The Toff and The Sleepy Cowboy

by John Creasey

  “How did you know that?” Rollison asked quietly.

  For the first time, she hesitated, and he preferred that she should; the series of swift answers made her sound almost glib. She sipped her ginger ale, swallowing slowly as if her mouth was dry, and finally went on:

  “It’s a very long story, Mr. Rollison. If I’d been able to produce facts and evidence I think I would have gone to the police and told them — after all, it’s really their job, isn’t it? But I had only an old man’s fears and suspicions to go on, and — and a feeling, an intuition. Please don’t laugh.”

  “I wouldn’t laugh even at a man’s intuition,” Rollison assured her.

  “You see, old Josh — that’s the great-uncle — had a kind of persecution mania. He was ninety-one, and remarkably fit physically and no slouch mentally, except in this one way — he thought someone was always trying to rob him, and had a fear that someone outside the family would get his money when he died.”

  “When did he die?”

  “Just a month ago.”

  “A natural death?”

  “Yes — indisputably, I think.”

  “Was there an autopsy?”

  “Yes — I work with my father and a brother, Mr. Rol —”

  “Richard.”

  “Thank you, Richard! And my father has been in the profession for a long time. The police respect him and he telephoned the Superintendent of the Hampstead Division where Mr. Clayhanger lived, and said an autopsy might be advisable although a death certificate was signed. One was carried out by Kenneth Soames, and you must know pathologists don’t come any better.”

  “I do,” admitted Rollison, becoming more and more intrigued. “What was the cause of death?”

  “Cerebral haemorrhage. The old man had had two mild strokes so that wasn’t surprising,”

  “And can’t easily be induced,” Rollison remarked. “Did he have a nurse?”

  “Yes — a day and a night nurse in his last months. He —” She leaned forward and touched Rollison’s hand with her cool fingers before going on : “My father went to see him first, and took his fears seriously because he had such a lucid mind. He knew there was a nephew in Arizona, who was the only surviving relative, and wanted him traced and wanted to make sure he got the inheritance. Then one day my father was ill and my brother away and I had to go and see old Josh.” She gave a funny little strangled laugh. “You’ll never believe it, but he took a great liking to me.”

  “I will try to make myself believe it,” Rollison said drily.

  “And I’ve never met a man I liked more, whatever his age,” Pamela Brown went on. “So after that I would take the weekly report now and again; saying that we hadn’t yet traced Thomas George Loman, and found nothing to suggest anyone else had any claim to the inheritance. All he ever said was : ‘You will keep trying, won’t you’.”

  “Did you ever find the slightest cause for his fear that there would be a false claimant?” asked Rollison.

  “No,” answered Pamela. “No, we didn’t. We found one or two other distant relatives who had no expectations from his will and checked them carefully : there didn’t seem the slightest danger from them, except, possibly, one elderly — or rather middle-aged man. But what we did do was trace Thomas G. Loman.”

  “You traced him?” exclaimed Rollison.

  “Yes,” she assured him. “We hadn’t much to go on. His mother had left England as a young child and not kept in touch with her father, but we sent her name round to all the detective agencies in the south west —”

  “Why the south west?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. It was known that she’d married a rancher somewhere in Texas. Anyhow, Richard, we traced the name — Clayhanger isn’t so common — in the records of an old Methodist church in Lubbock, Texas, and then discovered they’d moved from there to Austin and later to New Mexico. I can show you the reports from America showing how Tommy was traced. We’ve a kind of family tree showing name changes and marriages and two divorces — until finally we discovered Thomas G. Loman, whose mother was the daughter of a Mr. and Mrs. Josh Clayhanger. All the rest of the family died out but for two distant cousins by marriage, and Tommy G., who still worked as a cowboy but didn’t own his own spread. That means —”

  “I know what a ‘spread’ is,” Rollison assured her.

  “I’m sorry. Well — there he was, the only legatee, who would inherit over a million pounds,” said Pamela Brown, simply. “We would just have sent for him, had someone not stolen the reports from America and our final report to old Josh. That was why we involved you. We felt there was something very odd going on, and by bringing you in this way, you would be intrigued. We hadn’t expected such quick action. Thank goodness Josh knew we’d traced Tommy, and —” Pamela broke off and stood up and moved about the room, then stood with her back to the Trophy Wall, facing Rollison. Her face was set, her eyes lacked fire but held their brilliance. “When we told the old man he said: ‘Thank God. You make sure nothing happens to him. Do you hear? You make sure nothing happens to him’ ” Pamela paused and her eyes were misty as if the recollection brought tears very close to the surface. Slowly, she went on : “He was so sure someone would try to get Tommy’s money, it was almost uncanny. As if,” she went on, looking defiantly at Rollison, “as if he had second sight.”

  “Perhaps he did,” said Rollison gently.

  “You think it’s possible.”

  “Any man who doesn’t believe in second sight hasn’t been about much,” Rollison answered. “Yes. I think it’s possible.”

  “Well,” went on Pamela, relaxing and going back to her chair, hoisting and smoothing her dress as she sat down, “we felt we had to try something. The police wouldn’t take any notice of such a story — or at least they wouldn’t be likely to take any action — so we thought of you. We wrote to Tommy G., as I’ve explained, and told him it was extremely important that he should come straight to you. We meant to be there when he arrived.” She gave her most charming smile. “You would hardly have refused to help, would you?”

  “The devious way is too often wrong,” Rollison said drily. “After a story like this, though, I would have helped on a straight request. Why didn’t you come to see me first?”

  Again Pamela leaned towards him and touched his hand, this time pleading with him to believe her. It was some time before she went on, in a husky voice:

  “We were going to, but the whole family went down with two-day ‘flu. I went first and recovered first, the others are still not over it. And I’d had a cable from Tommy saying when he would be here only on the morning of his arrival. I did the only thing that seemed sensible, let events speak for themselves. And you must admit they did,” she finished, with mingled triumph and defiance. “Mr. Rollison — Richard — that’s everything I can tell you. I didn’t dream they would try to kill us in the car, I don’t know whether I showed it but I’ve never been so frightened. Have you?” she asked, in a low-pitched voice.

  “I don’t know whether Richard has,” said Tommy G. Loman, striding in from the door leading to the spare room and Jolly’s quarters. “I’ve never been so frightened as I am now. No, sir, that’s the simple truth.”

  He stood looking down from his great height at Rollison; it was a long time before he turned towards the girl.

  13

  “Never So Frightened”

  VERY SLOWLY, Tommy’s expression changed.

  He had been listening for a long time, of course; anything else would be beyond the average man’s endurance. Certainly he had heard enough to make him put his heart into his voice, and the way he looked at Rollison seemed to ask: “And what are you going to do about it?” Only slowly had he realised how attractive the girl was, and as that grew on him his mouth dropped open and his eyes became huge.

  “Good evening,” Pamela said in a small voice. “I am Pamela Brown.”

  Tommy gulped; and only when he gulped did his Adam’s apple reveal its prominence. He gulped twice.
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  “Jumping cats,” he said, breathlessly. “You’re the one who wrote to me?”

  “Yes.”

  “You signed that letter P. Brown.”

  “I am P. Brown.”

  “Great galloping gophers,” breathed Tommy. “Why, you’re beautiful.”

  She did not simper, play coy, or otherwise use the coquettish kind of feminine wile, but said simply: “Thank you.”

  “You most surely are.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And still frightened?” inquired Rollison mildly. “Yes,” she answered quietly.

  “Miss Pamela,” said Tommy in a weak voice. “You sure made me forget how scared I was.”

  For the first time since his appearance, a hint of merriment showed in Pamela’s eyes, and she replied :

  “You almost did the same for me.”

  “I did?” Tommy looked delighted.

  “Yes,” she went on, demurely. “Every moment I expect you to bang your head against the ceiling.”

  “My head,” he echoed, and glanced up. “No, ma’am, that ceiling’s all of eight feet. I couldn’t bang my head against it even if I jumped. Pink-eared jack-rabbits, I didn’t think young women like you grew in England.”

  “England is a remarkable place,” replied Pamela.

  “Yes, ma’am. And it sure is green.” Tommy looked round and found a chair, lowered himself into it and for comfort’s sake had to stretch his legs straight out. Now they were all at equal eye-level, and the strain of craning necks had gone. “Miss Brown,” he went on, “that was a mighty strange story you just told.”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” Pamela agreed. “But true.”

  “I’ll strike the first man who calls you a liar, ma’am.”

  “Not many people do,” said Pamela, and she finished her ginger ale.

  As Rollison got up to refill her glass and pour a drink for Tommy, he noticed two things. Tommy was staring at Pamela Brown as if he could not tear his gaze away from her, and Jolly appeared in the doorway. This was Jolly’s way of announcing that dinner would be ready in ten minutes; if Rollison wanted it delayed he must now say so or for this occasion hold his peace. Rollison nod-ded, Jolly disappeared, Rollison joined the others with the drinks.

  “Scotch on the rocks,” he said to Tommy.

  “That’s just right,” Tommy said appreciatively. He raised his glass to them both, sipped, and had hardly swallowed before he went on: “Richard, I’m not so sure you’re right about my life being in danger. Yours is, I guess, and Miss Pamela’s, because you know too much.”

  “And now you know too much,” Rollison pointed out.

  “Do these other folk know that?”

  “They know you’re here,” Rollison said. “They know all that matters.” He stood with his back to the fireplace and looked at them both, and told them what he had found and what had happened at Rubicon House, but he did not use the name Rubicon, just said ‘a house in Chelsea’. They sat, spellbound, until he had finished by telling them what the man from the Globe had said. It seemed a long time before Tommy G. remarked quietly :

  “So they’ve been training a guy to impersonate me.”

  “Yes.” Rollison was brisk.

  “And now he’s missing.”

  “Yes. But no one’s yet tried very hard to find him,” Rollison replied. “The odds are that he will stay in hiding until he thinks he sees an opportunity to take your place, or because he’s afraid that now the truth is suspected, the people who hired him might decide they ought to stop. Once caught by the police, he would be pretty strong evidence of the impersonation story, and would probably talk easily. Until he’s caught, there can’t be any proof.” When neither of the others responded to this, Rollison went on slowly: “At the moment there is only one person who could be made to talk.”

  “The motor-cyclist!” exclaimed Pamela.

  “We don’t know where he is and can’t talk to him,” Rollison pointed out. “No: King’s wife, Effie. And I suspect that the attempt to throw suspicion on me at her house was to make sure I couldn’t go after the motor-cyclist. The arrival of her baby means that neither I nor the police can push her too hard, although from what I saw of her size, the birth wasn’t very premature, and she’s getting all the sympathy she can. Trying to get in to see her would be worse than breaking into an armed camp. Everyone in the hospital will be guarding the poor little mother, and —”

  “Richard,” interrupted Pamela.

  “Yes?”

  “Could this place which was damaged possibly be Rubicon House?”

  Rollison said sharply: “Yes. Does it mean anything to you?”

  “It’s the house where the other relative of old Josh lives,” said Pamela, slowly. “The one whom I didn’t trust at all. He is a Mr. Hindle, at Flat I, Rubicon House.”

  “About five-eight, plump, grey-haired, a bald patch, a broad nose, slightly tip-tilted, a round chin, rather a vague man to look at?”

  “That’s him exactly!” cried Pamela.

  “He’s the man who was so eager to help and believe Effie King,” declared Rollison. “Well, well, well! What a remarkable coincidence that they are living in the same house!”

  “He owns the house — that is, Mr. Hindle does, and lets off three flats. The rents are almost his only income.” For a moment there was utter silence.

  Jolly broke it from the raised alcove by saying : “Dinner is served, sir.”

  * * *

  Rollison needed time to ponder.

  The discovery excited Pamela but her excitement soon faded and she sat looking down at her plate or looking up and catching Tommy’s eyes. He seemed never to look anywhere else. Jolly served first a halved grapefruit steeped in sherry and covered with sugar and heated under the grill, then a morsel of lemon sole with a sauce which melted in the mouth, finally saddle of lamb with peas and new potatoes which made believe it was spring. Half-way through the main course, they began to talk, slowly at first and then with more animation, until finally Pamela said:

  “Richard, you must tell the police about Hindle. They must look for him as well as for King.”

  “Yes,” Rollison agreed. “I’m trying to see all the angles.” He finished his lamb, and went to the hotplate ‘by the side of the table. “More for either of you?” Tommy’s eyes lit up, and he carved from the saddle of lamb hidden until then under a silver cover, adding peas and potatoes. “Pamela?”

  “I shouldn’t really.”

  “Keep Tommy company,” urged Rollison, and added: “I’ll go and talk to the Yard and to one or two friends of mine — I’ll be back before Jolly brings in the dessert.” He went to the kitchen where Jolly was whipping cream for a sherry trifle, and said: “Hold it until I’m through, Jolly, I won’t be long.”

  “This won’t spoil, sir.”

  “Good!” Rollison hurried out by the fire-escape, which was reached through the kitchen door. There was still light enough to see two men on duty in the courtyard behind the house, bounded on one side by these old Gresham Terrace houses, on one by a row of mews all three hundred years old and more, on two sides by big new buildings of ferro-concrete. He had a word with the two policemen and also with a third man, small and wiry, who had been sent here by Bill Ebbutt, after Jolly and Ebbutt his oldest and staunchest friend.

  “Hallo, Percy.”

  “Anything for us to do, Mr Ar?”

  “Just look after me,” Rollison quipped.

  “That’ll be the day,” replied Percy Wrighton, at one time a light-weight boxer near the top of his class. “There’s a pack of reporters out the front. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “I’ll never say a word against you,” promised Rollison, and went through an alleyway into the mews and then round the corner into Gresham Terrace.

  At least thirty men were there, with a sprinkling of women. He saw several with cameras, and also saw a camera on a tripod in the porch of a house opposite number 25, covering his front door. A cackle of voices sounded, s
urprisingly loud in the street. Two policemen were keeping the crowd away on one side so as to allow traffic to pass, other plainclothes men were on duty. On the fringes of the crowd were more of Bill Ebbutt’s men from the East End.

  Parked some distance along but this side of the crowd was Ebbutt’s Model T Ford, his most prized possession. Rollison guessed that Ebbutt was sitting at the wheel of this, and walked up and stood alongside. There was Ebbutt, a mountain of a man, paunch squeezed against the steering wheel, his breath wheezing. The car was close to an empty house with ‘For Sale’ posters in the windows.

  “Bill,” whispered Rollison. “Move over.”

  “Who—?” began Ebbutt, turning his head swiftly; then he gasped. “Mr. Ar!” He eased his bulk to one side, and Rollison climbed up. “They’re after you tonight, Mr. Ar. Anyone would think no one had ever had a baby before.”

  “Just a human story, you know how they love the angle,” Rollison said lightly. “May I use the running board to make a speech from? It won’t take long.”

  “You going to talk to them lousy newshounds?” demanded Ebbutt.

  “They’re not lousy, Bill — just story conscious. May I?”

  “Use the roof if it will help,” Ebbutt replied.

  “Thanks. I’d like you to go round to the police and your chaps and tell them to watch all the people on the fringe of the crowd. It’s just possible one of them has a hand grenade.”

  “Strewth,” wheezed Ebbutt.

  “I’ll stand on the running board and you give a toot or two on the horn,” said Rollison. The rubber bulb of an old fashioned horn was close to Ebbutt’s hand, and it was said that he could get a dozen different notes out of this. Rollison got out and rounded the car and climbed on the running board. As soon as he was holding on to the door, Ebbutt punched and poked at the horn, making an unmistakable tune.

  “Da-di-di-da-di-daa-da! Da-di-di-da-di-da!”

  Rollison found himself singing to the second rendering:

  “Come to the cookhouse door, boys; come to the cookhouse door.”