John Creasey - The Toff and The Lady

“Cor, lumme,” said Percy, “some people don’t arf like trouble, don’t they, Eddie? An’ some works fast, I will say that fer you, Mr. Ar, you don’t let the grass grow in the medder! Why don’t you come along o’ me, an’ meet the missus?”

“I don’t want you mixed up in this,” said Rollison.

“I dunno as I wants to be mixed up in it meself,” said Percy, frankly, “but I don’t mind lendin’ you a n’and. Come to think,” he said, “Malloy’s been ‘avin’ some posh visitors lately. Made “is wife mad, the wife says.”

Rollison said, quickly: “Women?”

“There was one skirt,” said Percy. “Little thing, wiv a nose aimin’ at the sky. You know. Snub. All lad-di-dah.” Percy raised his voice an octave. “Weally, Mrs. Malloy, I’m only a fwiend of your husband’s.” He laughed at himself, and added: “Only worse, Mr. Ar.”

“When was she last there?” asked Rollison, feeling quite sure that this visitor was Janice Armitage.

“S’matter of fact I think the wife said she was along there just before I come for me pint,” said Percy. “I was at the back an’ never see her. Tell yer what, Mr. Ar—if she’s there, I’ll be in the winder of my shop. Okay?”

“I’ll come five minutes after you,” said Rollison.

“Gimme ten,” said Percy, “I got to ‘ave me dinner. Then there was another skirt, I never see much of ‘er. Come arter dark an’ went aht arter dark.”

“Oh,” said Rollison, thoughtfully, and thought of Lady Lost. Percy could give no details except that he thought she had a fur coat.

“So long, thanks for the pint,” said Percy. He winked, offered his hand again and this time left it limp in Rollison’s, and then walked out.

A quarter of an hour later, Rollison followed him.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

MR. MALLOY

THE street where Percy Dann had his shop was long and narrow, with small houses on either side—one of long lines of drab terraces. Here and there a house was freshly painted, but the landlords of that particular street were not inclined to be generous with decorations.

Mr. Malloy lived in one of the houses which had been freshly painted. Next door, the paint from the shop was peeling off, the showcards in the window were brown with age and freely fly-spotted, a few cartons had fallen down and were covered in dust, and the window was still stuck with gummed paper as a protection against blast. Mr. Malloy’s windows, on the other hand, positively shone. The front doorstep, which was flush with the pavement, was freshly whitened, the brass letter-box and brass knocker, particular to that house, glistened in the sunlight. It looked an oasis of respectability in a slough of disrepute—but the police as well as Rollison knew that little else about Mr. Malloy was respectable.

No one knew exactly what he did for a living.

The police had never been able to take him to court, and although Rollison had heard vague rumours about him, he had never met the man; he had, however, seen him at a distance. He remembered a small, middle-aged man with sparse black hair heavily oiled and plastered over his cranium, showing little streaks of pink, a flabby face and a drooping moustache, also dark but streaked with grey.

As Rollison drew near the house, which was Number 91, he saw a figure at the window of the shop next door, and through the grime recognized Percy. At first he thought that Percy was beckoning him, but when the thin man waved his hand he decided that he was sending him away. That might mean that Janice had left, and suggested that Percy did not consider the moment ripe for a visit. Rollison motioned over his shoulder with his thumb, Percy shook his head vigorously and went through his former antics.

Then Rollison saw what he meant; he was weaving his forefinger about his nose; “Nosey” was inside.

Rollison beamed his thanks, and knocked heavily.

After a short pause a woman opened the door. She was dressed in dark blue, was neat and well made up, without being pretty or looking cheap. Narrowed blue eyes looked Rollison up and down, before she said:

“Good-morning.”

“Good-morning,” said Rollison. “I would like to see Mr. Malloy.”

“On what business?” she asked.

“Strictly private business,” said Rollison.

He is engaged.”

“Tell him to see me at once, or the police will be here within half an hour,” said Rollison.

The threat did not appear to frighten her, but it did make her narrow her eyes still more; they were curiously hooded, the lids thick and jutting out a little at each side of her eyes.

“You’d better come in,” she said.

She stood aside for Rollison to enter a narrow passage. A light was on above the stairs, otherwise the hall and narrow staircase would have looked dark. The walls were freshly distempered and the paint was fresh green—it reminded him of Phyllis Armitage at Leeming House. Hardly had the thought crossed his mind than the woman had passed him to enter a room on the right. Then he heard a familiar, feminine voice.

“I really don’t see what you mean.”

“Well, well!” murmured Rollison. “Sister Janice is on the scene again.” He could not hear what the woman said, but a man’s harsh voice was raised immediately afterwards.

“What is he like?”

The woman described Rollison so well that he silently congratulated her.

“Rollison!” exclaimed Pomeroy, his voice no longer soft and gentle.

“That b . . .” said Malloy.

“Why, that seems like Mr. Rollison!” declared Janice. She sounded greatly relieved.

“Be quiet, you little fool!” snapped Malloy. “Flo, take her next door.”

Janice exclaimed: “I won’t go next door!”

Her words were stopped abruptly; there was a sound which might have been the result of a blow across the face. Rollison turned the handle and flung the door open.

Half-way across the room, moving towards a door which presumably led to the back of the house, was Janice Armitage. Her neck was bent forward, her shoulders were against Malloy’s chest; he had his hands beneath her arm-pits and was dragging her with her heels sliding along the floor. The woman named Flo was opening the door, and Pomeroy was standing against a bookcase, looking thoroughly alarmed.

“Good-afternoon,” said Rollison. “How much is the entertainment tax?”

Malloy dropped the girl; her head struck his thighs, his shins and then the floor. He swung round on his heel, flinging words at Flo.

“Get out, fetch Mike, tell Barney”

Rollison said: “Stay here, forget Mike, ignore Barney.”

“Get going!” screamed Malloy.

The woman stood by the door, as if she were deliberately defying Malloy, whose flabby face was stained red. Pomeroy was still standing by the bookcase. He appeared to have recovered from the shock, and his right hand was moving slowly towards his pocket. Rollison saw a vase filled with artificial flowers on a table by his side. He picked up the vase and tossed it towards Pomeroy, saying:

“Catch!”

The man dodged to one side, and came nearer Rollison, who rounded the table, took Pomeroy’s right arm and held it high above his head, keeping the man on a stretch. He put his hand into the pocket and drew out an automatic, he dropped Pomeroy, who collapsed in a heap on the floor.

Malloy struck the woman across the face, a resounding blow which sent her reeling against the wall, and then he swung round on Rollison. He also had a gun. They appeared to level the guns at the same moment—and neither fired. For a moment there was silence, as if the room had become a vacuum. Then it was broken by a gasping sound from Pomeroy, who began to get to his feet.

“Sit down,” Rollison said to him, and Pomeroy collapsed into a chair. “Malloy, put that gun away.”

If Malloy decided to shoot, he was not likely to miss. Rollison watched his gun-hand, wondering if he could judge the moment when the finger moved on the trigger. Then he saw Flo, who had been leaning against the wall with her hands covering her face, peering between the fingers. She moved, startling him enough to make him swing round towards her, but she struck at Malloy’s arm and knocked the gun out of his grasp.

“You crazy fool !” she blazed.

Malloy, beside himself, turned on her. She struck out at at him, but before Rollison could reach the man he had caught her hair and pulled her towards him, forcing her down on her knees. Then Rollison struck Malloy on the side of the head with the butt of Pomeroy’s gun. Malloy did not even gasp. His fingers lost their grip, he staggered to one side and pitched down, lying across Janice’s legs.

“Aren’t we having a time?” said Rollison.

The woman was pushing the hair out of her eyes. She looked sullenly at Rollison and then at Malloy, and she was breathing heavily. Pomeroy was gasping for breath, as if the vicarious action had affected him. He was sitting like a little fat ball in a small armchair.

The woman said: “What do you want?”

“I wanted a talk with Mr. Malloy,” said Rollison, “but I shall need more now. Is the girl hurt?”

“No more than he is.”

“I hope you’re right. Who are you?”

“Mrs. Malloy,” she said.

“Not very loyal,” murmured Rollison.

“Do you think I want to see him hanged?” she flared.

“No,” said Rollison, slowly, “nor do you want to be hanged with him. Where are Mike and Barney?”

“Along the street.”

“Are they likely to come here in the next half hour?”

“Not unless they’re sent for,” she said.

“I hope that’s true, too,” said Rollison, and looked down as Malloy stirred. “Help him into a chair, and then put the girl on the settee.” He turned to Pomeroy, and his voice grew sharp. “So we haven’t met before, Pomeroy?”

The man said nothing, but licked his lips.

Rollison said: “You employed Larry Bingham, through Malloy, to attack Gwen Barrington-Ley, and then you spread the story of Barrington-Ley being missing.”

Pomeroy said: “I didn’t know Bingham would—use a knife.”

“Perhaps you prefer poison a la Countess,” said Rollison.

He needed no further proof that the Lady of Lost Memory was known to some people as the countess.

This was a different Pomeroy from the man at Barrington House, because he was frightened. His eyes opened, his mouth gaped; his nerve was completely gone.

“You—know—her!”

“Shut your damned mouth,” said Malloy.

He was sitting forward in his chair, looked dazed, and there was a trickle of blood from the side of his head. It ran down to his chin and disappeared under his collar. He was glaring at Pomeroy, and suddenly he changed the direction of his gaze and looked at his wife. Malignance indescribable was in his eyes, and he began to swear at her and she at him, both vitriolic, obscene.

On the settee, Janice Armitage did not stir.

Rollison looked round for a telephone, but could not see one. He might make Percy Dann hear, if he called, but a shout would be as likely to attract someone passing by, and an appeal for the police would be ignored, might even bring aid to the wrong side.

He could wait until Janice came round, he decided, and meanwhile he could question Pomeroy, now staring apprehensively at the Malloys, whose flood of abuse was slackening. The woman fell silent, but continued to glare at her husband.

Rollison said: “We’ll have the full story now, Pomeroy.”

Malloy swung round. “Keep your mouth shut!”

“Now, I said,” said Rollison.

Pomeroy was as much afraid of Malloy as of him, and licked his lips but remained silent. Then Janice stirred; it should not be long before she was able to go for help.

Flo Malloy said: “I’ll tell you, these damned fools don’t know when they’re beaten. Listen, Rollison, I . . .”

She backed away when Malloy rose to his feet. The man looked as if he would defy Rollison and the gun, and actually stepped towards her. For the first time Rollison saw that the woman was frightened. The glare did what oaths could not, and she shrugged her shoulders and looked away from him, with her lips tightly set.

“Don’t change your mind,” said Rollison to her.

“It’s changed for her,” said Malloy, turning towards him with a sneer. “You think you’re clever, don’t you—well, you’ll learn different. If you knew everything we could tell you, you still wouldn’t know much. If you want to know the whole story, find the Countess, she’ll tell you.”

Rollison said: “What countess?”

“I thought you knew all about her,” said Malloy, “and you thought I was unconscious.” He looked at Pomeroy. “He’s all gas, he doesn’t know a thing.”

That was the moment when they heard a sound inside the house.

Malloy moved his head round quickly, and Pomeroy clapped his hands together as if in anguish. Rollison whispered:

“Quiet—all of you.”

Malloy opened his lips, and then caught sight of the gun and discretion triumphed. Flo stared at the door which still stood ajar. Pomeroy was uttering little noises in his throat, but they were not loud enough to be heard outside.

“Malloy, where are you?” There were heavy footsteps in the next room, a smothered oath, and then: “You’ve got to get out, the police are coming!”

A man came into the room.

Rollison stared incredulously at Marcus Shayle, who stood, quite as dumbfounded, on the threshold of the room.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

HUE AND CRY

MALLOY took full advantage of the opportunity that offered. Looking round as Shayle paused, he saw that Rollison’s gun was pointing towards the door, and that Rollison was momentarily off his guard. He put his hands beneath the edge of the table and tipped it up, and as Rollison realized the danger the table struck him on the thigh. As he staggered against the wall he remembered Malloy’s gun, and tried desperately to regain his balance.

“Snap into it!” Malloy shouted.

Pomeroy bounded from the chair, jumped past Rollison and sped into the passage, while Marcus Shayle turned back and disappeared. For an agonizing moment Malloy and his wife stared at each other; then Malloy moved towards the gun.

Flo bent down, snatched it up and flung it through the window. There was a crash of breaking glass. Loud footsteps sounded in the street, and then grew fainter. From inside the house Shayle shouted:

“Don’t waste time!”

“If you breathe a word,” Malloy said to his wife. “I won’t rest until I’ve killed you.” There was no passion in his voice, it was a simple statement of intention. Then he went out of the door into the next room.

The front room was curiously quiet. The woman stood against the wall with her hands at her face, and Janice stirred again but did not open her eyes. Rollison tried the door into the next room, but found it locked. He went into the street, but there was no sign of Pomeroy. As he turned back into the little house, the door of the shop opened and Percy appeared, his Adam’s apple working at lightning speed.