John Creasey - The Toff and the Fallen Angels

“Not closely enough,” admitted Grice. “But it soon will be. Goodnight.”

Rollison put down the receiver as a miniature striking clock on the mantelpiece struck two. Angela rose slowly from the chair and peered up into Rollison’s face, like a trusting child.

“So I’m not such a bad detective,” she remarked.

“You have eyes like a hawk and ears like a bat’s,” answered Rollison. “Now you have to prove you can manage with four hours’ sleep.”

“Oh, that’s plenty for young people,” declared Angela, and skipped away to dodge his descending hand.

*     *     *

It was full daylight when he woke, to find Jolly by his side proffering tea and the Daily Globe on a tray; Jolly must have been out to get a copy as early as this. Rollison struggled up—as the miniature clock struck six. He felt a little heavy in the head and behind the eyes, but all that had happened and all that might happen today flooded through his mind by the time he was sitting up and opening the newspaper, while Jolly poured his tea.

“Shall I call Miss Angela, sir? She is very soundly asleep.”

“Give her another twenty minutes,” said Rollison. “I want to be off by seven.”

“To the hostel, sir?”

“To check with Grice, check with Ebbutt, and then get to Bloomdale Street,” answered Rollison. “I—my! They’ve certainly made it the story of the day!”

There, on the tabloid front page, was a picture of Sir Douglas Slatter, of the shattered window and of the house next door. The headlines screamed :

ATTACK ON MILLIONAIRE

VENGEFUL UNWED MOTHER HEAVES BRICK

“And if that isn’t actionable I won’t have breakfast,” said Rollison. He looked down the page to a picture of Anne Miller holding a baby, and the caption beneath this read:

CHARGED WITH MALICIOUS WOUNDING

The story of the hostel and the feud between the residents and Slatter was told brilliantly, in detail. There was one paragraph set in bold type, which read :

Mrs. Naomi Smith, Superintendent of the hostel, was viciously attacked by an unknown man outside the hostel. One of the residents is known to have been murdered. Two of the trustees have been murdered, also.

In the Stop Press, in red, was another paragraph.

Gang of youths attacked Smith Hall, residence for unmarried mothers in Bloomdale Street. Police drove attackers off. See story p. 1.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, Rollison turned to page three, where Gwendoline’s column always appeared. There was her photograph, and further down the page was a photograph of Naomi Smith outside Smith Hall.

The column was headed :

STRONG MAN RELENTS

The story read :

and property owner, could have brought despair to twenty-three mothers or mothers-to-be.

And Sir Douglas, strictly religious—some might say a religious bigot—has always said that if a young woman is unmarried when she has a child, she has cast herself out of society.

Twenty-five of these ‘outcasts’ lived next door to him in a mansion in Bloomdale Street, close to the University of London and the British Museum. Sir Douglas owns the property. He ordered, sternly, “out!”

Now, one of the unweds has been murdered, and another is missing.

And now Sir Douglas, the strictly religious multimillionaire, has relented. The remaining twenty-three will not be cast out. This multi-millionaire’s heart of stone melted. I salute him.

I wish I could also salute the police. Three people have been brutally murdered. All of them are closely connected with the Bloomdale Street mansion.

Why have no arrests been made?

What is the mystery behind this home where not only mothers and mothers-to-be should live in happiness—but where babies, under 12 months old, now live under threat of hideous death?

Rollison finished his tea as Jolly looked in, and said : “Your bath is ready, sir.”

“Yes. Did you read Gwendoline Fell’s column?”

“Very pungent indeed, sir,” Jolly said, as if with approval.

“I can’t think of a better word,” said Rollison. He lifted the telephone next to his bed and dialled Bill Ebbutt’s number at the Blue Dog. Almost immediately a woman answered in a bright Cockney voice.

“Mrs. Ebbutt speaking.”

“Hallo, Liz,” said Rollison. “I’m glad I didn’t get you up.”

“Goodness me, no—I’ve been up since five o’clock, that’s my usual time. And for once Bill got up early, too, he left just after six. Said it was something to do with you, Mister Ar, and that hostel that’s all over the front page. Poor little mites. And the mothers, too, as if they haven’t got enough to worry about. Always coming up against this problem in the Army, but you know that. Well, I suppose I mustn’t keep you, but there’s one thing I would like to ask you, Mr. Ar. If ever that young woman Gwendoline comes over here again, I want to meet her. Wouldn’t it be lovely if she would do a story about the Army?”

“Liz,” said Rollison warmly, “it would be wonderful. I’ll talk to her about it. Goodbye.” He rang off before she could get another word in, and then saw his door open a fraction, and Angela’s head appear. She looked half-asleep and so very young.

“It’s me,” she said. “Do I have time for breakfast?”

“Provided you don’t wolf mine,” said Rollison. “I—” He broke off, as his telephone bell rang, and Angela came further into the room. She wore a pale pink quilted dressing gown which was too large for her. “Rollison,” Rollison said into the telephone.

“Roily,” said Grice, in a very hard voice, “were you at Slatter’s house last night?”

Something in his manner told Rollison that the question had grave significance. He could lie, and perhaps never be found out, but if the police had to investigate then Angela would become involved in the lie, and he would break faith with Grice—who had probably assumed that he had been in Bloomdale Street. It seemed a long time before he answered, and while Angela’s eyes grew clearer, the sleepy mist faded.

Then he said : “Yes, Bill.”

“Did you attack Guy Slatter?”

“I hit him on the back of the neck—yes.”

“Did you hit him with a sledge hammer and break his skull?” asked Grice.

Rollison caught his breath.

“Good God, no! Is he—dead?”

“Yes. I had the house watched to make sure no-one went in or out, and no-one did, from ten minutes after your telephone call. When the daily staff went in at half-past six, they found him lying near his uncle’s desk, dead—killed like the others. I think you’d better come over at once, and make a statement.”

“I’ll be there inside an hour,” Rollison promised.

He looked steadily at Angela as he replaced the receiver. She had moved very slowly towards him, and was now within arm’s reach of the bed.

“Guy?” she asked.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Did—did you kill him?”

“Did you see a hammer in my hand?” asked Rollison. “Oh, my God! That way?”

“That way. Angela, listen to me.” He took her hands. “I broke into Slatter’s house last night. You did not leave the door open and you did not tell me where to find the keys. You can tell the police I asked you to persuade Guy to take you out. You can even tell them you guessed why, but you took no active part in helping me. Do you understand? If the police know that, they can make a lot of unpleasantness for you without it helping me at all. Do you understand?”

Very slowly, she answered : “Yes.” She tried to free her hand but could not and that told him how tightly he was gripping. He relaxed a little, then said in a more casual voice : “If you still want to come, we’ve half-an-hour.”

“Just try to keep me away!” exclaimed Angela, and she pivoted round and ran out of the room.

Rollison almost laughed, but there was nothing even remotely funny about the situation, and there were probably dangers which he hadn’t yet seen. Had he been watched at Slatter’s house? Had someone seen him go in and seen him leave with Angela, then gone in and slugged Guy, leaving him dead?

It seemed likely.

Mechanically turning bathroom taps on and off, vigorously towelling, Rollison knew that Guy would not have stayed unconscious from the chopping blow for more than ten or fifteen minutes at the outside. Someone, then, must have gone in almost immediately after they had left. He was sure no-one had followed them, but not sure they hadn’t been watched.

Steam clouded the mirrors and Rollison pushed open the window. As he did so, he caught sight of a movement in the courtyard below.

Two men were stepping on to the bottom platform of the iron fire escape. They were not tradesmen; they were tough-looking; and they wore workmen’s clothes. Leaving the open window, Rollison moved swiftly into the living-room. Here he could see the road.

A battered-looking car had just pulled up. Two men got out, waited for a milk-float to pass, then crossed towards Rollison’s house and disappeared. Almost at the same time, a motor-cyclist pulled up, fifty yards along; he did not get off his machine but straddled it, as if he were on the lookout.

Jolly appeared, at the dining-alcove.

“Would you—is there anything the matter, sir?”

“Yes,” said Rollison. “Call Grice at once, tell him I think we’re going to be attacked.”

“Attacked—” Jolly began, and then darted towards the telephone. Rollison went as swiftly to the front door. It had been unbolted,, but he shot the bolts and put the chain up; and the door was reinforced and almost impossible to break down.

He spun round.

“The telephone is dead, sir,” Jolly stated in an even voice.

Rollison stared—and then hurried towards the back door. He thought he heard footsteps just outside as he rammed the bolts home, then stretched up and put shutters up at the small windows alongside the door. There had been a time when raids on this flat were commonplace, and everything had been reinforced.

There was a heavy knock at the back door.

“It looks as if someone has tumbled to the fact that Angela and I might know too much for their safety,” Rollison said. “They’re pretty slow—and I had the bodyguards sent to the wrong place. If this crowd really means business—and I’ve seen four who look as if they do—we’re really in trouble. They could have that door down in ten seconds flat with a single charge of dynamite. And they’ve used dynamite at least once before.”

As he finished there was another knock at the back door, and a long, loud ring at the front.

Angela appeared, fully dressed, fresh and pink-cheeked.

“Who on earth is that?” she asked in a voice not far from scared.

“The knell of doom,” said Rollison, knowing that she would want no punches pulled. He went to his desk and unlocked the master drawer at the top, took out a small, grey pistol which did not look large enough to cause injury. “I think whoever is behind this knows that you heard the name Bensoni, and might have passed word on to me. They know I’m supposed always to be a lone wolf, and they’ll expect me to try to handle this on my own. So they’ve come to make sure I can’t—and to make sure you can’t pass word on to the police.”

A thunderous knocking drowned the last words, and then clearly from the letter box in the front door, a man called out in a rough, uneducated voice :

“We know you’re in there, Rollison. Open the door or we’ll blow it down.”

CHAPTER 20

Big Blast

“I SEE what you mean,” said Angela in a small voice. “Rollison!” roared the man outside.

“Coming!” called the Toff, as if he hadn’t a worry in the world. He whispered to Angela : “This is tear-gas. Go and help Jolly.” Jolly, with some cigarettes in his hand, also taken from the drawer, was heading for the kitchen.

Angela cast a longing look at Rollison, then went after Jolly.

Rollison reached the front door. The men outside were silent now, quite unaware that they could be seen. Above the front door was a kind of periscope mirror, and glancing up Rollison saw the two who had come from the car standing outside—and two others halfway down the stairs. One of them was laying a trail of gunpowder.

The man nearest to the door bent down, and poked a finger at the letter box.

“Rollison!” he roared. “This is your last chance. Open the door!”

“Just about to,” answered Rollison. He poked the muzzle of the gas pistol through the letter box, squeezed the trigger, and heard the hiss and a cry of alarm, then a thud as the man at the box fell. He fired two more capsules of the tear gas, felt a blow-back of it bite at his nose and eyes—and he heard another man cry out :

“Gawd!”

Yet another gave a choking scream.

Rollison unlocked and unchained the door in three swift movements. On the landing two men were reeling, and another was sprawling halfway down the stairs. The one with the dynamite was backing away, a hazy figure through the gas. Rollison closed his eyes and mouth, nipped his nostrils, and rushed downwards. When he opened his eyes again the man hurled the dynamite at him, then turned and rushed down the second flight of stairs. Rollison simply levelled the gun and the pellet hit the stairs and burst in front of the escaping man.

On the next landing was yet another assailant.

And in his hand was a sledge hammer.

He raised it, to throw, alarm showing in his eyes. Rollison ducked. The hammer flew over his head and crashed against the wall. Instead of using the pistol, which contained two more pellets, Rollison hurled himself at the man, both fists clenched; he had never struck a chin with greater force, and the man simply toppled backwards and slid, head-first, down the next flight of stairs.

At this point the door of one of the flats opened, and an elderly tenant demanded in a deep and authoritative voice :

“What the devil is going on here?”

“Call the police,” Rollison said, over his shoulder.

Then the front door burst open and half-a-dozen men rushed in, enough to have struck terror even into the Toff but for the sight of Bill Ebbutt, leading the way. In Bill’s hand was an old-fashioned black leather cosh, once regarded as a deadly weapon but a toy compared with knuckle-dusters, bicycle chains, iron bars and flick knives. The elderly neighbour withdrew hastily and slammed his door. One of the fallen men crawled to his feet, then backed against the wall, his hands raised.

“Any of your boys at the back?” asked Rollison.

Ebbutt looked up, mouth wide open.

“Gorblimey, Mr. Ar, I thought you was a goner. You okay?” The broadest of grins nearly split his face in two. “I don’t need any telling. I should have known. Strewth, Mr. Ar—”

“Are any of your chaps at the back?” interrupted Rollison with greater urgency.

“Six,” answered Ebbutt. “I should’ve known you—” He broke off and lunged past Rollison, who turned round in alarm, but it was only one of the men whom he had gassed, coming down the stairs a step at a time, tears streaming from his eyes. Behind him came Angela, a handkerchief over her nose and mouth, her eyes tear-filled. She stopped halfway down the stairs at the sight of Ebbutt, who touched his forehead and said smartly : “Good morning, Miss. I—strewth. It’s Miss Angela, I didn’t recognise you for a moment.” He pushed forward and gripped Angela’s hand—and as he pumped her arm up and down, Jolly appeared, and asked in a voice hoarsened by the tear gas :