John Creasey - The Toff In Town

“I’ve a friend with me,” he said. “He knows all about it. Mr. Grice—Mrs. Allen.”

Barbara nodded, but hardly glanced at Grice. She went to Rollison’s chair and sat down. With a weary gesture she took off her hat. There was a red ridge where it had pressed against her forehead. Some of the long hair fell out of place, and revealed the short tuft. She leaned back and closed her eyes wearily.

Grice had risen to his feet, and stood looking at her.

“What’s the trouble, Mrs. Allen?” asked Rollison quietly. “You needn’t be afraid to speak freely.”

“Needn’t be—afraid,” she said. Her lips twisted, and she gave a bitter little laugh. “I’m so frightened that I don’t—I don’t know how to go on.” Then her voice quickened, she opened her eyes and looked into Rollison’s. “Can’t you do anything? Isn’t there anything anyone can do? Must we go on like this?”

“Well get over it,” Rollison temporised.

“Yes, but where?” A momentary fire died from her eyes. “Oh, I know you’re doing everything you can, but somehow I can’t seem to fight any more. It’s been such a long time, he’s worse than ever—you’ve seen him, haven’t you?” She hardly knew what she was saying, but Rollison was glad that Grice could see and hear her. “I’d rather anything happen than go on like this. I’d rather be dead.”

It wasn’t hysteria or anything approaching it; she was just despairing.

“You must tell me what has happened,” said Rollison. “I know you left home, because you thought you had a message from me. What happened then?”

“I was stopped in the High Street, and two men made me get into a car,” said Barbara. “I knew who they were and I dared not shout or attract any attention. I thought I might learn something and help Bob. They took me out into the country.”

“To a house?” Grice interpolated.

“No, A copse. Near Uxbridge. They just told me to keep quiet. They didn’t do anything. It was—terrifying. The way they looked and talked. They talked about Bob. They didn’t tell me what he’d done, they just said that if he didn’t do what he was told to on Saturday, I wouldn’t—know him—afterwards. And they didn’t tell me what they wanted him to do, they said he’d know. They said they’d drive him mad if he refused, but—he is mad! He doesn’t know what he’s doing or saying. They’ve warped and twisted his mind and now——”

She broke off, covered her face with her hands and began to cry.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

GRICE PROMISES

GRICE and Rollison took Barbara back to Byngham Court Mansions. As they left Grice’s car, they saw a furtive figure slip into a nearby doorway, and Rollison recognised Dann, who was back on duty. No doubt Grice also knew that the East Ender was there, but he said nothing. He had been greatly affected by the incident at Rollison’s flat. Barbara sat in the back of the car with her eyes closed.

She walked listlessly upstairs, and fumbled for her key in her bag. Rollison took it from her, and opened the door. The flat was in darkness.

“Isn’t Mr. Allen in?” asked Grice.

“He—he ought to be,” Barbara said. “But I never know what he’s going to do. One day he’ll go out and not come back, I know he will.”

Rollison switched on the hall light.

“I shouldn’t worry,” he said, and when she protested against the platitude with a helpless gesture, went on: “Until Saturday, there’s a good chance that you’ll be all right, and there’s also a chance that it’ll be all over.”

“I know they said so,” said Barbara, “but I’ve kept hoping that——” She broke off, and pushed her fingers through her hair. “I feel so ungrateful, she told him. “Thank you—thank you so much for what you’re doing. I know someone’s watching the flat all the time, I’m not so frightened now.”

“You’ll be looked after,” promised Rollison.

There was no point in staying, so they left her alone in the flat and walked downstairs. In the hall, Grice stopped and asked abruptly:

“Didn’t I see one of Ebbutt’s men along there?”

“Yes,” said Rollison. “He might know something about Allen’s movements,” said Grice. “I’d like to see Allen—as a friend of yours, for a start, not as a policeman,” he added gruffly.

“Stay in the car and I’ll find out what Dann knows,” promised Rollison.

He went along to the doorway where Ebbutt’s man had taken cover. Dann came out of his hiding-place as Rollison called his name, but did not advance into the street.

“Grice is around, isn’t he?” he demanded.

“He’s turning his blind eye,” said Rollison. “When did Allen leave—and how did Mrs. Allen get away, Bert?”

“Allen walked out on ‘is own two legs, ‘alf an ‘our ago,” said Bert “Had a dame wiv him. Some dame! Talk about a blonde, she was a blonde beauty all right!”

“Oh,” said Rollison slowly, for a picture of Pauline Dexter appeared in his mind’s eye. “Was Allen followed?”

“Sure—Sam went after ‘em,” said Dann. “Same as old Sniffer Lee went after Mrs. Allen s’arternoon. She was picked up by a coupla men who bundled ‘er into a cab an’ then neely ran Sniffer down,” Dann went on. “Sniffer told Bill—didn’t yer know?”

“I knew something about it,” said Rollison. “So they’re getting rough, are they?”

“I’ll give ‘em rough,” growled Dann. “Trouble was, Sniffer ‘ad ‘ad a couple.”

“Don’t be hard on him,” said Rollison. “All right, Bert I should wait on the landing outside the flat until morning, but don’t let Allen see you if he comes back. Telephone Jolly when he arrives, will you?”

“Okay,” said Bert, and withdrew into the shadows.

Rollison walked back to Grice’s car and climbed in. Grice crashed his gears as he turned out of the carriage-way of Byngham Court Mansions, and was still in a silent, reflective mood. Rollison was not sorry. The stories which he had been told showed him with what care, cunning and ruthlessness Merino and his men were acting.

“Well?” asked Grice at last.

Rollison told him the East Ender’s story.

Grice lapsed into further silence which was not broken until they were in Piccadilly. Then, squeezing between two buses, and with a taxi in front and another behind, he chose to re-open the conversation.

“I’ll do what I can, Roily. At least I agree with you that the girl will crack under the strain if it lasts any longer. I shouldn’t do too much in the way of pulling strings, if I were you—it might upset the Old Man’s apple-cart.”

“What can you do on your own?” asked Rollison.

Grice manoeuvred the car out of the traffic and speeded along Piccadilly—a sure indication of his frame of mind.

“Whatever official action we take, we’ll have to move slowly,” he said. “We’ll put out a general call for Blane, but there’s only your description to go on and, unless he’s got a record, it won’t be easy to get news of him. I wouldn’t advise tackling Merino and this Dexter woman yet, in any case—I’d just watch them. I shall have them watched,” he added, “but my men won’t interfere unless their hands are forced. I’d like to see Allen— still as a friend of yours!—but if you can’t make him talk, I’m pretty sure I can’t. I’ll put all this to the Old Man, and I think he’ll see reason.”

“You’re a friend, Bill! You’ll let me know what he decides,” asked Rollison.

“Yes,” said Grice. “Now go carefully, Roily.”

“I will,” promised Rollison.

He watched Grice drive off, then hurried upstairs, and Jolly opened the door as he reached the landing.

“Here we are,” said Rollison, stepping in and tossing his hat to a peg. “Grice is giving us breathing space,” he announced with satisfaction.

“I am not altogether surprised, sir,” said Jolly, “especially after Mrs. Allen’s visit” He retrieved the hat and held it out to Rollison. “Mr. Higginbottom telephoned ten minutes ago, sir.”

Rollison took the hat. “Yes?”

“Apparently Allen and the woman Dexter have gone to Lilley Mews,” said Jolly. “It occurs to me that you will want to go there at once, sir.”

It was dark in the mews. The only light came from the windows of Pauline Dexter’s flat—and that from the side windows. Rollison, glad of the darkness, walked across the cobbles. The main garage was closed, all of the lock-up garages were also shut. He reached his own, and tapped—a short and a long tap —and waited for Snub to open the door.

There was no response.

He peered through the window, but it was too dark to see anything inside. He tapped again. The noise sounded loud in the mews. He stopped when he heard the plodding footsteps of a man, probably a policeman, in the near-by street. The footsteps passed, and Rollison, satisfied that Snub was no longer watching the flat from the lock-up garage, turned and looked at the lighted windows. Snub might have taken it upon himself to break in, and listen to what passed between Allen and the actress.

Then he heard, a sound.

It was low-pitched, a gasp or moan—and it came from Number 5. He turned sharply and looked at the sliding door. It was open an inch—he hadn’t noticed that before, but now he could see that it was not flush with the wall. He put his fingers into the little gap and pushed the door open further. Utter silence reigned—but was broken suddenly by another moan.

Rollison turned from the door and looked right and left— and then walked up and down the mews, making sure that no one lurked in the shadows. Satisfied, he hurried back to the lock-up, and widened the opening until there was room for him to get through. He stepped inside as another moan reached his ears. He took a pencil-torch from his pocket and flashed it on. The thin beam of light made eerie patterns on the shining body of the car—and then shone on Snub, who lay huddled up on the back seat! His hands and wrists were tied—that much Rollison saw in a quick glance—and something poked from his mouth; a handkerchief. In spite of that gag, Snub had managed to make some noise.

Rollison opened the door.

“All right, old chap,” he said. “You needn’t——”

Then he heard a rustle of movement behind him, and darted back, out of the car—but as he did so, something hit him on the back of his head. A second blow followed, much heavier than the first; he lost consciousness.

When he came round his head was aching badly, and he could not move his arms and legs freely. The pain ran from the back of his head, down his neck and across his back. He did not at first remember what had happened, but as memory crept back, he realised the truth. A man had been waiting in the garage, Snub had been allowed to make that noise, or else the assailant had made it, luring Rollison into the garage.

He kept his eyes closed, and tried not to think.

Minutes passed

He thought at first that he was bound to a bed or a couch, then discovered that he could move his arms freely, he wasn’t tied up. It was pitch-dark, and he wasn’t sorry; any light would hurt his eyes. The blood drummed through his ears with the effort of movement, and he lay still again.

Everything was quiet.

Yet—he could hear something. Faint sounds—very soft music. It wasn’t far away. He tried to move his head again, in spite of the pain which shot through it, but he could see nothing, and the drumming of the blood sent the other sound away. It might be his imagination. He relaxed again, and became aware of something he hadn’t noticed at first—perfume.

Where was he?

The perfume gave him a clue—and now that he was more capable of thinking and reasoning, he realised that he was lying on a comfortable bed or couch. This might be Pauline Dexter’s room. He couldn’t remember the scent, but it was a woman’s room, anyhow.

He had no idea how long he had been here, and could not guess how long it was since he had come round. Two things were important. He was alive and free to move. But he mustn’t move too quickly. That bump over the head had been pretty hard, and

What about Snub?

He felt sick with alarm as he thought of the youngster; then the alarm faded, for he remembered that Snub had been breathing. There was no reason to think that Snub would have been killed and he, Rollison, left alive. Odd how he took killing for granted in this business, although as yet—and as far as he knew—Merino had not ventured murder.

He heard a door open.

Something clicked, and a light appeared at the foot and sides of a door which was opposite the end of the bed. The glow was only a glimmer, but it enabled him to see the outline of the bed, his legs—they weren’t tied—and a wardrobe near him. He turned his head. Near him, on a bedside table, was a lamp; he had only to stretch out his hand and switch it on.

Someone walked along the hall.

The footsteps faded.

A sound—it was music, perhaps from a radio set which was toned down—crept into the room. Then the footsteps returned, and he heard a woman humming in a lilting voice.

Then the door closed again, and the light disappeared.

Rollison put his hand to his side and groped for his cigarette-case. He found it, and drew it out. Then he groped for his lighter, and thumbed that clumsily. The light from the flame hurt his eyes. He lit the cigarette, then held the lighter further away, to get used to it. It needed filling, and the flame soon died down, He let the cap click back, and put both lighter and case into his pocket. The little red glow near the end of his nose was hardly a light at all, until he drew at it—and then all he could see was the tip of his nose.

He sat up.

Springs creaked faintly; it was a very comfortable bed. He hitched himself up to a sitting position. The blood drummed painfully through his ears and the back of his head seemed to lift from his neck, but he set his teeth and sat upright, and gradually the pain eased. Next time he moved, putting his left hand towards the table-lamp, there was less pain.

He found the switch and pressed it

A subdued light filled the room.

He closed his eyes against the pain, but gradually opened them. He was able to recognise the room it was the flat in Lilley Mews, Pauline Dexter’s bedroom. On the dressing-table was a photograph of the girl, and next to it, that of a film-star masquerading in the guise of a Greek god.

Rollison put his feet to the floor.

The pile of the carpet saved him from making any sound, but the bed creaked again. After a while, when he had pressed his feet firmly to the carpet, he stood up. He thought at first that he would faint with the sudden pain, but it cleared slowly and soon he stood upright. He knew that he would be practically useless in any emergency, with a head as bad as this. He stepped to the dressing-table with its long, frameless mirrors, and sat on the stool. There was nothing the matter with his face or forehead. He put up his right hand and touched the back of his head gingerly—and winced with pain. He manoeuvred the side mirrors, so that he could get a back-view of his head.