Poison For the Toff

by John Creasey

  ‘Rolly, darling!’ exclaimed Sheila, bursting into the sitting-room, ‘I only realised you’d been badly hurt this morning, and as I was coming to London I had to see you.’

  She put down a cardboard box with one hand and tidied away a stray tendril of red hair with the other.

  ‘Eggs!’ she announced with her usual buoyancy. ‘Laid this morning, just right for an invalid. I was afraid, in the excitement, I might forget them.’ Her eyes were brimming over with delight, and she gripped his hands. ‘This is really important!’

  ‘And the happy day?’ asked Rollison, gently.

  ‘Rolly!’ cried Sheila, in astonishment. ‘You’ve guessed! How incredible. But you’re not always right,’ she added, frankly, ‘you thought our marriage would be a flop, didn’t you? And it hasn’t been. I’m blissfully happy, though I wasn’t a bit sure I would like to settle down on a poultry farm. Have you ever thought of buying one?’

  ‘No,’ said Rollison.

  ‘I think you’d do well,’ said Sheila, judicially. ‘You’ve got the right temperament.’ She sat back and clasped her hands about her knees. ‘Rolly, isn’t it wonderful? About the end of November!’

  ‘Blessings,’ murmured Rollison.

  ‘And but for you, I doubt whether we would have got married,’ said Sheila, ‘so you do something useful sometimes, you see. Oh, that reminds me, can’t you help Mary?’

  ‘Mary Henderson?’

  ‘Yes. She’s absolutely miserable.’

  ‘I haven’t seen her for over a week,’ said Rollison.

  ‘Well, she ought to have called to see how you were,’ said Sheila, ‘but you mustn’t hold that out against her. It’s Tips. She’s madly in love with him.’

  ‘I doubt whether she could be madly in love with anyone, ‘ said Rollison drily.

  ‘You once thought that about me,’ said Sheila, ‘and you were quite wrong. She came down to the farm for two days, you know, and she looked ghastly when she arrived, but much better when she left again, and she told me everything. About Tips. He was absolutely all for her until your party, and then—well, do you know what he’s doing now?’

  ‘No,’ said Rollison, ‘but I’m quite sure you’re about to tell me.’

  ‘He’s taking Florence Hardy everywhere,’ said Sheila.

  Rollison laughed. ‘Well, why not stop worrying about Mary, who has broken as many hearts as ever you did, and rejoice with Florence – if rejoicing’s in order.’

  ‘I suppose that’s one way of looking at it,’ admitted Sheila, ‘but I can’t bear to see anyone unhappy. Still, Tips must be serious about Florence, I think, he’s given her an absolutely marvellous brooch, and—Rolly, what’s the time? Why, it’s nearly twelve o’clock, I’ve an appointment at twelve, I must fly. Good luck, darling, goodbye!’ She pressed his hands and hurried to the door. Halfway across the hall, she stopped and called: ‘Rolly!’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Will you be a godfather? Oh, I can’t stop, say you will, you must say you will.’ She stood in the doorway for a moment, wide-eyed and very appealing. Rollison laughed.

  ‘Gladly! But if you’ve an eye to silver christening mugs and it turns out to be twins I’ll change to porridge spoons!’

  ‘Bless you!’ cried Sheila, and blew him a kiss. ‘Goodbye, Jolly,’ she said, and hurried off, this time for good.

  When Jolly returned to the room, Rollison was studying the photographs of the jewels again. He looked up.

  ‘Jolly, do you happen to know where Mr Tippets and Miss Hardy go in the evenings?’

  ‘I haven’t the slightest notion,’ said Jolly.

  ‘Well, it would help me a lot if you acquired one,’ Rollison said with a grin. ‘I’m very interested in the jewels which Mr Tippets is presenting to his lady. Is it possible for you to find out for me?’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Gifts of Great Price

  Tips was a man of taste, and showed a nice discrimination in the restaurant where he took Florence Hardy on most evenings. It was the Kundle, and was neither a night club nor a popular restaurant, but a cross between the two. It was in a side street off Shaftesbury Avenue, and when Rollison went in with Katrina and Derek, three days after Sheila’s visit, there was the inevitable hum of conversation, yet an atmosphere of quiet, comfort and well-being.

  Rollison did not know it well, though well enough to ask for a table in the Oak Room.

  The head waiter’s eyes lit up.

  ‘I am very glad that its reputation has reached you, Mr Rollison, I think I can find a table there for you. Will you wait just a moment?’

  ‘This room would have done us quite well,’ said Derek,

  ‘There’s dancing upstairs,’ said Rollison.

  Derek shrugged his shoulders.

  It was the first time that he and Katrina had met Rollison since they had left his flat for their own, and they had accepted his invitation to dine with him, although he had the impression that neither of them were particularly enthusiastic. What was it they lacked? Spirit and life, in some degree, as if each was filled with secret thoughts, thoughts which neither dared to utter. The breach which had once seemed healed was in fact only patched. Now and again on the journey, by taxi, Rollison had seen Derek glancing furtively at his wife, and Katrina looking equally furtively at her husband. Both glances showed the lack of trust between them.

  They had been closely watched at Green Street, for Grice had determined to take no risk of Katrina being attacked again. Even tonight, two of his men had followed them to Kundle’s, and would later follow the couple home.

  While Katrina had been leaving her wrap in the cloakroom, Derek had said bluntly: ‘You’re not going to try to get anything more out of her, are you?’

  ‘It’s a closed book while she wants it closed,’ Rollison had answered. ‘But there’s one thing you ought to know.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The police have been very restrained,’ Rollison had told him. ‘They would be justified in taking a much stronger line. Don’t be too surprised if they do so.’

  ‘I’ll deal with the police,’ Derek had said.

  So now there was all the makings of a jolly evening, thought Rollison, a little grimly. Nevertheless he was in a state of curious excitement. Long shots always had that effect on him.

  The head waiter came back, all smiles.

  ‘There is a table, Mr Rollison, and I will see you upstairs a little later. I am sure you will find everything as you would like it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Rollison.

  He found the Oak Room a little different from his preconceived ideas about it. Pleasant and light, the tables were spaced well around a dance floor neither too large nor too small. An orchestra was playing softly, but only three couples were dancing. Rollison looked about the room swiftly, and as he expected, saw Tips and Florence sitting at a corner table. They appeared to be deep in conversation.

  Rollison waited until his party was about to pass them, then gave a start of surprise.

  ‘Why, look who’s here!’

  Katrina and Derek looked. Tips was leaning forward and talking earnestly to Florence. He did not appear to notice the newcomers.

  Rollison was watching Katrina. He caught the momentary narrowing of her eyes, saw her lips part and then close tightly together. She looked blankly at Rollison.

  ‘I do not understand you,’ she said.

  ‘Friends of mine,’ said Rollison, ‘I thought you’d met them. But we won’t disturb them now.’ He took Katrina’s arm and went on to their own table, wondering why she had pretended not to recognise Tips. Derek appeared to have noticed nothing.

  Rollison ordered champagne, but its sparkle did nothing to put new life into the others. Rather desperately he suggested that his guests should dance. They rose obe
diently.

  Rollison realised, almost at once, that dancing was in Katrina’s blood. He was surprised that Derek partnered her so well, so unobtrusively, making her the real performer so that his sturdy darkness became only a foil. It was more than dancing; it was moving grace, flowing movements, fascinating, exciting. Rollison glanced swiftly about the room, where there were some thirty couples now, and most people were looking towards the dance floor: towards Katrina.

  There was a hush over the room. The popping of a champagne cork, the tinkle of glass and cutlery, came only rarely, and seemed an offence. There was a haunting loveliness about the music, and Katrina reacted as if it were being played only for her.

  Katrina and Derek, dancing; in utter and complete unison.Rollison forgot the rest of the diners, forgot even Tips and Florence, as he watched Katrina. Sometimes he caught a glimpse of her expression, seeing in it the first real happiness he had seen in her face.

  It went on: there seemed no reason why it should end; then suddenly the music stopped. The magic was over, the spell broken.

  Near Rollison, someone said: ‘Marvellous!’

  Every eye was turned towards their table, even Tips and Florence had come out of their own absorption, and been caught up in the general enchantment. Tips immediately stood up, and Rollison, murmuring excuses to Katrina and Derek, went over to the other table.

  Florence’s bright eyes kindled at the sight of him.

  ‘Hallo, Rolly! I thought I’d never be able to look you in the face again!’

  ‘Guilty conscience?’ asked Rollison, lightly. ‘Hallo, Tips, You’ve found the best spot in London.’

  ‘It certainly seems like it,’ said Tips affably. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Recovering, though with less speed than I would like.’

  ‘You look well enough,’ said Florence heartlessly. ‘But Rolly, was that Katrina Morral? What superb dancing!’

  ‘A romantic performance,’ Tips said, with a faint smile. ‘She was certainly good, though.’

  ‘I feel that I daren’t dance again tonight,’ Florence exclaimed.

  ‘Unfortunately, with this leg, you’re safe from me,’ said Rollison with a grin, ‘or I’d take you up on such a provocative remark.’

  He saw the light sparkling from the ring on her engagement finger, and was surprised that things had gone so far between these two; but he could see from Florence’s expression that it was an occasion of some importance; she was bubbling over with delight, and could not wholly conceal it. He looked for the brooch which Sheila had mentioned, but it was half-concealed in a fold of her dress, and he could not see it clearly.

  ‘Oh, do look!’ whispered Florence, her gaze caught by something happening behind Rollison.

  He turned. A tiny pageboy, resplendent in uniform, gleaming buttons and white kid gloves, was walking towards Katrina. He was carrying a huge basket of flowers. The scent from them reached Rollison as he stood watching.

  ‘How sweet!’ said Florence, with a gusty sigh.

  ‘Romance is evidently in the air,’ Rollison murmured.

  The pageboy stopped in front of Katrina, bowed, and then put the flowers on the table before her.

  ‘A fitting tribute,’ Rollison murmured, his eyes kindling. ‘I wonder who sent them?’

  ‘She’s found a card,’ Florence said excitedly. She was only one of a great many who were smiling their approval at the charming interlude. Katrina was opening an envelope, looking young and happy, her customary gravity quite gone. Derek, too, had caught the spirit of the occasion, and was bending towards her eagerly.

  Rollison hardly saw anything of that.

  He was staring at Flo’s brooch, visible now that she was watching the Morrals. Tips, gazing at Katrina, did not see what had caught Rollison’s attention.

  The cluster of diamonds which formed the brooch was one of the clusters from the stolen relics; Rollison was prepared to swear to it. He had memorised the jewels too thoroughly to be wrong.

  He looked away, to find Tips staring at him with an odd expression in his eyes.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A Basket of Flowers

  ‘She is really beautiful,’ said Florence handsomely, as she turned her glance away from Katrina.

  Rollison put out a hand and touched the brooch.

  ‘It’s a night for beautiful things,’ he said, ‘I’ve never seen anything more lovely than this. I haven’t been able to keep my eyes off it since I saw it.’

  ‘So I’ve noticed,’ said Tips.

  ‘Do you really like it?’ asked Florence, immediately enthusiastic. ‘It is wonderful, I adore it. And—’

  ‘Not yet!’ muttered Tips. His voice was low. Nevertheless it held a note of command.

  Rollison had seen Florence move her left hand, as if to show her ring and to tell him of her engagement; and now she paused. For a moment she and Tips exchanged glances, and Rollison thought that Florence was momentarily scared, as if she had detected in Tips something she had not encountered before, something which was a shock as well as a surprise.

  ‘And I love beautiful jewellery,’ she amended. ‘Tips gave it to me for my birthday.’

  ‘And when were you twenty-one?’ asked Rollison.

  ‘Last Thursday!’

  ‘All very interesting,’ said Tips, ‘but I think your friends are calling you, Rollison.’ He seemed a little more curt than usual, although he added: ‘Shall we see you again soon?’

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me,’ said Rollison, and, patting Florence’s hand, he returned to Katrina and Derek.

  The spell of the dancing was still upon them. Here was a new and different Katrina; a creature of light as well as loveliness; for the first time Rollison heard her laugh. She welcomed him with a glowing smile, and pointed to the flowers.

  ‘Are they not wonderful?’

  ‘Yes, and well-deserved,’ said Rollison.

  ‘Thank you, Cousin Richard! Derek and I wished to say how glad we are that you brought us here!’

  ‘Splendid!’ said Rollison, ‘and you have been the sensation of the evening. Was there a note in the flowers?’

  ‘Yes – look. It says: Thank you for the magic of your dancing.’

  She handed the envelope to him; it was unaddressed. He opened it and took out a card. The writing was in red ink. Into Rollison’s mind there sprang a memory of the threatening letters, the first move to prevent anyone from trying to heal the breach between Derek and Katrina. The red ink on the envelope was clear in his mind’s eye. Whoever had tried to warn Old Glory off had failed, and then resorted to attempted murder. Red ink alone could be a coincidence, but the handwriting was the same.

  The next moment he had sprung to his feet. Snatching the flowers from the table he hurried across the room. Katrina stared after him in astonishment. Derek pushed his chair back, got up and took a step towards him, but stopped. Couples dancing moved hurriedly aside, and Rollison elbowed one man away from him, intent only on getting out of the room.

  It was the kind of bold, imaginative trick which had featured so often in the case. Someone whose mind worked very quickly was behind it. Lorne? More likely the man who had taken the photographs from the flat, but Lorne might have bought the flowers, on instruction.

  Rollison strode out, and almost cannoned into the head waiter.

  ‘Is there an empty room near here?’ Rollison demanded.

  ‘I don’t quite understand—’

  ‘An empty room,’ said Rollison. ‘These might go off.’

  ‘Go off—’ echoed the head waiter, and then, impressed by Rollison’s expression as much as his words, he nodded. ‘This way,’ he said, and turned and led the way along a narrow passage, with Rollison only a step behind him. He pushed open a door and stood aside. Rollison went into a large, barely- furnished roo
m.

  He put the basket of flowers on the table, and drew back.

  ‘Hadn’t you better come out, sir?’ asked the head waiter, nervously.

  ‘Yes,’ said Rollison, ‘but I don’t want these touched. Can you lock the door?’

  ‘If you seriously think they might “go off”,’ said the other, anxiously, ‘ought they not to be removed by the police?’ He paused, watching Rollison who was staring at the flowers, and added: ‘You do mean that you think they might explode, don’t you?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Rollison, ‘but it could be a more subtle trick than that. Telephone Scotland Yard, find out where Superintendent Grice is, and ask him to come here as soon as he can. If I’ve left, tell him exactly what happened – that’s if you don’t mind,’ he added with a quick smile.

  ‘Of course not, Mr Rollison.’

  The waiter locked the door, and they walked back towards the Oak Room. ‘You have a good memory for faces,’ Rollison said. ‘A tall, fair-haired man with exceptional physique, possibly with a beard – have you seen one about?’

  ‘I’m quite sure that I have not,’ said the head waiter.

  ‘Who sent the flowers?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know,’ said the head waiter. ‘I was told that a bouquet had been sent upstairs, but it is not unusual.’

  ‘Let us find the pageboy who took them up,’ said Rollison.

  The pageboy was a cherubic-looking youth, obviously selected by Kundle’s because of his air of round-eyed innocence. He had been in the hall when a gentleman had come downstairs, bought the flowers, written the card and told him to take them to the only lady in red in the Oak Room. As far as the lad remembered, he was a dark-haired man; yes, he was tall, a very handsome-looking gentleman indeed.

  ‘Did he use a fountain pen?’ asked Rollison.

  ‘Yes, sir, I remember seeing that.’

  ‘Well done,’ said Rollison. ‘Now, who else saw him?’

  They were then in the manager’s room, and the manager himself, who was most anxious to be helpful but was obviously nervous about the whole situation, sent the pageboy out to bring in the flower seller. Petite and self-assured, she clearly remembered the man who had bought the basket of flowers, because he had taken them into a writing-booth, which led off the entrance hall, and been inside for a few minutes.