John Creasey - The Toff and the Fallen Angels

“Of course, I gather that, and the fact that the wrong timing is the very snag over which your semi-intellectual angels have fallen.”

Rollison chuckled.

“Your point,” he conceded. “Will you have another drink?”

“You mean, won’t I get off your knee and allow you to breathe more freely.” She kissed him on the forehead. “No, I won’t have another drink and I won’t play the fool any more. I’m absolutely thrilled at the chance, and truly grateful. And—” she hesitated for a studied effect, then went on : “I won’t let you down.” She was suddenly all movement again, as she sprang off his knee like an indiarubber ball. She neither looked nor behaved like her twenty-four years. “There’s just one thing. What will happen when the others find that I’m not really qualified?”

Rollison looked at her solemnly,

“With a turn like that, no one would suspect you were cheating.” Before she recovered, he moved towards the telephone. It was five minutes to seven, and he was alone but for Angela, this being Jolly’s evening off. He dialled the number of Smith Hall, and Naomi Smith answered in that unmistakable voice which attracted Rollison in a way he had seldom been attracted before.

“This is Smith Hall.”

“This is Richard Rollison, to tell you that Angela is prepared to fall.”

“Oh, I’m so relieved,” said Naomi in a tone which was evident proof of her words. “The more I think of it the more I like this idea. How soon can she come?”

“Tomorrow.”

There was a long pause, before Naomi said in a huskier voice :

“I don’t really believe in you, Richard. You’re like something spirited out of Aladdin’s lamp.”

Angela, close to Rollison, was mouthing and touching her lips and her right ear, in imitation telephoning. Rollison held on for a moment, relishing what Naomi had said, and then asked :

“Would you like to speak to Angela now?”

“Is she with you . . . I’d love to.”

“Hold on,” Rollison said. He held the instrument out to Angela, then went out of the room. He did not want Angela to think he did not trust her to say what was wise, for beneath her high spirits he had sensed a moment almost of resentment when he had warned her that this was not a game. He could have listened-in on the kitchen extension or the one in his room or in Jolly’s bedroom, but did not. Now that he was alone he was contrasting Naomi and Angela, and at the same time wondering what he had let himself in for. He could not even begin to think of a motive for what was going on. It could of course, he decided, be merely a matter of temperamental conflicts within the hostel. Each of the residents obviously had acute personal and probably emotional problems, and with high I.Q. was likely to suffer more from tension than folk who had a less highly tuned intelligence.

But Keith Webberson had sent Naomi to him, and Keith was no scaremonger, he must have some reason for anxiety. It was at least possible that Naomi Smith had not yet told him everything, wanting to make sure that he would help before unburdening herself of the whole truth.

He heard a faint click at the bedroom extension; Angela had rung off, he went to join her, and found her very much more sober, hardly smiling at all.

“Hallo,” he said. “Problems?”

“No,” answered Angela. “Not exactly problems, but Mrs. Smith made it clear that she is really worried. I’m going to see her right away, Rolly—she’s waiting supper for me. Apparently that’s how she interviews all her prospective angels.” A flash of humour brightened Angela’s eyes. “An angel who is about to fall salutes you!”

“I’ll be around to pick you up,” promised Rollison.

Five minutes later, wearing a knitted cloak drawn tight around the neck, Angela was about to leave. As Rollison saw her to the door, he remembered how upset Naomi Smith had been that morning at that very spot. He held the door ajar.

“You’re quite sure you want to go ahead?” he asked. “Absolutely positive, no shadow of doubt about it,” answered Angela.

“You could run into a lot of troubles you don’t expect,” he reminded her. “Promise me one thing.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Tell me everything you find out, at least once a day, and if you’ve the slightest cause for alarm, let me know at once.”

“I will,” Angela assured him, earnestly. “It’s a chance in a million, and I’ll make the most of it.”

He saw her down to the street door, and watched as she drove off in a shabby and battered Morris 1000, scarred from ten years of heavy usage. Yet the engine purred. She waved, tooted and was gone. He returned to the flat, in a curious state of uneasiness. Ought he to have encouraged Angela to go? Should he have made more inquiries first? What was the simple truth about his own view of the matter? That he was in fact inclined to think that this was not a criminal but an emotional affair?

He closed his front door, walked into the big room, and telephoned Keith Webberson, who had a flat in St. John’s Wood. Webberson was a widower, a wealthy man whose life was dedicated to the spreading of knowledge and understanding throughout the world. He did this through his work, and he had devised methods of teaching English to illiterate people which were practised in much of the Commonwealth. And he did it also through voluntary organisations, serving on a dozen committees, including several attached to UNO.

The ringing sound went on and on. It was hardly surprising, Webberson was often out, but for a reason which he could not wholly understand, Rollison grew even more uneasy. He contemplated calling one of the other members of Naomi’s group, but decided against it.

He tried to push the uneasiness away but it remained through supper, an indifferent Western and a bad documentary programme; even until Jolly came in, a little after eleven o’clock. He told Jolly what Angela had decided, was not wholly sure that Jolly approved. At twelve, he started to get ready for bed, and at twenty-minutes past the telephone rang. He lifted the receiver by his bedside.

“Rollison.”

“I’ve seen her, and I think she’s absolutely remark-able,” said Angela. “If it were only to help her, I’d go to Angel Hall.” She said that quite naturally, not as a joke. “I’m moving in tomorrow. Aren’t you pleased with your third-from-favourite niece?”

“I’m very proud of her,” replied Rollison.

“What a nice thing to say, even though its been wrung out of you. Bless you, Rolly!”

She rang off; and Rollison realised that she was now wholly committed. Slowly he finished getting ready for bed, but he did not get to sleep easily; he was more worried than he had been for a long time.

*     *     *

Angela telephoned about half-past six next evening; the Friday of that week.

“All’s quite quiet, Rolly. I’m settling in.”

Keith Webberson did not answer the telephone that evening, either.

Angela telephoned on Saturday.

“It’s a wonderful place, Rolly—perfect for what goes on here—but there is something wrong. I’ll try to put my finger on it as soon as I can.”

“What kind of wrong?” he wanted to know.

“As soon as I know, I’ll tell you,” said Angela.

Keith Webberson did not answer his telephone all that day.

He must be away, mused Rollison. “And there’s no reason on earth why he shouldn’t be.”

But was that really true, in mid-term? he wondered.

Angela telephoned on Sunday and on Monday and Tuesday.

“I think I’m being accepted,” she said on Tuesday. “There’s one girl I particularly like—an Elspeth Jones, and I think she’s bursting to talk to someone. I may have something more to report tomorrow.”

“How are you really finding things?” asked Rollison, before she could ring off. “You’ve said very little, so far.”

“There isn’t very much to say,” said Angela, obviously prepared. “Nearly all of the others are suspicious of one another and of Naomi Smith. They seem to have a love–hate relationship. I can tell you one thing, Roily.”

“What’s that?”

“They may all be fallen angels but they all want to pick themselves up. At dinner time tonight they talked more freely than I’ve known them, it’s almost as if they’re beginning to forget that I’m new.”

“That’s good,” said Rollison. “Angela—”

“I really ought to go,” Angela interrupted. “If anything happens worth reporting, I’ll tell you afterwards. Bye for now!”

Rollison rang off, thinking almost ruefully that she had virtually dismissed him. Did that mean that someone had been—or might be—listening in? Or had she simply been afraid that someone would interrupt?

Angela telephoned again on Wednesday, and for the first time sounded almost excited.

“They are absolutely accepting me,” she cried. “Two of them confided in me last night about their own problems, and wanted to hear about mine. It seems to be far more difficult to invent a purple patch than a white one. I finally planked for a kind of grey. I can tell you another thing, Rolly.”

“What’s that?” asked Raison patiently.

“They’re puzzled because they haven’t seen Professor Webberson for a week—he usually takes one afternoon and one evening class at Smith Hall.”

“Isn’t he away?” asked Rollison.

“He didn’t say he was going away,” Angela informed him.

Raison rang off, and immediately put in a call to Webberson; as usual there was no answer. On the spur of the moment, he went downstairs and walked to his garage, in a mews nearby, took out his latest car, a grey Allard, and drove to St. John’s Wood. Webberson lived in a top floor flat of a block which towered above its neighbours; from south windows it was possible to see almost all of the ground at Lords.

Raison got out of the lift opposite Number 901— Webberson’s flat. Outide the front door was a printed note : “No tradesmen until I’m back, please,” and it was followed by the initials “K.W.” It was an odd way for an intelligent man to advertise the fact that the fiat was empty, and Rollison studied the note, and then the front door—and on that instant decided to break in.

There was no convincing reason why he should suspect anything was wrong, but the suspicion was very strong in him. He drew on a pair of thin cotton gloves, not wanting to leave prints, then took out a knife with blades of highly flexible steel, and began to work on the lock.

CHAPTER 5

Crime Of Violence

As he pushed the blade between the lock and the door frame, waiting for the moment when the tension on both sides became the same and the lock would click back, Rollison felt a dozen questions tearing through his mind. Was this crazy? Was there really any reason to think anything was wrong? If a neighbour came out of one of the other three doors in sight, how could he explain what he was doing?

None of the questions made him hesitate.

As he worked, manipulating the blade with infinite patience, he listened intently. The silence was broken by a loud clang as the trelliswork inner gate of the lift closed. Almost at once there was a whirring sound, of the lift ascending. The odds against it coming to this floor were eight to one, but there was no way of being sure.

The lock clicked, and Webberson’s door sprang open an inch.

The lift seemed to be coming very fast.

Rollison stepped inside the door and closed it, holding it tight with his left hand, for it would not close properly until the lock was repaired. Was this Webberson, by some strange freak of chance?

The lift stopped on the floor below.

Half jeering at himself but intensely relieved, Rollison put on a light, for the hall had no windows. A chair stood by a table against the wall and he placed the chair at the door; no one passing would now notice that it was open. There were four doors—one right, one left, two facing the front door. The parquet flooring was dull and looked dusty, as empty places will. A persian rug covered half the floor.

He opened the door on the left: it was the bathroom.

A towel lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, shaving gear was on a glass-topped table, and a safety razor and a shaving brush stood as if they had just been used. He looked at the brush, noticing the dried-up lather, matting the badger bristles—so it had not been washed after the shave. He opened the door opposite, into a kitchen, where a window overlooked an inner courtyard.

It was very modern and at first glance, clean. But there were cups and saucers and knives and forks, piled unwashed into the sink. A jar of ground coffee beans stood with the lid off, and a carton of cream, the lid partly on, was near it. Rollison poked at the lid, gingerly, using his finger nail. It was solid, with a minute line of mould growing at the edges where it had dried and drawn away from the side of the carton.

Rollison’s breath was coming tensely.

He went to the right hand door facing the hall, which was ajar. He opened it wider with his elbow, and peered into a bedroom. This had the big windows overlooking lawns and parking places; a pair of trousers, carelessly folded, lay at the foot of the bed, a clean shirt was draped over a chair, clean socks were poked into shoes placed near. It was as if Webberson had put everything out so as to nip into the bedroom from the bathroom, and change. Some silver change and a wallet, keys, cigarettes and book-matches lay on a dressing-table which stood slantwise, catching the light.

Rollison’s heart began to thump, as he turned into the hall and the other room, the door of which was closed.

Webberson, lying in a crumpled heap by the telephone, was almost an anti-climax—not only after what Rollison had seen, but from the effluvium of decomposing flesh which met him as he opened the door.

Rollison stood in the bedroom for some time, re-covering. He was accustomed to the sight of death, and normally unaffected, but this was the death of an old friend—and death by violence, for the back of Webber-son’s head had been smashed in.

Now, he had to decide what to do.

He saw the photograph of an attractive girl on a bookcase, signed : With love, Winifred. There was also a picture of an elderly couple, Keith’s long-dead parents. There was nothing else of interest.

As he searched, he pondered deeply. He could call the police from here and wait for them—and admit that he had broken in; or he could leave, and call anonymously, and show a lively interest when the story broke in the papers. There wasn’t much doubt of the better course, although he had to overcome strong prejudices. This was too much of a coincidence : it must be connected with the trouble at Smith Hall. If he were associated with it from the beginning, he would have staked a claim in the investigation. No one else need know, yet, what was happening at the Hall.

He decided to knock at a neighbour’s, for the pos-sibility of picking up a vital clue would offset the obvious disadvantage. As he stepped out of the flat he had a vivid mental picture of Angela’s eager face.

What had he thrust her into?

Was she in danger even at this moment?