The Toff In Town

by John Creasey

“I can well understand it. And that was the end of your adventures?”

  Allen’s next words read:

  “I wish I could say so. I don’t really know what happened, but I assume my guides and I ran into a hostile tribe—and the other side had modern weapons. We were shot up. I escaped—the only one left alive. I thought that really was the end, but there was a party of white men—mostly Americans—who were making a documentary film, and I met up with them.”

  “You just met up with them,” was the interviewer’s dry comment.

  “Yes. And they looked after me and eventually took me to Rangoon.”

  “Well, I won’t call you lucky,” the interviewer was to say, “but we’re all delighted that you came through, Mr. Allen.”

  That was the final part of the original script—and the part which Pauline wanted altered. Before Rollison could study her version, the taxi stopped outside his flat. Rollison paid the man off and went upstairs. Was he right to blame Allen for his present frame of mind? Wasn’t he much more to be pitied than blamed?

  He opened the front door, and was at once astonished—and delighted—for Jolly was speaking to someone in tones of unrestrained excitement.

  “. . . wonderful !” Jolly was saying. “Wonderful! . . . No, he’s not in at the moment but he will be shortly, and . . . Just a moment, here he is!” He took the receiver from his ear and beamed at Rollison. “It’s Snub!” he declared in high delight.

  That was the first time Rollison had ever heard him call Snub anything but Mr. Higginbottom.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CAT AND MOUSE

  “WELL, Snub,” said Rollison. “You all right?”

  “I could do with a square meal and I’ve a bump about as big as a dodo’s egg on the top of my cranium,” said Snub, “but apart from that, I’m fit. My good luck! I don’t know what’s come over these people, Roily, but they suddenly caved in.”

  “Caved in?”

  “Caught a wallop amidships and departed in pieces,” declared Snub. “Bit of a anti-climax, but I can’t say I’m sorry. They’d threatened all kinds of blood-curdling fancy tricks if I tried to get away, and I wasn’t looking forward to another love scene with the girlie——”

  “Which girlie?”

  “Why, Pauline,” said Snub. “She of the golden locks, the pink complexion and the black heart.” A subtle change came into Snub’s voice. “She’s a very nasty piece of work. I’ve had the wind up from one breeze and another in my time, but she knows how to make it a tornado. And all so sweet and sugary, too. But you’ve been at her, haven’t you?”

  “I tried some new tactics,” said Rollison.

  Snub chuckled, himself again.

  “So I gathered. Until an hour ago she was all claws and blood-curdles, but she’s become a different woman. Moral uplift from the Toff, I shouldn’t wonder. She came to see me and didn’t talk nicely about you, but I gathered that you’d done a bit of gun-spiking. You whisked Allen away from under her nose, didn’t you?”

  “More or less,” said Rollison.

  “And does she want that lad to broadcast to-morrow I It’s her one desire, give her that and she’ll leave you the rest of the world. She emphasised what would happen to you and me if Allen were kept away from the studio—you wouldn’t think a luscious lovely like Pauline could be obscene, would you? I was locked in a room in a small bungalow, near Guildford, heard a car move off, waited five minutes and then gave close attention to the lock. When I got out, the bungalow was empty. All she’d left behind her was her potent and powerful perfume. I always think you can tell the nature of the beast from the pomades, don’t you?”

  “Sometimes,” said Rollison. “Where are you now?”

  “In the bungalow. The exchange is Guildford, so——”

  He broke off suddenly, and Rollison heard his exclamation —which might have been of surprise or alarm. Rollison’s fingers tightened round the receiver and Jolly, his smile fading, stepped nearer to him.

  While talking into the telephone, there had been a fatuous grin on Snub’s face. It was partly due to the reaction from tension—for his experiences at this bungalow and at the garage in Lilley Mews had not been pleasant. And it was partly due to the fact that he was talking again to Rollison and letting himself go. He finished his story and heard Rollison say:

  Sometimes. Where are you now?”

  “In the bungalow,” he said. The exchange is Guildford, so——”

  And then he heard a sound behind him.

  He swung round in the tiny, square hall, and saw the little man who was called “Max”. And he also saw the gun in Max’s hand. A small cupboard in the hall stood open; the little fellow had heard everything Snub had said. Snub kept hold on the receiver, but for a few seconds—precious seconds—he was petrified, and could not speak. Had he not been weak and weary from a sleepless night and lack of food, he might have done much better.

  “Okay, I’ll take it,” said Max. He held out his hand, and Snub backed against the wall, still gripping the telephone. If he threw it at the little man, he might knock the gun aside. He raised his arm.

  “Now don’t get violent,” said Pauline, from behind him.

  She pushed him aside and took the receiver as it fell from his grasp. Max moved swiftly and hustled him away from the telephone, then stood back and kept him covered with the automatic. Pauline looked angelic then, and spoke in her most silvery voice.

  “Are you still there, Roily?”

  “Good-morning again,” said Rollison heavily. “Cat and mouse?”

  That’s exactly what it is. You see, I’m determined that Bob shall broadcast to-morrow night, and I thought you might be persuaded to let him, if you had a word from Higginbottom.

  We didn’t go far, just far enough to let him think that he was quite safe from observation, and then we came back. He does look sorry for himself—even worse than you did, and you know how bad you felt.”

  “I remember,” said Rollison.

  “And of course you might trace the bungalow,” said Pauline, “although I don’t think you’ll find it easy. I never think it’s wise to stay in the same place too long, though, do you?”

  “One gets into a rut,” said Rollison heavily.

  “You’re so understanding! We’re leaving, as I say, and of course taking Higginbottom with us. At least you won’t be able to say that you haven’t had a last word with him. It will be the last word, if Bob Allen doesn’t broadcast my version to-morrow. While we’re on the line, is there anything else you would like to ask me?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Rollison. “We’re still even, my pet. I’ve got Bob and you’ve got Snub; we’ll see whose bluff is the stronger.”

  “I really don’t care what happens to Snub,” said Pauline. “Well, I must fly. I——”

  She raised her hand to Max.

  He took a step nearer the telephone, and let out an eerie cry, as if he were being tortured, and the cry broke off with a strangled gasp.

  Pauline put the receiver back to her ear.

  “Poor Snub,” she said. “It’s such a shame, and it’s your fault really.”

  Then she rang off.

  Rollison did not enjoy the rest of that day.

  There was no need to ask himself whether Pauline’s nerve would hold out; it would. He did not seriously doubt that she would, if she thought it necessary, kill Snub.

  Farran, Rollison’s friend who had friends in the Meritor Motion Picture Company, called in the early evening. He was a tall, spare man with a beak of a nose and a bushy moustache. He had been able to discover little new about Pauline; she was being groomed for stardom and the general belief was that she would be a success. Nevertheless, she hadn’t many girl friends, and that, according to the informative Farran, was not solely due to the jealousy which almost invariably existed between starlet and starlet; Pauline had shown an utter ruthlessness in the film world, trampling over any and everybody who got in her way.

  “She looks as sof
t-hearted as they come, but she’s a deceptive piece,” said Farran.

  “Not your type, Roily. I’m surprised at you.”

  “I always like to try my improving influence,” Rollison said dryly. “What about this fellow she goes about with?”

  “Money,” said the friend, and sniffed.

  “Not in the picture business?”

  “Well, yes, in a way. Documentaries. Done some good stuff in India and the Far West, I believe. Just the man for Meritor Films:

  “Why?” asked Rollison, with quickening interest.

  “Well, Meritor are documentary specialists. Done a few comedies but no feature films. Then Merino arrives with money— he used to be a jewel merchant—and Pauline gets a contract for the lead in Meritor’s first feature. Curious fact, he took a flat above hers.”

  “Very interesting,” said Rollison. “Any little love-nest in the country?”

  Farran raised his eyebrows.

  “I wish I knew just why you’re so interested, Roily, she isn’t your type. No, as far as I could find out, no one’s ever heard of a country cottage. Town-lover and all that. She’s been at the same flat for a long time, it was hers before Merino arrived. I can’t get a whisper, apart from that. Sorry.”

  “Thanks for trying,” Rollison said warmly.

  “My dear chap. Pleasure! I say,” went on Farran, “If you want a spot of strong-arm help I’m around and about all the time.” He paused, hopefully. “No? Oh well, I suppose I ought to know better than to ask. Sure there’s nothing else I can do?”

  Rollison assured him that there was not, and Farran twirled his moustache and left.

  “That is very interesting news, isn’t it?” asked Jolly, who must have been very near the door.

  “I almost think we’re getting somewhere,” said Rollison softly. “Allen was rescued by a film party sent out by the Meritor Company. Where are the studios—any idea?”

  “As a matter of fact, sir, yes. They are near Epping Forest. But our first charge is the B.B.C.”

  “Oh yes, but the more irons in the fire the better. We could ask——”

  At that moment the front door bell rang, to herald Grice. He was spruce and brown and obviously prepared to be aggressive, for there was suppressed violence in his tone when he spoke to Jolly. He was astonished when Rollison sat him in a chair and proceeded to confess, without prompting, that he had persuaded Allen to “hide” until to-morrow night. And:

  “One or two of the other characters have taken a run-out powder, William! You don’t happen to know how good the Epping police are, do you?”

  “Very good. Why?” asked Grice, somewhat dazedly.

  Rollison leaned forward in conspiratorial fashion, and tapped his knee.

  “Could you tip them off to keep their eyes open for Pauline Dexter, who works at the Meritor Studio? One day she hopes to be an actress. Blonde, beautiful, brazen and bad boys’ comforter, she may be somewhere near the studio with one or two extras or small-part players or technicians. I don’t know anything much against the lady,” he added, “but if she’s seen around, and the Epping bobbies tell you, and you happen to let me know, I think it would show some results. On the other hand, if she or her entourage knew she was being watched they’d all run out on us. Savvy?”

  “I savvy,” said Grice dryly. “So, not satisfied with working independently, you now want us to help you.”

  “Confound it,” complained Rollison, “when I use Ebbutt’s bruisers you complain; now when I come clean, you advise me to call on Ebbutt again!”

  “I’ll speak to the Epping people,” promised Grice.

  “Now that’s friendly,” said Rollison.

  “But you can’t go on like this indefinitely,” Grice warned.

  He left soon afterwards, and Rollison sat back and surveyed the ceiling, feeling flat after the spurious excitement of the two interviews. At least he had now taken reasonable precautions against disaster for Snub.

  He called Jolly, and took out the B.B.C. script with the copy of Pauline’s alterations.

  “Pull up a chair, Jolly,” he said. “Let’s see what we can make of Pauline’s message to the programme’s ten million listeners.”

  “Or to a few among that number,” said Jolly prosily. “Supposing I make a copy of the amendments, sir—we already have two copies of the original script—and then we can study them separately and compare notes and suggestions.”

  “Copy on,” agreed Rollison.

  Jolly was speedy on the typewriter, and instead of sitting back and studying the original, Rollison stood behind him and watched the letters leap on to the blank white paper. Thus he read more slowly, and the new sentences were impressed vividly on his mind. These “new” passages were all at the end of the script, in those passages which Rollison had studied in the taxi. Jolly typed:

  ALLEN : I’d lost count of time, but kept hoping. I’d picked up a bit of the lingo by then, and one day gathered that a neighbouring, but hostile tribe, was coming to pay a visit. My little crowd was in a panic. They said this other tribe was armed with modern weapons, supplied by the Japs. My people decided to break camp. I slipped away from them during the night, and heard the fighting from way off.

  INTERVIEWER: You were glad to be out of it, I bet.

  ALLEN : Oh, yes. And by good luck, I found a way through one of the passes and met up with a small party of film people—mostly Americans—on their way to Rangoon after taking some shots for a travel film.

  INTERVIEWER : You were glad to be out of it, I bet.

  ALLEN: I certainly needed it I shall never forget seeing white people again, after so long. I shall never forget their faces, either. I hope to meet them all again one day—the sooner the better. We’ve a lot of memories to share.

  INTERVIEWER: YOU certainly have! Let’s hope you find them.

  Jolly finished typing, and took the paper from, the machine. Then they compared the new version with the old.

  “It looks very simple, Jolly, doesn’t it?” Rollison said at last. “In one way, sir,” agreed Jolly. “It conveys a clear message— that Allen would like to get in touch with the men concerned, that he remembers them, and that they have something which they ought to share with him. Do you agree, sir?”

  “I don’t see what else it can mean. And if Pauline knows her job, she’ll make sure that the people for whom the message is intended will hear it. They’ll be warned in advance to listen to Allen that night, and they’ll probably obey. There’s a threat in the message too—that Allen would recognise all of them again. I can’t imagine the B.B.C. arguing against this, can you?”

  “I see no reason why they should,” agreed Jolly. “And I don’t see how it would help us if they did.”

  Rollison said: “I think I do, Jolly.”

  “Indeed, sir? How?” When Rollison did not answer, and by his silence exhorted Jolly to think, the latter went on slowly: “We have only the vaguest notion where Snub has been. You know, sir, in spite of everything, I’m coming to the conclusion that we would be wise now to tell the whole story to Scotland Yard. We won’t find Snub or the girl, but the police might. I really don’t think you told Mr. Grice enough. Is there any other chance of getting results, sir?”

  Rollison half-closed his eyes and looked at the ceiling.

  “We can’t find Snub, there isn’t time and we haven’t a clue. But we do know that Pauline is desperately anxious for this particular message to be broadcast to-morrow. She’s gone to extreme lengths to make sure of it. Everything she’s done proves that it’s her priority Number One. And she told me that she would have a stooge in the B.B.C. studio who would make trouble if it weren’t broadcast in this version. Right?”

  Jolly did not speak.

  “And I believe she will do that,” said Rollison. “I think she’s proved up to the hilt that she’ll take any risk to get that message put over. And I think she’ll send someone whom Allen knows to the studio, someone who will put the fear of death into him, to make sure that he
doesn’t get cold feet at the last minute.”

  “Possible, sir,” conceded Jolly.

  “Jolly, we must find Pauline or someone who can lead us to Pauline, or we’re lost. If her stooge is in the studio, we must find a way to force his hand. But if we tell the police, they’ll have to prevent the broadcast. Grice couldn’t gamble on a quick showdown in the Aeolian Hall. If he did . . .”

  He broke off at a sharp rat-tat on the front door which cut across his words. Jolly moved quickly, but Rollison reached the hall before him. He switched on the light and saw a white envelope lying on the mat. He strode to the door opened it; there was a distant scuffling movement; whoever had brought that note had gone. Rollison rushed downstairs and into the street, calling:

  “Perky!”

  He saw Perky Lowe’s cab a few yards along, but Perky didn’t make a move towards him. He thought he heard running footsteps but could see too one, for the lighting in Gresham Terrace was very poor.

  “Perky!” He hurried to the cab, but still the driver did not move.

  Rollison saw why a moment later. Perky had been struck on the back of the head, blood matted his hair, and he was slumped forward over the wheel.

  Perky Lowe came round when Rollison reached the flat with him, and Jolly helped to carry him to the sofa. He vaguely remembered a man coming along the street and asking if he were free, but he wouldn’t recognise him again. He’d said “no” —and had then been struck on the back of the head by someone who had approached from behind.

  “But never mind abaht me,” he insisted. “I’m okay, Mr. Ar. You ‘ad any luck?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Rollison, looking at Jolly, who had doubtless opened the letter.

  “I’m afraid not, sir,” said Jolly. He took the letter from the desk and handed it to Rollison. Perky watched, with bloodshot eyes. Jolly stood erect and at attention, as he always did in moments of crisis. And Rollison read:

  “The police will find Merino’s body; and the gun, with his finger-prints on it; and impeccable evidence that he shot Merino. But you can have the gun and the evidence after the broadcast on Saturday night, if it all goes well.”