Model for the Toff

by John Creasey

  “Ebbutt’s boys would swear that you were in Australia if you asked them to, they’re that devoted to you at the moment,” Grice said. “But it might not last.”

  “Don’t be too hopeful. Any news of Rose Mary Bell?”

  “Nothing I haven’t told you about.”

  “I think I’d like to go and look at her flat,” Rollison said, hopefully.

  “If you force entry I’ll put you inside, no matter what alibi you have.”

  “I never enter a lady’s apartment without being invited,” Rollison said solemnly. “Bill.”

  “Yes?”

  “What’s the name of that sergeant who didn’t see me near Hill Court?”

  “Maidment.”

  “Good chap?”

  “Coming on to the plain-clothes branch in a few weeks time, he’s one of the better ones. Look out for him.”

  “I will. Nice fellow.”

  “If you ever get him to think kindly about you, I’ll believe in miracles again,” Grice said. He glanced towards the corner as an ambulance appeared, almost certainly carrying the man whom Zana had choked. Two policemen came round the corner, including Maidment. “Rolly,” Grice went on, “if I didn’t know before, I know how ugly this is now. You may be surprised to hear me say it, but you’re not a bad-looking chap yourself.”

  Rollison said blankly: “Handsome is as handsome does, Bill. Thanks.”

  Grice went off, paused to speak to the two policemen, and then went round the corner again. The policemen strolled towards the salon, and Maidment glanced at Rollison but didn’t nod or smile. Obviously these two were going to watch the salon, which wasn’t likely to be left unguarded until this affair was over.

  It wasn’t likely that Maude would be allowed to go anywhere by herself, either.

  Rollison hadn’t seen Russell come out, and wondered if there was a back way, and whether Zana knew the artist well enough to be right about him recovering from the outburst of temper. Had that just been the Irish in Russell? Or was it possible that he was among those people who were anxious that no models should work for Zana?

  Rollison went to his car, which was now parked on the other side of the square, scarlet and dazzling in the afternoon sun; the black and blue and grey cars beside it showed up drab and uninteresting. He hadn’t locked the door when he had left it, and he opened it quickly and was about to get in when he noticed that the bonnet wasn’t properly closed. He stared at that, no longer absently.

  When it wasn’t fully closed, it rattled; and it hadn’t rattled on the way here. So, someone had released it, from inside the car.

  Why?

  He studied the green upholstery, looked along the dashboard, saw nothing unusual, and then put his keys away and cautiously opened the door.

  Nothing happened.

  “Odd,” he said, very softly. “Very odd.”

  He studied the floor and the pedals; they all seemed normal enough. He looked at the handle which controlled the bonnet, and saw several smeary marks on it; they might be his own fingerprints, but he doubted whether his fingers would leave such marks. He pulled it, still very gently, and nothing happened—except that a young lad stopped on the pavement in front of the car, staring as if he could not believe his eyes.

  Rollison winked at him, and went forward to lift the bonnet. He was even more cautious than before. The bonnet went up without trouble; it did not need fastening, but would hang in mid-air until he slammed it down. The lad drew nearer. Rollison studied the beautifully finished engine and the whole works, familiar with every item except one. Carburettor, engine casing, self-starter wire, the electric wiring, the fan and fan belt, the various component parts were almost as familiar to him as his own hand, but he had never before seen the small metal container, rather like a fat aluminium cigarette, which was tied to the self-starter arm.

  “Well, well,” he said, and repeated: “Well!”

  The lad was almost breathing down his neck.

  “Stand back a bit, will you?” said Rollison, and turned to look into the eager young eyes.

  “Sir, you are Mr. Rollison, aren’t you? I mean, you are the Toff. I’m sure I’ve—”

  “That’s what I’ve been called,” agreed Rollison, and smiled broadly and rested a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Do something for me?”

  “Rath-er!”

  “Thanks. Go round the square until you reach Zana’s salon. If you don’t know it, there’s a brass plate on the door. Walking about outside you’ll see two policemen, one of them a sergeant wearing a peaked cap, not a helmet. He’s Sergeant Maidment. Ask him if he can come and see me for a moment, will you?”

  “Right away, sir,” the lad said eagerly, and could hardly get the words out. “Are you—are you on a job, sir?”

  “A little one.”

  “And I’ve helped,” the lad breathed, and turned and scurried off, as if he couldn’t perform his errand quickly enough. Rollison turned away from him, and studied the little metal cylinder, having no doubt that it contained nitro-glycerine or some other high explosive that would go off the moment the engine started, perhaps as the self-starter was pushed. Everything in the book was used, every known trick; and if the man who had done this had closed the bonnet properly it would have been successful.

  It wouldn’t be now.

  Rollison felt great tension building up inside him. There were a dozen things he wanted to do at once, including a visit to Rose Mary’s flat, but he wasn’t sure that he ought to go there first. Ebbutt’s men would have been out with their inquiries for some time, there might be some reports. It had become desperately urgent to see the case through quickly, because the pressure against Zana was being stepped up.

  Rollison had to face that.

  He hadn’t time to worry about why it was happening, except that the “why” would surely help him find Smith. Smith had become an ogre; a killer above all killers, determined at all costs to put Hugo Zana out of business.

  Could that be the only reason?

  Rollison set his mind to work against time, going over everything that had happened and everything that he had been told. The bonnet was still up. To passers-by it must look as if there was engine trouble, and he had sent for a mechanic. He glanced along the street and saw the boy coming, taking very long strides to keep up with Sergeant Maidment, who was no more than fifty yards or so away.

  Then Rollison saw the man on the motor cycle.

  The motor cyclist had entered the square a minute before, and had already been round it twice; now he was heading this way again, and was very close to the bonnets of the parked cars; it was almost as if he was looking for one of them.

  He carried a hammer in his right hand.

  Why should a motor cyclist—

  In a surge of horror, Rollison realised why, realised that this was one of Mr. Smith’s men, that as he passed the car with the bonnet wide open, he would fling the hammer in. The thud and the vibration would set off that deadly little tube, blowing the car, the Toff and everything nearby to little pieces.

  The motor cyclist, engine roaring, tossed the hammer.

  Chapter Twelve

  Catch

  The hammer was high in the air.

  Rollison could fling himself to the ground and with a chance of surviving, the worst of the blast and the wrecked engine would hurtle over him. He could try to close the bonnet, but there was no time to be gentle, and vibration might cause the explosion. If the hammer fell and the car blew up, then Maidment, the boy, and a dozen passers-by would suffer, some would die and some be maimed and some disfigured for life.

  There was no time to think, yet these thoughts flashed through Rollison’s mind.

  He acted, swift as the thoughts themselves.

  He stretched upwards, clutching desperately for the head of the hammer; if he could catch it and fling it away he might yet save them all.

  If he missed …

  He leaned over the yawning engine, arm stretched upwards. Within a foot of h
im was the dangling cylinder, swaying gently as the car shook; remember, if he jolted it the cylinder would bump against metal and everything would blow up.

  Rollison heard the sharp beat of the motor-cycle engine and thought that he heard running footsteps, but all he could see was the hammer, dark against the light-green foliage of the plane trees. The hammer was falling plumb into the engine. If he grabbed and missed, or if he caught and dropped it, that would be the end.

  The head of the hammer was dull and grey; he could see where it had been used to strike cold chisels. He knew that its awkward balance made it hard to catch; but the cold steel struck the inside of his fingers, and he caught it and held on. But as he caught it he bumped against the car. His own terror was so great that he felt sure that he had wasted all this effort. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the metal swaying, and if nitro-glycerine was inside, that was the last thing he was likely to see in this world.

  He heard it touch, gently.

  He flung the hammer into the road.

  Nothing else happened in the awful split second which followed. The cylinder did not blow up. It was swaying very gently, but no longer touching any metal part.

  Then, abruptly, the other things about him became vivid again.

  “What’s happening, Mr. Rollison?” That was Sergeant Maidment, urgently. “What is it?”

  “What’s happening there?” a man called out.

  “Sergeant,” Rollison said, and gulped, and saw that everyone was looking at him curiously. He did not know that he had lost all his colour and was deathly white; or that his forehead was beaded with shiny sweat. “Try and catch—that motor cyclist.”

  “What—”

  “Hurry,” Rollison made himself say.

  Other men had come, and a car drew up, with two uniformed policemen in front. Maidment called out to them, and they moved off, hurrying, while Rollison took out his handkerchief and dabbed his forehead, and leaned against the car. His legs seemed likely to double up beneath him. The crowd was much thicker now, and the boy was in front, with Maidment and a second policeman close to Rollison.

  “I must ask you—” Maidment began.

  “Yes,” said Rollison. “Sorry. Move the crowd back, will you? There could be trouble.”

  Maidment hesitated, then called out to a uniformed sergeant, who began to move the crowd away; half a dozen policemen helped him in their phlegmatic way.

  “Don’t carry a whisky flask, do you?” Rollison asked. “Pity.” He took out cigarettes and lit one, and shivered. “Sorry. You have now seen everything—a man in fear of death.” He said that so quietly that only Maidment could hear, and went on in the same low-pitched voice: “Some joker tied what I think was a tube of nitroglycerine on to the starting arm of the car. It should have gone off when I pressed the self-starter, but I spotted something wrong, so was careful, and—”

  Maidment was peering into the bowels of the Bristol.

  “See it?” asked Rollison.

  “Yes,” Maidment said, and moistened his lips. “Yes, I see it.” His voice was as low-pitched and dry as Rollison’s now. “If that had gone up, you—” he broke off, and turned to look at Rollison, with a very different expression in his eyes from any there had been before. Unbelieving? “Sure it’s nitro, sir?”

  “No.”

  “Doesn’t make much difference, you thought it was,” said Maidment. “I don’t think it ought to be touched, except by someone who knows more about the stuff than I do. I saw that motor cyclist throw something at you, d’you think he meant to start the concussion?”

  “It looked like it.”

  “Lot of people about here who ought to thank their lucky stars that you kept your head.” said Maidment, and stared at the cylinder as if wondering whether the vibration caused by passing traffic would set it off. “I’ll send orders for a message to Mr. Grice, sir.” He talked to the other constable, while the distant crowd grew restless. “No need for you to stay, sir, if you’d care to go and sit down somewhere, that’s all right. We’ll need the car for a bit, for fingerprints and that kind of thing.”

  “Yes,” said Rollison. “Thanks.” He felt much better and straightened up. “I’ll stay until you’ve others here to help make sure no one gets too curious, or tries to rock the boat. If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. That’s the motto of Mr. Smith.”

  Maidment was quiet. Uniformed men came hurrying towards them, and two were at the back of the restless crowd. The familiar: “Keep away and move on, please, move along,” came clearly.

  Those at the back obeyed immediately.

  The lad stared at Rollison, adoringly.

  Maidment cleared his throat.

  “What kind of devil are we up against, sir?”

  “The worst kind.”

  “I’m just beginning to realise what could have happened if you—” began Maidment, and went a bright, bright red. “First the incident at the tea-shop, and now this—”

  “My busy day,” said Rollison. “It’s a good thing I can’t be in two places at once. Now your chaps are here in strength, I’ll move on, I think. I’ll be at my flat for the next couple of hours, anyhow.”

  “I’ll tell Mr. Grice, sir.”

  “Good,” said Rollison. “Thanks.”

  He moved towards the thinning crowd and saw the boy, and recognised his expression as hero worship, although the lad did not know exactly what had happened. He put a hand on the narrow shoulder, and they made their way towards a corner. Rollison felt completely relaxed and still a little weak at the knees; he would not want to hurry for a while. He lit another cigarette, sensing the way the lad was staring at him, but finding it difficult to speak. Suddenly he said: “Do you work near here?”

  “Yes, sir, just across the square.”

  “Busy?”

  “Well, it’s my tea break, really. I’d just come out for a spot of air. Crumbs, I’ll be late if I don’t hurry. I’ll catch it! You—you wouldn’t mind telling me what happened back at the car, sir, would you?”

  “I will, later; I mustn’t now. Give me your address, will you? And also your name.”

  “I’m Michael Abbott, sir, and—well, I’ve an envelope with my address on it. Will that do?” He drew out several dog-eared letters, obviously precious possessions, and carefully extracted a letter from one. “Will that do, sir?”

  “Just right, thanks,” said Rollison. “Don’t be surprised if it’s a few days before you hear from me. I’ve a job on at the moment. And, yes, Michael, you helped very much.”

  “I’ll gladly help any time you like,” Michael breathed. He hesitated, then made himself move away. “I must hurry, or the boss will give it me good and hard. Goodbye, sir.”

  He held out his hand.

  Rollison gripped it …

  Rollison reached the corner, aware that several people were following him, and feeling much better since the talk with the lad. He glanced along a street leading into the square, and there were two taxis coming along, but each was full. A third came up, empty.

  “Ah,” said Rollison. “Fine. Thanks. Twenty-two Gresham Terrace, please.”

  He sat back, wryly amused because he had to go round the square, where the police were trying to keep hundreds of people at a safe distance. Then Rollison was sent by one-way streets to Gresham Terrace in thrice the time it would have taken him to walk. He paid his half-crown plus gladly, and stood outside Number 22, looking up at the window, wondering if Jolly had seen him.

  He did everything with great deliberation and extreme care.

  First, he unlocked the street door and pushed it open slowly, then looked behind it to make sure that nothing was hanging there, inspected the stairs as he went up to make sure there wasn’t another trip string, this time with a high explosive attached.

  All seemed well.

  The front door of his own flat opened as he reached the landing, and he stopped abruptly, half afraid of more trouble. But this was Jolly, elderly, sedate and upright, stan
ding aside and waiting for him to enter, and showing obvious solicitude. Jolly would not need telling that the past hour or so had been strenuous in the extreme.

  Rollison went in.

  “Are we alone, Jolly?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank the Lord for small mercies. Have you ever heard of tea laced with brandy?”

  “The kettle’s on, sir, and it won’t take a moment to brew the tea,” said Jolly. He led the way into the big room, guided Rollison towards a large armchair and hovered, as if to make sure that Rollison sat down before he went to the desk. Any other time the ruse would have failed. Now, Rollison was in the mood for a little fussing.

  “I won’t be two minutes, sir,” Jolly promised.

  As he went out, Rollison stood up unhurriedly, and went to the desk. There were seven messages, all received by telephone, and all written down in Jolly’s meticulous hand-writing. Each was from one of Ebbutt’s men, with reports about the people they had already visited. There were the lists which Zana had sent, too. Two of the reports were of especial interest, for each said practically the same as Grice had said: about a girl meeting with an accident, another being attacked with vitriol; this girl had gone to Canada.

  One said that a girl had been scared by dogs; that was new.

  “So it all seems to add up,” Rollison said, and went back to the chair, leaning back and closing his eyes the moment Jolly arrived, so that it looked as if he had been resting all the time. There was a chink of cups, and he could picture the broken crockery at the bottom of the stairs at Anne’s tea salon. When he closed his eyes he could see a lot of things.

  He heard Jolly go to the cocktail cabinet to get the brandy, heard the gurgle of tea being poured out, the sharp sound of a cork coming out of a bottle. Jolly did everything very quietly, even to saying: “Your tea, sir.”

  “Yes,” said Rollison, and sat up, pretending to yawn. “If you know of a better treatment than forty winks, tell me about it.”

  “Eighty winks, sir.”

  Rollison started, and stared.

  “You, too,” he sighed. “Someone has been getting at you. Thanks.” The bouquet of the brandy was a tonic in itself. He sipped, then drank, and Jolly came back to pour out a second cup. The telephone was blessedly quiet, everything was blessedly quiet, and after the second cup and a cigarette, Rollison felt as if he could catch another hammer.