by John Creasey
‘He appears to be a little—ah—indiscreet, sir, in the way of prescribing drugs.’
‘What?’
‘That is my information, sir,’ said Jolly. ‘He has never been convicted, nor do I believe there is any suggestion of malpractice as far as the police or the General Medical Council know, but he was fortunate, I gather, to escape from a drug scandal some five years ago. Dr. Murchison is quite sure it is the same man. At the time Dr. Lowerby had an East End practice, but he moved immediately afterwards to Hersham. That is presumably the reason he moved, sir.’
‘Jolly, you’re invaluable,’ said the Toff.
But he admitted to himself that Jolly might easily have offered an explanation of Lowerby’s nervousness. Even an East End doctor five years out of his London practice might have heard of the Toff – and if he had drug-trafficking on his conscience it would explain his nervousness.
It might also explain the large cheque.
On the following morning, Jolly – on the Toff ’s instructions – arrived at the Ridings. He had found four Arnold Chamberlains in the London Telephone Directory, and visited all of their homes – if homes was the word. Three, said Jolly, were the suburban-town-and-back-each-day type, but the fourth was apparently in a large way of business, selling important furs.
‘With a saleroom in Oxford Street, sir, and a warehouse in Lambeth.’
‘Have you seen him?’
‘No, sir. Discreet inquiries advised me that he was out of town yesterday.’
‘Hmmm,’ said the Toff. ‘Thanks, Jolly. Now get along to Lowerby’s place—his morning surgery lasts until half past ten, so he’ll be there—and keep your eyes open. For visitors, or any movement on Lowerby’s part. If he’s nervous of me, he might do foolish things.’
The morning passed uneventfully, with Mannering’s side in the field, and Rollison – who was no bowler – rusting in the slips while two powerful batsmen persistently got the ball in the middle of the bat and refused to edge the fast going-away ball which is both the slip field’s terror and delight. He was brooding over the past delinquencies of Dr. Vincent Lowerby when the unlikely happened and a ball hummed towards him. He shot his hand out, and the ball stuck. Grinning, he tossed it to the wicket-keeper, and the batsman laughed as he started for the pavilion.
‘I thought that caught you napping, Rolly.’
‘If only you knew,’ smiled Rollison.
Five minutes later they went into lunch, and the Toff prepared to do justice to the meal. He had started on ham and tongue with Russian salad when a footman approached and whispered.
If Jolly suspected that for the third time the Toff ’s lunch had been spoiled, he showed no signs of it. He was waiting in the lounge, expressionless and yet somehow miserable of mien.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve found that body,’ said the Toff ill-temperedly.
‘No, sir. Dr. Lowerby is leaving for London at one-thirty.’
‘Good work. Well, you can stay here until you’ve told Sir George I’ve an aching tooth and want it out,’ Rollison grinned. ‘Ask him, if necessary, to put a sub in the field for me, and tell him I hope to be able to bat if I’m well enough.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Jolly.
The Toff went upstairs and changed into silver greys. Seen by servants but by none of the cricketers, he took the Fraser-Nash from the garage and started towards London. He was on the other side of Dorking when he saw Lowerby’s Morris 12 travelling ahead of him, and he passed it at speed, averting his head to avoid recognition.
Unknowingly, Lowerby passed him before they reached town.
From Putney onwards it was easy enough for the Toff to follow without being seen, for he changed his car to a Vauxhall at a garage, warned by phone to expect him, and at half past three he found that Lowerby parked his car in a side-street and walked to the Oxford Street salerooms of Arnold Chamberlain.
The Toff parked his own car at a nearby garage, and spent ten minutes of intensive activity before returning, and, from a safe vantage point, watched the salerooms. Lowerby’s Morris was still near by; the doctor had not yet left Oxford Street, and was not likely to do so without being seen by the Toff.
Chapter Five
Says Chamberlain
The Toff would have been even more interested had he seen Lowerby tap on the door of Mr. Arnold Chamberlain’s private office above the Oxford Street shop and enter while ‘Come in’ was only half uttered.
The fur importer was sitting at a light-oak desk which was littered with trays, papers and telephones. He was smoking a cigar of considerable proportions, and with his horn-rimmed glasses, his prominent chin and his well-developed scowl, he looked what a typical American business man is reputed to be. Lowerby was less concerned with him as a business man, however, than as a buyer of antiques of doubtful value, and of drugs which most people would have called a curse. Moreover, Lowerby was not happy; a child could have seen that, and Chamberlain was certainly not a child.
‘Well,’ he said breezily, ‘I thought everything was fixed up with you, Lowerby; it doesn’t do for you to come here too much, you know that. And I’m busy …’
Lowerby was uncertain and nervous of Chamberlain, but much more nervous of the man whom he knew as the Toff, for the Toff ’s activities in the East End were only too familiar to him.
Lowerby lit a cigarette with fingers which were unsteady and looked as if he could have handled a drink with alacrity. He licked his lips, shifted his eyes from Chamberlain’s, and then said sharply: ‘No use beating about the bush; I think it’s time I dropped the game. I’ve been in it long enough, Chamberlain, and—’
He was staring at the fur importer as he spoke, and the expression on the latter’s face made him stop short. The look in Chamberlain’s eyes was not pleasant.
‘So you feel like that, do you? That’s a pity, because I’ve a heap more work for you.’
‘I can’t handle more,’ Lowerby said.
‘You can and you will,’ said Chamberlain gently. ‘I want you, and I’ll tell you when you can retire.’
He snapped his fingers sharply, and there was a curious similarity between that sound and another, with which the doctor was not unfamiliar – the firing of a silenced automatic. Looking into the cold blue eyes, Lowerby saw what he disliked. Mr. Chamberlain might be an American, but just then his manner was more of a Big Shot than a Big Business man.
‘Maybe it’s sinking in,’ he drawled. ‘No one leaves me until I say so; keep that for future reference. And now you can tell me what’s giving you the jitters.’
Lowerby licked his lips, tried to put up a show of confidence, and failed miserably. With a sneer the importer pulled open a cupboard in his desk, took from it a decanter of whisky and a soda-siphon, and pushed them towards his caller.
Lowerby’s fingers trembled as he poured out whisky and drank it neat, but it did not immediately steady him. He started to replenish his glass, but Chamberlain covered the top of it quickly.
‘That’ll do for now. Now what’s gotten under your hide? I want the truth, not half of it.’
Lowerby gulped.
‘You—you wouldn’t understand, old man. You’ve only been in England for a year, you—you don’t know him—’
‘Him, is it? I thought the cops had been looking you up. Who is it?’ ‘A man named Rollison,’ muttered Lowerby, and he looked over his shoulder for no reason at all – as if he expected to see the face of the man just behind him. ‘He’s got a damn-fool nickname—the Toff—and—’
‘Sure—and how many bodyguards?’
Lowerby’s voice rose.
‘It’s a damned sight too easy for you to sneer,’ he snapped. ‘It’s all right for you—you haven’t met him. But you try and get anyone to tackle him and see what happens. Try Nigger Dougall, or Hi Ling, or any roughneck I put you on to. Tell them the Toff is around and see what happens!’
Chamberlain said: ‘Stop screeching, and take another drink. I’ve never heard of any Rollison, but if h
e’s likely to be a nuisance I’ll have him put away. You needn’t work yourself up over him.’
‘Talk’s cheap,’ snapped Lowerby. ‘You don’t know Rollison.’
‘If he was worth knowing, I would.’
‘But Rollison—’
‘I’ll make inquiries about Rollison. You get back to Hersham, and keep away from the bottle. You’re drinking too much, and that’s not good for you.’
Lowerby shrugged with a sudden, unexpected change of front. His tongue darted along his fleshy lips, his expression was cunning, almost hunted.
‘I’ll watch it,’ he said. ‘But I’ve got to have something, Chamberlain. I can’t stand the strain. I ought to have brought a pinch of snow along with me. I didn’t think. Have you got one handy?’
For a moment Chamberlain stared at the red face in front of him, then shrugged. If Lowerby could have guessed at the thought passing through the other’s mind he would have been a far more frightened man.
‘Surely,’ said Chamberlain, almost affably. ‘I can let you have a shot, Lowerby—it’s yours, anyway.’ He took a small paper packet from his desk and tossed it across. Lowerby clutched at it as though he doubted whether it was real and tore it open. He loosened the fine white powder inside with his forefinger, and threw his head back, letting the powder pour into his mouth. Chamberlain watched him expressionlessly.
Ten minutes later, smooth-voiced and smiling, the Dr. Vincent Lowerby who was well known and reasonably popular in Hersham left the office of Arnold Chamberlain, fur importer, and walked steadily down the stairs towards the street and his Morris. His eyes were clear, his manner confident, and his nervousness seemed to have left him.
On the opposite side of the road the Toff was sitting in a Vauxhall saloon, reading an evening paper.
The Toff, nevertheless, looked at Lowerby out of the corner of his eye, and opined to himself that the doctor appeared in excellent spirits. Unaware of the cool appraisal, Lowerby slid into his car and moved off into the stream of traffic entering Oxford Street. The Vauxhall followed him as far as Putney.
There the Toff drove into a garage where he was known with very good reason, and exchanged the Vauxhall for his own Fraser-Nash. He was confident that the doctor had finished his calls for that day, and that he would now drive immediately to Hersham.
‘Keeping busy sir?’ asked the broken-nosed garage-owner. His profession had been blowing safes until the Toff had persuaded him to live more honestly, and also financed him.
‘Always busy,’ said the Toff cheerfully. ‘But you won’t be if you don’t hire out better cars than that. Ever heard of a Mr. Arnold Chamberlain, Bill? A fur importer.’
‘Noo one on me,’ said the ex-crook sorrowfully.
‘Well, we can’t know everything,’ said the Toff. ‘Keep your ears to the ground for mention of the gentleman, will you?’
Bill promised that he would, and made inquiries as to the Toff ’s health, and waved good-bye as the Toff started to break many rules and regulations on his drive back to Hersham.
He went via Esher, thus avoiding Lowerby, who took the main road, and reached the Ridings when six of Sir George Mannering’s XI’s wickets were down for 154 against a total of over 300. He changed at speed and yet appeared unflurried when he reached the pavilion, to hear Mannering’s gasp of mingled relief and condemnation.
‘What the deuce have you—’
‘Peace on you,’ said the Toff. ‘I’ve been busy, all for the love of you. Hallo, Toby’s out. Who’s that fast merchant?’
‘Everitt, of Sussex. Get your pads on, and if you don’t get some runs …’
The Toff smiled and obliged. The task of scoring a hundred and forty-odd runs in forty minutes was well beyond him, but he was on the way when stumps were drawn, and the danger of losing was averted. On such a day he felt capable of challenging Hutton, for he was pleased with his efforts in London. Sir George, who had a childish horror of losing any of his week’s matches, was sufficiently pleased to grant forgiveness and ask no questions, and he made no demur when the Toff assured a sceptical gathering that his appointment had been with his dentist.
Early the next day, when he had ample time to get back to the Ridings, the Toff called at the Putney garage again. The ex-safebreaker had some news for him, although none as far as he knew of Arnold Chamberlain.
‘About five minutes after you’d gorn,’ said Bill, ‘a bloke came to know if I’d dekko’d a man with a big Vauxhall. He never see it in the garich, but I reckon you must ’a’ been follered yesterday.’ Bright Cockney eyes regarded the Toff knowingly.
‘Your reckoning’s good,’ allowed the Toff, and he felt thoughtful. He had suspected the possibility of a shadow from the Oxford Street establishment, believing it unlikely that Lowerby would be careless. ‘Just what did you say?’
‘I told ’im,’ said Bill, with evident self-appreciation, ‘that you ‘ad an orffice upstairs, and yer Vauxhall was in the garich, but it ‘adn’t been art yesterday. Okay?’
‘Okay. What kind of a gentleman?’
‘Little cove, with a squint.’
The Toff took from his pocket a cutting from a week-old newspaper, recently taken from a newspaper file. Jolly had discovered it, and it showed a passable likeness of an Arnold Chamberlain as “a new influence in the fur market”. Jolly’s habit of reading the City page was one of his most unlikely traits.
‘Any likeness?’ asked the Toff.
‘No,’ said Bill emphatically, ‘not a glim. When I sez a squint I means a squint.’
‘So that,’ reflected the Toff to himself, ‘means that Chamberlain or Lowerby employs a man or men, and as it was on Chamberlain’s home ground it looks like him. Lowerby may have reported the Vauxhall, of course.’ Aloud, ‘The man with the squint saw that I was active yesterday, and followed me for my sins, William.’
Bill grinned, rubbing a stubbly chin with a spatulate forefinger and winking bright-blue eyes.
‘They’ll ‘ear from you, I reckon.’
‘Which is a nice faith,’ acknowledged the Toff. ‘I hope so. Get in touch with friends of yours in the fur trade, Bill; they’ll know if Chamberlain does much genuine business. No burglaries, mind you, no fur-warehouse exploits; they’re my preserves until further notice.’
‘I’ll give the boys the wire,’ said Bill.
‘Do. Now then, a negro and a Chinaman working together. Does it mean anything?’
‘They don’t mix much,’ said Bill. ‘Colours never do, mister, but you don’t need tellin’ that. An’ I ain’t been around much, seein’ I’m earning a livin’ even if you don’t like me Vauxhall. But I’ll slip down “Steam Packet” way this arternoon.’
‘Stout fellow,’ said the Toff. ‘Give everyone my love, but don’t tell them I’m busy.’
‘Okay,’ said Bill with relish.
The match at the Ridings was not important, and Rollison telephoned, announced developments on the matter of the body, and received Mannering’s grudging admission that the murder-hunt was more important than cricket. Thus released for the day, the Toff talked again with Jolly, started further inquiries and – finding a remarkable absence of information about the fur importer and the two men he was anxious to see – decided to investigate again through McNab. Meanwhile he tried to remember where he had seen Lowerby before he had met the doctor at Hersham.
Of course, if the man had had a West End practice, that might be explanation enough.
But his impression was that the encounter had been more recent, and his inability to recall it annoyed him. He retired from the effort after half an hour, and pondered all that he knew.
A Chinaman, a negro, a little man with a squint, Mr. Arnold Chamberlain and Dr. Vincent Lowerby. Being honest, he acknowledged that as yet there was no direct connection between the first two and the last three. He was working entirely on the assumption that Lowerby knew more about the dead tramp than appeared on the surface.
‘Once find that connection,’ he confided to
Jolly, ‘and I shall be a happier man. Put this in an envelope, Jolly, and post it to our Arnold.’
Jolly took one of the decorated visiting-cards, sealed it and addressed it, and posted it in time to catch an early collection.
Some three hours after, thanks to the speed of the Post Office delivery system, Chamberlain tore open the envelope. Then he stared at the side that presented itself first – the pencilled drawings of a top hat, a monocle, and a cigarette-in-holder. He turned the card over, and then jumped as if stung – which was the effect the Toff ’s card had on many people.
Chamberlain did not know that it was his first experience of that queer method of attack which the Toff called psychological terrorism. He simply felt the sudden stab of surprise.
And – being a man of quick decisions – he decided abruptly what to do with the Toff.
Chapter Six
McNab Obliges
Sylvia Sanderson recovered consciousness without immediately remembering the horror through which she had passed. Her head ached abominably, her mouth was parched and unpleasant, the result of the chloroform. She lay on a camp-bed for half an hour, in a stupor that was only half wakefulness, and without realising that she was bound to the bed.
As the throbbing in her head eased a little she stirred, and suddenly memory returned, a sudden stabbing recollection of the horror of the moment when her father had been murdered. It had a nightmare vividness, and made her scream, although only a faint muttering passed her lips.
Screaming, she struggled, and realised that she could not move.
It did not immediately stop her from trying. In a panic she strained against the cords at her wrists, vainly she tried to kick those at her ankles free. It was gloomy where she was, although not quite dark, and the small room was hot and stuffy; she was sticky with sweat.
Quietness returned, if not real calm.
After a while she realised the danger of letting her mind dwell on the horror, for as she saw that murder in her mind’s eye a shiver ran through her body, she felt a rising nausea in her stomach. She tried to force herself to think more calmly, to remember other things.
