The Toff Breaks In

by John Creasey

‘Why indeed, sir,’ said Dawbury. ‘Find the answer to that and we know a lot. Well I’ll be superintending formalities, if that’s all right with you, Sir George.’

  ‘Yes, yes, carry on,’ said Mannering.

  He walked with Rollison to the roadway, and stood there indeterminate. And then the Toff saw an expression cross his features – the obstinate expression Mannering revealed on those occasions when his side was fighting a losing battle and he was preparing to do or die at number 11.

  ‘Agree with Dawbury?’ he asked abruptly.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘The hands.’

  ‘It’s reasonable,’ said Rollison non-committally.

  ‘Not so sure,’ said Mannering brusquely. ‘The hands and trousers were covered with that sacking, and not exposed to the air. That would stop the blood congealing. Wouldn’t it?’ He pushed his head forward as though challenging Rollison to a denial.

  ‘It could do,’ admitted the Toff handsomely. ‘Your idea being …?’

  ‘Well—supposing they’d wanted some information from him? Good way of getting it would be to make the poor devil suffer—hence his hands. And when they’d got it they cut his throat. I don’t say it happened, mind you, but it does look possible, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I couldn’t say no,’ admitted the Toff.

  He could have said that he considered the theory farfetched and unlikely, but he restrained himself, for Mannering was going to be fond of it. He excused himself from a return trip to the Ridings, and, an hour after he had first started off, set the nose of his Fraser-Nash towards London.

  He had made two acquaintances of unusual interest – the body and Dr. Lowerby. It was a remarkable fact that he thought more of Lowerby than of the body until he reached the Chelsea house of Chief-Inspector Horace McNab, of Scotland Yard. McNab, who was proud of his little villa and his small garden, was a burly figure in flannels and open-necked shirt, with leather gloves and secateurs in his hands. As the car drew up he snipped the dead rose off a standard afire with scarlet bloom, and then glanced up with casual interest.

  He stopped being casual, and his dour face hardened. There was much that was like granite about McNab, and the sandy eyebrows above his light-blue eyes raised with more than inquisitiveness.

  ‘’Lo, Mac,’ greeted the Toff, and leaned on the garden gate. ‘What a thing to be in England now that June is here. Ever entered your roses in a show?’

  McNab knew the Toff too well to be gratified.

  ‘Do ye have to be worrying me now?’

  ‘Even out of office hours,’ said the Toff cheerfully. ‘Apologies and all that. Supposing you act like a little gentleman and ask me in, and uncork a bottle of Black-and-White? You could do with a drink, and I wouldn’t say no.’

  ‘I’m not thirsty,’ said McNab, drawing off his gloves. ‘Ye’d better come in. What’s it about—the body that isn’t?’

  ‘Wasn’t,’ said the Toff.

  ‘What’re ye meaning?’

  ‘Most undisciplined body that, in the quarry,’ said the Toff. ‘It was, wasn’t, and is. Not a nice corpse, either, Mac, but showing clear evidence of gentlemen with sadistic minds. However’ – they had reached the small front room of the house, and McNab was changing his gardening shoes for slippers – ‘let it be understood now and for all time that my visit is unofficial and the Sussex people are not consulting the Yard.’

  ‘Well, I can do with a rest,’ said McNab.

  ‘A most undutiful remark, seeing there’s been murder,’ said Rollison. ‘A spot more soda, may I? Thanks. Yes, Mac, the body’s come back. Any ideas?’

  McNab, a more complacent individual at home than at the Yard, where the Toff too often riled him, contemplated the other’s sunburned face and submitted: ‘Then it hasn’t been far away?’

  ‘The world is going mad, for we’re agreeing,’ marvelled the Toff. ‘I don’t think it could have been taken far, although a car can travel a tidy distance these days in a matter of hours. On the other hand, they wouldn’t take a body fifty miles away to mess up the hands and bring it back. More likely just round the corner, or at least the nearest quiet spot.’

  ‘Mess up what?’ asked McNab sharply.

  ‘The hands. Mutilated, Mac. Sir George Mannering had a feeling that they were mutilated before death, as a means of persuasion. It could be, but it’s hardly likely, I think. Dawbury—comfortable, competent fellow, Inspector Dawbury—has the other and less melodramatic idea, that it was to make identification difficult. I subscribe to it.’

  ‘Finger-prints,’ said McNab; ‘he might be on the records.’

  ‘Ye-es. Meaning the killer killed a crook. No, Mac, it’s a nasty business, and it isn’t made any the better because of certain evidence of a negro and—some suggest—a Chinaman. Any reaction to that?’

  ‘Aweel—no, Rolleeson.’ McNab, when thoughtful, lapsed into a more decided accent. ‘Will ye be tellin’ me—’

  Rollison related the questions of the cricketers, the appearance of the Austin 20 and the smaller car, make unknown, the observations of the country policeman, and more details of the body. He did not add that he expected Mannering would be compelled to call for the official assistance of the Yard before long, but McNab accepted that as a probability: he doubted whether the Toff would have come to him unless he had expected an official consultation in the near future.

  ‘’Tis a puzzler,’ admitted McNab, when the Toff had finished. Humour gleamed in his eyes. ‘Ye’re not telling me that ye’ve no ideas of why nor how it happened?’

  ‘Full confession, Mac. I haven’t.’

  ‘Why don’t ye go back and finish ye’re cricket,’ demanded the Inspector comfortably, ‘and leave it to this man Dawbury?’

  ‘And what would Sir George do then, poor man?’

  ‘Ah, well.’ said the Scotsman, ‘what is it ye want?’

  Rollison chuckled.

  ‘Anything you know concerning anybody who lives in Hersham.’

  ‘I’ll have it looked into,’ said McNab.

  ‘For which many thanks, Mac. I don’t think the hands were cut about to mutilate finger-prints so much as to destroy any and every clue to the man’s occupation and habits. Consider: a horny hand could suggest a labourer or a tramp, a smooth palm could mean a clerk or his like, a well-manicured hand a gentleman of some standing. Our mystery was dressed like a tramp—as far as we know he was a tramp. Dawbury and Mannering certainly think so. But the hands, the one proof, are no use to us; he could be a pauper, or a millionaire. Or even a policeman.’

  McNab was not amused.

  ‘There’s his feet, and his skin.’

  ‘The hands are the better indication,’ said Rollison. ‘A navvy might take a lot of care with his feet, a clerk might take none at all, and so ad infinitum. We can tell by his face whether he had been out of doors a great deal, and he had. But then so have you and so have I?’

  ‘Ay,’ said McNab. ‘And ye think the man was killed in the quarry and afterwards his hands were disfigured to make it difficult to identify him. And ye’ve talk of a negro and a Chinaman with a beard.’

  ‘Gentlemen I’d like to locate.’

  ‘I’ll see what can be done,’ promised McNab.

  ‘While I hope not to be idle,’ smiled Rollison, which made McNab grunt. ‘We have a nice little problem; there must be several thousand pure-blooded negroes in England, and ten or fifteen thousand—that’s a low limit, I fancy—men with beards. Find one of each who know each other, and there you are, or might be. Our Chinaman might only look like one, you know.’

  ‘Do ye know more?’ asked McNab sharply.

  ‘Not a thing more than you,’ said the Toff amiably. ‘But I mean to. We can start from scratch and compare notes, if necessary.’

  ‘Refusing to disclose information leading to the apprehension of a criminal,’ said McNab with heavy humour, ‘is a crime in itself, Rolleeson, and I’ll have ye reminded of it.’

  ‘Allow me a rudimentary acquaintance w
ith the law,’ protested the Toff. ‘Well, Mac, when Mannering does send an SOS to you people, remember to be grateful to me.’

  McNab grunted noncommittally, which was his way of saying that he suspected Rollison was keeping something back.

  And for once he was nearly doing the Toff an injustice, for all Rollison had kept to himself was an idea.

  Chapter Four

  Interest In Dr. Lowerby

  Jolly had learned not to appear surprised at anything, and when the Toff entered and demanded dinner he inclined his head and put aside the Toff ’s library copy of the Decameron without apparent reluctance but also without apologising for borrowing it. Rollison, who did not feel in the mood for the Decameron or anything heavy, except food, let his mind run riot on the possibilities that the body in the quarry presented. It was, he felt, completely unsatisfactory – the kind of crime with no obvious beginning, and therefore threatening to have no end. Out of the blue a body had been deposited, removed, and replaced.

  ‘Most disconcerting, sir,’ said Jolly, when advised.

  ‘You choose your words,’ said the Toff absently. ‘Yes, disconcerting, but done with reason. The vanishing trick, I mean; all murders are done with reason, even if an insane one. Why should they cart the body away?’

  ‘I leave it to you, sir,’ said Jolly.

  ‘Avoid double meanings,’ reproved the Toff, ‘I’m not in the mood for them. The hands hadn’t bled much, or at least I don’t think so. The blood on the trousers probably came from hands, after brushing or resting against them. Remarks, Jolly.’

  ‘Were the wrists affected, sir?’

  ‘They were.’

  ‘The vein in the wrist would normally bleed a great deal, or so my knowledge of first-aid suggests, sir.’

  ‘One day you must tell me all you know about first-aid, but for the moment I’ll agree with you. The hands and wrists would have bled a lot, if there had been any blood available. Most of it, of course, had gone from the neck. Mannering’s all wrong; the mutilation was done afterwards, and was the sole reason for the disappearing trick. But what was the reason for the mutilation?’

  ‘You suggested identification, sir.’

  ‘Yes of course—Jolly.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Supposing I told you that there had been two bodies.’

  ‘It would appear possible, sir.’

  ‘Ye-es. The cyclist was too scared to linger long, and isn’t likely to be much use in identification. The police assume that the two bodies are one and the same, and they’ve every reason to do that. But it isn’t a proved fact, Jolly.’

  ‘No, sir. But perhaps a logical assumption.’

  ‘I’m not so sure that I like logic in this case. There’s a factor you haven’t considered, and Dawbury hasn’t considered, and McNab isn’t likely to. Why bring the body there first and then remove it for the mutilation? No sense in it; those hands could have been done in a matter of minutes. They—our mystery men, Jolly—were taking a considerable risk, in fact a crazy risk. But if they wanted to exchange the bodies, that’s a different matter.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but why should they?’

  ‘I am not omniscient,’ said the Toff. ‘You don’t like the theory?’

  ‘I can’t see anything to support it, sir.’

  ‘No-o. In that case I must find something. Thing is, if there are two bodies, one is missing and should shortly be discovered. If we get a report about another body at Hersham, the theory gains in credence. Not,’ added the Toff, suddenly cheerful, ‘that I care a jot whether you agree with me or don’t. I’ll stay here for the night and go back to Hersham first thing in the morning. Give me a call about seven.’

  Jolly said that he would, and did.

  Rollison drove down, not fast, for he remained thoughtful, and at eleven o’clock next day reached the Ridings. The teams for the day’s match, with a touring side, were already at the nets, but Mannering himself was in his library, and Dawbury was with him. Mannering looked ill-tempered.

  ‘Oh, come in, Rolly—I hoped you’d get back last night.’

  ‘I meant to,’ lied the Toff affably. ‘Anything else turned up?’

  ‘Not yet. Dawbury here seems to think we’d do well to call on the Yard, but I can’t see the need for it yet.’

  ‘We-ell,’ drawled Rollison, ‘there may not be any need, but this isn’t a local job, old man. Or do you think so? I mean, it’s not a question of a local resident killed by another local resident. You’ve got to face the possibility that the body was brought a hundred miles or so—from any one of a dozen counties. I’m all for the Yard, myself.’

  ‘Oh, well,’ said Mannering, and then recovered his good temper. ‘I’ll expect some runs from you for that. All right, Dawbury, I’ll see to it right away.’

  Outside the library Dawbury hesitated.

  ‘Good of you to help me, Mr. Rollison. Sir George wasn’t anxious, and I wouldn’t be in an ordinary case, but this isn’t our murder, as you said. It might have been committed anywhere. Er—I’ll be grateful for any help you can give me, sir.’

  ‘It’s as good as done,’ promised the Toff.

  Dawbury thanked him, and the Toff joined the others on the smiling cricket field, and soon lost himself in the grim business of fielding first slip. That was after he had put a sitter on the floor, to the audible amazement of Cozens, at second. It was lunch-time, when the touring-side had built up a good foundation to their score, when he was interrupted again, this time by Dawbury.

  ‘I meant to tell you this morning, sir—about the stuff we found in the tramp’s pockets. A bacon sandwich, a few small coins including a French sou, and a bit of string, a couple of safety-pins—no papers of any kind.’

  ‘Nothing to help identify him, then?’

  ‘No, sir. But I’ve found a woman who remembers giving a tramp two bacon sandwiches early yesterday morning, and she’s coming to the station to look at the body this afternoon. I’ll let you know if she’s any help.’

  ‘I’ve half a mind to come with you.’

  ‘Don’t upset Sir George any more,’ pleaded Dawbury, and the Toff turned down his half-mind.

  The woman fainted twice, each time she looked at the dead body, and she could say neither yes nor no. Nor could another countrywoman who had parted – accidentally – with a sou, which she had thought to be a halfpenny, to a tramp who had called the night before the bacon-sandwich incident. The tendency of these discoveries made patiently and painstakingly by Dawbury was, the Toff admitted, to suggest that the body was that of a tramp, and not of a man in any other walk of life.

  But if a man had killed a tramp, why go to such lengths to prevent him from being identified?

  There was no immediate answer to the problem, but the following day precipitated a minor crisis, for the side due to play at the Ridings was forced to scratch at the last moment, and Sir George had the mortification of seeing a peerless June day go by without the pitch being used.

  The Toff did not object.

  He went into Hersham and – without making himself ostentatious – learned where Dr. Lowerby lived. That was on the outskirts of the town, and as the Toff drove by in his Fraser-Nash he saw Lowerby taking his Morris out of the brick-built garage at the side of the house. Rollison turned his car at the first opportunity, and fifteen minutes later pulled up outside the bank where Lowerby’s car was waiting. Lowerby had only that moment gone in.

  The Toff followed, pondering among other things on where he had seen Lowerby before: he had a vague conviction that the rheumy, reddish face was not completely unfamiliar.

  Two people were already engaging the attention of the two clerks unduly, and Lowerby waited impatiently. He was a man who always looked impatient. The Toff, with intent, approached him from the rear without making a sound, and then said, as if with surprise: ‘Hallo—Dr. Lowerby, isn’t it?’

  Lowerby jumped.

  Just for a moment the Toff imagined that he saw what might have been alarm in the docto
r’s eyes. It disappeared, and Lowerby forced a smile which was not spontaneous but lacked nothing in heartiness.

  ‘Hallo, hallo! Mr. Rollison, isn’t it? No cricket today?’

  ‘Match scratched, Chief Constable tearing his hair,’ said the Toff amiably. ‘What with the murder, and now this, he’s having a bad week.’

  ‘Anything developed yet?’ Again the Toff imagined that Lowerby’s heartiness was forced, that the doctor wished himself a long way from the bank.

  ‘I haven’t heard,’ he said indifferently. ‘I—sorry, the cashier’s waiting, I didn’t realise—’

  He watched without appearing to as Lowerby pushed his paying-in book beneath the grille. There was one cheque in it, and the amount – plain for anyone to see-was a hundred and fifty pounds. A considerable cheque for a country practitioner. The Toff continued to look, and when the cashier stamped the cheque contrived to see that it had been drawn by a Mr. Arnold Chamberlain.

  He had no idea what that was likely to mean.

  He persuaded the cashier to give him small change for a tenpound note, this offering reason enough for his call, and followed Lowerby outside. The doctor, however, was already moving, and he did not trouble to wave good-bye.

  ‘Not affable,’ murmured the Toff to himself, ‘I wonder, Dr. Lowerby, if you’ve had reason to know of me?’

  He slipped into a telephone kiosk nearby and telephoned his flat. Jolly answered in the sharp voice which he used for those admirers of the Toff who were apt to expect to be taken out to lunch when their husbands were safely out of the way.

  ‘I don’t want to speak to Mr. Rollison,’ said the Toff. ‘Dr. Vincent Lowerby, Jolly. Address—Hersham. Try the usual contacts, and see if he means anything. When I say usual, I don’t mean the Yard.’

  ‘I see, sir. Shall I call you back?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll be at the Ridings.’

  He was at the Ridings when he learned from Jolly that, according to a doctor who had been recently released from Parkhurst after sentence for illegal operations, Lowerby was not unknown to certain sections of the criminal fraternity.

  ‘Just how?’ asked Rollison.