John Creasey - The Toff and The Lady

Jolly was clearing the table.

“We’re getting results,” said Rollison, his voice much more confident. “Get that cleared as quickly as you can and then— Jolly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who has the best collection of gramophone records of our acquaintance?”

Jolly considered. “Mr. Jeffrey, sir, or perhaps Sir Lancelot Anstey.”

“Sir Lancelot—he’s the man! Go and borrow some records from him. We want the Yugo-Slav National Anthem—in fact the National Anthems of all the Balkan countries—some national music from them all, folk-songs, gypsy music, a good general selection. If Sir Lancelot hasn’t got them he will know where to find them at short notice, and I want them to-night.”

“I will obtain them, sir,” said Jolly, confidently.

“And Jolly, there is a curious, syrupy, bitter stuff which the Turks and some others call coffee. Have you ever made it?”

“I am afraid not, sir, but I believe that it is obtainable at several small restaurants. Shall I endeavour to obtain some of that also?”

“Yes. Don’t lose time, Jolly, but don’t take chances. She was probably followed here.”

“I have thought of that, sir.”

“If she were followed here it was by a friend; an enemy would not have let her come. So deal lightly with anyone you suspect.”

Rollison went to the telephone and he dialled Grice’s home number again. This time he was unlucky; for Grice was at the Yard. He had him on the wire very soon, and it was a jubilant Grice—a fact which puzzled Rollison, who had forgotten a great deal since the arrival of “the lady”.

“I was going to come round to see you, Rolly,” said Grice. “I’ll take back most of what I’ve said about you.”

“Why?” asked Rollison.

“We’ve got Marcus Shayle,” said Grice. “The Devon police have just telephoned me—he was at the address you gave me.”

“Now you know my value,” said Rollison. “Was anyone else with him?”

“No, he was alone.”

“A pity, but it’s progress,” said Rollison. “Now, a Roland for your Oliver—I have the lady here.”

After a long pause, Grice asked: “What did you say?”

“In the flesh,” said Rollison, “and we’re getting along famously. I hope you won’t interrupt us yet. I’ll see that she is all right, and I’ll get some incurious relative to spend the night here, unless—I say, old chap.”

“Er—yes,” said Grice, still taken aback.

“Have you a good woman detective who can play the part of a maid?”

“Yes,” said Grice, promptly.

“Send her over, will you,” said Rollison, and Grice, still elated by the capture of Marcus Shayle, promised that he would.

Rollison rang off, and looked towards the bedroom door. He did not think that his guest would be much longer, she had been there nearly a quarter of an hour. Jolly had gone, and the flat was very quiet. He lit a cigarette and smiled to himself, letting the mystifying development take second place in his enjoyment of the situation. He took the photograph from his desk and propped it up against the wall. Then, just as he was about to knock at the bedroom door, the ringing of the telephone bell sounded very loud. He answered it and said “Hallo”. A confused murmuring reached his ears, low-pitched and rather breathless voices which, he thought, belonged to women. He expected it to be a call from Phyllis or Janice Armitage, and that they were perhaps in a call-box together.

“Hallo,” he repeated, “this is Mayfair”

“Rolly!” exclaimed a woman, and he knew at once that he was wrong; this was Gwendoline, not one of the Armitage sisters. He frowned as Gwendoline rushed on, as if she had quite forgotten that she had snubbed and evaded him. “Oh, Rolly, can you come here at once?”

“Where?” asked Rollison.

“To the house—our house, Barrington House,” said Gwendoline, and then she broke off and another voice spoke, but Rollison could not catch the words. “Oh, all right,” said Gwendoline, in an aside, and added: “Rolly, mother wants a word with you.”

“Oh, Rolly,” said Hilda, after a moment’s pause. She was more breathless than her daughter, and he could tell that she was in a state of great agitation, “please do come over, David has disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” echoed Rollison, sharply.

“Yes, into thin air,” said Hilda. “I’m so terribly worried, please do come.”

CHAPTER TEN

INSULT FOR THE LADY

IT was on the tip of Rollison’s tongue to say that he could not leave the flat and to ask them to visit him, but he changed his mind and said:

“I can’t come for half an hour, Hilda. Have you told the police.”

“No,” said Hilda. “No, of course not. I mean—no, well I don’t want to until I’ve seen you; Rolly, do come earlier if you can.”

“I may bring a friend,” said Rollison.

“Bring anyone you like,” said Hilda, distractedly, “but do come.”

“I’ll come,” promised Rollison. “Stay there and don’t get worked up.” He rang off and stood looking at the telephone, conscious of a deep disappointment because the tete-a-tete seemed over for that night. Then he telephoned Anstey, and found that Jolly was there. He told Jolly to take everything to Barrington House, then had a word with the o!d solicitor; were there any rumours about Barrington-Ley in the City?

“There are vague hints and suggestions,” said Anstey. “They don’t add up to much, but they’re not very reassuring. It would be better if he were in London instead of in the country. I even heard of a rumour that he has left the country, but I can’t believe that of Barrington-Ley. In any case, he has been seen in the City during the last week. I hope you’ve discovered nothing against him.”

“Nothing,” said Rollison, “but I know that his family is worried about his health.”

“Health,” echoed Anstey, sceptically.

“Health,” repeated Rollison, firmly, “and don’t go reading more into that than I mean.” He learned that Anstey was able to supply all the gramophone records that he wanted, and rang off. Grice had not renewed his suggestion that there was something wrong with Barrington-Ley’s affairs, but if the rumours now worried Anstey, Grice would know all about them.

He telephoned Scotland Yard again; Grice was still there.

“Give me a chance,” he protested, when he heard Rollison’s voice, “I’ve sent for your maid, but she’s off duty and won’t be here for half an hour. I’ll brief her myself.”

“Send her to Barrington House, will you,” said Rollison. “She’s to say that I hired her for Lady Lost.”

“Why Barrington House?” demanded Grice.

“Because they have a very fine radiogram,” said Rollison, cryptically. “Good-bye, old chap.”

He was smiling when he rang off—and then his smile changed to one of anticipation, for he saw the spare bedroom door open.

For the second time he watched the Lady of Lost Memory walking towards him.

She was transformed!

Her hair, no longer braided, was dressed Victorian fashion, and looked not brown but burnished copper. Two combs with jewelled backs glinted beneath the light. Her cheeks had a glow, make-up actually improving on nature; her eyes glowed, too; and her lips were enticing.

At her breast was a single diamante star, a paste copy of a famous jewel which had come Rollison’s way when he had been involved in a case where jewel-thieves had turned their hands to murder, and on her fingers two rings, also of paste but, at a quick glance, indistinguishable from the real thing. Nearly as tall as Rollison, not slim but with a figure to make most men’s heartbeats quicken, she stood in front of him.

“Superb!” said Rollison.

“You like it?”

“Like it is not the word. I marvel at it. Who taught you to walk, Lady Lost?”

“Lady Lost?” She looked startled.

“That is a figure of speech,” said Rollison. “How do you feel?”

“Happier than I can remember!”

“Splendid!” He stood back, still looking at her, and added with a twinge of reluctance: “We’re going out for an hour or two, to some friends of yours—the Barrington-Leys.”

She also looked regretful.

“They have been so kind to me, but”

“I think it’s wise to go,” Rollison said, gently, “we might get your memory back.”

She said, very slowly:

“I have been thinking as I looked into the mirror,” she said. “I have not remembered, and yet, somewhere within me there is a feeling that I shall not like it when I know who I am; it is as if some horrid thing happened, something which made me forget things which I always wanted to forget.” She held out her hand. “Please understand me.”

“I think I understand,” said Rollison. “You may be right, but behind that, further back in the years, there will be good things, well worth remembering.”

“Can you be sure?”

Rollison smiled. “You didn’t become what you are to-night by accident. This is the real you!”

While they were waiting for a taxi he helped her on with her coat, wondering whether Grice had sent her dress and the coat to every dressmaker of consequence in London. Molyneau might not have made the gown but could well know whence it had come.

He went out without a coat, and found it surprisingly cold —her mink was not superfluous. As they waited by the kerb he looked about him, but saw no shadowy figures suggesting that they were being watched.

The lost lady said:

“You have asked few questions, Mr. Rollison.”

“Very few,” he said.

“Do you not even want to know where I went from the nursing home?”

It was much better for her to volunteer information than for him to ask for it, and he was sorry that the belated taxi chose that moment to arrive. He gave the address and then sat back in the taxi.

“A man was waiting for me,” she said, suddenly.

“Where?”

“At the corner of the street.”

“A young man or an old one?”

“A young man—younger, yes, younger than you. A good-looking man, who was very amiable. He first took me to a cafe and we had tea. He said very little, only that you were most anxious to see me. We went then to a small house, I do not know where. I rested there while he was out. Then, when he returned, he put me into a taxi and gave the driver your address. That is all:

“Had you ever seen him before?”

“Never. He said that he was a friend of yours.”

“I see,” said Rollison.

He did not see, for the incident of the young man simply made more mystery.

The taxi pulled up outside Barrington House, and as they climbed out the door opened and the footman appeared. He bowed as the woman passed him, and inclined his head to Rollison. In his manner there remained a faint suggestion of insolence.

“Madam is waiting for you, sir,” he said.

Rollison manoeuvred so that he could see into the big drawing-room as his companion entered. She walked as if she were used to such houses and such company. He could not see her face, but he saw Hilda’s and Gwendoline’s. He hoped to see something more than surprise—and he did so, but only a hint of mortification and displeasure on Gwendoline’s.

Hilda recovered from her surprise and held out both hands.

“My dear, how wonderful to see you well again.”

“You are very kind,” said Lady Lost.

“Gwen, isn’t it wonderful?” cried Hilda.

Gwendoline said that it was, and smiled distantly. Although it was evening, she was dressed in light-coloured tweeds, her hair was untidy, and she looked tired and restless. Hilda was in a dark green cocktail dress. The three women presented a remarkable contrast. Gwendoline, as if fresh from the country, sturdy, lacking all the qualities of allurement which were so lavished on Lady Lost, and Hilda, petite and almost bird-like.

“You have come to stay with us, I hope,” said Hilda. “Yes, you must, I will not take no for an answer. Gwendoline will show you your room, you will want to take off your coat.”

Lady Lost hesitated.

“Yes,” said Rollison. “Of course.”

“Gwen!” called Hilda, with a note of command. Reluctantly Gwendoline came forward, as reluctantly the other woman went with her. When the door closed Hilda stopped pretending, and through the social mask Rollison saw the anxiety and the fear that lurked within her. “Rolly,” she said, “did you have to bring her now?”

“Yes,” said Rollison.

“How can we talk in front of her? I sent Gwen out with her but they will not stay for long, there is no time”

“We can make the best of what there is,” said Rollison. “What’s this about David?”

She said: “He has completely disappeared.”

“Since when?”

“Two days ago. He left Sussex, and said that he would return the same evening, and when he did not arrive I telephoned his office, where his secretary was still working— Rolly, he had left to catch the train! I telephoned here, and he had not been seen. I thought perhaps the train was delayed, but no, it was on time. I waited for the next train and the next, and” She broke off, and looked suddenly broken, as if something had been taken away from her. “He’s just— gone, Rolly.”

“What did you do about it yesterday?” asked Rollison.

“Nothing. I—we—kept hoping.”

The door opened abruptly, and Gwendoline strode in, closing it behind her. She was tight-lipped and angry.

“You might have had the decency to warn us if you couldn’t leave her behind.”

“Gwen!” reproved Hilda.

“Well, couldn’t he?” demanded Gwen. “But there isn’t time for recriminations, she’ll be down in five minutes if I know anything about her, she won’t want to miss a word! Have you told Rolly about father?”

“Yes, of course,” said Hilda.

Rollison stepped to the fireplace and stood with his back towards it, paying more attention to Gwendoline.

“Will you help us to find David?” she demanded.

“Yes,” said Rollison. “If you will tell me the whole truth.”

“But Rolly” began Hilda, and then her voice trailed off.

“Why did you do nothing yesterday?” demanded Rollison. “You were worried the night before last, you say, but you didn’t tell me and you don’t appear to have told the police.”

Hilda said: “We kept hoping against hope, because we don’t want a scandal. We must give David every chance to— to” Her voice trailed off again.

“To do what?” demanded Rollison.

“To give the lie to those damned hypocrites who are spreading the story that he is in difficulties,” said Gwendoline, in a low-pitched voice. “He isn’t, he can’t be! And I tell you that this woman whom you thought fit to bring along here to-night is responsible. Oh, I can see that she had duped you; I suppose that isn’t difficult if you’re foreign and a little unusual, but she has no more lost her memory than I have!”