Poison For the Toff

by John Creasey

  ‘So you didn’t see him write,’ said Rollison.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Did he use a fountain pen?’ asked Rollison, thinking of the round-eyed page and wondered whether the lad had called too freely on his imagination.

  ‘Oh yes, I saw him take out a fountain pen, sir,’ said the girl.

  ‘Good!’ said Rollison. ‘And what was he like?’

  ‘He was a very handsome gentleman, tall and dark,’ said the girl. ‘He has been here on several evenings, sir,’

  ‘Alone?’ asked Rollison.

  ‘Oh no, sir.’

  ‘Always with the same companion?’

  ‘Yes, sir, always the same lady.’

  ‘Do you know his name?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir.’ The girl looked at the manager for a moment, and then, as if encouraged, went on: ‘I think I know his first name, sir, the lady often used it. It was an unusual name – Cedric.’

  ‘Ah!’ exclaimed Rollison in high delight. ‘Now do you remember the lady’s name?’

  ‘He usually called her “darling”,’ said the girl, apologetically. ‘I don’t remember him using any other.’

  ‘That isn’t unusual,’ said the manager, unnecessarily.

  ‘No,’ said Rollison drily. ‘What was she like?’

  ‘Very pretty, sir. Tall and fair – well, fairish.’

  The girl was unable to give him more information, except that she knew the couple had not been there every night. She could not remember which nights they had missed, but suggested that the attendant in the gentleman’s cloakroom might be able to help.

  ‘Tell Carter to come in here,’ said the manager, rather desperately. He turned to Rollison. ‘You haven’t forgotten the possible danger from the flowers, Mr Rollison, have you?’

  ‘No,’ said Rollison, ‘but we must wait for the police. Bright girl, the flower seller,’ he added, ‘in fact the whole staff is very good.’

  A momentary gleam of satisfaction crossed the manager’s wintery expression.

  ‘I select them personally,’ he murmured.

  ‘Congratulations!’ said Rollison.

  The cloakroom attendant, a grey-haired, dignified-looking man in a spotless white suit, came in, faced the manager, and asked in a Shakespearian voice how he could be of assistance. He was, undoubtedly, a ‘character’; Rollison placed him as a small-part actor who found Kundle’s more remunerative than provincial theatres with a walking on part.

  He had no difficulty in remembering ‘Cedric’.

  ‘A remarkably finely-built, good-looking gentleman, sir,’ he said, ‘and most generous, if I may say so.’

  ‘Do you know his name?’ asked Rollison

  ‘I regret, sir, that I do not.’

  ‘Can you remember the occasions when he came here with his lady friend?’

  ‘Would it be of equal assistance, sir, if I told you when he did not come?’ Keen blue eyes behind bushy eyebrows were turned intently on the Toff.

  ‘Certainly it would, very much so,’ Rollison told him.

  ‘Then, sir, he was not here on the day of your birthday party, of that I am quite sure.’

  ‘My party?’

  ‘Of which I read in the morning newspapers on the subsequent day,’ said Carter, smoothly, ‘and I would like to add my felicitations, sir.’ He bowed. ‘He was here the evening before that and the evening after that when, if I may say so, his companion seemed somewhat jaded, as if she had suffered some acute disappointment.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Rollison.

  ‘He was here, with the lady, one night,’ said Carter, ‘and then he did not come again until the night before last. He was also here last night and, of course, tonight, and he left soon after he sent the flowers to the lady in red,’

  ‘With his companion?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  By then the manager had finished telephoning his staff for any further information. It appeared that the man known only as Cedric had been coming to the restaurant over a period of three or four months, not always with the same companion until recently.

  So Rollison wanted to know whether any of the staff could describe his earlier companions.

  He was not surprised that the manager was showing signs of nervous impatience; the man was obviously picturing the basket of flowers exploding and a room being ruined, and he began to fidget. Then Grice came in. The manager at once became voluble. He must insist, he really must insist, though willing to give every possible assistance to the police, that the flowers be removed from the premises immediately.

  ‘That’s fair enough,’ said Grice.

  The manager heaved a sigh of relief.

  ‘I appreciate your consideration very much indeed, Superintendent. I will have you escorted to the room.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Rollison. ‘I know the way.’

  He led Grice up the stairs and along the passage, well aware that they were being eyed by lurking members of the staff eager for every crumb of sensation. Grice asked questions, Rollison answered them briefly, and they reached the door of the room.

  ‘After you, Rolly,’ said Grice, drily.

  ‘A policeman with the jitters?’ murmured Rollison, opening the door.

  ‘The flowers are probably quite harmless,’ said Grice confidently.

  ‘A very elastic little word, “probably”,’ said Rollison as they went inside.

  There the flowers were, fresh, beautiful and undisturbed, and it did not seem possible that there could be danger in their fragile petals. Even Rollison had doubts about it. Grice went forward, lifted the basket cautiously, and held it to his ear.

  ‘No tick-tick-tick of an infernal machine,’ said Rollison. ‘I’ve listened for that.’

  ‘Do modern infernal machines tick?’ asked Grice, lightly. ‘I—’

  The pageboy appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Mr Rollison, sir, there’s a gentleman asking for you, and he says it’s urgent.’

  ‘Where is he?’ asked Rollison.

  ‘Waiting at the end of the passage, sir,’ said the lad.

  Rollison glanced along the passage, curiously. Derek was standing there, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. At sight of Rollison he took a step forward.

  Grice, meanwhile, took a flower from the basket, then another. The third one came with difficulty. As it left the basket there was a flash and a loud explosion. Grice fell back with a cry, while the blast hurled the boy and the two men crashing to the ground.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Search for Cedric

  Only Grice was hurt.

  He was so badly injured that there seemed little hope that he would live. Shocked members of the staff helped Rollison to carry him downstairs, where he was taken into a small room until an ambulance and a doctor arrived. The doctor came first and was non-committal. He said briefly that he could do little until the patient was in hospital. The manager, acting swiftly, prevented any of the diners from entering the hall until Grice was taken away, but a rumour of the accident spread quickly, reached the Oak Room where Tips and Florence were still dancing, and brought Tips hurrying into the hall. He found Rollison talking to a constable.

  ‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed Tips. ‘Someone told me you were hurt.’

  ‘Not me – Superintendent Grice,’ Rollison said briefly.

  ‘Oh. Bad show.’

  ‘Bad show,’ echoed Rollison, and added savagely: ‘Not so bad as it will be for—’ He broke off abruptly, and turned away. Tips shrugged his shoulders and asked whether he could help.

  ‘Not now, thanks,’ said Rollison, curtly.

  He watched Tips ambling away, wondering whether he were right to assume that he knew where the jewels in the brooch had come from.

 
The disaster had completely subdued the manager. An Inspector Hill had been sent from Scotland Yard. He looked tired and anxious as he began an exhaustive interrogation of the staff. The fact that one of his own colleagues had been hurt, had naturally affected him deeply.

  Rollison went to the telephone and rang up the Westminster Hospital. He was told that there was no change in Grice’s condition. Moodily, he replaced the receiver.

  ‘I am so very sorry,’ said the manager.

  ‘Yes,’ said Rollison. He looked bleakly at the door, and showed only mild interest when Derek appeared.

  ‘How is he?’ asked Derek.

  ‘No report yet.’

  ‘Any hope?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Derek said: ‘Words aren’t much use. If it hadn’t been for you, Katrina—’ He broke off.

  Rollison said more gently: ‘Yes, of course, Derek. That’s something to be glad about. How is Katrina?’

  ‘As she was before,’ said Derek. The manager melted tactfully away, as he went on passionately: ‘For the first time since this damnable business started, I thought tonight that she was coming back to her real self. You saw her! She used to be always like that, and now—’

  ‘It will come back,’ Rollison said. ‘You know she is terribly afraid, don’t you?’

  Derek said heavily: ‘I know that there’s something very seriously wrong.’

  Rollison said: ‘Katrina knows that she is in danger, that at any time she might be killed. She is never safe, and after tonight—’ He broke off with a shrug. ‘Can you be surprised if she just withdraws into herself? She must be terrified.’

  Derek said passionately: ‘If only she would tell me what the trouble is!’

  ‘She will, one day,’ said Rollison, feeling useless. ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘Still at the table.’

  ‘You’d better go to her,’ said Rollison. ‘And after this, she’ll have to be watched carefully. You, too. Go back to her now.’

  Derek went off, his shoulders hunched. Rollison watched him, his expression set and hard.

  In spite of the obvious danger to Katrina, in spite of the discovery that Lorne often appeared as a dark-haired man, and not the blond whom Rollison knew, in spite of the discovery of Florence’s brooch and his suspicions of Tips, there was only one over-ruling thought in his mind: how was Grice?

  Grice’s injury was his, Rollison’s, fault.

  If he had made sure that Grice had not touched the flowers, it would not have happened. He had been convinced that the flowers were dangerous. From the moment he had seen the handwriting in red he had been sure of it; but he had let Grice play the fool. It was useless to tell himself that Grice was a responsible person who should have known better.

  It was his fault.

  ‘Is there anything else I can do, Mr Rollison?’ asked the manager, approaching him with some diffidence. ‘I will gladly do anything, anything at all.’

  ‘You’re very good,’ said Rollison. ‘I ought to be doing more myself.’ He looked down at the odd slips of paper on which he had taken notes of the information he had obtained from the pageboy, the flower seller and Carter. Talking to himself, he began to put them in some sort of order, and by checking one statement against another he found that it was possible to be reasonably certain when Cedric Lorne had been at Kundle’s. There was the notable fact that he had not, of course, been there on the night of the party; nor on two other nights, earlier that week.

  One of the notes caught his attention particularly:

  Lorne’s companion under the weather day after party. Very pretty woman.

  He read it again and again, because it interested him more than any of the others. It was as if the words were trying to convey a hidden meaning, but his mind was too confused to grasp it. He kept seeing a mental picture of Grice reeling back from the flowers, and the dreadful sight of his face.

  He moved suddenly, stretching across the manager, who leaned back, startled. He lifted the telephone, and there was a different expression in his eyes; it was as if he had returned to life. He dialled his own number, and when Jolly answered, he said: ‘Call Mrs Gregory – Sheila Gregory – Jolly, and ask her what nights Miss Henderson was staying with her.’

  ‘It is rather late, sir, a little after one o’clock,’ suggested Jolly primly. ‘Shall I risk getting Mrs Gregory out of bed?’

  ‘Risk anything,’ said Rollison.

  ‘Has anything gone wrong, sir?’ asked Jolly, in alarm.

  ‘Yes. Grice is badly injured. Find those dates, Jolly.’

  ‘At once!’ said Jolly.

  ‘And then tell the Yard I may want help at Mary Henderson’s flat,’ said Rollison. He replaced the receiver, settled his bill, and hurried downstairs. A police-sergeant was in the hall, and two or three parties were leaving the restaurant. The sergeant, on Rollison’s suggestion, was there to watch and to follow Tips and Florence, so obviously they had not left yet.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Morral have gone, sir,’ the sergeant told him, ‘and Edwards has followed them.’

  ‘Good,’ said Rollison. He nodded briefly and strode out of the hotel.

  There were several taxis waiting outside. Rollison hailed one of them.

  ‘Evercourt Mansions, Chelsea, second entrance. And move fast.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  In a little over ten minutes, Rollison was outside Mary Henderson’s flat. Telling the cabby to wait, he hurried into the foyer. A night porter looked up, but Rollison did not wait to speak to him. Mary’s flat was on the second floor, and he had been there several times. Now as he went along the passage, he saw a light shining through the fanlight above her door.

  He stood outside, listening, but could hear nothing.

  He examined the lock of the door; it was a Yale, which could only be opened with great difficulty. He felt an overpowering desire to break in and find out whether Mary was on her own, or whether Lorne was with her. If it was she who had been Lorne’s companion recently, then she had been at Kundle’s that night.

  He looked up at the fanlight; it was ajar.

  Further along the passage was a chair. He brought it to the door, climbed up, and found that he could reach the fanlight, which opened easily turning on hinges which were set near the ceiling. He pushed it to its widest, and found that it was self-locking. He hoisted himself up further, leaning through into the hall of the flat.

  The doors surrounding it were closed, but he could now hear voices.

  He squeezed himself further through the fanlight and hung down until he could touch the door-knob; he pushed it back, and the door opened.

  He heard the whine of the lift and dropped back into the passage. Two people passed. He waited until all was quiet again, and then slipped into Mary’s flat, closing the door without a sound.

  He could hear voices, a man’s and a woman’s. He thought they were arguing. He went towards the door softly, and turned the handle.

  There was no sound.

  He pushed the door open an inch, and Mary’s voice came clearly: ‘Of course you would say that, but—’

  ‘Darling, don’t be so obstinate.’

  Rollison felt a surge of excitement, for the voice was Cedric Lorne’s.

  ‘Surely you and I understand each other,’ it went on.

  ‘That’s all very well, but when you behave like that, what else can I think?’

  ‘I must attend to business,’ Lorne said.

  ‘Business!’

  Rollison opened the door a little wider, and walked into the room. The couple were sitting on a sofa, Mary wearing a sulky expression, Lorne holding her hands and peering into her face.

  She looked up, and saw Rollison.

  She screamed and jumped to her feet, flinging Lorne’s hands aside.

&n
bsp; ‘Hallo,’ said Rollison.

  He watched Lorne stiffen. The man turned his head, but did not panic. He stood up very slowly, while Mary pressed herself against the sofa back, staring wide-eyed at Rollison, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. Apart from that there was no sound in the room.

  Lorne said at last: ‘How did you get in?’

  ‘Does that matter?’ asked Rollison.

  ‘Well, yes, I think it does. Have you a key?’ Lorne turned on Mary, with a movement so swift that it took Rollison by surprise. There was a hoarse rasp in his voice as he spat out: ‘Did you do this, you—’

  ‘Stop that!’ cried Rollison, but although he leapt across the room he was not in time to prevent Lorne from driving his fist into Mary’s face, a blow delivered with such vicious strength that the girl sagged sideways. Lorne kicked out at Rollison, then picked up a cushion and flung it at him. Momentarily blinded, Rollison was not in time to prevent Lorne lifting a heavy book-end from a nearby table, and bringing it down with a sickening crash on Mary’s head.

  Rollison swept the cushion aside, gasping for breath, and flung himself on Lorne; but the man struck out with both fists

  in a furious onslaught. One blow caught Rollison in the side of the neck, a kick landed in his groin. He backed away, trying to keep upright, trying to stand between Lorne and the door, but Lorne was on him again in a wild fury, using his strength with unbridled violence, driving Rollison against the wall, intent on murder. He drove two punches to Rollison’s chin; Rollison’s head hit the wall with a resounding crack, and tears of pain filled his eyes. He could not see, and was conscious only of pain, of the mist in front of his eyes, and the realisation that Lorne had gone berserk.

  Lorne swung round, picked up the book-end, and again raised it above his head. Rollison did not see the gesture, but he sensed the imminence of the danger and wrenched himself free.