, “I might almost wish you God-speed. But I know differently, and …”

It was then that the door of the room, leading to the hall, opened. It opened stealthily, and the Toff would have heard nothing since he was speaking and listening, but he was sitting facing the door. And suddenly he knew the real purpose of this call, and even then he silently applauded Irma, for it was very clever.

“Rollison, please don't interfere!” Her voice sounded desperate, and another man than Rollison might have believed in the sincerity of her appeal. Rollison said, more loudly than before and watching the door all the time: “My dear, sweet girl, I hate interfering and you know it. But I need a lot more evidence than I've got that you're going to be a virtuous woman, and settle down to marrying Renway. I wonder if he knows that you've been acquitted—by error—of a murder charge, and …”