Hunt the Toff

by John Creasey

  XII

  DARK DUET

  The light remained still, pitched on the hand and the gun. The hand was large, with long, thin fingers, browned and powerful. The automatic pistol was fitted with a long rubber snout; a silencer. That kept as steady as Rollison’s torch.

  Rollison slid his left hand towards his pocket and touched his gun, but didn’t take it out. He had no silencer, and a shot would bring the police.

  ‘I said, drop it.’

  There was an edge to a deep voice.

  Rollison murmured, ‘Delighted, old friend,’ and dropped the torch, thrusting his foot beneath it to lessen the noise, then kicked it away. It rolled over and over, the light snaking out, now on a polished brown shoe, now the leg of a chair, now on the wall. It stopped. Rollison took two long sideways steps and peered into the darkness; pitch darkness, there was no crack of light.

  He could hear the man breathing.

  ‘Don’t tell me you can see in the dark,’ he murmured, and stepped to one side again.

  Flame flashed, vivid and revealing, a bullet hissed out and thudded into the wall. It sounded very close. Rollison stood motionless.

  ‘You haven’t a chance,’ the man said. ‘Not this way. I can give you one.’

  Rollison said, ‘I like to make my own,’ and swift as a cat, moved the other side.

  The second shot hissed, and the revealing flame showed a tall man in an open doorway, dressed in dark clothes; only his face and hands showed. The bullet smacked into the wall, as if nothing else was enough to show earnest. Rollison’s heart was hammering, and he could hear the other’s laboured breathing.

  The man said softly, ‘You’re asking for trouble.’

  ‘I’ve company,’ Rollison said, and stood his ground. There wasn’t a third shot. ‘Police are back and front, if you keep up the Bisley practice you’ll have more visitors. They won’t be as willing as I am to keep this off the record.’

  The man didn’t answer. There was a rustle of sound in the darkness. Rollison took out the gun and held it by the barrel, as a club. The rustle came again, he tried to judge whether the other was in front or to the left or right – and then a white light stabbed out, swivelled round, and shone on his face. He closed his eyes against the blinding dazzle, moved swiftly, felt the glow pressing against his eyelids, following him wherever he went.

  He stopped; and smiled.

  ‘Should we know each other?’

  ‘So you’ve made it,’ the other said, and couldn’t keep the ring of satisfaction out of his voice. ‘The great Toff ’s come to see me!’

  The light was stabbing at Rollison’s face, on to his big, glistening teeth.

  ‘Wrong. I came to see Marion-Liz.’

  ‘You can see her, Rollison.’

  The shaft of light moved, shone on Rollison’s gun-hand and the gun. The man drew in a sharp breath.

  ‘Wondering why I haven’t used it?’ asked Rollison. ‘I should hate to kill first and try to talk afterwards, corpses are stubborn about talking. Shall we have some more fight and a little chat?’

  ‘Just keep still.’

  ‘I can’t do any better than this,’ said Rollison, ‘I’m imitating the Rock of Gibraltar quite nicely.’

  The man said, ‘Drop that gun.’

  ‘Not in a thousand years.’ Rolfison had a laugh in his voice – and let it fade, caught his breath and muttered, ‘Listen!’

  That wasn’t bluff, there were footsteps outside. A man came up the stairs – perhaps a man and woman. The sounds stopped. The unseen man’s breathing was harsh and laboured again. Rollison held his breath – heard a faint sound, as a key turned in a lock, then a mutter of voices. After a pause, a door closed.

  ‘The old folk next door,’ murmured Rollison. ‘The police might follow, to see what they’re up to. I shouldn’t start playing the accordion.’

  The torch went out; another rustle of movement told him that the other was moving. Right, left, or forward? Using his wits, he could guess why the man wanted to talk: a proposition was on the wing. Yet there was nothing here to make him feel free from danger. The thudding of those bullets in the wall had been unpleasantly close.

  ‘Do you like playing around in the dark?’ he asked, and the laugh was back in his voice.

  ‘Listen, Rollison, I can fix you. It’s all laid on. I can find a witness to say you were with Lizzie Lane when she killed Keller. That would send you for the long drop. Don’t make any mistakes.’

  ‘No more than I can help,’ said Rollison brightly. ‘But what makes you think the police will think that I stood by while the girl-friend battered poor Keller and cut his throat?’

  ‘They’ll believe it, if they have a witness. You’re in a bad spot already.’

  Given that ‘evidence’ and the police would have a case nothing could break, Rollison knew. He asked: ‘When are we going to have some light?’

  His hand groped for the light switch, and touched it.

  ‘Don’t do that!’ The torchlight shone out again, and stabbed against Rollison’s face. ‘Back into the room.’ The light shone steadily and close to the man’s body, for the glow just showed his gun. ‘Play the fool, and I’ll shoot.’

  Rollison backed into the room.

  He came up against a table.

  The torch went out. After a pause, the door closed, and the man put down the switch.

  This was a small room, without a window; a room that had been partitioned off from a large one. He was leaning against a dining-table. There were four upright chairs, a small sideboard, a tall corner cupboard, a few books in open shelves near an electric fire. The floor was carpeted in deep red. The furniture was modern, of fair quality; the walls well papered cream, and the lighting came from three lamps set in the walls.

  The door and the woodwork were painted red.

  The man stood against the closed door, tall, lean, dressed in navy blue. He was middle-aged; his grizzled hair was thick and heavily greased, brushed straight back from his forehead without a parting. His face was round, his cheeks tanned to a healthy, attractive brown; he had light-grey eyes, and his tan made them seem very bright. He had a short nose and short upper lip, and his lips were full, almost too full, hinting at mixed blood.

  ‘Go and sit on the other side of the table.’

  Rollison shrugged, moved, and sat.

  ‘Put your gun away.’

  ‘That’s where I stick,’ said Rollison. ‘If I have to choose between a trial and a shot from your gun, I’ll have the trial. Of course, you put your gun away, and then we’d be on equal terms.’

  The man put his gun into his coat pocket, drew his hand out and stood against the wall.

  Rollison put his gun away.

  ‘Rollison,’ the man said, ‘there’s just one way you can get out of this alive.’

  He meant that.

  His pale-grey eyes had a look that wasn’t good. Here was a cold, calculating killer – and he must be desperate now.

  ‘Do tell me,’ said Rollison, ‘I’m always interested in living.’

  ‘Then you’d better listen carefully. I want—’

  ‘By the way, where’s Marion? Or do you always call her Lizzie?’

  The man’s teeth clamped together; the muscles of his cheeks worked.

  ‘The girl stole some keys and an address – I want them,’ the man said. ‘She knows where they are. You can make her talk.’

  ‘Won’t she talk to you?’

  ‘I’m in a hurry.’

  ‘Well, well,’ murmured Rollison, ‘I thought you were friends with our Liz. I take it you killed Keller.’

  ‘Never mind who killed Keller.’

  ‘Oh, but I do,’ said Rollison.

  The man thrust his head forward, and his right hand dropped to his pocket. So did Rollison’s. They stood watching each other, cat and mouse, and rage sparked from those cruel light-grey eyes.

  ‘You don’t get it, Rollison. If you make the girl talk, you’ve a chance. If you don’t – I�
��ll kill you myself, or send that witness to the police. Don’t forget it. I want the keys and the address.’

  ‘All right,’ said Rollison lightly. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘In the next room.”

  The man crossed the room and opened a door, put his hand inside and pulled down a switch. A dim light showed in the other room – either from a low-powered lamp or one with paper or cloth tied round it to lessen its brilliance. He stood on one side, and his right hand was still close to his pocket.

  ‘Come here,’ he said.

  Rollison pushed his chair back, keeping his right hand near his gun. He moved, watching the man, whom he trusted as far as he would a rattlesnake. He reached the doorway of the next room, still watching; the other didn’t move for his gun.

  Rollison backed into the room. Pale eyes glittered at him. As he went farther, he saw that this was a bedroom. There was an oak wardrobe, pale carpet, a dressing-table against a heavily curtained window – then the foot panel of a single bed. He was by the side of the bed. He saw a girl’s legs, bare, the feet lying limp. As he drew farther back, more of her legs came into sight; she wasn’t fully dressed.

  The legs were long, slender, shapely – as he’d seen before, when Marion-Liz had lazed on the Devon beach. They had the golden tan of the sun on them – but not at one spot, between the knee and thigh. There, the tan had been burned away; a small round burn showed, raw and ugly.

  XIII

  CRUSHED BEAUTY

  Rollison couldn’t look at both the girl and the man.

  He backed farther away, taking swift glances at Marion-Liz. She wore a pair of green French knickers and a brassiere; nothing else, except for a narrow leather belt round her waist. There were other burns on her body. Rollison felt rage blazing up inside him, a murderous fury, and his right arm flexed, he had to fight to keep his hand out of his pocket.

  He had to choose between studying the girl and watching the man.

  The man wanted the keys and that information desperately, here was living, livid proof. He thought Rollison could make the girl talk, and so wasn’t likely to take drastic action – yet. He’d take that, once Rollison got what he wanted. So Rollison turned to look at Marion-Liz.

  Her face wasn’t touched.

  There she lay in all her slender beauty, pale as a cream rose, limp, her spirit crushed – but her eyes wide open. Dread showed in them. The leather belt was tied by rope to the sides of the bed; the rope disappeared beneath the mattress. She could move a little but not get up. She didn’t look as if she had the spirit to try to get up. Her hair had lost its glossy sheen, but was still attractive as it lay on the pillow, spread out like a dark halo. She closed her eyes when she recognised him, and shivered.

  ‘Hallo, Liz,’ said Rollison softly. ‘I told you that you chose the wrong kind of friends.’

  ‘Cut the talk,’ the man said.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Rollison, and turned to face him. He closed his eyes, actually swayed on his feet. ‘Not a pretty sight. If she won’t talk after this, how do you expect me to make her?’

  He looked at the man through his lashes; and he gulped, as if he felt sick.

  ‘She said she wouldn’t talk because you’d see her through, and now she knows you can’t. What the hell’s the matter with you? Can’t you take it?’

  ‘Never was good at this,’ mumbled Rollison. ‘I can take it when it comes quickly, but not like this.’

  He actually staggered and put a hand on the bed, as if to steady himself, and the man took a step forward.

  Rollison leapt at him, a darting fury. His fists worked liked pistons – smashing into the nose, the chin, the stomach. The man gasped and made strangled noises, tried to cover up, but hadn’t a chance. Rollison smashed a swing to the side of his jaw and sent him reeling against the wall, followed it with a blow to the stomach that had every ounce of a hundred and seventy pounds behind it. The man with light-grey eyes gave a whining groan, doubled up, and lay in a heap.

  Rollison drew back, but didn’t speak.

  He clenched his teeth as he bent down, took the gun away, ran through the other’s pockets and found a second gun and a knife. He put them into his own pocket. He took keys and a wallet, too, and with these in his hands, backed away from his victim.

  He was sweating.

  He turned to Marion-Liz, and a smile broke through the bleak mask of his face as he spread a sheet over her.

  ‘All right, Liz, don’t worry any more.’

  The dread had gone; hope blazed.

  ‘Just take it easy,’ he said.

  He used the man’s knife to cut the ropes, had two long pieces, and went to his victim and pulled at him until he lay on his back, then tied his wrists and ankles. The man wasn’t unconscious, but the power to resist had been hammered out of him. His lips were swollen, and there was a trickle of blood at one corner of his mouth. Rollison stood back, went to a hand-basin, ran cold water and rinsed his face and hands. He soaked a sponge, squeezed most of the water out, and went across to Liz. He bathed her eyes and face, then her hands; they were hot and clammy.

  ‘Like to sit up?’

  ‘I—can’t.’

  ‘Can’t?’

  ‘He did something to my back.’

  Rollison didn’t speak, but eased the girl up and turned the pillows over. He fetched water in a tooth-glass, raised her head and watched the eagerness with which she drank.

  ‘Had anything to eat and drink?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Just take it easy, Liz. Who is he?’

  ‘His name is Woolf. He—’ She broke off. ‘I once worked with him.’

  ‘All right,’ said Rollison.

  He went out of the room. He found other doors, and one led to a kitchen, but he didn’t want to put on the light, that would probably be seen outside. He found the windows; a blind was drawn. He shone his torch, and saw that the single lamp had been covered with a piece of green cloth, there was no risk of the light shining out. He opened the larder door and found an open tin of unsweetened condensed milk, put on a kettle, brewed strong tea, poured in plenty of the milk and stirred in a lot of sugar. This took him five or six minutes. He went back with a cup of tea, and the man stared up at him, but didn’t try to speak.

  Rollison put an arm round the girl’s neck, raised her head, and held the cup for her. She sipped eagerly, but before she had finished half the tea, she shook her head. He put the cup on the bedside table, and then inspected the contents of the wallet. There were several visiting-cards, reading:

  Leo Woolf,

  27 Mayrick Court,

  Williton Street,

  London, W.l.

  He slipped these into his pocket and went through the rest of the contents. A driving-licence, an identity card, other oddments all bearing the same name and address, he put back. There were six five-pound notes and several one-pound notes. Stamps and two unused railway tickets to Exeter made up the rest. He went back to the man, felt in his pockets again, turned him over so that he could get at his hip pockets. He found nothing else of any use or value, nothing else with a name on.

  Marion-Liz muttered something, and Rollison didn’t catch the words. He went across to her; if he stood near Woolf much longer, he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off the man. He felt as if he were suspended in mid-air, it was so utterly unlike what he had expected that he’d no plans to meet the situation – except the obvious. He could call the police in, show them the burns, let them force the truth out of Leo Woolf. But would that work?

  ‘What is it, Liz?’ He was very gentle.

  ‘Be—careful,’ she said. The fear was back in her eyes, the hope was fading. ‘He’ll have a man who’ll—swear—you and I killed Keller.’

  ‘A liar’s no witness.’

  ‘He will be. Can you—get us away?’ Liz asked hoarsely.

  There was something the matter with her back, which meant she couldn’t walk. Woolf certainly wouldn’t walk where he was told to go. The only way out of here
was through the flat upstairs and the skylight.

  Woolf sneered, ‘Why don’t you go and call the police in, Rollison? They’re your friends, aren’t they? Try it – and see what happens.’

  Rollison sat on the side of the bed.

  ‘You’ll get seven years at least for this. Looking forward to it?’

  ‘I shan’t hang.’

  He was sure of himself, and probably had cause to be.

  ‘Listen, Rollison, I left word about what was to be done if the police caught up with me. Maybe I’ll take a rap for what I’ve done to her, but she killed Keller, and you stood by and watched. Don’t make any mistake about it, you’re tight in that vice. Keller’s throat was cut, first, with a knife. Your knife. I’ve got it in a safe place, with Keller’s blood and your dabs on the handle.’

  It was like hearing the sentence of death.

  ‘Maybe I’ll go to the police,’ Woolf sneered. ‘It would be worth seven years to know you went for the long drop.’

  Rollison took out cigarettes, lit two, put one to the girl’s lips, drew on the other and stood up – and startled them both, for he was smiling as if amiably.

  ‘So that’s where my knife went. You’ve chosen the wrong man for the drop, Leo, I’ve booked that for you. What’s all this about?’

  ‘As if you didn’t know.’

  ‘Just tell me.’

  Woolf said, ‘She knows where the Riordon stuff is, half a million pounds’ worth. She knows where the keys are, too. I worked with her father. He got the stuff away – but she double-crossed me.’

  Rollison didn’t look round.

  ‘True, Liz?’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘Is it true, Liz?’

  She drew a deep breath.

  ‘Not—not the way he puts it. He was blackmailing my father, made him get the Riordon jewels. I discovered it at the last minute. I’d learned that he was going to betray father to the police. I don’t know where the stuff ’s hidden or where the keys are. I’m looking for the keys. I want to get everything and have the money waiting when my father comes out. That’s—the truth.’

  ‘Half a million pounds’ worth,’ mused Rollison. ‘And one of your big mistakes, Liz, the law is hard to cheat. Forget the Riordon stuff. I think the simple thing is to have the police in, and force a showdown.’