John Creasey - The Toff and The Lady

“As it’s now eleven,” said Grice, “I haven’t a lot of time this morning. Is there something on your mind?”

“Much,” said Rollison. He took from his pocket a folded Daily Record, and pushed it across the desk. “Who’s the lady?” he demanded.

Grice shot him a quick, searching glance.

“Can you tell me anything about her?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you interested?”

“Take one more look at her,” said Rollison, “and guess.”

Grice ignored the suggestion, sat back in his chair, and pressed the tips of his fingers together.

“Now look here, Rolly, you aren’t interested in her because of that photograph. It’s a bad one, in any case—and you aren’t the man to be intrigued by a loss of memory case unless you’ve a special reason.”

“Oh, I’ve a reason,” said Rollison, “but before we go into that, tell me more. All I know of her I read in The Record. The story of the Bal Masque, where she turned up, is highly decorative.”

“It’s true enough,” said Grice.

Rollison raised his eyebrows.

“The story isn’t in any of the other papers.”

“It didn’t happen until the ball was nearly over and most of the Press had gone home,” said Grice. “The Record still runs a gossip column, and their society newshound was there, when . . .”

At half-past two, when even the gaiety of a function sponsored by Mrs. Barrington-Ley was beginning to lose its vitality, the lady of the photograph had arrived at Barrington House. There, Mrs. Barrington-Ley had staged a Bal Masque on behalf of the Action Committee for Famine Relief, a generous and timely gesture. The Bal Masque had been one of the social events of London, and even the fact that it was held in September had not affected its success. Over five hundred people had been present, and the proceeds would probably reach five thousand pounds, for there had been auctions of jewellery and mock-auctions and all manner of ingenious ruses for raising money. Everything had gone smoothly, as was to be expected of any event organized by Mrs. Barrington-Ley, until half-past two, when only a few dozen guests remained, and most of them were beginning to collect their wraps and coats. Then into the ballroom, gay with lights and decorations, warm and filled with the haze of tobacco smoke, had come “the lady”.

No one had seen her enter, but it had been a warm night with doors and windows wide open. Taxis and a few private cars were packed outside in a long line; there had been a constant stream of guests to and from the cars. Anyone could have entered Barrington House without difficulty.

“The lady” had walked from the main doors towards the centre of the room. Half-a-dozen little groups of people had been laughing and talking, and the buffet, in an ante-room, was fairly full. The lady was wearing a black satin gown and over it a mink coat. There was nothing remarkable in that, but her pallor had arrested the attention of the people who saw her—her pallor, said Grice and The Record, and her feverishly bright eyes. A dozen or more men and women had watched her, and silence had fallen upon the hall when, in the middle of the floor, the lady had turned and looked about her in every direction—and then collapsed in a dead faint.

She had not come round for over an hour, by which time the police had been called, because no one present knew her.

“And is that the lot?” asked Rollison.

“It’s plenty, isn’t it?” said Grice.

“Yes and no. Isn’t it early for you to make an appeal through the Press?”

Grice laughed. “We didn’t. The Record said that we would welcome any information about her, which is true enough, but we would have waited for a day or two before publicizing it. I don’t know that any harm’s done. She says that she doesn’t remember her name or where she came from, no one I’ve seen or we’ve interviewed knows her.”

“Where is she now?”

“At the Lawley Nursing Home,” replied Grice. “Mrs. Barrington-Ley decided to adopt her and shrank from the idea of her being kept at a police-station or in hospital, so she has a room at the nursing home. She speaks in a whisper and looks like a ghost. Two doctors have examined her, and found nothing wrong except a bruise on the back of the head.”

“Let me have it all,” said Rollison, when Grice paused.

“I’m trying to find the right word,” said Grice. “She’s tired out, suffering from physical and probably mental exhaustion. There’s nothing organically wrong with her, and a week’s rest will probably put her right. Mentally—well, it’s hard to say. If her memory’s gone completely, she might be unwell for a long time.”

“Why “if”?” asked Rollison.

“How can you be sure that a stranger has lost her memory?” asked Grice. “You can’t check. We’ve got to take her word for it, and it’s early for that.”

“The natural scepticism of a policeman,” said Rollison. “Do the doctors suggest that she might be putting on an act?”

“They’re non-committal.”

“The natural self-defence of a doctor!”

“Look here,” said Grice, “time’s getting on. What made you come along?”

“This,” answered Rollison.

He took the photograph from beneath his coat and handed it to Grice, telling him everything relevant to it as Grice studied the face. Grice looked up.

“Have you got the envelope?”

“Yes,” said Rollison, and took the envelope, folded, from his pocket. “I ran over it for prints, but I don’t think you’ll find more than Jolly’s, mine and the postman’s. That’s curious, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is,” said Grice. “Whoever packed it wore gloves;

is that what you’re driving at?”

“Yes. No one handled the photograph with bare fingers, as far as I can find out—there are only my prints on ft. The mystery lady wasn’t in a state of mental or physical exhaustion when that photograph was taken, was she?”

“She looks very much all there,” said Grice. “What do you make of it?”

“Absolutely nothing,” said Rollison.

“I mean, of the photograph being addressed to The Toff?”

Rollison frowned. “It could be that someone who knows her knows also that she is in trouble and thinks I might be able to help. It suggests that whoever knows her and had the photograph has heard a fair amount about me, and perhaps even knows me.”

“I doubt it,” said Grice. “Otherwise it would have been addressed to you as Rollison.”

“Now, now!” said Rollison. “That wedding is getting on your mind. What could be better calculated to make me curious than a letter addressed to “The Toff”, not to Rollison? What could be better calculated to make me think that it’s a matter for investigation, not just of interest? Why was I chosen, and not the police? Because there is some hope that I might make private investigations—not everyone knows how friendly the Yard is towards me these days!”

Grice gave a somewhat sardonic smile.

“I thought you made nothing at all of this.”

“Inference and deduction doesn’t amount to knowledge,” retorted Rollison. “What do you make of it?”

“Nothing at all. I suppose you’ve come to me because you want to see her?”

“Any objections?”

“I couldn’t keep you away if I had,” said Grice, “but there’s no reason why you shouldn’t go. Of course, it may peter out. She isn’t a woman whom anyone would readily forget, and someone who knows her will probably turn up during the day. You’d like to know if they do, I suppose?”

“Very much,” said Rollison, getting up. “Now you’ve got to go and kiss the bride—don’t get tight at the reception. I may want to see you again this afternoon!”

He was in a thoughtful frame of mind when he left Scotland Yard, and also a litde rueful. In his wallet was an invitation from Mrs. Barrington-Ley to the Bal Masque. He could have been there when the lady had arrived—unless, of course, he had become bored and left early.

The rain had stopped, but the clouds were still lowering. He walked to Barrington House, which was in a small street off Park Lane, calling to mind all that he knew of Hilda Barrington-Ley. A charming, winsome creature, who made many people think that she was feather-brained but who had helped to raise great sums of money for charities. She had hosts of friends and her husband, the banker, was extremely rich. That went without saying of the owner of Barrington House.

Barrington-Ley was twenty years older than his wife, a man of fifty-five who looked no more, than forty. He was of medium height, lean and wiry. He had been frequently consulted by the Government during financial crises. As far as Rollison knew his reputation was blameless. Like his wife he was a prominent worker for various charities.

Hilda was his second wife. He had a daughter of twenty-nine, named Gwendoline, a good-looking, earnest, serious-minded girl, often dubbed a blue stocking. Rollison remembered the deep, rollicking laugh which came from her occasionally, a laugh which was quite unexpected from someone usually so sober and who gave the impress on of lacking a sense of humour. There was, Rollison believed, a great affection between Gwendoline and Hilda. One other thing sprang to mind: the Barrington-Leys were often in the public-eye, but there was nothing about them on to which scandalous tongues could batten.

Rollison reached the house, which stood in its own grounds, a Georgian residence combining all that was best of the period and containing nothing of the worst. The wrought-iron gates were open, leading to a drive with a shubbery on either side, and in front of the main entrance stood a Silver Cloud Rolls-Royce. As Rollison reached it Barrington-Ley came hurrying from the house. Rollison could not remember a time when the banker was not in a hurry. The tails of his mackintosh were flying and on his handsome face there was a look of great intensity—that, again, was usual; he always gave the impression that he was carrying a great load of responsibility. His bright blue eyes reflected a sudden, unexpected beam of sunshine, which made him blink, but in spite of that he saw Rollison and pulled up short as the chauffeur opened the car door.

“Hallo, Rollison! I didn’t expect you.”

“Not unwelcome, I hope,” said Rollison.

“Great Scott, no! You’re just what Hilda’s been praying for —she’s convinced that the police aren’t trying to find out who our lost lady is. An aura of mystery surrounds her, and Hilda’s revelling in it. I’m warning you what to expect.”

“I can face it,” said Rollison.

Barrington-Ley put a hand on his arm and a foot on the Rolls, and said earnestly:

“As a matter of fact I feel troubled about the woman—she is what you’ve come about, isn’t she?”

“Yes. Mainly out of curiosity.”

“Good! If you can help her, I’ll be really delighted.” Barrington-Ley squeezed Rollison’s arm and got into the car, while Rollison walked up the four stone steps and went into the hall, where a footman was waiting with the door open. The footman did not recognize him, and Rollison gave him his card. When he looked at it, he seemed startled.

“Mr. Richard Rollison, sir?”

“Yes,” said Rollison.

“Only a few moments ago there was a telephone call for you, sir, and the caller gave me his number, in the hope that you would be able to ring him back. Would you care to do so before I see whether Madam is at home?”

“Yes, I think I will,” said Rollison. “What’s the number?”

“Mayfair 03121, sir.”

That was his own number. As he went to the telephone in a small room to the right of the hall. Rollison thought with a smile of Jolly’s resourcefulness, for he had not said that he was going to visit Barrington House.

He dialled the flat, and after a moment Jolly said:

“This is the residence of the Hon. Richard Rollison.”

“Hallo, Jolly,” said Rollison. “What’s the trouble?”

“There is no trouble, sir, as far as I know, but I am very glad that I’ve found you. Have you discussed the matter with Mrs. Barrington-Ley yet?” He sounded faintly apprehensive.

“No,” said Rollison.

“Then I wonder if it will be possible to avoid doing so for the time being, sir,” said Jolly. “Miss Barrington-Ley is here.”

CHAPTER THREE

INTEREST IN THE TOFF

ROLLISON replaced the receiver thoughtfully, stood for a moment contemplating a water-colour by de Wint, and then went into the hall. The footman was waiting for him.

“Tell Mrs. Barrington-Ley that I called,” said Rollison, “and ask her whether it will be convenient for me to see her about half-past six this evening.”

“Very good, sir.”

The footman was tall and young and good-looking. He smiled at Rollison who reflected that the man’s surprise when he had read the card had been a little overdone. On reflection, too, the behaviour of Barrington-Ley might be thought unusual, even for that sprightly and high-pressured man. Had they been expecting him to call?

If they knew anything about the photograph sent to him, that was reasonable.

Rollison hailed a taxi, looked out of the small window at the back several times, and suddenly he leaned forward and spoke to the driver.

“Go down New Bond Street and turn into the far end of Gresham Terrace, will you?”

“Okay,” said the driver.

A small green car which Rollison thought had been following him continued along Piccadilly. Rollison smiled at his fancy, lit a cigarette, and was soon put down outside the tall, narrow, grey-faced house in which he had a first floor flat. As he paid the driver, he glanced towards the end of Gresham Terrace.

The small green car turned into the road.

“Okay, ta,” said the taxi driver.

“Are you in a hurry?” asked Rollison.

“Got to earn me living,” said the driver.

Rollison handed him a pound note.

“Wait here for me until I come out or until the little Morris moves off. It it moves before I arrive, follow it as far as the petrol in your tank will take you.”

The driver scratched his chin. He was a youthful-looking man, clean-shaven and unusually presentable.

“S’all right as far as it goes,” he said, “but I got three pounds worth of business in my tank.” He eyed Rollison curiously, and added: “And I can’t get more’n forty-five out of the cab, I might not be able to keep up wiv’ the car. Fair’s fair, ain’t it?”

“And you’re very fair,” said Rollison, giving him another two pounds. “If you find out where the Morris is garaged, come back and report and you can also live well to-morrow!”

“Don’t forget I ain’t making no promises,” warned the driver, “I’ll do me best.” He nodded and turned to his driving cabin, while Rollison strolled across the pavement and up the steps leading to the front door. The driver of the little car was sitting at the wheel reading a newspaper; he was nearly thirty yards away.