The Toff and the Runaway Bride

by John Creasey

  Then she saw the note, on the dressing-table; sight of it seemed to paralyse her. A note, on their first morning. Why couldn’t she make herself go forward and pick it up, wrench it open, see what he had to say? What could he say, to explain such a thing as this?

  She went forward, and her fingers were unsteady as she opened the envelope – an old envelope, addressed to him at his club, with that crossed out and her name written in pencil, just: Barbara.

  She unfolded the letter inside.

  It was on the back of one written to him, and all it said was in two sentences: “I’ll be back just as soon as I can clear myself. I can’t involve you any more deeply. All love, Guy.”

  She read it and read it and read it again. The word all took on a great significance. “All” love; as she felt for him. But why hadn’t he trusted her? Why hadn’t he realised after last night that all she wanted to do was to share everything with him: anxieties, dangers, the good and the bad. Hadn’t they sworn to do so yesterday, before the bishop, before the altar, in front of those hundreds of people, with her father standing by her side, a rather stern little ball of a father whom she loved so much.

  Why hadn’t Guy trusted her?

  She turned the letter over, and on the other side was a note scrawled in a handwriting she didn’t recognise, but she knew it was from Ralph Carruthers; that was the only Ralph she had heard Guy mention, and the letter was signed just with that Christian name.

  “I’ll be away most of the next three months, the cottage and the flat are yours, old boy. If I’m coming home unexpectedly I’ll give you some warning.

  Yours aye, Ralph.”

  Ralph Carruthers, Barbara repeated to herself drably, as if the name really meant something. The letter was dated three weeks earlier, so Guy had carried it about with him all that time. Probably he had kept it in his wallet, and transferred it from suit to suit.

  Where was he?

  She went to the window, but no ladder was there; it looked as if Guy had climbed down it, then put it in its usual place.

  She looked at her watch, the only thing she had worn which she hadn’t bundled up and left at Winchester Station. It was five to eight. She was surprised that she had woken so early, although at least she understood why she had felt so heavy-eyed. Now she felt as if she would never be able to close her eyes again. She went into the bathroom, hesitated and decided not to bath. She washed hurriedly, dressed in a few minutes and looked at herself in the mirror of the large oak wardrobe.

  “No wonder he ran away,” she said. “I look like a schoolgirl in pants.”

  She had not put on her bra, so as to look like a boy more convincingly. Well, she could, and proved it when she put the cap on, pulling it well down over her ears so that no one could see that her hair was not cut short.

  She drank two glasses of cold water.

  The obvious thing to do was to get in touch with Rollison, but a deep fear was driving her all the time: that the police would suspect that she was involved, and that once she was recognised, they would arrest her; or at least take her to the police-station for questioning. There were a lot of questions she did not want to answer. She wished that she could go and hide herself for days, for weeks, for months if necessary, until it was all over, and she could begin life with Guy.

  She stepped to the door.

  It wasn’t locked; of course, Guy could not have locked it from the outside, even if he’d gone out by the door; he had been forced to let her get out without calling for someone to let her out, for the hotel people thought Rollison was in this room.

  Now all that Barbara could think of was Rollison.

  She heard nothing, opened the door, stepped swiftly into the passage and closed the door again. As it closed, a maid turned the corner, making hardly a sound, carrying only some towels.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  Barbara grunted, deep as she could, “’Morning.”

  The maid seemed to notice nothing amiss. Barbara went towards the stairs, feeling as if every door was hiding a policeman who would open it and pounce on her. She reached a landing, and a man and woman, young, clear-eyed, obviously happy, were coming along another passage, hand-in-hand; as she should be with Guy. She let them go down first; at least they were not interested in her. But two big men stood in the hall, one talking to a receptionist, another reading a newspaper. Undoubtedly they looked like detectives. She held her breath as she reached the foot of the stairs. If either of them spoke to her, she would panic and give herself away; she just wouldn’t have a chance.

  The first man stared at her over the top of his newspaper. The other glanced round, as if uninterested.

  She made herself walk slowly. The swing doors seemed a mile away, and the bright sunlight outside seemed to mock her. Every step took an age and her feet were like lead, but she did not stop, and reached the door without being called.

  She pushed the door, and one of the sections banged against her heel as she squeezed through. Once on the pavement, she felt as if she must turn and run, she was so sure that one of the men would follow her; but neither did.

  She knew where the station was, from here, and turned towards it. Half-way along the street, she saw a policeman walking across the road towards her. She had the feeling that she must run again, but conquered panic, and the policeman passed, looking at her keenly; and looking at her more as a man might look at a pretty girl.

  Well, he hadn’t stopped her.

  She quickened her pace, no longer feeling that she was being watched. She was able to breathe more easily. She had plenty of money, thirty pounds or more in her purse, which was in a pocket of the tartan coat. It was very hot, and she wished she could take the coat off, but she dared not chance that.

  She reached the station, and bought a second-class ticket to Waterloo; there was a train just after nine o’clock. She should be in London by half-past ten and would go straight to Rollison’s flat.

  What else could she do?

  She bought a newspaper at a station bookstall. The news of the cottage murder was on the front page, but there was no mention of Guy and none of her. A Miss Helen Goodman had been murdered, according to the report, so the police had not released the news that Helen Goodman could also call herself Mrs. Lessing – or Smith.

  Barbara looked at the stop press, and that was when her heart seemed to stop, for it read: “Police anxious to interview Major Guy Lessing and Mrs. Lessing formerly Barbara Lorne in connection with New Forest cottage murder.”

  Now the whole world knew.

  She walked to the end of the platform, without looking round. She must get to London and see Rollison, he was the only man who could advise her what best to do.

  She took no notice of the man who entered the station a few minutes after her. He glanced towards her, then bought a newspaper and strolled half-way between the bookstall and the end of the platform. He did not seem to be watching her, but suddenly she realised who it was. This was the man who had looked at her over the newspaper at the hotel.

  It was, in fact, Detective Inspector Reno of the Winchester C.I.D. An hour earlier, when the Winchester police had guessed what had happened after consultation with the Yard, Reno had said: “The girl’s masquerading as a boy, it’s definitely her. I suspected it last night. She’ll lead us to Lessing all right, we’d be wiser to follow her, not question her right away.”

  Now he read his second newspaper of the morning, but did not miss a single move his quarry made.

  Half an hour later, he was sitting in the dining-car, watching her. She had her back towards him, and seemed to be making a good breakfast. Reno wondered if that meant anything; if she were really worried, wouldn’t she have been put off her food? Poor kid, thought Reno.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Frightened Parent

  “What we have to find out for certain
is whether the police know that we were at Heddle Mews last night,” Rollison said, as he sat at his desk a little after ten o’clock that morning, with Jolly sitting on an upright chair, looking pale, and with a plaster over his right ear, which was padded to look like any prize-fighter’s. “The odds are that they know what time we got home, the car would be recognised.”

  “The most they can do is guess, sir.” “They might decide that it’s safe to act on guesswork,” Rollison argued. His back was to the trophy wall, and the hempen hangman’s rope seemed very close to the nape of his neck. He could not turn his right wrist with any comfort, but his left hand was much better, and he could clasp and unclasp the fingers. He looked little the worse for the battering, and had recovered much more quickly than Jolly, who looked positively old. “Jolly,” went on Rollison, “wouldn’t you think that Mr. Lorne would read the newspapers?”

  “I’ve been wondering why he hasn’t called,” said Jolly.

  All the six newspapers on Rollison’s desk were late morning editions, and each carried the story of the mews murder as well as the murder in the New Forest. There was no mention or hint of Holy Joe. The fact that Helen Goodman had been secretly married to a Major Lessing had driven nearly every other story off the front pages. One headline read:

  Major with Three Wives

  This was followed by a sub-heading almost as large:

  Two murdered

  The other headlines were as bad. There were photographs, of Helen Goodman, the woman at the mews whose name was given as Rose Lessing, and Barbara; and Barbara was younger and more beautiful than the others. There was Lessing’s photograph, and almost alongside it a story under the heading:

  Modern Bluebeards …

  In fact, everything was on the front pages, so the attempt at blackmail was stillborn; there had been no point in advising Lorne to send those hundred pounds out to the ten addresses.

  Rollison got up and went to the window, standing to one side so that he could see into the street without being seen from it. No one appeared to be watching Number 22, but the police might have decided to play very cautiously. The Rolls-Bentley was still there. He came back from the window, and stood by the telephone; then he dialled Robert Lorne’s number.

  A man-servant answered.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “Mr. Lorne left the house early this morning, and did not say where he was going.”

  “How early is early?”

  “A little after seven o’clock, sir. May I give him a message when he returns?”

  “Tell him that Richard Rollison called. Have you heard anything from Miss Barbara this morning?”

  “From Mrs. Lessing, sir? No, naturally not.” There was reproof in that, and the man-servant said much more than the words. ‘There is nothing at all wrong,” he seemed to say, “and everything will be fully explained when everything is known.” Exactly what Jolly would have implied in similar circumstances. Rollison put the receiver down: “First and last we want Guy Lessing,” he said, and seemed to be talking to himself, “and—”

  Jolly stood up.

  “If you will forgive me, sir, I take a different point of view.”

  “What one?”

  “We need Mrs. Lessing or Miss Lorne first.”

  Rollison said, “I suppose I’ve been boggling at this since I woke up, but give it me in words of three letters.”

  “A man who has killed two women might kill a third, sir.”

  “Not at all bad,” said Rollison heavily. “No one could ask for simpler English. That puts the new bride in jeopardy.”

  “Don’t you agree, sir?”

  “I’ve known Major Lessing for thirty-three years.”

  “He was badly wounded.”

  “Yes. Did you know that he was almost entirely alone in the world, Jolly? That he lost his parents twenty-five years ago, that his only sister died twenty years ago and there are only distant relations.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So he hasn’t many friends.”

  “If I may say so, sir, he was not very good at making friends.”

  “No. But he needs some. We are his friends.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “The first thing we do is start the wires of Fleet Street working,” Rollison said. “Call all of our contacts, and just state clearly the fact of this old wound, and add that Dr. Willard knows all about it. Get that done quickly. The evening newspapers should carry it, and tomorrow morning’s will probably be running articles on the tragedy of wounds which catch up with their victims many years after they were inflicted. You could even suggest some articles like that.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Then we need to find his only other friend,” Rollison went on, “Major Ralph Carruthers, who is probably in Paris.

  Isn’t it a little odd, Jolly, that Mrs. Lessing the Second lived most of her time in Paris?”

  “A coincidence, sir.”

  “An understatement. And Holy Joe knew that and knew the woman. I wish I knew where to lay my hands on him.” He paused, and went on very thoughtfully, “I think that Major Carruthers is more likely to know where we might find Major Lessing than anyone else. Do we know Major Carruthers’ Paris address?”

  “I think we have a note of it, when he invited you to visit him if you were over there with any time to spare.”

  “I’ll check,” said Rollison. “You can get a seat on a Paris plane about the middle of the afternoon, the first available after four o’clock, say. Book it under the name of Smith.”

  “If the authorities are aware that you were in Heddle Mews last night, sir, they may not allow you to leave the country.”

  “Let’s cross that stream when we get to it,” said Rollison. He still seemed to be talking more to himself than to Jolly. “I wonder if they followed up the Holy Joe tip. One thing’s certain, anyhow, they’ll be watching Lorne’s house, his club and his office. They’ll be watching Major Lessing’s club, too, and all the places he was known to frequent, and they’ll cover every place where Lorne’s daughter is likely to be. It would only be a waste of time if we also covered any of those places, so Major Carruthers seems to be our only angle, except Holy Joe, and I think we’ll leave him to the police.” Rollison took the first marriage certificate out of his pocket and studied it. “There is a chance that the Registrar will remember the marriage, but the police are probably on to that, too. Jolly.”

  “Sir?”

  “Major Carruthers seems positively our only hope.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Make sure of the seat on that plane,” urged Rollison, and then looked up sharply, for he heard footsteps outside. “I’ll go, Jolly.”

  Jolly got up and approached the desk as Rollison went across the room, into the lounge hall and to the front door. The police might be there; Lorne; or Barbara. He looked into the mirror and saw Lorne.

  When Rollison opened the door, Barbara’s father gave the impression that he had not slept at all. His face was a little blotchy, but his hair was smoothed down and he was as immaculate as ever in a fine-textured pale grey suit, which made him look impossibly well dressed.

  “Good morning,” he said curtly, as he stepped in.

  “Hallo,” said Rollison, “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you.”

  “So I would expect.” They went into the big room, and Lorne looked as if longingly at the trophy wall, and all the lethal weapons there. “I ought to have broken the swine’s neck,” he growled. “I take it that you have caught up with the night’s news?”

  “Yes.”

  “To think that my Barbara should get involved with a scoundrel who makes a habit of marriage.” Lorne looked almost despairing. “Rollison, do you know where Barbara is?”

  “No.”

  “You are hardly provin
g a brilliant detective.”

  “Bob,” said Rollison mildly, “I expect you to be in a pretty miserable mood, but don’t be awkward for its own sake. You could still be wrong about Lessing.”

  “Are you going off your head?”

  “Not yet,” said Rollison. “There’s one possibility which you’d see yourself if you would only keep your eyes open, and try to see.”

  “I didn’t come here to be insulted.”

  “Either you’re not the man I think you are, or you didn’t sleep last night,” said Rollison placatingly. He wondered what Lorne would say if he knew that Barbara and Lessing had been together last night; and especially if he knew that he, Rollison had made the reunion possible. The bright eyes with a glitter in them suggested that Lorne had been driven to distraction; goaded by such news as that, he would want to strike out and hurt.

  Lorne said, “Oh, I’m sorry, but I hate the world this morning. What is this possibility that you’re talking about?”

  “That not Guy Lessing but someone masquerading as Guy Lessing married these other women.”

  Lorne opened his mouth, drew in a hissing breath and then said almost hysterically:

  “Now I know you’re a lunatic. Who in this wide world would do that? Who would even want to? What advantage would it be? For God’s sake get this loyalty to Lessing out of your system. He’s a rogue, he’s a man who uses all his so-called aristocratic background to prey upon women, and if he were to walk into this room this moment I would thrash him with my own hands.”

  “You’re behaving like a father out of a Victorian melodrama,” Rollison protested still mildly. “I know Guy Lessing, I can believe that he would think it quite normal and even proper to have a mistress tucked away in several different places, but—”

  “Oh, stop bleating!” Lorne said roughly. “I’ve been checking, and I’ve found out about this head wound. I’ve no doubt that there will now be an attempt to whitewash him, saying that he’s a hero suffering from the results of fighting for his country. But I know better. He’s as sane as you or I—if you’re sane—and he’ll use this old wound to pretend that he didn’t know what he was doing. I’ve just come from the surgeon who performed the operation on him, so I know the kind of argument that’s likely to be used. I also know that he had been approached by Lessing’s doctor, Willard, who is also a friend of yours. Deny that?”