John Creasey - The Toff and the Fallen Angels

“Three days ago.”

“And you’ve each had a call in those three days?”

“More or less. There’s a telephone in each room, and we sleep three or four in a room. Whoever answered the telephone got the same message.”

“What has Mrs. Smith had to say?”

“She doesn’t know about the calls,” said Anne.

“You haven’t told the superintendent!” exclaimed Rolli-son, in astonishment mingled with disbelief.

“Can’t you see she has enough on her mind already?” demanded Anne. “We agreed we wouldn’t tell her. She’s warned us not to go out alone or come back alone. And she’s called in the police. What more can she do? Of course we haven’t told her,” she finished, in exasperation.

“If you had done so, do you think she would have gone out alone tonight?” asked Rollison, quietly.

“No one thought she was in danger,” Anne answered.

“How could you be sure she hadn’t had a threat by telephone?” demanded Rollison, and when Anne didn’t answer but looked appalled, he went on : “Anne, who is doing this? Do you know?”

“My God, if only I did!” she cried. “All I know is that we were happier than we’d been for ages. All of us. Can you imagine what it’s like to be branded? Oh, we were fools, or else we deliberately defied convention, but we are branded. Even today you can stand at the window and see old women pointing and tut-tutting as they pass, and old men leering at us, and young men—” She was almost crying as she went on and the words were sharp and clear and yet every now and again her voice broke. “Do you realise why we’re here? We’ve got good minds, some of us are brilliant at our own subjects but we’ve offended the great god, convention . . . and we haven’t even had the sense to look after ourselves. Our critics think we’re immoral and our one-time friends think we’re fools—God! And there isn’t one of us who can turn to friends or relatives. IV you know what I was doing when I came here? I was a counter assistant at Woolworth’s haberdashery department—and I was a child prodigy, they tell me there isn’t anyone at my age to touch me in higher mathematics. ‘That’s one-and-eleven, please, penny change. Nail files? On the perfumery counter, madam . . . . That’s seven-and-sixpence exactly, sir . . . .’ ”

“Stop it,” interrupted Rollison, sharply.

“I won’t stop it ! I can’t stop it ! I tell you I was nearly out of my mind when I heard from Naomi Smith. It didn’t seem possible! A chance to study under Professor Offenberger and nothing to pay except time. There’s even a creche here! We aren’t under any pressure to have our babies adopted if we don’t want to—God ! It was like heaven! And then—and then the trouble began. First we had indecent telephone calls and beastly letters, then gradually the tone changed and we were told to go away from here. The very place we’ve come to love—oh, it’s dreadful, it’s dreadful!”

Rollison said briskly : “Yes, Anne, it is. And it won’t get any better if you keep a single thing back.”

He looked at his watch. It was half-past twelve and there was no word from Jolly and no interruption from the police. Jolly would have telephoned had he seen Angela, of course—so she hadn’t gone to the Corner House. He had never really believed she had.

“I’m not keeping anything back,” Anne said, sullenly. “Did you speak to Angela in person?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure it was her voice?”

“Of course I’m sure, you don’t think I could make a mistake about her, surely? She sounded excited, and very sure of herself. Has she been waiting all—”

“No,” Rollison said. “I sent someone there as soon as I heard about the call. Anne, how well did you know Winifred de Vaux?”

It was a long time before Anne answered. She began to sway. Rollison took her arm and led her towards a chair, then poured out brandy. She lifted the glass, then lowered it again as she glanced up at him.

“Not—not really well,” she said. “She wasn’t easy to know. She—she was the only one here who really was obsessed with men, I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone so over-sexed—so obviously over-sexed—and proud of it. Some would say she flaunted it, but she didn’t, she was just proud. She thought it was glorious to be a woman. She—she’s dead, isn’t she?”

“It seems a possibility,” said Rollison. “But what makes you think so?”

“The man who telephoned tonight said she was,” answered Anne Miller, her voice dead, stripped of emotion. “And soon, soon, all the sluts and whores who lived here would be dead too.”

She tried to sip her brandy but her hand began to shake, and soon her slender body, until, inevitably, the tears began to fall.

And as she cried the door opened, and Naomi Smith came in.

CHAPTER 9

The Hammer

NAOMI seemed to draw back when she heard the girl crying, then moved quickly towards her. She glanced at Rollison, and he expected to see scorn or reproach; instead she gave him a flashing smile, of thanks or congratulation. She put an arm round the girl and led her towards a chair. Rollison had not realised how tiny Anne was. He felt for the girl; he could understand her bitterness and her fear, but he feared for Angela with a kind of desperate self-blame.

As he stepped into the hall, Grice appeared from the front door, and they stopped, a few yards separating them.

“So you know nothing about this affair,” Grice said, accusingly. “When are you going to stop trying to fool us?”

“The real question is the old question—when are you going to start believing the truth?” asked Rollison.

“Why did you come here?”

“You know why. And if I hadn’t come, Naomi Smith . . .” he told Grice all there was to tell, and before he was through, knew that Grice had not seriously believed he had arrived with foreknowledge. “Have you heard from Jolly?” he asked.

He hardly knew what answer to hope for.

“Yes,” said Grice.

“So—Angela wasn’t at the Corner House,” Rollison said heavily.

“He gave her fifteen minutes, then called the Yard,” said Grice. “We had four men there within five minutes and a thorough search was made, but she wasn’t in the place. Jolly went back to Gresham Terrace.”

“Have you put Angela on the missing list?” asked Rollison.

“Her description is with every division and every Home Counties force,” Grice replied. “Her picture will be sent round tomorrow.” He paused, and then asked in a wary way: “Do you want it to go to television and newspapers?”

“Of course. Why not?” asked Rollison.

“You must be very tired to ask that,” remarked Grice.

“Why should I—oh. The Press will know that she was a resident here, and do I want her picture to appear before the public gaze.” Rollison felt almost angry. “Bill, can you seriously think I care a damn about gossip?”

“Your family might,” Grice said.

“Damn my family,” growled Rollison.

“Including Lady Gloria?”

“She is the one person who won’t care a hoot.”

“Although if one of the family was in the—ah—was in trouble, surely the Marigold Club would be the first place for her to go,” said Grice. “This could look as if Lady Gloria will extend the hand of charity to strangers but not to her own family.” Grice spoke with unusual feeling, and Rollison realised that he was trying to be helpful, trying to make sure that Rollison, so deeply involved, was seeing this situation objectively.

“Bill,” he said, “arrange for the photograph in the newspapers and on television, will you. And—thanks.”

“Right,” said Grice. “I’ve a man waiting,” He strode to the front door and spoke clearly to a man whom Rollison could not see. “But all three pictures out to the Press and television, Soames.”

“Very good, sir.”

Grice turned back again, his manner easier, more matter-of-fact. He took a large wallet from his pocket, opened it, and took out a photograph which he handed to Rollison. Even though he first saw it upside down, Rollison recognised it at once : this was a photograph of a sledge hammer.

He turned it round.

“That was quick.”

“We can be quick,” observed Grice drily. “It’s probably the one with which Webberson was killed, too. There’s a chip out at one corner, and it appears to coincide with an impression on Webberson’s skull.” After a lengthy pause, Grice went on : “Did you get any kind of mind picture of the man who was waiting here?”

“No,” answered Rollison slowly. “Not of his face.” He considered, and then went on more briskly: “Mind you, it was a very broad face. The features were squashed down by the stocking, but if I saw him again as he was then, I would probably recognise him.” He paused, then went on : “He had little or no neck. I’ve never seen a man with broader shoulders and when he turned round on me I saw how deep-chested he was. A barrel-chested, bullnecked man at the peak of physical fitness, I would say.”

Grice was smiling.

Not a bad mental picture,” he approved. “I’ll get that sent round at once—why didn’t you get him? Distracted by Mrs. Smith’s danger, were you?”

Rollison shook his head, very slowly.

“No,” he answered. “He was too quick and too powerful, and I didn’t give myself enough time.” He allowed a few moments for that to sink in, and then added : “This man could crush one of the girls with his fist. Any sign of him?”

“None at all,” answered Grice.

“Footprints?”

“We’ve rigged up some floodlights but we’re not getting much co-operation,” said Grice. “We’ll have to wait until morning before we’ve much chance of finding out which way this man went. At least he will have mud on his shoes, he was standing where a garden hose had been leaking most of the day.”

“I wondered what made the grass so wet. What’s this about no co-operation?”

Grice, almost saturnine when he smiled in this dim light, said off-handedly:

“Sir Douglas Slatter does not approve of (a) the police and (b) the residents of Smith Hall. If he’d had his way our chaps would be driven off his grounds. As it is he won’t allow us to use the mains electricity from his house for the floodlighting—we had to send for more cable and run it off the supply here. Some of these old men are so prejudiced it’s hard to believe.”

“Well, well, well,” said Rollison.

“What strikes you as so remarkable about that?” asked Grice.

“Sir Douglas doesn’t approve of the place,” remarked Rollison, almost to himself. “And he’s not simply non-cooperative, he’s actually obstructive. We’re looking for a motive for the threats and the attacks, Bill. How is this for a motive : psychopathic disapproval of ..”

Grice stopped him, abruptly.

“That’s the wildest jump to a conclusion I’ve ever come across,” he rebuked. “He’s an old man, he’s bad-tempered, he’s not well and he was awakened out of a deep sleep. He’ll be a different man in the morning.”

“Bill,” urged Rollison, “have a look at the doorsteps leading into the back or side entrances of the house next door. If there are any footmarks, don’t leave them to be brushed off in the morning.”

Grice contemplated him thoughtfully.

“That won’t do any harm, anyway. I’ll fix it.”

“Thanks,” said Rollison. “Do you want me here for anything else?”

“No,” said Grice. “Just one piece of advice, though, before you go.”

“I’m in the right mood to take advice,” said Rollison heavily.

“You’ve very strong personal reasons to stick your neck out,” said Grice. “I’ve seen you before when you’ve a guilt-complex working like a computer in your mind. Don’t stick your neck out too far, even for Angela. Think three times before you do anything off your own bat—and use us as much as you can. You may not believe it, but I’m as anxious to find Angela as you are.”

For the second time, Rollison warmed to the police-man.

“I believe you,” he said. “And you’ll watch this house closely, won’t you?”

“A mouse won’t be able to get in or out without being seen,” Grice boasted.

Rollison nodded, turned to the study door, which was closed, and tapped. There was a muted call of ‘come in’. He found Naomi sitting behind the desk and Anne Miller lying back in a small armchair in front of her. She appeared to be all legs and long, loose hair, and had the face of tragedy.

“You needn’t have any fear of being attacked,” he said. “The police will make sure of that.”

“Yes, I suppose they will,” said Naomi, as Anne Miller looked up at Rollison from those sombre dark eyes. “And there will be no way of keeping this out of the newspapers, will there?”

“Absolutely no way at all,” said Rollison.

Momentarily, Naomi Smith closed her eyes. Then she seemed to make a physical effort to pull herself together, braced her shoulders and spoke more crisply.

“Then we shall have to try to turn it to advantage. I’ve asked those of our sponsors who are free to be here at twelve noon in the morning, Mr. Rollison. I will be most grateful if you will join us.”

“I’ll be glad to,” Rollison accepted. “One question. How do you get on with your next door neighbour?”

“We don’t get on,” answered Naomi Smith.

“That old lecher!” exclaimed Anne Miller with sudden venom. “He used to think that all he had to do was open his window and beckon, and when he learned that we’re in the baby business strictly for love, he started a virtueand-hate campaign. Laughable, really. But—hateful.”

*     *     *

Rollison pulled up outside his house in Gresham Terrace, and decided to leave his car there. He did not feel like taking it to the garage and walking the five minutes back. A light was on in his living-room, and he saw the curtain move and a brighter light appear for a moment : Jolly had heard the car.

It was a little after two o’clock.

Jolly, dressed as if it were mid-day but looking very grey and tired, was at the flat door.

“This won’t do,” said Rollison, with forced jocularity. “We can’t have you losing your beauty sleep.” Then he saw Jolly’s expression, a warning in itself, and realised that someone was in the flat. Inwardly, he groaned, for the last thing he wanted was another argument . . .

Unless this were news of Angela.

“Good evening, sir,” said Jolly. “A Miss Gwendoline Fell called about an hour ago, and insisted on waiting.” There was a world of resentment in that insisted. “I told her that there was no assurance that you would see her.”

“And I said you’d better,” declared Gwendoline Fell, from the inner door.

Rollison went in and looked across at her levelly. Her golden-brown hair was tumbled, her big blue eyes were tired, but she looked ready enough for battle. She also reminded him, rather strangely, of Angela.