Model for the Toff

by John Creasey

  He could almost hear Ebbutt asking himself how he was going to break this news to the injured man’s mother. That was the real horror of this affair: the people it was hurting apparently for no good reason.

  Who would be hurt next?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Rough Sketches

  Well,” said Charles Russell, “what do you think of them?”

  Maude studied the “rough sketches”.

  To many people they would have looked like finished drawings. They were all in black and white, drawn with great economy of line, and each was unmistakably her. The clothes, as unmistakably, were new creations. The more she studied the sketches the more difficult it was to say why it was so obvious, but these were clothes which had been made only for one person: for her. A line at the shoulder, the breasts, the waist, the hip, and each had that little “difference” which, when built into the actual clothes, would make them superb. Russell had drawn all these from Zana’s pencil sketches.

  “No comment?” he asked, a little dryly.

  Maude said: “If I told you how good I think they are, you’d say I’d kissed the Blarney stone.”

  His eyes kindled with pleasure.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Queer thing, how everything starts to go right when everything seems to have gone wrong. I’d have said that I was in the foulest possible mood today, and couldn’t draw a decent curve. Zana felt the same—” he hesitated and then grinned. “Well, he says he did! But I doubt it. He’s capable of forgetting the rest of the world – atom and hydrogen bombs not excluded – when it comes to creating clothes for a lovely woman. You are lovely, you know.”

  “The important thing is whether I’m going to be any good as a model.”

  Russell grinned.

  “I deserved that! The answer’s yes. Apart from all the recent troubles, we’ve been very short of an English country-woman, Sketch, Tatler and Country Life kind of model. We don’t seem to breed ’em here today. I suppose when the lady of the manor has to scrub her own floors it does something unkind to the figure. It’s been one of the big weaknesses of Hugo’s collection, and he’s been trying to strengthen it for a long time. You do it.”

  “Charles,” she said, “don’t talk for the sake of talking.”

  “It’s as true as I stand here,” Russell assured her. “Hugo thinks you’re good. You really can wear clothes. He’s already told me to arrange for a private showing to the Press next week, for a spring collection, and that means he intends to be busy and never mind what gets in his way. He hasn’t any other model for spring clothes, either.”

  “It sounds wonderful.”

  “Come and have a drink with me and we’ll celebrate,” Russell said. “I shouldn’t think Hugo will want us again tonight; he’ll probably be having birth pangs. I’ll make sure, anyhow.”

  “I’ll wait,” Maude said.

  Russell nodded and went out of the studio. This was at the top of the building, all of which was occupied by Hugo Zana, and it had a fine north light. This light was still good enough to see by, although it was nearly half-past eight. Alone in the room, Maude studied the drawings more closely. There were six in all; two of suits, two of topcoats, one a coat and skirt, one in a three-piece. There was a touch of genius in the drawings. She knew that when Zana had come to see whether the drawings did justice to his pencil sketches, he had looked from one to the other, nodded almost curtly, and then gone out without a word. She had feared that he hated the sight of them, but Russell ought to know.

  Maude felt very tired and relaxed.

  The odd thing was that until he had reminded her of the dangers, she had almost forgotten what had happened at Anne’s tea-shop, forgotten that the man whom Zana had nearly killed had sprayed all of them with disfiguring acid. Now, she felt shivery because of it. Perhaps it was because she was tired, too, for she had been standing in the studio for nearly three hours, with short rests in between, while Russell had sketched and Zana had come in to look over his shoulder, and then to stalk out again, shepherded by little Mitzi.

  Maude lit a cigarette, and as she drew in the smoke, Zana came in. He walked swiftly; in another man his walk might have been a strut. He looked ugly and yet homely as he stood and eyed her, giving a quirk of a smile. She wondered why he had come and what he wanted to say, and whether Russell had been right about his views.

  “You are very tired,” he said abruptly. “Charles will take you for a pick-me-up. Is nine o’clock in the morning too early?”

  “Of course not.”

  “It is too early for many models,” Zana said, spreading his hands in disgust. “There was a girl who walked out because I expected her to be here two mornings in succession at nine-fifteen! I believe she is now selling hats in Oxford Street.” His smile had a puckish charm, but gradually it faded as he came nearer. “Are you afraid?” he demanded.

  “Not very,” Maude answered. “Especially now that the police are watching me.”

  “That’s right,” said Zana, “the police are watching and Rollison is working, and perhaps it will soon be over. We shall see.” He heard Russell approach, and his smile came back as he turned to greet the artist. “Two drinks for her at the most, Charles, and then home to bed. Tomorrow you will be here at eight-thirty, please. I will indicate the colouring variations and the three-piece must be finished by mid-day. Mitzi will have the girls ready. I shall select the material by morning light. Now, off with you!”

  He shooed them towards the door.

  Outside there were two policemen in plain clothes, and nearby was Jolly, although they didn’t see him. Selling newspapers at the corner was a little man, almost a midget, who kept calling out “piper”. He strolled in their wake, one of the plain-clothes men strolled after them, and Russell said: “It’s like having a bodyguard. Let’s drop into the Orange Club; it’s near your place, and you can get straight home afterwards.”

  “It sounds just right.”

  “Here we are, then,” said Russell a few minutes later, and they stopped at a house in one of the narrow streets linking the graceful squares of Mayfair. Over the front door was a kind of inn sign, with an orange tree on it, and in tiny lettering the words The Orange Club. The door was open, and Russell stood aside for Maude to go in, and then followed.

  The door closed behind them.

  A second plain-clothes man, who had followed at a distance, drew level with the first and said: “I’ll go round the back, Jim; you stay here.”

  “Okay. Don’t drink too much.”

  “I’m not going to have a snifter until this job’s over,” the first man said, and hurried towards the corner and a narrow alley which led to the back of the houses in this street, and the back of the Orange Club. This was a little concrete yard, with a few dozen crates of bottles and two small barrels outside, and a faint smell of spirits and of beer. It was pleasantly warm, and the Yard man settled himself on one of the barrels and lit a cigarette.

  Zana did not leave the salon until nearly eleven o’clock. Then he went with Mitzi to his small service flat only ten minutes walk away, talking to the little woman all the time. Jolly saw them go in at the front door, and also saw that one of Grice’s men had followed. Grice was taking no more chances than Rollison, that was one good thing.

  Grice, in fact, was just going home.

  It was nearly eleven o’clock then, too, and he hadn’t been home since seven-fifteen that morning. It had been one of his heaviest days, and he left a desk piled high with paper work which he promised himself he would do first thing tomorrow.

  He felt jaded and disappointed.

  The man Harrison, caught at Hill Court, had stuck to his story that Rollison had shot Beryl Ward, and nothing would change it. Harrison refused to say anything about himself. His flat was a small one at Knightsbridge, and the police had found nothing there that would help. As a prisoner, Harrison was a dead loss; Grice had a feeling that it wouldn’t be possible to make him talk any more.

  The second man, who
m Zana had nearly killed, was still in hospital. His name was Holden, and he pretended that he couldn’t remember anything. Two doctors asserted that it was possible that the shock of Zana’s attack had in fact given Holden a temporary mental black-out. Grice felt sure that the man was trading on this, and would go on doing so. He gave the same impression as Harrison: that he would be hard to break down.

  Holden lived in lodgings in Chelsea. His landlady had professed to be greatly shocked when she knew that the police were inquiring into his recent movements, and about his friends. He had few friends, the landlady said.

  Beryl Ward’s flat yielded nothing, either. She had lived there only for a little while, and paid her rent monthly in advance and in cash. No one knew very much about her, but she had two or three men friends … not unusual at Hill Court. One man was identified as Harrison, another as Holden, but so far the police had found nothing beyond that.

  Grice had heard from Chiswick about the Alsatian’s attack on Rollison. The body of the Alsatian was already at Scotland Yard, but its leather collar had no markings on it, and only smeared fingerprints. It was of good quality, and first thing in the morning the police would start looking for every owner of an Alsatian who had bought one like it in the past few months. Experts said that it hadn’t been worn for more than six weeks, so three months was a fair margin. It was the nearest thing to a “clue” which Grice had.

  No one had taken the number of the Ford car in which the man had escaped. Two witnesses had come forward to say that the dog had come from that car, but without the number that didn’t help.

  Grice had put into operation a check on all owners of Alsatians in the London and Home Counties area. He had also had an intensive search put in hand for the missing owner of Heath View, where the dogs had attacked Higgs. Neighbours knew very little about the man named Benjamin Allen; he kept very much to himself. But there were some clues. Allen was a smallish man, by all accounts, and ran a grey Jaguar car as well as two small ones, including a black Ford Consul.

  Fingerprints found in the big house proved that Harrison, Holden and Beryl Ward had been there within the past day or two, and there were a number of other fingerprints not yet identified. No one had heard anything of the attack on Higgs, but the local children who passed the gate of Heath View hurried by whenever it was open, for the dogs – three in all – were known to be fierce.

  And two were still at large.

  No one in the neighbourhood seemed to have any idea that Rose Mary Bell had been at Heath View.

  Grice believed that the chief hope of getting quick results lay in the unconscious model coming round, and being ready and willing to talk. She was at Lady Gloria’s residential club, a policewoman was in her room all the time, and two policemen were on duty in the hall. Grice had also learned that the domestic staff of the club had been increased by two odd-job men, friends of Ebbutt, since the early evening.

  Grice left the Yard and drove straight to Gresham Terrace. A Yard man was walking up and down, and Grice knew that another would be watching the fire escape at the back of Number 22. He didn’t see Ebbutt’s men here; they were probably in the flat. He hurried up the stairs, and Ebbutt answered his ring quickly.

  “Why, wotto, Mr. Grice,” he greeted smoothly. “Come to consult the expert?” He even kept a straight face. “Come in; I don’t suppose ’e’ll charge yer. Mr. Ar!” The foghorn of a voice echoed about the lounge hall and the room beyond. “Gentleman by the name o’ Superintendent Grice has come for a conserltation. Okay to let ’im in?”

  Rollison appeared in the doorway.

  “Two Bills together,” he said, and grinned at Grice. “Hallo, Bill. Bill E., go and help yourself to a bottle of beer – you know where Jolly keeps it – and make sure you don’t get earache.”

  Ebbutt looked puzzled.

  “My ears is all right,” he asseverated.

  “The keyholes here are streamlined, and the air whistling—”

  Ebbutt roared with laughter.

  “Cor lumme,” he said when he’d recovered, “he don’t inprove much, do ’e, Gricey? Here’s ’ealth!” He went off to the kitchen, and Grice chuckled as he disappeared.

  Rollison took the Yard man into his study. Grice, who seldom drank, had a whisky which he murdered with soda; under its influence he told Rollison everything that had happened and everything that had been discovered.

  “And I’ve had the A.C.’s permission, too,” he said. “Rolly, I want the flat truth. Have you any idea at all what’s behind it?”

  “Except in general terms, not the faintest,” said Rollison, “but I haven’t been on the job long.”

  Grice eyed him sceptically.

  “That’s why I’m here. I’d like to know exactly when you did start, and how long you’ve known it’s been as deadly as this.”

  “I started at noon today.”

  “Oh, don’t keep that up,” said Grice. “If you started at noon today, why should this lunatic try to kill you twice? Once at your car with that nitro, once with the dog? I suppose it’s three times, if it comes to that: they had a cut at the tea-shop. You’re not going to convince me or anyone else that directly he heard ‘Toff’, the killer decided that he daren’t let you live for another minute. This Smith has come right out into the open since you were actively involved, and done himself a lot more harm than he’d done before in weeks—months, if it comes to that.”

  “Yes,” agreed Rollison, “he has. I wish I knew why. Any fresh news on Beryl Ward?”

  “No, only what I’ve told you. Are you telling me the simple truth?”

  “Gospel.”

  “Then I understand it even less,” said Grice, and was undoubtedly still sceptical. “The best chance we have is getting a line on these Alsatians, finding out where the collar was bought and where the garden syringe was bought, too.” He stood up. “But if you want us to play ball with you—”

  “Bill, I said gospel,” reproached Rollison, and picked up the bottle of Scotch. “Spot more to undilute that? All right, I—”

  The telephone bell rang; he put the bottle down and picked up the receiver in one and the same movement, said “Hallo,” and almost without a pause handed the instrument to Grice. “The Yard,” he said. “You must have told them you were coming.”

  Grice said: “I didn’t, I—never mind. Hallo, Superintendent Grice here … ”

  Rollison watched him closely, saw the light which leapt to his eyes, and the way his hand tightened about the instrument.

  “Fine,” he said. “I’ll go there myself.” He put the receiver down with a snap, and went on in the same breath: “I suppose I can’t keep you away, Rolly. Mary Rose Bell has come round.”

  “Well, well,” breathed Rollison. “Who’s to give who a lift?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Beauty Talks

  A plain-clothes sergeant opened the door of the Marigold Club, and behind him hovered one of Ebbutt’s men, a heavyweight who might not have much success against continental contenders, but whose punch was quite enough for ordinary mortals. Rollison and Grice stepped into the noble hall, and Grice asked abruptly: “Any more news?”

  “Lady Gloria’s up with her now,” said the plain-clothes man, and he gulped. “She—er—she asked me to make sure that she wasn’t interrupted, sir.”

  Rollison grinned.

  “What else did she say? Not even by that nincompoop of a nephew of mine, or by that ridiculous policeman, Mr. Grice?”

  The sergeant didn’t know whether to grin or to be apologetic.

  “Something like that, sir.”

  Grice said mildly: “Where’s the nurse?”

  “Still upstairs with them, sir.”

  “That’s the main thing,” Grice said, and then the housekeeper came out of the room where Rollison had lunched that day, tall and nice to look at but smiling rather a set smile and looking as if she was worried. She knew Grice slightly, and was formal; her expression said that she wanted a word with Rollison on his own
.

  Grice turned to the sergeant, as if earnestly.

  “Hallo, Ethel,” Rollison said, and added in a whisper: “Ebbutt’s men causing trouble with the staff?”

  “Oh, they’re all right,” Ethel said, “but I’m worried about Lady Maude.”

  Rollison felt himself go colder.

  “Why?”

  “She’s not home yet, and it’s nearly ten o’clock. It wouldn’t matter normally, but she promised Lady Gloria that if she was likely to be out much after nine, she would telephone. We haven’t had a message. I suppose it’s all right, but—”

  “It could be ugly,” Rollison said quietly. He didn’t like the news at all, but turned to Grice without showing any sign of perturbation. “Have you heard from your chap who was watching Lady Maude?”

  “An hour or so ago, she went to the Orange Club with Russell,” Grice said. “I’ve two men watching the place.”

  “An hour?”

  “I had the report just before I left.”

  “Check, will you?” asked Rollison.

  “Go outside and use the radio in my car,” Grice said to the sergeant. “Ask for the latest report on Lady Maude Dennison. Information Room knows all about it.” As the sergeant hurried and Ebbutt’s men watched from afar as if anxious not to get too close to a Superintendent at Scotland Yard, Grice went on: “I’d have been called if anything had gone wrong. They left the salon together about eight-fifteen. Zana left much later, with the woman Mitzi, and went to his flat with her. I don’t think there’s any need to worry.”

  “Mr. Smith doesn’t take long acting when he decides to act,” said Rollison, dryly. “Bill, here’s one for you alone.” The housekeeper had gone towards the domestic quarters of the club, and Rollison and Grice stood together in the hall. “What do you know about Russell?”

  “I didn’t know much until we started checking him, today,” said Grice. “He’s a son of the Flinden Russells.”

  “The Flinden Russells?”

  “That’s what I said.”