The Toff and the Runaway Bride

by John Creasey

  She looked into his face while she was still bending over his shoes. Lessing may have heard, but Rollison was not sure.

  Barbara looked so very young and lovely, and her eyes were quite radiant in her love. She formed one word but did not utter it: “Please.”

  “What’s this muttering?” demanded Lessing.

  “Guy,” said Rollison, standing up, “you’re a lucky man. I’m supposed to be in this room, and no one will be surprised if I’m still asleep at nine or ten o’clock. Don’t leave unless you’re forced to. I’ll call you as early as I can.”

  After a long pause, Guy Lessing said hoarsely, “Well, you couldn’t tell us that you’re on our side more plainly than that. Thanks. But are you well enough to leave?”

  “I wouldn’t like to trust myself on that ladder, you’d better shift it, if you get a chance. I’m well enough to get out downstairs without the porter or the police seeing me—if the police have taken the trouble to leave a man around, which I doubt—and drive to London,” Rollison said. “I’ve a duplicate key of my car.” He shrugged himself into his coat, gingerly, and grinned. “Believe it or not, I’ve been to a wedding.”

  He blew a kiss to Barbara, and unbolted then unlocked the door, listened for a moment and stepped outside.

  He closed the door with hardly a sound.

  And he hoped upon hope that he had done the right thing.

  There were two ways out from the foot of the stairs, and Rollison saw the porter near the front door, with a newspaper in front of his face – so close that it looked as if he was dozing. Rollison did not put that to the test, but turned in the other direction, a side door to the reception desk and keys. He had a spare car key, so crept out the back way, found the door which Lessing had left unlocked and stepped out. Soon he was in the yard, where the Rolls-Bentley was parked with a dozen other cars; and parked so that he could drive straight out. There was no sign of anyone about. He was able to open the parking-yard door from the inside, and five minutes after he had left Guy Lessing and his bride, was heading for the open road. His head was tender but not aching badly, and although his left wrist had little strength, the car’s power steering made effort unnecessary. No police were watching the back of the hotel, and a policeman who was in the High Street, flashing a light on the door of a shop, took no notice of him beyond a casual stare.

  “The one man who’ll hate me for this is Lorne,” Rollison said to himself; his smile was not wholly free from anxiety.

  Was Lessing a sick man?

  Could schizophrenia be ruled out?

  Was Barbara safe with him?

  Rollison felt as sure as a man could be that there was not the slightest danger for Barbara; as sure as he could be without absolute proof that Lessing had told the truth about tonight; and the arguments that the marriage with Helen Goodman had been impossible, seemed convincing.

  So – who had married the woman?

  Her killer?

  Who would wed the girl under another man’s name?

  Rollison drove along the deserted roads, meeting hardly a car on the way. It was half-past two when he turned into Gresham Terrace, parked the car under a lamp where he need not leave the lights on, and went up to his flat. He let himself in. He felt very tired, now, and for the past hour had felt as if something was hitting him behind the eyes. He did not look into Jolly’s room, but went straight to his own, and switched on the light. It hurt his eyes even more. He contemplated himself in the mirror; tail coat, fancy waistcoat, crumpled trousers, shoes dirty with the soil of the forest and the dust of the gravel. At least he hadn’t to unfasten his tie. He began to ease his coat from his shoulders when he heard a sound at the door.

  “Is that you, Jolly?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Jolly, coming in. He looked tired and pale in his blue dressing-gown and lighter blue pyjamas, but became wide awake when he surveyed the Toff. “Allow me, sir,” he said, and began to help Rollison to undress. “Have you seen a doctor about that head wound?”

  “Yes,” answered Rollison, “and I ought to see one about my general state of mental health.”

  “A good night’s rest will work miracles, sir.

  “Not with an addle-pated jackass like me,” said Rollison. “Where am I most likely to get inside information about Major Lessing?”

  Jolly considered as he drew Rollison’s arms out of his shirt sleeves; considered as he pulled off the striped trousers; considered while he fetched a pair of laundry-fresh pyjamas of apple green.

  “Presumably from Major Lessing himself, sir.”

  “Or his flat. The one he shares with Major Carruthers.”

  “Quite,” said Jolly. “In the morning—”

  “Jolly,” said Rollison urgently, “in the morning Major Lessing may be under arrest. In the morning, his wife or his not-wife will be in the greatest possible distress. We must act promptly.” He struck an attitude.

  “But Mr. Rollison, you are in no condition—”

  “If I’d had any sense at all I would have lifted his keys,” complained Rollison. “Give me a coat shirt so that I don’t have to draw it over my head.”

  “Sir, I beg you to rest.”

  “You seem to forget that people who have been injured in the head might become schizophrenic, and go round marrying all over the place,” said Rollison. He was unnaturally alert, and now that his mind was needle sharp, too many thoughts crowded it. “How would you like it if I produced a couple of wives to take over the kitchen? That cellular shirt will do, and the thing I brought from America and you always call the blouse—thanks,” added Rollison, allowing himself to be helped into the fresh clothes, and silent on his victory. “A pair of light shoes, tennis shoes, say. Do you want to be in on this excursion, or are you going back to bed?”

  “I positively refuse to allow you to go meandering about Mayfair on your own in your condition.” Jolly had never been more vehement.

  “You make it sound as if I’m going to have twins,” grinned Rollison. “I can’t understand why I feel so bright, it must have been the milk down Hampshire way. Get the skeleton keys, Jolly. There’s one thing, we’re not likely to be accused of burgling the flat, even if we are caught.”

  “I am coming almost to believe anything,” Jolly retorted, and there was bitterness in his voice, but he made no further protest. “Will you allow me time to dress, sir?”

  “Put on a pair of old trousers and a polo sweater, and relax,” urged Rollison. “By the way, did you ask Grice about Holy Joe?”

  “Mr. Grice wasn’t in, sir, and I thought it wiser not to ask a subordinate.”

  “You’re probably right,” Rollison agreed. “We’ll try to find Holy Joe after this visit. Get busy, man!”

  Ten minutes later, they went downstairs. No one was about, and London seemed to be a city of the dead. Jolly climbed into the Rolls-Bentley and took the wheel as Rollison went to the other side. Jolly drove off, expertly, first towards Piccadilly, then towards Park Lane and eventually towards that rabbit warren of streets and squares, of roads and mews, which make up the heart of Mayfair. The car purred through the silence, the pale street-lamps cast grey and rakish shadows and ten minutes after they had left the house, Jolly stopped at the entrance to one of the smaller mews.

  “Thanks,” said Rollison. “Major Carruthers is out of the country, isn’t he?”

  “So I understand, sir.”

  “With luck I’ll have found anything there is to find in half an hour,” said Rollison. “Will you wait here?”

  “If I come with you, we may be finished much more quickly,” said Jolly. “I am really perturbed about your head wounds, sir.”

  “All right, park the old wreck and follow me,” said Rollison. He climbed down carefully, still unable to take liberties, but feeling better than he had hoped and much better than Jolly feared. The cobbl
es of the mews were uneven and made walking difficult, but did not slow him down. He reached the four short steps leading to the flat where the number 3 showed clearly, for there was a lighted gas-lamp at the end of the mews. Rollison studied the lock, and was not surprised to find that it was old-fashioned, and should surrender easily to the skeleton key. He slid it in dexterously, heedless of making a sound, and before Jolly was half-way across the mews, had the lock back and the door open. He stepped into a small, dark hall. He did not know this flat well, but had been here several times, and remembered the lay-out: there were two bedrooms, a large drawing-room and a dining alcove and enough of everything else for hygiene and comfort. He stepped towards the drawing-room, where he knew he would find a writing-desk, and Jolly came in at the front door.

  Then a light went on in one of the bedrooms, visible at the side and the foot of the door.

  Chapter Eleven

  3, Heddle Mews

  “So Major Carruthers isn’t away,” Rollison said in a whisper. “You nip out, Jolly, I’ll handle him.” He had a finger on a light switch, but didn’t press it down. Jolly skipped, remarkably nimble, to the front door, and pulled it to; but he did not close it. There was a scuffling sound inside the room where the light had gone on, and then the door was opened swiftly.

  A woman stood there.

  She was alone but not unprotected, for in her right hand was a small automatic. Her hand was steady. Rollison could not see her face properly, because the light was behind her, but what he could see was attractive. So, by the same guesswork, was her figure.

  “Don’t move!” she ordered.

  “I swear I won’t,” said Rollison humbly.

  The light shone on to his eyes and was painful; he felt them smarting and beginning to water. The woman raised the gun, and for a frightening moment he thought that she was going to use it.

  She said, “Aren’t you Rollison?”

  That was cause for relief.

  “Yes,” he answered simply.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to get something that Major Lessing left behind.”

  “Why couldn’t he come himself?”

  “It was a little difficult,” answered Rollison, still not quite sure of this woman’s mood: she looked as if she would be quite prepared to shoot if she thought it necessary. She was of medium height, wore a dressing-gown clutched tightly round the waist with her free hand, and it bulged so much at the front that he now had no doubt that she had quite a remarkable figure.

  Maid?

  Mistress?

  “Why was it so difficult?”

  “A man on his honeymoon—” began Rollison, and almost at once wished he hadn’t, for that gun moved, and for a second time he was afraid that she was going to use it. She pointed it at his chest as she said: “Don’t try to be funny.”

  “It’s the last thing I intended,” Rollison answered her, and then decided that it was time he asserted himself. So he smiled and moved forward a little, winning the satisfaction of seeing her move away. Perhaps she wasn’t as dangerous as he had thought. “Would you mind answering a question?”

  “Try me.”

  “Why are you here?” asked Rollison simply. “In Major Lessing’s flat?”

  He prayed that she would explain by correcting him and naming Carruthers.

  She stared at him.

  “Why shouldn’t I be?” she demanded. “I’m his wife, I’d like to know who has a better right.”

  Maid? Mistress? Wife?

  Very little had made sense since Barbara had arrived in such a state of agitation at Rollison’s flat, and this made less sense than anything that had gone before. Rollison gaped into the woman’s face. She glowered at him, as if she saw nothing nonsensical in the situation. She had achieved a remarkable thing, for she had made him speechless; but obviously she did not intend that he should be speechless for long.

  “What is all this nonsense about a honeymoon?” she demanded.

  “Don’t you ever read the newspapers?” Rollison asked, and tried not to sound banal.

  “What difference does that make?”

  “I hoped it would make a lot.” The story of the wedding and pictures of both bride and groom were bound to be in the evening papers. “Isn’t there one here?”

  “No,” she said, looking startled. “There is only a Paris morning newspaper. I flew over this afternoon. Do you mean—?”

  “He means that you have been betrayed woman!” a man boomed, and Rollison, taken completely off his guard, recognised the deep, damnation voice of Holy Joe. A door opened at Rollison’s side, and the bearded man appeared, eyes glowing, lips parted, right hand raised as if for silence. “He means that you have been the victim of base, wicked man, that—”

  “Joe! Be quiet!” the woman ordered.

  “I will not be silenced by the whim of a woman,” the bearded man declared, on a lower key. “Lessing has lived a double life. Keeping you in Paris, he has seduced a child—” He broke off.

  “This woman lives in Paris,” Rollison thought, almost desperately, “and Guy goes over to Paris every other week or so.”

  “Joe, what are you talking about?” demanded the woman who called herself Lessing’s wife. “I don’t believe—”

  “Whether you believe it or not, it is the truth,” growled Joe.

  “Mr. Rollison, is he serious?” the woman demanded.

  Rollison stood watching her, and watching Holy Joe. He felt the wind from the front door, which swung open a little wider; Jolly would be listening intently to all this, and would even risk being seen. Outside was London, sleeping; all the ordinary people, normal, friendly, unaware of the fantastic situation in their midst.

  “It’s true,” Rollison answered.

  “And the wrath of the Lord is being felt upon us,” declaimed Holy Joe, his eyes glistening. “Already death has been the reward of one sinful woman—”

  “That’s enough, Joe,” Rollison said. “Who paid you to go shouting outside the church this morning? And what are you doing here?”

  “This poor betrayed vessel has befriended me,” boomed Holy Joe. “I came to break the news of her husband’s crime gently, but you have compelled me to be harsh. Rose, be brave, my dear.”

  Rollison had a feeling that he was wholly phoney, and that now he was deliberately causing a distraction. Why? The woman still held the automatic, but it pointed towards the floor. She seemed bewildered, and that wasn’t surprising. If she identified Guy Lessing as her husband, then the case was over.

  Could she identify Guy? He thought that she looked scared; and who could blame her? She glanced towards the door, as if she thought that someone might come in to help her out of this bewilderment, and then looked back at Rollison, ignoring Holy Joe. She had clear brown eyes, not quite honey-coloured, and they showed very bright, as if because of her fear; and certainly because there was a slight trace of eye-shade on the lids and at the lashes.

  “I don’t believe it,” she said at last, and then dropped on to the side of the bed; it was turned down and the sheet was rumpled, but it hardly looked slept in. Over a chair hung some stockings, on the chair were bra, panties, a girdle, a pot of cold cream. She put the gun down, as if it no longer mattered.

  “Keep away from that gun, Joe,” Rollison warned, and then raised his voice.

  “Jolly!” He wanted Jolly to take both gun and Joe, leaving him to talk with the woman.

  Jolly didn’t answer.

  “Jolly!” called Rollison more sharply.

  The only sound outside might have been a stifled cry.

  “What’s that?” the woman cried.

  Then Holy Joe turned and raced out of the bedroom towards the front door, and he slammed the bedroom door in Rollison’s face.

  Rollison swung r
ound, opened it and reached the passage. He saw the front door close; it slammed. He heard Holy Joe running across the cobbles as he ran to the front door, and snatched it open.

  He fell headlong, for Jolly lay huddled at the top of the steps, while Holy Joe and another man ran away. Rollison could see them both, as they neared a corner.

  Chapter Twelve

  Getaway

  There was Jolly lying there, hurt, perhaps badly hurt; and there were the fleeing men. Holy Joe disappeared first; the other, near the corner of the mews, was running fast, his shadow foreshortened because he was almost beneath the lamp; a short, dark man who ran with hardly a sound.

  A man had crept up upon him, Rollison, at Rufus Cottage, and struck him down before he had suspected danger.

  Should he give chase?

  He dropped on to one knee beside Jolly, and there was fear in him, for he saw the blood, dark and shiny, on the top step. He saw the gash in the side of Jolly’s head, and then realised that the ear had been cut and most of the bleeding came from there. He felt for his man’s pulse, and it was beating almost as steadily as it should be.

  He stood up and ran down the steps.

  He knew that he hadn’t any hope of catching the assailant, for he simply could not run without his head lifting off his shoulders. He slowed down. It was infuriating, but there was nothing he could do about it, except try to reach the street to see if the men escaped in a car; if he could get the number of a car there might be a hope of tracing them.

  He heard a car engine start off, reached the end of the mews and stepped into the street beyond, one which led to a graceful square now almost in darkness. A red light glowed, but the car was too far away for him to see the number, and it moved away.

  He saw no sign of Holy Joe, who was almost certainly in the car. Undoubtedly, he had held Rollison’s attention while Jolly had been attacked; and probably the other man had come to make sure that Holy Joe could get away.