Poison For the Toff

by John Creasey

  ‘Where did you leave your coat?’ asked Rollison, crossing the room and lifting the telephone receiver. He dialled a number as Tips told him that he had left the coat in an outer room. He was speaking very quietly, and Rollison had the impression that he was now greatly worried; perhaps his thumb was growing more painful.

  The operator at Scotland Yard answered Rollison, who asked for Inspector Hill and suggested that the cloakroom attendant at Kundle’s should be watched. Hill said, gloomily, that it seemed to him that every man in London was being watched, but they were not getting any further. He seemed disposed to talk, but Rollison apologised for being in a hurry, and rang off.

  Tips was leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Rollison asked, sharply.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Tips, opening his eyes. He looked a little pale, and he raised his hand. ‘This is hurting like the very devil, though. When will you hear from that Professor chap?’

  ‘Jolly won’t let him lose any time,’ Rollison said, confidently, ‘and I don’t believe that the poison had time to do its work.’

  ‘I hope it didn’t,’ said Tips, and added: ‘I think I will have that drink.’

  Rollison was pouring out a whisky when the telephone rang. He let it ring until he had given Tips the whisky-and-soda, and then heard Lady Gloria, who sounded a little impatient, on the other end of the line. She had called only to inquire about him, she said, and there was a note of reproof in her voice when she found that he was up. If he took her advice – which she was now long past believing he would – he would go to bed and stay there for at least forty-eight hours.

  ‘Glory, dear,’ said Rollison gently, ‘I am thirty-seven, not seven or seventy-seven.’

  ‘I see you are well enough to indulge in foolish witticisms,’ said Lady Gloria, coldly.

  ‘And I see that your conscience is troubling you just a tiny bit.’

  ‘Richard!’

  ‘To few can the success of their schemes have come so promptly,’ said Rollison, sweetly. ‘You wished to make me forget, dear Glory, and here am I forgetting everything but the murders or near-murders of my friends and acquaintances. No, no,’ he said, hastily, ‘of course it isn’t your fault, but you must stop complaining because I am now doing exactly what you planned that I should do … What?’

  ‘I said,’ said Lady Gloria, ‘that I think you ought to go away for a month.’

  ‘Look here, you are all right, aren’t you?’ asked Rollison, earnestly. ‘No giddy spells, or what not?’

  ‘I am not subject to giddy spells or what not,’ said Old Glory, ‘but I am a sensible woman, and I know when a man has gone too far.’

  ‘Too far, or not far enough?’ asked Rollison.

  His aunt did not reply. He waited for a moment, a little annoyed with himself because he had teased her, wondering how best he could assure her that he had not intended to sound malicious. Then he said sharply: ‘Are you there, Glory?’

  ‘Yes, I am still here,’ said Lady Gloria. She was silent again, and Rollison felt anxious, for it was not like her to behave like this. At last she said, in a low-pitched voice: ‘Rolly, will you for once take the advice of an old woman? One who really does wish you well.’

  ‘I know you wish me well,’ said Rollison.

  ‘Then go away, my dear.’

  ‘But Glory—’

  ‘Go away!’ cried Lady Gloria. ‘If you don’t, heaven knows what you’ll discover! You’ve done all that anyone can reasonably expect of you, now go away, leave everything to the police. Will you, Rolly?’

  After a pause, Rollison said: ‘I’ll think about it, Glory. I think I see what you mean. Goodbye.’

  He rang off without another word, and stood staring at nothing.

  ‘Bleak thoughts?’ asked Tips.

  ‘If you can call them thoughts, though the bleakness is there all right.’

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ said Rollison. ‘You’ve run into enough trouble already. Any more of it and you’ll probably finish up like Grice or Mary Henderson.’

  ‘I’m not worried by that possibility,’ said Tips. ‘Between you and me, I would like a stab at the beggar who put that needle in my cigarette case. Do you seriously think it was the attendant at Kundle’s – I mean, the chap like a bishop?’

  ‘It could have been someone at Kundle’s,’ said Rollison quietly. ‘It could have been Florence.’

  Tips banged down his glass and jumped to his feet. He was completely transformed. Rollison had never seen him moved before; now he was angry, not in a wild way like Lorne but furiously angry all the same. He strode across the room until he was face to face with Rollison.

  ‘Take it back!’

  ‘Now, steady—’ began Rollison.

  ‘Take it back, or I’ll knock you down!’

  After a long, tense pause, Rollison said with great deliberation: ‘Tips, I am going to find out who is responsible for these crimes. I am going to consider you, Florence, my Aunt Gloria, my cousins Derek and Katrina – everyone who might possibly have made any contribution, wittingly or unwittingly, to a most unpleasant business.’ He paused, then went on: ‘I can only assume, from your sudden reaction, that you know Florence had a chance to put the needle in the case,’ Rollison went on. ‘If she did, you will be a fool to try to conceal it. Well? Could she have done it?’

  Tips stared at him, opened his lips, closed them again and then said in a harsh voice: ‘She filled the case.’

  ‘Were you there when she did it?’

  ‘No, she took it away with her. But there’s nothing unusual in that, Rollison. She had always filled it. She did so one night when I had run out of cigarettes, and you know how little things like that become a habit.’ Tips was speaking earnestly now, as if he saw the real danger of Florence being suspected. ‘I am quite sure that she would do nothing like that, she can’t have done it!’

  ‘She could have done,’ said Rollison, ‘but that doesn’t mean that she did. Was that talk of Carter and the cloakroom all bunkum, to protect her?’

  ‘Of course not. It happened.’

  ‘And where is Florence now?’

  ‘At her hairdresser’s, as I told you,’ said Tips.

  Rollison stood silent for a moment, moving slowly up and down on his toes. Odd thoughts flashed into his mind and out again, Tips’ face seemed very far away. At last he broke the silence by saying slowly: ‘Does Florence know where you bought the brooch?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The probable reason for the attempt on you is the fact that you could say where you bought it,’ said Rollison. ‘Assuming Florence is not involved, and I don’t think she is, she may be in the same danger as you. What was the name of the hairdresser?’

  Tips gasped: ‘I don’t know!’

  ‘She must have mentioned it,’ said Rollison, sharply. ‘You must remember.’

  ‘I—don’t—know!’ repeated Tips, in a strangled voice.

  In the silence that followed, the telephone bell rang.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Beauty Salon

  Rollison let the telephone ring. Tips raised both hands, clenching them, and the veins began to stand out on his forehead. His eyes were narrowed and seemed filled with pain; it was as if he were facing something too terrible to contemplate, something which he was powerless to prevent. He opened his lips to speak, uttered something unintelligible, and then said explosively: ‘I just don’t know!’

  The telephone bell kept ringing.

  ‘You must remember,’ Rollison insisted. ‘She surely mentioned the name of the place.’

  ‘I am trying. Rollison, can’t you stop that bell?’

  ‘Yes. And think of her friends, of any friend who might know where she goes.’ Rollison spoke
as he moved to the telephone, lifted the receiver and heard the deep, booming voice of Professor Lowry.

  ‘My dear friend, how are you, how are you?’ he demanded. ‘I have your man here, Jolly, with thisremarkable needle, and a request for an early report on the contents.’

  ‘It’s most important,’ Rollison said, and put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Was it near her rooms?’

  ‘I’m trying,’ muttered Tips.

  ‘I give you my word, Mr Rollison, I was most surprised when I saw the needle,’ Lowry said, ‘most surprised. It must be at least three hundred years old. I have not seen one of such antiquity except in private collections or in museums for many years.’

  ‘Yes, but what was in it?’ asked Rollison.

  Tips stepped to the window, every movement stiff, clenching and unclenching his hands, while Professor Lowry, obviously delighted at the discovery of the antique needle, continued to talk of it. At last a blunt question from Rollison pulled him up.

  ‘Ah yes, of course, the poison. Most unpleasant, most unpleasant, although whether you can rightly call it poison is a different matter. One man’s insulin is another’s poison!’ He laughed heartily, while Rollison turned his attention from Tips, whose bandaged finger he could see clearly, and said with some relief: ‘Are you sure that’s what it is?’

  ‘Oh, there is no doubt at all, I assure you,’ said Lowry. ‘It was, of course, sufficient to dry up the sugar in any man’s blood, but I think the cause of death would have been most difficult to discover, most difficult. Well, I am very glad to have been able to help you again, my friend, and I do congratulate you on your remarkable find. I have sent my report back to you, through your manservant, and – I am sure you will forgive me about this – I have added a modest request that the police be informed as soon as possible. I am sure you will not object to that.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Rollison. ‘A thousand thanks, Professor! Goodbye!’ He replaced the receiver with relief, and as he did so Tips turned round; he looked like a man in torment.

  ‘Rollison, isn’t there something we can do? Can the police inquire at all the beauty parlours? I’m sure it’s somewhere in the West End, it must be, because I’m meeting Florence at half-past four for tea at the Carlton. Or I’m supposed to meet her.’ He took a step forward, unclasping his hands. ‘Can’t you do anything?’

  Rollison was already lifting the receiver, and he had dialled Scotland Yard when there was a sound in the hall. After a moment Jolly appeared. He stared at Tips, frowned, and turned to Rollison, who was saying: ‘Give me Inspector Hill, please.’ While he waited, Rollison tapped his right toe against the leg of the table, and then suddenly he turned and said: ‘Jolly, where does Miss Hardy have her hair dressed?’

  ‘At Maison Gay’s,’ said Jolly, without a moment’s hesitation.

  Tips shouted: ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I clearly remember her discussing it with some of the other guests at the party. I am quite sure, sir.’

  ‘Where is Gay’s?’ demanded Tips, wildly. ‘Is it nearby? Can we ring for a taxi? Can we—’

  ‘We’ll pick one up, it will be quicker,’ said Rollison. ‘Hold the fort, Jolly.’

  Tips was so eager to get out of the taxi when it stopped outside Gay’s, in Brook Street, that he nearly collided with a small car which was passing. In spite of that he was inside Gay’s before Rollison, who told the driver to wait, and hurried after him. A startled girl, perfectly made-up and dressed in a pink smock, looked in alarm at Tips as Rollison said sharply: ‘Don’t be a fool, Tips!’ To the girl: ‘Has Miss Hardy an appointment here for this afternoon?’

  ‘Yes, sir, she is upstairs now.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ cried Tips.

  ‘Which room?’ asked Rollison.

  ‘But you can’t go upstairs, sir,’ the girl protested.

  Rollison picked up an appointments book which lay on the glass counter, and scanned the appointments for that day. There was the one: Miss F. Hardy – M’sieu Bonnet, cubicle 17. He hurried to a door through which he could see the stairs, closely followed by Tips.

  ‘Sir! You can’t!’ The girl ran after them still protesting. A man with waved hair and a pointed beard popped through a curtain and added his voice to the protests. Behind him Rollison could see a woman sitting with her head in what looked like a metal helmet. Other curtains were drawn back for a moment, revealing startled clients in every stage of beauty preparation.

  Rollison reached Cubicle 17, and thrust the curtain aside. The man with the pointed beard was carrying on a fluent protest in French, his eloquence outmatched by his waving arms.

  Florence was sitting in front of a mirror, her head enveloped in white lather. Her eyes turned, wide and rounded in astonishment. Tips rushed into the cubicle, gasping incoherently: ‘Florence, are you all right?’

  ‘Now take it easy,’ said Rollison, authoritatively. ‘Quiet, please!’ He raised his voice above the babble of protests. ‘Florence,’ went on Rollison, in the silence that followed, ‘there’s nothing to be alarmed about yet, but try and remember whether you’ve pricked yourself this afternoon.’

  Florence gasped: ‘Pricked myself? Are you mad?’

  ‘Darling—’ began Tips.

  ‘Florence, this isn’t a joke,’ said Rollison, and when the man with marcelled hair began to speak again, he snapped: ‘Be quiet, m’sieu!’

  Florence brushed the lather away from her eyes and said in a rather scared voice: ‘As a matter of fact, I did prick my finger when I opened my bag downstairs.’

  Tips uttered an exclamation, half-gasp, half-groan.

  Rollison said: ‘Now take it easy, Tips. Go downstairs and tell the taxi to turn round, we’re going to the Westminster Hospital. Then telephone Dr Mortimer, at the hospital, and tell him what’s happened and that the patient will be there in a very few minutes.’ He turned to the now silent Frenchman. ‘Wrap Miss Hardy’s head in a towel, she must leave here in two minutes.’

  ‘But m’sieu—’

  He met Rollison’s eye, and without another word whipped a towel about Florence’s head. Florence, still looking scared, stood up.

  ‘There—there’s nothing the matter with me,’ she protested.

  ‘You’ll be as right as rain,’ Rollison assured her, ‘but you’ve probably been dosed with some stuff which won’t do you any good if it stays in your bloodstream too long. Sorry about the drama,’ he added, apologetically, ‘oh, and let me have your bag.’ He took charge of her bag and then led her downstairs, followed by the scared Frenchman and several girl attendants. It was obvious to them now that the invasion had a serious purpose, and there were no further reproaches.

  Tips was waiting in the shop.

  ‘Did you speak to Mortimer?’ asked Rollison.

  ‘Yes. He said we’d better not lose time, but it ought to be all right.’

  ‘It is all right,’ said Rollison, reassuringly. ‘See that Florence is taken to Mortimer immediately she gets to the hospital.’

  ‘Aren’t you coming?’

  ‘I’ll call and see the patient later,’ said Rollison, cheerfully. Goodbye!’

  He stood watching the taxi as it drove off, and then turned in the direction of Scotland Yard.

  The Assistant Commissioner was on holiday, but the Chief Constable was in his office, and there Rollison sat, with Inspector Hill, while the Chief Constable gave a lengthy discourse on the duty of the private citizen and his fear that Rollison was taking far too much upon himself. The Chief Constable had once been a Superintendent who had not approved of the activities of the Toff, and was now taking this opportunity to give full expression to that disapproval. Rollison listened for some time and then broke in abruptly.

  ‘You may be right to read the riot act – who am I to say you are not? – but is it getting us anywhere?’


  The Chief Constable was too surprised to find an answer, and Rollison went on: ‘The issues are plain enough. Jewels of great value have been stolen, but in spite of that, murder has been committed and more murder attempted. Whether I find the men responsible or you do, doesn’t matter a row of beans.’

  ‘I was pointing out that we have inestimable advantages—’ began Merrick.

  ‘Are you using them?’ demanded Rollison. ‘Is there any news of Lorne? Or of the man with the hooked nose?’

  ‘Not yet, but—’

  ‘Has the attendant at Kundle’s been interrogated?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hill.

  ‘Do you know where Mary Henderson worked or how she earned her living?’ asked Rollison, and Hill had to admit that he had been able to find out remarkably little about Mary. There had been no papers at her flat to give them information, although it was now suggested that she had been selling jewels on a commission basis.

  ‘That has already been established,’ said Rollison impatiently. ‘The priority job is to find out the name of her employers.’

  The Chief Constable snapped an order to Hill, who withdrew hastily.

  There was an embarrassed silence.

  Rollison thought it would be tactful to fill it with an apology for losing his temper. Merrick accepted the apology graciously, and thereafter became more human. He appreciated all that Rollison was trying to do, but Rollison must not be surprised if he was a little worried in case too much was done without the authority of Scotland Yard. The injury to Grice had upset them all.

  ‘No more than it upsets me,’ Rollison assured him. ‘We are close friends, you know. What is the latest report?’

  ‘There is reason to think he will recover,’ said the Chief Constable, ‘although he will be away for a long time, poor fellow, and I dread to think of the change in him we must expect.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rollison, heavily. ‘If Grice were here, I would make a suggestion which he would probably act upon, Merrick. I don’t know whether I can expect the same of you.’