John Creasey - The Toff and the Fallen Angels

“This is Mrs. Smith . . . Oh ! Yes, he’s here. Please hold on.” She looked at. Rollison, and held the instrument out towards him. “It’s for you, Mr. Rollison—Superintendent Grice.”

“Ah,” said Rollison, taking the telephone. “Thanks. Hallo, Bill.” This must be very urgent or Grice would not have interrupted the meeting, and his heart began to thump at the possibility that there was, after all, bad news of Angela.

“Can anyone else hear?” asked Grice.

“Not unless there is an extension,” Rollison said.

“No, that is the direct line,” said Naomi Smith hastily. “No,” said Rollison.

“I thought I would give you this piece of news first, and you can break it to the others if you think the time is right.” Grice paused long enough for Rollison to wonder why he said ‘break it to’—and then he had a sudden flash of understanding only a split second before Grice went on. “Dr. Brown was murdered last night. He was found slumped over the steering wheel of his car, in a deserted spot on Wimbledon Common. It looks as if he was forced to drive there by someone who had hidden in the back seat of his car, and struck from behind as he stopped.”

Rollison tried not to show the slightest reaction in his expression or in the tone of his voice.

“Do you know what time?” he asked.

“Yes—about ten o’clock, comfortably before the attack on Mrs. Smith,” answered Grice. “Do the others there appear to be frightened?”

“Yes,” answered Rollison. “Thanks, Bill. Will you leave this to me for a while?”

“Yes,” replied Grice. “Not too long, mind.”

“Not too long,” promised Rollison, and rang off.

The others were concealing their interest in the call, and he did not think they would have done so had they suspected what he had heard. He had no doubt at all what they would decide if he told them of Brown’s murder, and it did not need Grice to emphasise that they could not be left in ignorance for long. There was only one way of preventing them from withdrawing their support, and that was by finding who was behind the murders. And if they were to keep Smith Hall and continue its activities, they would have to know quickly.

“You can’t seriously suggest that Slatter is behind this,” Carfax protested. “I can’t believe—”

“Will you adjourn the meeting for, say, eight hours,” suggested Rollison. “And I will pull out all the stops to investigate Sir Douglas Slatter’s recent activities.”

There was only a perfunctory pause, before Nimmo gave the others the lead by a grave nod of agreement.

“Good,” said Rollison. “Thank you gentlemen. But wherever you go, be sure you have a police escort. I have the very sombre duty of informing you that Dr. Brown was murdered last night, in the same way as Keith Webberson.”

After a stunned silence, Rollison expected Offenber-ger, at least, to make a passionate plea for retraction. But no word was said.

CHAPTER 12

Adamant Old Man

ROLLISON left the study, the expressions on the faces of the three men and the one woman vivid in his mind’s eye; all were appalled. No one was in the hall, but as he glanced up at the gallery, Anne Miller appeared from one of the rooms, and raised a hand in greeting. He stopped and looked up at her.

“Any new problems?” he asked.

“It depends what you call problems,” she answered. She leaned over the wooden railing, her hair drooping downwards in a long, silken fringe, covering her eyes.

“Anything you find worrying is a problem,” he answered.

“Three of our little darlings have a rash this morning,” said Anne. We think it may be chicken pox, and if it is they’ll all get it. You haven’t visited our Baby Farm, have you?”

“Not yet,” said Rollison.

“Then postpone your visit if you haven’t had chicken pox,” advised Anne. “Have you proved that our ancient neighbour next door is the murderer yet?”

“No,” answered Rollison. “I’m just going to ask him.”

She gave a sardonic smile. The young policeman on the porch smiled too, as if he had heard the exchange. He watched with some surprise as Rollison walked to the wall and vaulted over it. The grass on the other side was much firmer, flanked by a drive and carriageway of grey macadam. The house appeared to be in immaculate con-

dition. Rollison stepped on to the porch, which was supported by two white-painted pillars with the Number 29 painted on each, and rang the bell.

Light, quick footsteps approached—and Angela opened the door.

She gave a sharp, quickly suppressed, gasp.

“Good afternoon,” said Rollison. “Is Sir Douglas Slatter in?” And as he spoke, he winked. The muscles of Angela’s face worked as she tried to recover from the surprise.

“He, he’s having lunch,—sir !”

“Take my card in, will you?” said Rollison, and he stepped past Angela into the hall. It was larger, yet not so impressive as next door, although at a glance the antique quality of every piece of furniture was obvious. “Tell him the matter is urgent, please.”

Recovering her poise, Angela took the card, a little uncertain whether to show pleasure or fury at her uncle’s unexpected appearance. Deciding to give nothing away, she turned towards a wide passage alongside the stairs, disappearing into a door on the right. There came a rumble of voices. Immediately, a massive young man appeared.

“Massive’ was the word that first occurred to Rollison, as he noted the thick, bull neck, the powerful shoulders. Yet the man moved lightly on small feet.

“I’m afraid my uncle doesn’t wish to see you, Mr. Rollison,” he said. “He sees no purpose in a meeting.”

“Oh,” said Rollison, as if baffled. “That’s a pity. I thought it only fair to have a word with him before I went to the police.”

“You appear to spend most of your time with the police —judging from the morning papers. It really isn’t any use, Mr. Rollison. He won’t see you.”

Rollison frowned, looking even more baffled—and then, watching very warily, he moved forward, as if to pass Slatter’s nephew. With a swift movement, showing reflexes at least as fast as the assailant’s of the previous night, the young man flung out an arm, a barrier as firm as a piece of iron. Rollison, under no illusions as to the other’s strength, grabbed his wrist, spun him round, and sent him crashing, halfway towards the front door. He did not look round but judged by the lightness of the thump that the other had fallen as an athlete should.

He went on, and entered the room from which the man had come.

Sir Douglas Slatter, sitting at the head of a table with his back to the long window, looked up with a laden fork only an inch from his mouth.

“Good morning,” said Rollison. “I’m sorry if I chose a bad time.”

Slatter put his fork down slowly, and said. “Get out of my house.”

“The moment I’ve said what I have to say—”

“Get out of my house, or—”

“No doubt you’ll have me thrown out,” said Rollison pleasantly. He heard a sound behind him and moved swiftly to one side, so avoiding a swinging blow from the nephew. “Do stop this young man,” pleaded Rollison. “I really don’t want to hurt him.”

“You don’t want to—” Slatter caught his breath, and then said gustily: “Guy—throw this man out.”

Rollison spun round on the instant, grabbed Guy’s wrist, twisted his arm behind him in a hammer-lock so that he was utterly helpless, and smiled amiably.

“There really isn’t any need for this horseplay,” he insisted, “and I don’t want to break this young man’s arm —but I can do it as easily as you could smash his skull in with a sledge hammer.”

Guy had gone very pale. He was breathing hard, and as he faced his uncle, it was easy to realise that he was pleading with him.

Slowly, Slatter stood up.

Deliberately, he turned and went to a large fireplace and bent down, to pick up a brass poker. He held the poker by the handle with his left hand—and he raised it, more as a sword than a hammer.

“Let my nephew go,” he ordered.

“Or what will you do?” demanded Rollison.

“Break your neck.”

“With that? You might crack my skull, but—”

“I won’t tell you again : let him go at once.”

He took a step forward. A larger man than his nephew, although he was nearing seventy he looked no more than sixty. There was no doubt at all that he was prepared to strike.

“You’re a great believer in violence as a means to getting your own way,” remarked Rollison.

“You are a fine one to talk of violence. Let my nephew go.”

“I release ten minutes of your time. Give it to me, and I’ll lea

Almost as soon as the words were out, Guy back-heeled—an action for which Rollison was fully prepared. He dodged the kick with little difficulty, then pushed Guy’s arm up a couple of inches further. Guy gasped, but managed to say :

“Don’t—don’t give in to him!”

“Blind courage and brute force,” said Rollison. “They often go together.”

Slatter lowered the poker. His face was set in furious anger but his voice was even and controlled.

“I will hear what you have to say,” he said.

Rollison immediately released the young man, who moved slowly away, half-turning, so that he showed the pallor of his face and the sweat beading his forehead and his upper lip. He stood close by, holding his right arm.

Slatter put the poker back in the fireplace.

He looked at Rollison with nothing but acute dislike on his handsome face. “Handsome?” Rollison asked him-self. Certainly striking, certainly strong.

“What is it you wish to say to me?”

“It’s very simple,” Rollison said. “I want you to know that I have acquired a certain amount of evidence that suggests that you attacked Mrs. Smith last night—and that you killed Professor Webberson and Dr. Brown. Be-fore I hand it over to the police, I want to hear what you have to say about it.”

“I have just one thing to say,” answered Slatter. “It is ludicrous nonsense.” After a pause, he went on in a steely voice : “And a second thing to say : I don’t believe you have any evidence at all.”

“Don’t you?” said Rollison.

No, I do not.”

“I am the evidence,” stated Rollison.

“That remark makes no more sense than the rest of your assertions.”

“It will make sense to the police when I identify you as the man whom I saw attack Mrs. Smith last night.”

“Even the police wouldn’t be deceived by such a lie,” said Slatter. He had a deep but not powerful voice and spoke with complete composure. If his expression said anything, it was that he had nothing but contempt for the man who had invaded his privacy and manhandled his nephew.

“If I make a statement on oath, not only the police but a judge and jury will take me seriously,” said Rollison.

“Even you cannot seriously doubt that.”

Slatter did not immediately deny it, and for the first time what might have been a look of apprehension showed in his eyes, but it soon vanished, and in an offhand voice which was slightly gruff, he said:

“You must make your own decision. You know well enough that it wasn’t I.”

“I don’t know anything of the kind,” said Rollison. “Even that is a lie.”

“Uncle—” Guy began, but a glance from the older man silenced him.

“Is that all you have to say, Mr. Rollison?” Slatter had fully recovered his poise.

“No,” said Rollison.

“Will you please finish your charges and leave me to finish my lunch?”

“Will you grant an option to renew the lease of Number 31?” asked Rollison.

Slatter drew his heavily marked brows together in concentration, and then very slowly shook his head. “No,” he said. “I want them out.”

“To get them out you might have to get a court order and —”

“They wouldn’t go that far,” interrupted Slatter. “They are ready to pull out already.”

“Driven to it by murder,” observed Rollison.

“Driven to it by their own stupidity. However I will not bandy words with you. The answer is no, I will not grant an option, even if you offer to withdraw your identification of me as a criminal. That is a very cheap trick, Mr. Rollison—I nearly said that it was not worthy of you, but that would be paying you a compliment.”

“Why do you want them out?”

“That is my business.”

“Is inhumanity your business?”

“Mr. Rollison,” said Slatter, with great precision, “I do not regard myself as a judge of what is humane and what is not. I want those harlots out of my house. They would never have gone there but for a trick—I was not informed of the kind of hostel it was to be. Hostel?” His voice rose. “Or brothel? You no doubt know, Mr. Rollison.”

“Hostel,” said Rollison.

“I don’t believe you, and nothing will change my mind.” Slatter held Rollison’s gaze for a long time, and Rollison felt quite sure that he meant what he said. “Make your absurd charges against me if it amuses you, but you are wasting your time, Mr. Rollison. I hope you realise that, and will now leave.”

“Do you really feel utterly indifferent about the infants next door?” demanded Rollison.

“No, I do not feel at all indifferent.” Suddenly, Slatter was enraged, even his cheeks were tinged with pink, and his hitherto cold eyes flashed. “I am intensely concerned with them—determined that they will be taken away from the whores who brought them into this world and placed in the charge of proper authorities. Those women have no right at all to be in charge of children. They may care for them physically but their moral and spiritual life will be ruined. And —”

He broke off, drawing back a pace, as if some new thought had crossed his mind—and then he recovered, and to Rollison’s surprise, put out an arm and touched him.

“I believe that to be true,” he said. “I do not believe such women should have the custody of those children, but that is not the chief reason why I want to close the home down. Mr. Rollison, you are not the interfering braggart I believed you to be. I can see that you are motivated by genuine humanitarian reasons. Come with me—and I will give you a demonstration which will show you another side of this coin.”

“Uncle—” Guy began.

“You can come with me or stay and finish your lunch,” said Slatter. Now gripping Rollison’s arm lightly he led the way out of the room and up the staircase. In spite of his surprise at Slatter’s change of attitude, Rollison noticed the magnificence of a Rubens and a Gains-borough on the staircase, and at the landing saw a tapestry of deep colours depicting a medieval wedding —a piece probably unique. Slatter thrust open the door of a long, beautiful room, the walls of which were lined from floor to ceiling with books.

It was a scholar’s room; a room for quiet thought and contemplation; a sanctuary.

Through the open window came the wailing as of at least half-a-dozen babies—and even from this end of the room it was easy to imagine that there were many more.