Hunt the Toff

by John Creasey

  ‘No!’ cried Liz.

  Woolf sneered, but wasn’t happy.

  ‘Try it,’ he said. ‘Just see what happens. Can’t you understand plain English, Rollison? If the police get me, a witness will volunteer a statement about Keller. A friend of Keller’s who was at the village by appointment. Don’t make any mistake about it – his evidence will stand. He’ll have good reasons for not coming forward before. I didn’t take any chances when I was dealing with you, I knew this frame-up couldn’t fail. And it won’t. Do it the easy way. Make her tell you where the Riordon stuff is, and where the keys are. Then the witness won’t show up.’

  ‘And what about the other evidence you planted? Where’s the girl who passed for Liz? How did you get the fingerprints on the spanner?’

  Woolf chuckled, throatily, but more at ease – as if he sensed that Rollison was beginning to wilt.

  ‘She handled it, before we used it. Never mind who the girl was. She wore Liz’s shoes and Liz’s dress, and she answered to the same description. You could tell them apart all right, but that doesn’t matter. Forget her. There’s one way out for you, and I’ve told you all about it. Cut these ropes off me, and get busy.’

  Rollison didn’t speak.

  Liz said, ‘Rolly.’ The word sounded like a sigh, and her eyes were closed. ‘He’s too much for us, he’s too thorough.’

  ‘She’s dead right,’ sneered Woolf.

  When he stopped, there was silence – and into the silence there came sounds, a long way off, but from inside the house. A man was hurrying up the stairs, and reached the landing outside. All three stared towards the door, and the girl was holding her breath. Woolf ’s eyes reflected fear again, and his teeth were bared.

  A bell rang shrilly, and a man whispered at the front door – words which weren’t distinguishable in here.

  Rollison moved swiftly, into the dining-room and then into the tiny hall. The bell rang again. The police had seen whoever had come, might use this as a signal to close in.

  The man whispered urgently, ‘Elizabeth, open the door, let me in. I must see you – let me in.’

  It was Reginald Rowse.

  XIV

  SUDDEN DEATH

  Rowse paused for a moment, then whispered again, and kept his finger on the bell. The ringing sound from the kitchen seemed very loud.

  Was he alone?

  Was this a police trick?

  Rolfison couldn’t see Rowse helping the police to catch Marion-Liz; couldn’t see any reason why the police should send him. But he could understand them letting him come in; if he entered, they would follow and try to overhear whatever was said.

  Well, they were the likely tactics.

  ‘Liz! Let me in, it’s urgent.’

  Rollison didn’t answer; there was no sound from the bedroom, only the ringing from the kitchen. Then that stopped. Rowse thudded on the door with his fist, making it shake.

  If he came in, the police would soon be here.

  If he left thinking the place was empty, they’d probably wait for other callers.

  ‘Liz!’ cried Rowse in a louder voice.

  Anyone waiting downstairs would hear that.

  Rollison opened the door abruptly, gripped Rowse’s left wrist and drew him inside. Rowse gasped and staggered. Rollison closed the door, slipped the catch home again, said, ‘Wait!’ and hurried into the bedroom, grabbing a chair. He pushed this beneath the handle of the front door; it would take some time to break the door open.

  Rowse straightened up, and spoke hoarsely. Dim light from the room beyond showed him vaguely.

  ‘R—Rollison!’

  Rollison gripped his arms and led him into the bedroom.

  Rowse caught sight of Marion-Liz, and his muscles went rigid. The sheet hid her body and the scars, but couldn’t hide her fear or pallor. Then he saw Woolf, and backed, hitting against Rollison.

  ‘What is all this?’

  ‘Listen to me, and don’t lose your head. I’ve a job to do without police help. Liz is hurt, and can’t get away. Nor can our Mr. Woolf – know him?’

  ‘I’ve done a little business with him. Not much.’

  ‘You won’t do any more. He’s going to produce a witness to swear that Liz killed Keller.’

  ‘Why, I—’ Rowse went beetroot red, clenched his fist, and strode forward. Rollison grabbed his arm and pulled him back. ‘Let me get at him!’

  He tried to free himself.

  ‘Not yet. I want him out of here.’

  It wasn’t possible to get him out; forget it. That was another way of saying, ‘Forget that he has the knife with my fingerprints and Keller’s blood on it.’ His tone didn’t change as he went on:

  ‘Remember that Liz might be hanged if you do the wrong thing. The police will come after I’ve gone. If they don’t, go and fetch them – they’re watching. You came, found the door opened under pressure, they’ll believe that when they look at the lock. You talked to Liz, realised that as she can’t move freely, the only thing was to give her up.’

  Rowse’s face was still a flaming red.

  ‘Be damned to you! I can’t do it, I won’t do it!’

  ‘All right. Let her hang.’

  Woolf ’s light-grey eyes held desperation and uncertainty, Liz stared tensely at Rollison, Rowse raised his hands, as if to say that he didn’t know what to make of it.

  ‘How—how will it help?’

  ‘When I’ve got Woolf away, I can get at the truth. Don’t worry about how, I’ll—’

  He stopped.

  He heard a movement at the door of the bedroom, and swung round, his hand at his pocket. He couldn’t believe that the police had forced their way in silently. His heart raced – and then he saw a small man, handkerchief drawn up over his face and nose, gun in his right hand wrapped in another handkerchief.

  The man fired – at Woolf.

  The gun made a soft sneeze of sound. A small hole appeared on Woolf ’s forehead, Woolf made a coughing noise; then a rattle sounded in his throat. The little man swung round, slammed the door – and turned the key in the lock.

  Rowse cried, ‘You fool, you should have shot him!’

  He rushed to the door.

  Rollison said, ‘Take it easy.’

  He had to take it easy, and face new facts, which had come like a flash of lightning. New and damning facts – creating a new situation. Woolf wasn’t the only one in this murderous game. The small man had come deliberately to kill him. The man had obviously been hiding in the flat; Rollison hadn’t searched for anyone else – his one mistake, and a vital one.

  The shot had made little noise; unless the police were on the landing, they probably hadn’t heard it.

  Rowse was quivering with rage, the girl staring in horror at the dead man.

  Rollison went to the door, used a picklock and opened it cautiously. The door leading to the landing was open, the chair lay on its side. So the killer was prepared to run the gauntlet of the police. Then he heard a cry – another.

  ‘Hold him!’

  ‘Careful!’

  Rowse grabbed Rollison’s arm.

  ‘You fool, they’ll be here any minute, they—look!’

  He pointed, and the light was good enough to show the air pistol, lying on the red carpet of the dining-room. Footsteps thudded on the stairs.

  Rollison closed and locked the hall door, put the chair into position again, then drew Rowse inside the dining-room and locked that door.

  ‘Listen, Rowse, and don’t make any mistakes. Tell them exactly what happened – exactly, understand?’

  He heard a man shouting, ‘He killed him, I saw him!’

  He?

  Was the little man saying Rollison had killed Woolf?

  ‘I tell you it was Rollison!’

  Liz cried in a moaning voice, ‘What shall we do, what shall we do?’

  ‘Just tell them the simple truth,’ said Rollison. ‘All that Woolf threatened, all he did – and what the little man did. But don’t let them
in yet.’

  He picked up Woolf ’s wallet, with everything which gave the man’s name, and turned to the window.

  ‘Put out the light.’

  Men were in the room next door, now, thudding on this door. A voice was raised, ‘Open in the name of the law.’’ It was absurd, and it was deadly. The certain thing was that if he were caught, he would be remanded in custody. There would be fending and proving – and there was a deadly witness against both him and Marion-Liz, a witness who might still speak.

  ‘They’ll be in the street,’ Rowse gasped.

  Men thudded against the outer door, and it creaked.

  Rollison said again, ‘Put out that light!’

  Rowse obeyed, and Rollison pulled back the curtains, making little sound; that little was muffled by the noise at the door. It was a sash-cord window, and the room faced the street. He pushed the window up. The door creaked again, and Rowse trundled something heavy towards it. Rollison stood at the side of the window and looked out – and saw a uniformed constable on the pavement below. Light steamed out from a house opposite; Grice’s men had been over there, had left their hiding-place.

  The constable was staring at the front door.

  Rollison climbed out of the window, groped with his feet and found a foot-hold on the ledge above the window below. He lowered himself gradually. A drainpipe was close by, and he was able to get some support from it. There was a long drop, even from the top of this ground-floor window, and a pavement below; nothing to break a fall. He leaned sideways, putting most of his weight on the drainpipe, and his hands came upon a union. That gave him a firm hold. He moved one leg, and put it on the union below, then took the chance and clung to the drainpipe.

  He couldn’t see the constable now, and didn’t hear a sound.

  He slithered down. The Riley was waiting. Rollison let in the clutch and drove off, straight ahead, took the next right, then a left turn. He turned into a main road, feeling much cooler and calmer. The call wouldn’t be out for a few minutes yet. The police would find the dead Woolf, and if they knew who he was, would soon be at 27 Mayrick Court.

  How soon?

  Mayrick Court was a block of modern flats, behind Park Lane.

  Rollison stopped the car five minutes’ walk from the flats, and hurried along the deserted streets. Only a few cars passed, and one or two taxis, with their lighted signs up.

  A night porter was on duty, and the entrance to the flats was discreetly lighted. The hall was also dimly lit, with concealed wall lighting. The porter was sitting at a table, looking at some magazines. He got up quickly.

  Rollison said, ‘Good evening, I’ve an appointment with Mr. Woolf.’

  ‘I think he’s out, sir.’

  ‘I’ll go and see – someone will be in, I take it?’

  ‘Oh, yes – Mrs. Woolf and the maid.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I’ll take you up,’ said the porter, and headed for the lift; the light in there would be bright, they would be at close quarters.

  ‘I’ll walk, thanks, it’s only the first floor, isn’t it?’

  ‘Second floor, sir.’

  ‘I’ll still walk.’

  Rollison nodded and went towards the stairs. He didn’t glance round, but felt that the man was staring after him. With natural curiosity, or because he had recognised him? Rollison stopped just round the corner, and crept back.

  The porter sat down at the table again.

  Rollison hurried up the carpeted stairs. How long had be before the police arrived here? Ten minutes? More – or less. He’d taken everything by which Woolf would be easily recognised. Would Rowse and Marion-Liz have the nerve to stall? If they did, identification might take an hour or more, even longer.

  He reached the second floor.

  A wide passage stretched to the right and left, with carpeted floors, recesses, discreet wall lighting. The flats were luxurious, almost palatial. There were no directing notices. He turned right, passed Numbers 23 and 21, turned back and found Number 27 the second door on the left.

  He stood outside, listening.

  He heard no sound.

  He took out Woolf ’s keys, selected one Yale and tried it; it didn’t open the door. The second key did. Rollison pushed the door open gently, and stepped into darkness, relieved only by the light behind him.

  He closed the door, making a slight sound, and stood listening again. Woolf ’s wife and maid should be here; but he saw no light under any of the doors. He switched on the hall light.

  The hall was rectangular, spacious, with a few expensive watercolours on the walls. Several doors led off it, painted gold; five, in all. He went to the nearest, opened it, and saw a bedroom with a woman asleep on one of twin beds. She didn’t stir. He took the key from the inside, closed and locked the door, and tried again.

  He found himself in a book-lined room, a study or library.

  He locked all the other doors so that he couldn’t be taken by surprise from inside the flat now. He went back to the front door, and jammed a chair beneath the handle, then he turned towards the book-lined room. Woolf was most likely to keep records and papers in here.

  He wanted to find the girl who had passed herself off as Marion-Liz. Once he could do that …

  He went across to a large pedestal desk, a luxurious piece in walnut; everything here was walnut, and the walls were panelled. He switched on a desk-light, then sat at the desk and began to try the keys.

  XV

  POLICE PROGRESS

  The telephone bell woke Grice, just after twelve-thirty.

  He grunted and stretched out a hand, eyes heavy with sleep. He opened one, but there was no light.

  ‘Grice speaking.’

  ‘Middleton here, sir. I’m at Hilton Street.’

  ‘Have you got him?’ Grice started up.

  ‘Just missed him,’ Middleton said, ‘but we’ve got the girl. And another body.’

  Grice didn’t speak.

  ‘Did you hear?’ asked Middleton.

  ‘Yes. Not the girl?’

  ‘She’s in a bad way, but alive. Rowse is here, too, getting hysterical. I’d like to have another go at him while he’s like that. Will you come, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Grice put down the receiver and jumped out of bed, now wide awake. He flung on some clothes and left his bachelor flat ten minutes after he’d said ‘yes’.

  Several constables stood outside the house in Hilton Street, and made way for him to enter. A plain-clothes man was in the hall, and lights blazed from all the rooms. The downstairs neighbours were up, a man stood at the open door, questions in his eyes. Grice went straight up, and found Middleton in the little dining-room. A police-surgeon was here, Grice saw him bending over a bed in the next room, but couldn’t see who was on it.

  Rowse was sitting at the table, his hands clenched and his lips compressed.

  ‘Well?’ asked Grice.

  ‘He’s being difficult,’ Middleton said almost casually.

  ‘Difficult!’ cried Rowse. ‘I’ve told you everything I can. You damned police! All you do is make mistakes, thundering big mistakes, and look what you’ve let them do to Liz. Go and look!’ he shouted, and his eyes were bloodshot, his cheeks pale, a curiously milky colour. ‘Go and see what the devil did to her while you were waiting outside! Go on! See how proud you’ll be!’

  ‘What’s this?’ Grice asked.

  Middleton said, ‘It’s true, I’m afraid. There was a man with her. He’d burned her with cigarette-ends, to try to make her talk. She’s unconscious – nothing phoney about it.’

  ‘If you’d raided the flat earlier, it wouldn’t have happened,’ sobbed Rowse.

  Grice looked at him levelly.

  ‘Supposing you get yourself in hand, then—’

  ‘Don’t you talk to me like that.’ Rowse clenched his fists, looked hysterical with rage. ‘You remember you’re a public servant, I pay your wages. Pay you for letting a devilish thing like this happen to a girl wh
o—’

  He choked, and tears sprang to his eyes.

  ‘Wait downstairs for me, Mr. Rowse, will you?’

  ‘I damned well won’t! I want to know what you’re going to do with Miss Lane.’

  Grice went to the door and called, ‘Sergeant!’

  A uniformed sergeant came hurrying.

  ‘Take Mr. Rowse downstairs, have him wait for me,’ Grice said. ‘Come along, Rowse, I’ve too much to do to listen to hysterical young men.’

  He took Rowse’s arm.

  Rowse hit out and caught Grice a glancing blow, near enough the bruise on his chin to hurt.

  Grice said, ‘That’ll do. Charge him with assault, Sergeant, and hold him at Cannon Row.’

  ‘Why, you devil, you—’

  ‘Come along, now.’

  The sergeant was massive, and had a soothing voice and a powerful grip. Rowse started to struggle, but gave it up.

  The police-surgeon, bald as a billiard ball, with pink and shiny face, came in from the bedroom.

  ‘About time someone took that young man in hand,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks. What’s doing?’

  ‘The corpse is very much a corpse. Air pistol slug fired a fairly close quarters, and death was instantaneous. The girl—’ He shrugged. ‘She isn’t badly hurt, unless the trouble in her back is serious. It’s badly bruised, looks as if she had a kick. She’s unconscious. I’ve sent for an ambulance, and we’ll get her straight to hospital.’

  ‘When can she talk?’

  The police-surgeon shrugged.

  ‘Maybe tomorrow, maybe she’ll be semi-conscious for days.’

  Men were coming up the stairs, and the door was opened by a man in a long white coat, one of two ambulance men who came in briskly. The police-surgeon led them into the bedroom. He pulled back the sheet, to show Grice some of the scars.

  Photographers and finger-print men were busy; they’d finished with the girl, were now starting the routine on the man’s body. Middleton joined Grice.

  ‘Let me have it all,’ Grice said. ‘Have you identified the man?’

  ‘No, and there’s nothing in his pockets,’ said Middleton. ‘I can give you everything I know, sir. Rowse came here, about an hour ago. One of our men followed him to the foot of the stairs. He kept whispering for the girl, then disappeared. Our man stayed where he was – on instructions. Rowse would have been picked up as he left. But there was trouble we didn’t expect. Apparently two men were in the flat, as well as the Lane girl. This chap and a smaller man, who’s at the station. The smaller man, Nevett, says that Rollison was here, and did the shooting.’