John Creasey - Stars For The Toff

Rollison frowned. “This isn’t funny!”

“No,” agreed Madam Melinska, gently. “It is, however, strange that you who are defending me should accuse me.”

“On the strength of these reports,” said Rollison, “you will undoubtedly be committed for trial and may well be found guilty.”

“That would be a grave miscarriage of justice.”

“But it will happen unless you can prove they’re untrue.”

“Or unless you can prove it,” she returned, mildly. “Mr Rollison, you are not distressing me. I am quite resigned to whatever should happen, what is to be is written in the stars. But I am afraid you are distressing our friends.”

Rollison was jolted into awareness of the presence of the others; he had forgotten them, so deeply absorbed was he in this woman’s manner. Was she a consummate liar, or was she absolutely convinced of her powers as a seer? He saw his aunt’s frown of concentration and felt sure she was asking herself the same question. Olivia jumped up.

“Rolly, you can’t deny that Madam

Melinska prophesied that you would be in grave danger, and you have been; and that you’d be deserted by your friends, and you have been, both by the East Enders and the police.”

“It doesn’t take supernatural powers to know there’s danger in this affair, and that if I help a star-gazer I’ll put the backs up of some people and win the support of others. All that could be intelligent guesswork. Look,” Rollison turned from Olivia to Madam Melinska. “This dossier exists. Even without it, you would be in trouble. With it, you are in very deep trouble indeed. Consequently you have a very strong motive for having it stolen from Mrs Abbott. As she no doubt knew what was in it, you also had a good motive for wanting her dead. And for wanting me dead, should you have discovered that it was in my possession. And someone certainly tried to kill me a while back.”

“But no one stole it from you!” cried Olivia, her eyes suddenly radiant. “So it couldn’t have been because of the dossier they tried to kill you.”

“A lot of people were about.”

“Richard,” pronounced Lady Hurst, “are you being absolutely fair to Madam Melinska?”

“Aunt,” said Rollison grimly, “before you and I commit ourselves further, we have to be absolutely certain that she isn’t fooling us. I—”

“No!” cried Mona Lister, loudly and clearly, making everyone turn towards her. She lay back on the couch as if asleep. “No, Lucy, don’t go in there—don’t: Her voice rose in obvious fear. “Don’t go in, he’s waiting for you— behind the door. Don’t!”

Rollison thought: “Lucy? Lucifer Stride?”

“Don’t go in!”

Madam Melinska sprang up from her chair, reached the girl and put a hand on her forehead. Mona began to twist and turn—but her eyes were still closed. Madam Melinska knelt down beside the couch.

“Come back to me,” she said quietly. “Come back to me:

The girl fell silent and the writhing ceased. She opened her eyes. The older woman began to stroke her forehead very gently and after a few seconds she asked: “Where was this happening, Mona?”

“I—I don’t know. But I saw Lucy—”

“Do you mean Lucifer Stride?”

“Yes. I saw him go up some stairs and ring the door bell. Another man was on the other side of the door, and someone else was coming up the stairs, carrying a weapon. It was— awful.” The girl’s voice was faint now, and she looked very pale. “Did you see anyone else, child?”

“No. No, I didn’t. I only saw—” Mona frowned as if with a great effort at recollection. “A top hat—yes, a top hat—on a wall, high upon a wall.”

“My God!” gasped Rollison. “That’s my Trophy Wall!” He swung round towards the door. As he reached the landing Olivia came out after him, then ran ahead. By the time he reached the square, she was at the wheel of Jolly’s Morris, lights on, the engine running. He slipped in beside her; almost before he closed the door Olivia was moving off. There was no traffic, and every light was green for them; in less than ten minutes they turned into Gresham Terrace.

As they did so, a car engine roared, not far away. Rollison had a spasm of fear, for it was the same noise he had heard as the car had tried to run him down. Lights blazed at the far corner of the street.

“There they are!” Rollison cried. “By Jove, I think it’s the car that tried to run down Lucifer!”

“We’ll catch them!” Olivia rammed her foot down on the accelerator, and the Morris raced forward.

“Hold it!” cried Rollison. “Jolly may be—”

Before he could add “hurt’ Olivia’s foot was on the brake and he was thrust forward. As he straightened up Olivia stretched across to his door and it swung open.

“You see to Jolly, I’ll go after this little lot,” she said, and began to push Rollison out. She was so tiny yet so fierce that even as he staggered on to the pavement he was half-laughing at her; but it was only half-laughing.

Fear for Jolly drove him into the silent house, up the deserted staircase, to the top flat, where light streamed from the open door. There was no sound. His heart in his mouth, Rollison went in; the hall was quite normal—except that in the doorway leading to the living-room, there was a foot.

The shoe was long, narrow, pointed, brown: not Jolly’s.

Rollison gritted his teeth as he went forward and Lucifer Stride’s body gradually came in sight. He was stretched out at full length, his head on one side, a heavy bruise on the temple. Rollison knelt down and felt his pulse; it was beating, although faintly. Afraid of what he would see next, Rollison looked quickly into each room; there was no sign of Jolly until he approached the spare bedroom.

The door was wide open.

Jolly was kneeling by the side of the bed, his head bent forward over the counterpane, one arm bent under him, the other dangling by his side. There was no sign of the prisoner. Rollison went to him, still fearfully, and took his wrist. Thank God he was alive, too, and his pulse seemed steady. He raised him, gently, and as his head lolled backwards, saw the red bruises on his throat; someone had seized Jolly from behind and almost choked the life out of him. Rollison laid him on the bed, undid his collar and waistband and took off his shoes. Then he piled blankets on him, made sure he could breathe freely, and went back to the living-room.

Lucifer Stride stirred.

Rollison moved to the telephone, lifted it, and dialled 230 1212. When a girl said: “Scotland Yard,” he asked:

“Is Chief Inspector Clay in, do you know?”

“Yes, sir. He just made a call. Who wants him?”

“Richard Rollison.”

“Mr Rollison!” The tone suggested that there were followers of Madam Melinska and the stars even at the Yard. “One moment, sir.”

In that moment, Clay said with heavy but welcome humour, “Good evening, Mr Rollison. Decided to give yourself up?”

“Decided to hide nothing from you,” Rollison said drily. “While I was out . . .”

Almost before Rollison had finished Clay said: “I’ll arrange for an ambulance and a doctor, and I’ll come over myself.”

He was on the spot in twelve minutes, and an ambulance arrived almost immediately afterwards, with a long-limbed young doctor, brisk and competent. He examined Lucifer Stride’s head wound carefully.

“Could be a case for brain surgery, that was some blow.” He stood up and went to the telephone, signalling to the ambulance men to put Stride onto the stretcher. Rollison watched and listened, as Clay and his men searched for clues and the doctor made what arrangements were needed with the hospital. He was thinking, now, more of Olivia Cordman than of Lucifer Stride; was impatient for the telephone to be free, so that if Olivia called she could get through.

The doctor put down the receiver. “Well, that’s all settled. And now, what about the other fellow? No, no, don’t show me, I’ll find him.” He disappeared in the direction of the spare bedroom. A few minutes later he was back. “He’ll be okay. It’s the first chap I’m worried about.” He followed the stretcher downstairs.

Rollison felt a surge of relief. Thank God Jolly was all right, he thought, he could have been badly hurt—these men were undoubtedly killers.

Killers . . . And Olivia had gone chasing after them . . .

Rollison glanced anxiously at the telephone, but it remained silent.

Clay crossed to him.

“What made you suspicious, Mr Rollison?”

Rollison answered in a tone of mingled wonder and anger. “A nineteen-year-old girl “saw” this happening from a mile away, and I took her seriously.”

“You mean—Miss Lister?” Clay looked astounded. “Good God!”

“Precisely.”

“She actually saw—oh, it must be some kind of trick.”

“Oh, no,” Rollison said. “Not this one. Whether we like it or not, she went into some sort of trance—I thought she was asleep, actually—and then began to shout in distress. Even if she’d known what was going to happen, she couldn’t have known the precise time it would happen, and—but she didn’t know.” He looked at Clay, his eyes troubled. “She couldn’t have known.”

Clay said stubbornly: “All right then, it was a kind of premonition.”

Rollison pointed to the Trophy Wall.

“In that premonition she saw that top hat— and she saw Lucifer Stride being attacked.” He forced a laugh. “Oh, it doesn’t matter. Jolly was attacked, and she didn’t see that.” There was no reason to say anything about the stranger he had left locked in the spare bedroom. If Clay had any idea of this it would certainly be very awkward indeed, and the knowledge that he had had a prisoner and lost him was cause enough for chagrin. If only Ebbutt’s men had been prepared to help, the flat would have been watched and this could never have happened.

And Olivia Cordman wouldn’t be missing.

Was, “missing’ too strong a word? Or was the situation serious enough to make it necessary for him to tell Clay to look for the Features Editor of The Day if she didn’t ring through soon.

The telephone bell rang, and he snatched up the receiver.

“Rollison.” But it wasn’t Olivia.

“Richard,” Lady Hurst, “I trust there was no cause for alarm.”

“Oh—” Rollison tried to cloak his disappointment— “Jolly’s all right.”

“And the young man?”

“He’s on his way to hospital, and we should know his condition in a couple of hours,” Rollison said. “No need to alarm the girl until then—just say he was hurt.”

“She wants to come over at once.”

“She’ll be better off where she is,” Rollison decided, then immediately changed his mind. “No. I’ll talk to her here if you’d like to bring her over. Aunt—” He paused.

“What is it?”

“It happened just as she said it would.”

“Of course it did,” said Lady Hurst.

As she rang off, Rollison went tense again, hoping for a call from Olivia. It still did not come. By now he was aware of Clay watching him with revived suspicion, and the detective said:

“What’s worrying you, Mr Rollison?”

Rollison began to tell him, but before he finished Clay snapped his fingers at one of his men and said:

“You know Miss Cordman by sight, don’t you? Red hair, five feet one—”

“I know her, sir.”

“Go down to the car and have a general call put out for her—London and Home Counties.

“What was the car, Mr Rollison? . . . A black Morris 1000, Registration 5X2151. Thank you . . . Look slippy,” Clay added to his man, who hurried out and down the stairs.

As the door closed, the telephone bell rang.

For a reason he could not understand, Rollison hesitated before picking it up. He felt sure this must be Olivia, yet now that she had telephoned at last—if in fact this was she—he feared she had bad news. At last he snatched up the receiver.

“Rollison.”

“Otherwise known as The Toff,” a man said in a sneering voice. “You listen to me, Toff. Get off the star-gazer case and forget anything you found at Mrs Abbott’s flat. If you don’t, then one of your pet star-gazers won’t gaze at anything else any more. She’ll be as dead as Mrs Abbott.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Prisoner

Clay was whispering hoarsely: “What is it? Who is it?”

“Rolly, I feel such a fool,” Olivia said into the telephone. “The last thing I wanted was to make things worse for you, but I have.” The man with her muttered something.

Olivia gave a sharp exclamation, and for a few moments Rollison could hear nothing but a confused jumble of sound. Then Olivia came back on the line. “Rolly, he probably means it, and I would hate to die. Really I would.”

“You won’t,” said Rollison, with a confidence he was very far from feeling. “It’s all right, Olivia, we’ll get you. Where are you?”

She appeared to ignore his question. “How’s Lucifer?”

“Lucifer?” said Rollison, puzzled. “Oh, he’ll be okay.” It wasn’t like Olivia to waste time on irrelevancies, he thought. “But you, Olivia. Where are you?”

Still she ignored his question.

“Oh, dear. So they did kill him. Poor Lucifer. If he were still alive I’d say go and talk to him—but he was always such a moaner—”

The line went dead.

Clay said in a voice tense with anger:

“Why didn’t you let me talk to her?”

“It wouldn’t have been much good,” Rollison said, absently.

Lucifer, he thought. Olivia had been trying to tell him that Lucifer would know where she was. What was it she had said?— “But he was always such a moaner . . .” Moaner? Moaner? Why, Monal thought Rollison excitedly, of course. Olivia had been trying to tell him that he could get help from either Lucifer Stride or Mona Lister.

Clay was looking impatient. “Is she all right?”

“She’s being held prisoner. I’m to get off the case.”

“That wouldn’t exactly make me cry,” Clay said drily.

Rollison shrugged. “I may have to get off the case, but not yet. That man’s accent was Rhodesian—Madam Melinska comes from—” Rollison stopped short.

“What is it?” Clay demanded in alarm.

“I meant to ask you to send someone to the Marigold Club, Madam Melinska and the girl—”