Stars For The Toff t-51

by John Creasey

  “He used to be a nice enough boy, though he was always weak. Couldn’t stick to anything and easily influenced. Well, I’m afraid he got into a bad set, and turned into the black sheep of the family. I gave him a job in the firm hoping he’d pull his socks up—but he didn’t.”

  “Go on,” said Rollison.

  “Well, one day I discovered he’d been dipping into the till as it were. A great deal of company money had been finding its way into his pockets, and I dare say your aunt’s cheque was part of it. That’s another reason why we’re broke. Oh well, it never rains but it pours.”

  “We didn’t prosecute,” added Ted. “After all, he is Mike’s brother. And we didn’t want that kind of publicity. But we’ve got it now,” he went on gloomily.

  “ We ’ re the people associated in the public’s mind with Madam Melinska’s’—he corrected himself— “Mona s swindle. Oh, all right, Mike, Lucy’s swindle. No one’s going to invest with us now. If we could only keep going for another six months or so we might weather it—but what with Lucy helping himself so liberally, and now this, we haven’t a hope.” He looked at Fraser and shrugged helplessly. “Oh well, we did try.” Then making a brave attempt at flippancy, he turned to Rollison. “You haven’t got thirty thousand pounds to spare, have you?”

  Rollison stared at him, blankly.

  “Damn it, can’t a man make a joke?” demanded Jackson. “Pretty good effort in view of the state of the market.”

  “Wait!” cried Rollison. “Wait!” He sat staring at the two men as if he could see right through them, then said in a strained voice: “Get me Roger Kemp on the telephone, will you? His number is . . .” As he waited, he still stared and a new hope began to put fresh blood in his veins. “Roger? . . . Roger, what would happen if Madam Melinska did put the money into Space Age Publishing? . . . The police wouldn’t have a case, then, would they . . . ? You’re quite sure? . . . Well, well, well!” He beamed up at Fraser and Jackson. “No, don’t go. Roger, I told you about these people who’ve sent all this money for Madam Melinska’s defence; there’s no reason why she shouldn’t invest it in Space Age Publishing, is there? . . . No legal reason why the money shouldn’t be used that way? . . . Wonderful!”

  He rang off.

  Ted Jackson was at the door.

  “Jane, call the works, tell ‘emwe’re going on—fix the advertisements we cancelled. Yes, we can guarantee them, we’re back in business!” He swung round.

  Michael Fraser was gripping Rollison’s hand.

  “It’s the nearest thing I’ve ever known to a miracle,” he said. “I can’t thank you enough.”

  “Don’t try,” said Rollison. “One condition— that once you’re back on your feet, all the people who’ve subscribed get their money back—or equivalent shares in Space Age Publishing.”

  “Guaranteed!” cried Jackson. “Wait until the world hears about this.”

  “But the world mustn’t hear,” said Rollison firmly. “At least, not yet. I want this to be sprung in Court.”

  * * *

  Olivia Cordman looked up from her office desk in a small room near High Holborn. Her spectacles gave her a touch of severity; here she was very much the editor. Rollison rounded the desk, took her hands, pulled her to her feet and kissed her.

  “Rolly! I didn’t know you felt like that!”

  “That was just a “thank you” kiss,” said Rollison. “Here’s one to say: “You’re the most perspicacious woman’s feature editor in the world.”“

  It was several seconds before he let her go. When at last he released her, she drew back, breathless. “Rolly, you idiot, what on earth’s all this about. Whatever’s happened?”

  Rollison told her.

  * * *

  There was not an inch to spare in Court on the morning of the second hearing, but this time Rollison sat on a bench behind Roger Kemp and Bartolph. In the public gallery Lady Hurst contrived to look as if she had enough room. The newspaper benches were overflowing. When Nimmo came in, brisk and businesslike as ever, the oak-panelled room was as crowded as the London Underground during the rush hour. Almost as soon as Nimmo sat down, the door beneath the dock opened and first Madam Melinska and then Mona appeared. The formalities were over in almost record time.

  “How do the defendants plead?”

  “Not guilty, your honour,” said Sir David Bartolph. “With your permission, sir, I would like to submit evidence forthwith and to plead that there is no case to answer.”

  Nimmo looked across at Clay, sitting with the Public Prosecutor’s solicitor.

  “What have the police to say?”

  “We have more than enough evidence to justify asking for a committal for trial,” the Public Prosecutor’s man said, while Clay looked almost smug.

  Nimmo darted a glance from one to the other. “I’m quite sure you wouldn’t waste the Court’s time, Sir David.”

  “Thank you, your honour. I shall most certainly try not to. The facts of this case are simple. The accused are charged with misleading investors about the value of shares in a company known as Space Age Publishing, Limited, and also with misappropriating money paid for the shares bought on their advice. I herewith submit two facts and, if you wish, can produce witnesses to testify. First, that capital representing the full face value of the shares under discussion has been placed at the disposal of Space Age Publishing, Limited, by Madam Melinska. Second, that the orders received by Space Age Publishing, Limited are more than sufficient to ensure a profitable trading year and the payment of a dividend which will be guaranteed. In view of these facts I do not think there is a case to answer.”

  Sir David Bartolph sat down.

  Rollison had heard him and taken everything in, but had hardly seen him, for Madam Melinska’s eyes were turned towards him, Rollison, and there was such benignity in them, such gratitude, that he could not look away.

  Suddenly it dawned on him that the Court was in an uproar.

  Over on the Press benches, Olivia Cordman was jumping up and down excitedly. The crowded public benches were a mass of laughing, waving women. As the news spread, the queues of people stretching for nearly half a mile in each direction began to cheer; the police were helpless, traffic jammed and stayed jammed, and it seemed as if the cheering would never stop.

  It was three hours before it was safe for Madam Melinska, Mona and Rollison to venture out, and Lady Hurst was waiting at the Marigold Club when they arrived.

  “I must say I am very pleased with you, Richard,” she said. “It was highly gratifying. Don’t you agree, Madam Melinska?”

  “I do indeed,” Madam Melinska said, taking Rollison’s hands in hers. “Mr Rollison, you will never really believe in your heart, you will always have doubts, and this is you, and I would not have it otherwise. Yet you are a man of great faith. What other man would attempt so often those tasks which the world believes are impossible?”

  She paused, then drew him forward and kissed him on either cheek.

  Rollison’s aunt wiped away what looked remarkably like a tear.

  * * *

  “And now there’s nothing left for you to do,” said Olivia gaily.

  Rollison looked across a dining-table at the Savoy Grill, where she sat happy and slightly flushed with wine.

  “Don’t you believe it,” he said. “Now that I’m on the board of Space Age Publishing I have to make sure that all those little people get full value for their money. I had a talk with Mona, by the way. As Jackson thought, the girl was completely infatuated with Stride, and prepared to do anything he asked. It was he who thought up this little investment racket, and so under his thumb was she that she agreed. But she’s come to her senses at last— and given Michael Fraser a cheque for every penny of the money she had from Madam Melinska’s clients.”

  “So they’ll get their investments in Space Age Publishing after all,” said Olivia. “And Mike will get the investment money as well as Madam Melinska’s defence money. That ought to put him back on his fe
et.” Suddenly she looked grave. “But poor Mr Abbott—if it hadn’t been for Mona he would never—”

  Rollison interrupted her. “It wasn’t because of the money he lost that Abbott committed suicide. He’d plenty to spare. After all, he left his wife pretty comfortably off, didn’t he— especially judging by all that jewellery the Webb brothers had their eye on. I’ve been having another chat with Michael Fraser—he used to be engaged to Mona and knew the family pretty well—and he says that Mrs Abbott’s possessiveness grew and grew until it was almost a disease. Abbott felt he just couldn’t stand it any longer. And you remember—” Rollison looked across at Olivia— “it was this same possessiveness that drove Mona away from home.”

  “But Mrs Abbott told us—” Rollison raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Oh yes, she told us he’d killed himself because of the money he’d lost—in point of fact I think she’d fooled herself into really believing it, just like she’d fooled herself into believing that Madam Melinska had come between her and Mona— but this was because she simply couldn’t face up to the truth.”

  “So she built up a great big hate against Madam Melinska and paid the Webbs to dig up anything they could that would reflect against her?” asked Olivia.

  “She did. But it was Lucifer Stride’s little scheme for making easy money that the Webbs dug up—although they didn’t know that it was Stride’s scheme. In Mrs Abbott’s favour, all the evidence did point to Madam Melinska’s guilt.”

  “She should have known Madam Melinska wouldn’t do such a thing,” said Olivia flatly. “I knew. But there’s still an awful lot unexplained. Who tried to run Lucifer Stride down outside your flat? Who tried to run you down? Who murdered Mrs Abbott? Who attacked Lucifer and Jolly—?”

  “Easy, easy,” teased Rollison. “Not so many questions at once.”

  “—the night I was kidnapped,” finished Olivia. “Don’t be a beast, Rolly. You know I’m dying to hear.”

  Rollison laughed at her eagerness. “Okay, I’ll tell you. Four answers in one. The Webb brothers. You remember that Stride was pretending to work with them in order to find out if they’d discovered that it was Mona, and not Madam Melinska, who’d stolen the investment money?”

  Olivia nodded.

  “Well, the Webbs hadn’t found out about Mona—but they did find out that Stride was spying on them. They didn’t know what information he was after and they didn’t know whether or not he’d got it, but as they’d been pretty bad boys one way and another they got thoroughly rattled and thought they’d better dispose of him. Their first attempt was when they tried to run him down in Gresham

  Terrace—the second was when Bob came to rescue his brother from the flat, and found Stride talking to Jolly.”

  Olivia frowned. “What about the attack on you?”

  “Once the Webbs had got all the information they could get regarding Madam Melinska, their job was finished. Mrs Abbott had stopped paying them, and they were a bit pushed for cash—so, knowing about the jewellery, they decided to break into her flat and help themselves. Mrs Abbott came back unexpectedly, one of the brothers panicked and strangled her, and they both took to their heels—” Rollison’s voice hardened— “running down Charlie Wray in the process. When they were back at 5 Hill Crescent Road, Bob discovered that he’d dropped his wallet. Afraid he’d left it at the flat, he came back to look for it, but couldn’t find it—panicked still further, and decided to burn the place down.”

  “Did he drop it at the flat?” asked Olivia.

  “He did indeed. According to Clay, the ambulance men found it on the bed underneath the body. It must have fallen there during the struggle. And lucky it was that it did,” added Rollison, “it was only when the police finally identified this wallet that the brothers broke down and decided to tell the truth.”

  “But you,” urged Olivia. “Why did they attack you?”

  “Well—” Rollison sipped his wine— “as Bob Webb left Mrs Abbott’s flat for the second time, he saw me arrive—then, half an hour later, the police. Talking it over, the two brothers convinced themselves that, during that half-hour, I must have found the missing wallet. So they paid me a visit, Bob waiting outside in case I’d seen him leaving the flat and might recognise him, Frank waving a gun at me on the stairs. When Frank didn’t come out but I did, Bob trailed me to the Embankment, and it was then that he tried to run me down. After that he went back to Gresham Terrace to rescue his brother. And the rest you know.”

  “So it was the Webbs, and they weren’t telling us the truth,” said Olivia slowly. “And to think they had me prisoner,” she shivered. “And yet—” she paused— “the statements they gave us tallied so exactly.”

  “Once they knew you were on their trail they guessed there might be trouble,” said Rollison. “So they concocted their story. Half truth, half lies—it sounded more authentic that way. It all seems so obvious now—but if Stride hadn’t talked, and if the police hadn’t found that wallet—”

  “Oh well, you’d still have saved Madam Melinska,” cried Olivia happily, “and after all, the rest doesn’t really matter, does it? By the way, what made you think it might have been Mona who had the money?”

  “A false clue, actually,” admitted Rollison.

  “Or at least, a clue to the murder of Mrs Abbott, and not to the missing money—only I didn’t realise it.”

  “What was the clue?” demanded Olivia.

  “Mona’s diamond brooch and ear-rings. And bracelet. They cost a good three thousand between them and I couldn’t see Stride, or even Mike Fraser, giving them to her. In point of fact they were presents from her aunt, who had a great deal of jewellery. Had I known about this I’d have realised there was another motive for murder besides the dossier.”

  “Well, it’s all sorted out now,” said Olivia. “Has Mona gone back to Rhodesia with Madam Melinska?”

  Rollison shook his head. “No, Madam Melinska went on her own. Mona’s staying with Michael Fraser’s secretary Jane—I told you that Mona and Michael used to be engaged, didn’t I?”

  Olivia nodded.

  “They make a nice-looking couple,” Rollison added genially. “I shouldn’t be surprised—”

  “What an old matchmaker you are,” laughed Olivia, interrupting him. “Just like a Virgoan. But it’s no use trying to change you. Anyway—” she lifted her glass to him— “here’s to you, the way you are.”

  The End

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  John Creasey

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