by John Creasey
Yet it seemed that they had; and their silence was made more effective by the fact that the warehouses of Willow and Kellson’s were innocent of snow.
Each one – except Garrotty and his men, who had simply refused to talk at all, and seemed to think that the English methods of interrogation were easily combated – said that they had met weekly at the warehouse for the past year. That they were usually given large parcels at the end of the meeting, and were told where to take the stuff. Usually it was to private houses, and the police had one or two addresses. The houses were always different, the prisoners claimed that they had no idea what was in the parcels, and – a point that made even the Toff believe that they were telling the truth – that they were paid five pounds each week for doing their job. Each man, moreover, was on the fringe of that community called the underworld; small-part thieves, pick-pockets, minor forgers. The men who had escaped, it was said, were all of the same category.
The little man had always done the talking and given instructions. Not one member of the party had officially known the other, but apparently during the year the mask rule had been more a matter of form than anything else, and everyone knew each other. On the previous night there had been one stranger, apart from the Toff.
Rollison almost expected Warrender’s words.
‘A tall man, Rollison, wearing a bowler hat. He was taller than any of the others present, that’s why they picked him out.’
The Toff cursed himself for letting Bowler Hat go, but said nothing beyond.
‘Well, you’ve found one method of distribution.’
‘That gives us no clue at all to the source of it, or the leaders,’ complained Warrender. ‘I’m beginning to think it’s been well established, Rollison. There might be a hundred similar organizations up and down the country.’
‘For once,’ grinned the Toff, ‘we’re agreed. And of course it’s well established. We first learned of it when Farraway was murdered because he had threatened disclosures – all right, all right,’ he broke off, as Warrender looked likely to interrupt, ‘you heard of it first when Farraway threatened to talk to you, and if you’d agreed to his terms you might have saved yourselves a lot of trouble, and Farraway’s life.’
The Toff was smiling, but there was a hard note in his voice, and Warrender looked uncomfortable.
‘It’s useless to blame us, Rollison. We’ve got to stick within reason to regulations. Farraway might have been lying – we didn’t know.’
Rollison shrugged.
‘That’s true. Well, it gets us no further forward. I –’
‘What’s this about Willow?’ asked the A.C.
The Toff, sitting on the corner of the table and swinging his right leg, looked at the older man squarely.
‘Warrender,’ he said. ‘I’m not talking and I’m making a request. Don’t try to force Willow to talk. Get hold of Kellson, if you can – there’s a call out for him, I take it?’
There is.’ Warrender spoke stiffly, and the Toff went on: ‘If you know what I’ve learned about Willow, you’ll have to take steps against him. You’re a policeman, and the police can’t overlook crimes, no matter what degree. Willow isn’t – as far as I know – a murderer, or a coiner, of even a bucket-shop specialist. But he’s broken the law, and –’
Warrender broke in impatiently.
‘You’re withholding information, Rollison.’
The Toff leaned back, his face set in mock alarm.
‘No! My dear man, I’m always withholding information until the right moment for disclosing it. Or what seems to me the right moment,’ he added modestly. ‘Let Willow carry on. If I’m right, we’ll have a chance of getting at the Black Circle through him – either the Circle, or Kellson. At the moment, one is as important as the other. But let it be known that Willow is suspect by the police on any account, and the bait’s no use. Are you following?’
Warrender looked dissatisfied.
‘If Willow’s playing an important part in this affair –’
‘If it’ll satisfy you,’ said Rollison more sharply than usual, ‘I’ve no information to suggest that he knows anything at all about the Black Circle. I think Dragoli has been using him, but Willow hasn’t known it. There’s a complication that can only be straightened out by watching and waiting. But if you’re going to try and bring pressure on Willow –’
Warrender shrugged.
‘We’ll leave it for the time being.’
‘Thank the Lord for that,’ said Rollison. ‘Well, I’ve a lot to do. You haven’t a photograph of Kellson to spare, have you?’
‘McNab can give you one,’ said Warrender. He stood up, smiling a little. ‘Sorry if I’ve been short-tempered, Rollison. It’s easy to forget what you’ve done, but—’
‘Forget it,’ said the Toff gently, but he felt pleased that Warrender was not annoyed; he liked the A.C. ‘It’s what I’m going to do that matters.’
‘Can I have advance information?’ asked Warrender half jokingly.
The Toff’s eyes gleamed.
‘It may not seem part of the show, Warrender, but I’m going to pay a call on a lady who is not as good as she should be – I think. And I’m going on business, but you needn’t assume the worst. So long.’
But the Toff had an unpleasant shock before he made his projected visit to Daisy Lee. For McNab and two officers had just come from a search of Kellson’s house, and there they had come across an unposted letter – or what had seemed to be a letter – to Miss Anne Farraway, c/o Robert Tennant, Esquire.
Actually the envelope had been empty, but it had been enough to make McNab think hard, and to bring back to the Toff all his vivid but unwonted doubts of Frensham and the girl.
Why should the missing Kellson write to Anne? And, more important, how had he learned her temporary address?’
18: DAISY
MCNAB supplied the photograph, of a man who looked thick-set and swarthy, who wore a thick clipped moustache, possessed a heavy chin not unlike Reginald Colliss’s, and who was apparently devoted to the butterfly type of collar. It was, in fact, that of a man who seemed dressed twenty years behind the times. The features were heavy, and the Toff did not think he would have a great deal of trouble in recognizing Mr. Mark Kellson from the photograph.
It was one of those dark, miserable days that drop on to England in the middle of summer, as though to offer gloomy promises of the autumn and winter ahead. A slight drizzle was falling, although it was unpleasantly warm, and the sun occasionally tried to gleam from watery clouds.
The Toff, driving his Frazer-Nash, left the Yard at twelve o’clock, crossed Westminster Bridge and made his way through the rabbit-warrens in Lambeth towards Randle Street, at Number 10 of which lived a lady named Daisy Lee.
A brief study of a post-office map of London had helped him to locate the street. It was one of a few in the East End that he did not know well, but it would be easy to get at. One of the things about it that puzzled him – although he realized that it was probably sheer coincidence – was the fact that the street was within five minutes’ walk of the ‘Steam Packet’, and Blind Sletter’s place.
The Toff had neglected Blind Sletter lately, because he felt that the man had given shelter to Garrotty but knew nothing of the Black Circle. He might be wrong, he admitted, and he put it on his list for further investigation; he would not be able to go there as a waiter again.
His lips were curving ruminatively as he drew up outside 10 Randle Street. For the moment Anne and his doubts were forgotten.
It was a short thoroughfare, containing some twenty houses, all of them three storeys. There was a drab air of semi-respectability about the place, which the Toff was well-prepared to believe would be found unreliable. Most of the houses were likely to be let in flats or single rooms, and others of Daisy Lee’s profession probably rented their apartments close by.
The possibility that Daisy was not all she seemed had to be taken into account, and the Toff – again – tried to keep
an open mind as he rapped on a rusting iron knocker. There was a pause, a shuffling of footsteps, and finally the door opened, to reveal a dirty, bearded old man staring at him with red-rimmed eyes. The man’s clothes were smeared with the gravies and the beers of a decade – or so it seemed – and there were little bits of tobacco and tea-leaves decorating the dirty grey beard.
‘Good morning,’ said the Toff. ‘I’d like to see Miss Lee.’
‘Eh?’ The ancient cupped a hand behind his ear, pushing that blue-veined and grimy organ forward. The Toff repeated the request, and the ancient summoned a watery and beery smile from some distant past.
‘Hee, hee! Daisy’s in, but it’s afore the usual time, mister. Dai-see! DAISEE!’
His voice, when he raised it, was surprisingly deep. He stood across the doorway, apparently determined that the Toff should not get in if Daisy Lee did not want to see him. There was a pause, and the man was about to shout again, when a door upstairs opened and a woman’s shrill voice came floating downwards.
‘What is it, Ben?’
There’s a feller t’see yer!’ quavered the ancient.
‘Send him up!’ called Daisy Lee.
She apparently understood none of the niceties of Old Ben’s discrimination. The ancient tittered as he stood aside for Rollison to pass, and the musty smell that the Toff had already noticed grew stronger. It lessened as he mounted the stairs, however.
A door at the end of the first landing was ajar. Rollison reached it and tapped. Daisy Lee called ‘come in’, and the Toff entered.
The room was larger than he had expected, and it was furnished with bright, new furniture, which suggested that Daisy was prospering. A large divan, covered with red satin, stood with its head to one wall, and there were walnut-veneered dressing tables and a tallboy, a small table with a tray loaded with empty breakfast things and the shells of three eggs. Daisy apparently had a good appetite.
She was sitting in an easy chair, dressed in a flimsy dressing-gown. Over one arm of the chair were a pair of stockings, and a needle was stuck in one, a line of thread floating from it. She had been doing temporary repairs.
In daylight she looked less ostentatious than she had on the previous night. There was a suggestion of prettiness about her, not yet worn off. Her teeth were good, and despite the rouge and lipstick, she looked almost wholesome. Her hair was somewhat ruffled, as though hastily taken out of curlers; probably, on hearing Old Ben’s summons, she had started a hasty toilet.
She looked put out when she saw but did not recognize the caller, but her smile came back quickly.
‘ ‘Lo, fella. How’d you get my address?’
‘You’d like to know,’ smiled the Toff, and he sat down on the divan as she waved her hand towards it. The door was closed, and the room was oddly silent after the noise in the street. ‘Daisy, are you and money good friends?’
She was startled by that. Obviously it was not the usual opening gambit.
‘What’s biting you, Big Boy?’
‘Oh, my God!’ exclaimed the Toff to himself, but he kept his smile bright. She was going to be trite all the way, and yet – she might be able to give information.
‘Let’s be frank,’ he suggested, offering her a cigarette. She leaned forward to take it, and the Toff smiled to himself. ‘I’m here on business, but a little out of the ordinary. I want information, and you can give it to me.’
The girl stared at him.
Her fingers, with reddened nails that looked barbarous, were holding the case. He saw the smile fade and a vixenish expression cross her face. Before he realized what was coming the case came at him, and he had to dodge hastily to avoid it. Daisy was on her feet, her voice quivering with rage, and her hands clenched and shaking.
‘A nark! Get out of ‘ere, you nosy, interfering squirt, git –’
The Toff, leading back on the divan, beamed at her.
‘Let it rip, Daisy,’ he said. ‘And then look at this.’
He slipped a card from his pocket and tossed it to her. Perhaps his nonchalance stopped her outburst, perhaps she took the card for money. At all events she grabbed it and looked down. She saw the little drawing of the top hat, the monocle, and the cane, and the Toff saw her anger disappear, saw alarm on her painted face. She sat down heavily, wide eyes staring at Rollison.
The – the Torf! ‘
‘Guilty!’ pleaded the Toff cheerfully, but he was puzzled by the expression in her eyes. Only for a moment, for understanding came as she burst out: ‘Oh, Gawd – but you’re – dead!’
There was a moment’s silence in the room, silence while the Toff reflected that he had forgotten, for a few seconds, that debatable factor. It showed that the ‘official’ report of his death had been taken seriously by those who had reason to know the Toff, and he realized also that it gave him a power he had not previously possessed. A man had risen from the dead....
Perhaps the Toff was one of a few who realized the real simplicity of people like Winkle, Rene, Daisy Lee, and others.
‘I assure you,’ he said, ‘that it was an exaggeration. I’m very much alive. I was alive last night when you were talking to a boy-friend outside the “River Tavern”, and if you can give me the name and address of the gentleman, it’s worth a pony.’
He was eyeing her easily; she seemed to find difficulty in breathing at first, and then she muttered: ‘Gawd, it is ‘im. Lissen, mister, I ain’t—’
‘I hope,’ said the Toff gently, ‘that you’re not going to lie. It won’t get you far, it might be awkward later, and it will lose you twenty-five good English pounds – the easiest money you’ve earned in your life. Well?’
She clutched a flimsy gown about her.
‘Where’s the catch?’ she demanded, and the Toff knew she was back to normal. He laughed, his teeth flashing.
‘There isn’t one, Daisy. I’m not after you. I’m after the man in the Bowler Hat. What’s the story?’
As he spoke he took out his wallet. A small wad of one-pound notes changed hands. Daisy crossed her legs and drew her chair closer. The Toff was as sure as he could be of anything that he was going to hear the truth.
He was equally convinced ten minutes afterwards.
She had known Garrotty, it seemed, and visited him at the ‘Steam Packet’. Sletter had a short list of ladies for the delectation of his guests. On the previous day Garrotty had visited her flat. He had asked her to be at the ‘River Tavern’, and to meet the man with the Bowler Hat. They were to repair to Daisy’s fiat for an hour, and then come out again. Near the Tavern’ Daisy was to start arguing, and when Garrotty came up was to drop out of sight. For her trouble she had been paid five pounds.
The Toff nodded as she got that far.
‘I’m following, Daisy. Bowler Hat came here?’
‘He did, mister. But—’ she glanced down at the fifty pounds and clutched them more tightly. ‘But he never told me his name. I c’d recognize him, though, he was a tough-looking bozo, with a prickly moustache.’ She screwed her lips up in a comical moué of disgust. ‘He –’
But the Toff was taking something from his pocket again. Daisy looked down at a photograph in his hand, and jumped up from her chair.
‘Gawd, they tell the trufe about you! That’s ‘im!’
The Toff did not move. It was a shock, although he afterwards told himself that he should have been prepared for it. As it was, he was trying to find a reason why Mr. Mark Kellson should have gone to such pains to visit his own warehouse.
For Kellson had been Daisy’s guest on the previous night; always assuming, of course, that Daisy was telling the truth.
19: SCARE!
The Toff was fortunate in that he did not need to worry where his next pounds were coming from. He promised Daisy Lee another pony if she told him – through Winkle at the ‘River Tavern’ – if Garrotty or anyone from Garrotty got in touch with her, and then he left 10 Randle Street.
She had been impressed unduly by the fact that he had apparentl
y come from the dead; and she was aware of his reputation. She was probably more afraid of the Toff than of anything else on two feet, and again he had good cause to thank his reputation. It rarely occurred to him that he had built it up, and he had only to thank himself.
So the Toff reasoned, betting on Daisy’s honesty.
Old Ben, with a finger twisted in his beard, was lounging against the open front door. The drizzle had not stopped, and there was a greasy wet film over the macadam-topped road. The Toff put half a crown into a gnarled but ready hand, and stepped across the pavement towards his car.
It was the shout from above that saved him.
Daisy’s voice, raised in alarm, fear, terror! The Toff glanced up quickly, and saw the man outlined against the window on the other side of the road, and, what was more, saw the gun in his hand. A pregnant second passed.
The gun spoke. Flame flared, and there was a soft coughing sound. The Toff’s knees doubled up, and he crouched behind the Frazer-Nash, rooting in his pocket for his own gun. A second shot and a third came, clanging into the side of the car. The Toff, still out of sight, opened one of the doors, and then slid along the front seat. His legs were sticking out of the car on the one side, and he could just reach the handle of the far door.
He opened it slowly, all the time desperately afraid that there might be shooting from behind him, or from a floor above that on which the gunman was shooting. He could see through the gap at last, and he brought his gun into play.
He was not using a silencer, and the shooting seemed to roar up and down Randle Street. Bullets pecked into the window, glass smashed, and plaster fell in a shower. A bullet smacked against the side of the Frazer-Nash.
The man at the window swung round, and was out of sight in a flash.
The Toff hesitated, only for a fraction of a second, but enough for him to get the affair in its proper perspective. If he tried to get across the road he might be shot down; if he did not act soon the gunman would get away.
