by John Creasey
“I used to go about with Ted a lot,” she said.
“He’s a tall and gloomy-looking gentleman with glasses and a spindly frame. Right?”
“Perfect!”
“A deep voice, perpetual complaints, and a passion for all things cricketing,” added the Toff. “Well, the unexpected is often happening, and I certainly did not expect a mystery from Ted Harrison. Are you ready?”
She looked startled.
“For what?”
“For Draycott’s flat.”
“But—but how are you going to get in?”
The Toff, stepping towards his bedroom, looked at her over his shoulder with so comical an expression that she had to laugh. He did not tell her that into his pocket he had slipped a knife which had as one of its blades a pick-lock that had not yet failed him on ordinary locks, together with an interesting instrument with which to get past a Yale.
She had heard vaguely of the Toff, remembering the occasional mornings when the headlines of the popular Press told a story in which he figured. She had thought little of it, for to her it had seemed that he was a dilettante of crime about whom the Press had woven a legend. But now that she had seen him she found that her opinion was altered. There was at once something unassuming and reassuring about him, something suggesting that the mystery was the simplest thing to solve. He had not scoffed, nor thrown doubts, nor given her to believe that she was making mountains where there were none. In fact he had taken her visit and her story in his stride.
He was absurdly good-looking, of course, and it would have been easy to imagine him indolent. The appointments and the furniture of the flat bespoke wealth, which often went with laziness. Yet, if Ted Harrison had told the truth, he cared little for luxury.
She put that thought aside, for he led her downstairs and into Gresham Terrace. His flat, on the top floor of No. 55, was on a corner, and round the corner was a row of garages from which he took a Bristol. He did not seem to hurry, and did everything in leisurely fashion, but they were soon on the road to Chelsea. Draycott lived near the river.
Sitting next to the Toff, Fay told him that she had several times visited the flat in the evenings, to help to get the work cleared up. It was a small one, consisting of a small bedroom, a tiny kitchen, but one large studio room which would be freezing in the winter, but was cool and airy in the warmer months. The house itself, a large one, had long since been converted into six flats. Most of the tenants were artists. “Really artists?” asked the Toff.
“Well, I’ve only seen one or two of them, and they dress the part.” They reached 14 Grey Street in less than fifteen minutes. It was one of a long row of terraced houses, tall and narrow, dowdy and grey, with the woodwork mostly in need of paint, and few of the windows really clean. Drab lace curtains, turned yellow with age, were at many front windows, and outside several of the houses were notices of apartments to let or offers of board-residence at moderate charges. It was neither impressive nor particularly depressing, and to the Toff the most homely sound was the hoot of a siren as a tug or a small cargo-boat passed along the Thames, some hundred yards from the end of the thoroughfare. The Toff pulled up and opened the door for her. “I don’t know what Mr. Draycott would say,” she said a little uncertainly.
“He needn’t know,” said the Toff. “And certainly you played no part in it, beyond telling me you were concerned for the gentleman, which should please him.”
“Why?” asked Fay.
“Well,” said the Toff easily, “it would please me.” The hall of the house was dark.
From one of the flats a radio blared, and in another someone was making a hash of a Bach prelude. The stairs creaked noisily. One piece of the balustrade was broken, and he caught his hand on a splinter and winced. Together they reached the top landing. That was as large as the hall, and there were two flats – with Draycott’s on the right-hand side. From the door on the left came the sound of men’s voices.
The Toff glanced at the lock of Draycott’s door and said: “Fay, look hard at the other flat, and warn me if the handle turns.”
She turned her back to him as she obeyed, and the Toff opened his knife with the pick-lock, for the lock in front of him was old-fashioned, and would be the work only of a moment with that tool. He felt the end of the skeleton key bite at the lock, manipulated for some seconds, and then felt the barrel go back. He turned the handle and pushed the door open.
“I won’t be a moment,” he said, and stepped through, while Fay continued to stare at the door of the flat opposite. He saw the long, lofty studio with the big north-light set in the ceiling. It was furnished without taste and at little expense, but he was not interested in the furniture nor the size of the room. He half-closed the door behind him, and stood still, staring towards a couch in one corner.
Lying full length on it was a man, the face so mottled and distorted that it was unlikely that he was alive.
Chapter Three
Fast Work
The Toff stepped across to the couch and the motionless body, which was dressed in a dark-grey lounge suit, and looked to be that of a youngish man. He disliked the thought of Fay Gretton making this discovery, and stayed no longer than was necessary to confirm that the man had been dead for some time; the flesh of his hand was cold.
About his neck was a nylon stocking, drawn tight.
That explained the purple mottle of his face, the protruding eyes, and the swollen lips, which the tongue pushed a little aside. It was not a nice sight. The Toff turned away, but then went back, drawing on his right-hand glove and slipping his hand into the man’s breast pocket. He drew out a wallet, and inside it was a letter addressed to:
James Draycott Esq.,
14 Grey Street, Chelsea, S.W.
The Toff replaced the letter and the wallet, examined the stocking at the man’s neck, and saw that it had been drawn tight, but that there were no marks of fingers or thumbs on the swollen neck. That suggested that the noose had been slipped over, probably while the man had been sitting on the settee.
There was no sign of a struggle.
The Toff drew off his glove and returned to the door. A man whom he had not known, and not heard of until that day, had been murdered, and the Toff was too hardened to death in all its forms to be worried by that. But his concern for the girl outside was the greater because of her obvious feeling for Draycott.
She was still watching the opposite door.
From his expression there was nothing to learn.
“Is it empty?” she asked.
“Up to a point,” said the Toff. “There isn’t a key of this flat at the office, is there?”
“No, I told you.” She looked alarmed. “Why?”
“Because we need one,” said the Toff, “and I’ll have to get one made, or …” He hesitated, and she asked in a sharp voice: “What have you found in there?”
“Fay,” said the Toff very quietly, “I want you to stay here again for just two minutes. I’ll tell you then.” He smiled. “A bet?”
She nodded, and the Toff slipped back into the room. He found the key which he should have taken before in the hip pocket of the man lying there, and rejoined the girl. She had lost most of her colour, and her eyes were very bright.
“Is he all right?” she demanded.
“I would give a lot for a comfortable settee, and an armchair for you,” said the Toff, “but I think you can take bad news, Fay. He’s dead. He has been killed.”
She stood very still, staring at him with her eyes wide, yet slowly changing their expression, as if the news did not sink in at once. Her body kept quite rigid, and he saw that her hands began to clench. Then her breathing grew heavy.
“Oh, no!” she said, and her voice was low-pitched. “Oh, it can’t be true!”
The Toff said nothing, and she looked towards the door, as i
f determined to go in and see for herself. He meant to prevent that, but he did not have to fight, for she shivered from head to foot, then turned towards the stair-head.
The Toff closed and locked the door, slipped the key into his pocket – handling the key with his gloves so as to make sure that his finger-prints did not show – and took the girl’s arm as she began to descend the stairs. She walked stiffly, as if with no idea of what she was doing. As they reached the landing a door opened and a woman appeared.
The Toff saw her clearly.
She was very tiny and very smart – not characteristic of that part of Chelsea, nor in a flat of that kind, for she had spent a small fortune on her dress. Her hair was red, and the most remarkable thing about her were her eyes, very large and brilliant, and amber in colour.
She looked curiously at the girl and the Toff, then preceded them down the stairs.
“That might be unfortunate,” the Toff said sotto voce, and to his mingled surprise and relief Fay said: “Oughtn’t we to have been seen?”
“It doesn’t matter a great deal.”He had spoken to try to make her think of something else. “We’ll manage, Fay. Bundle in.”
“But what are you going to do?”
“I’ll handle it all,” said the Toff quietly. “That’s one thing you needn’t let yourself worry about”
She said: “Thank God I came to you.”
Then she stepped into the car, and he followed her, driving more quickly on the return journey. She did not ask questions when he reached the flat, and after he had insisted that she should drink a weak whisky-and-soda, which made her grimace, but brought some colour back to her cheeks, he telephoned a Kensington number.
A pleasant feminine voice answered: “Who is calling, please?”
“Anthea,” said the Toff quietly, “can you desert Jamie for a few hours, perhaps even a day or so?”
“Can I—what!”
“I’m quite serious, and I’m not alone,” said the Toff.
“Oh, Rolly, nothing’s the matter, is it? Yes, I’ll come over. Jamie can look after himself. What—what is it?”
“I’ll tell you when you get here,” said the Toff.
He replaced the receiver, to find Fay staring at him, neither blankly nor with excessive curiosity.
“Who was that?”
“A friend of mine who’ll be a friend of yours.”
“I see,” Fay said. “You’re very kind.”
“Nonsense,” said the Toff, and took up the receiver again. He saw no purpose in trying to hide the necessary formalities: to try to enshroud her with a cloak of hush-hush would do more harm than good. So she heard him speak to Scotland Yard, and then to a Chief Inspector McNab, who also lived in Chelsea, and who had taken a well-earned day’s rest.
To the Toff, McNab did not sound affable.
“What ees it, Rolleeson?” His accent was unreliable, and privately the Toff considered that he was a case of the Scotsman occasionally pretending to be what he was. “If there is any reason for a call the night—”
“Would I be worrying you otherwise?” asked the Toff reproachfully, to which McNab replied that he would not be surprised. He stopped his complaints when the Toff told him what had happened. He finished: “So the key’s here, Mac, and I disturbed nothing.”
“Will ye bring the key to the hoose?” demanded McNab.
“I’d rather you sent for it,” said the Toff, “and I’ll come to see you later.” He was an old acquaintance of McNab.
There had been a time, particularly in the days when the Toff had been little known, and when legend had not grown up about him, when his methods and his habit of acting first and advising the police afterwards had caused trouble with McNab and others at the Yard. But today, if the police did not entirely approve of the means he used, they were prepared to acknowledge that he obtained results.
To this he responded by covering such breaches when it was possible; and they lived in peace, often working at one with each other.
It was some minutes after the Toff had spoken to McNab that a policeman called for the key, and the address. Less than five minutes later Anthea arrived.
The Toff had met her first as Lady Anthea Munro, but she was now married to her Jamie, a worthy Scotsman who worshipped her, and yet did not look askance at her friendship with the Toff, whose reputation was not what it might have been, and who was said to have had affaires with more lovelies in London than any other man. Jamie, being shrewd, probably suspected that those affaires were frequently no more than gossip.
There had been an affair of violence when Anthea had taken a keen if not active interest, and that had been the beginning of a friendship likely to last. And Anthea the right kind of common sense to help Fay Gretton. Fay would not be likely to talk to him about her feelings for Draycott; but she would talk to Anthea.
Anthea was twenty-seven, neither short nor tall, fair and blue-eyed and possessing a something which only the rugged moorland of Scotland can give to a woman. She took control of the situation with a speed which would have amused the Toff in different circumstances. He told her what had happened, while she looked at her face in a mirror and grimaced, and said: “There’s a dreadful wind outside; look at my hair.”
“Isn’t it always untidy?” asked the Toff. “Thank you, sir. But may I use your bedroom to straighten it?”
“Use on,” said the Toff, and Anthea looked at Fay with her head perched a little to one side. Fay stood up, without speaking, and went into the bedroom with the other woman. The Toff sat back to consider the situation.
Draycott, presumably, had been murdered at the flat.
That needed a motive.
He sat up abruptly.
Draycott had been about to marry another woman, and Fay Gretton had wished it otherwise. Could Fay have determined to stop it at all costs? Could that explain her persistence that Draycott was missing in peculiar circumstances? Could she have known of the death, and been unable to keep quiet?
The Toff tried to push the thought aside, but it was persistent. On the face of it there seemed no sense in believing that she had known Draycott to be dead when she had called at Gresham Street. But it was a possibility.
“Although,” mused the Toff, “had the fiancée been the victim it would have been more logical. I think Fay will stand up to any suspicions, but McNab might get that great mind of his busy. I wonder how long it will be before he arrives? And should I go to Chelsea?”
He decided then that a second visit to Grey Street was advisable, and he was on his feet when the telephone rang. He answered it promptly, to hear an unfamiliar man’s voice at the other end of the wire.
“Mr. Rollison, please.”
“Speaking,” said the Toff.
“Oh, it’s you,” said the man at the other end in a voice that suggested he had not received much pleasure. “I say, Rollison, have you had a visit from a Miss Fay Gretton?”
“Who are you?” asked the Toff.
“Oh, sorry. Harrison—Ted Harrison. We’ve met each other. Have you seen her?”
“It would be an idea if you came round,” said the Toff. “Yes, she’s here.”
“What are you sounding mysterious about?” demanded Harrison, whose voice was deep and whose manner seemed irritable. “I can come round, although not for long. Why?”
“You’ll see.”
“Oh, all right,” said Harrison gruffly. “I’ll come. But you can set Fay’s mind at rest meanwhile.”
The Toff said, sharply: “What?”
“You can set her mind at rest. That’s plain enough, isn’t it?” demanded Harrison. “I had a call from Draycott half an hour ago. He’s up North—he’d been called away on urgent business and couldn’t get a message through before. I—What did you say?”
Chapter Four
&
nbsp; Says Harrison
It was quite absurd.
For a moment – only for a moment – the Toff was taken off his balance, and his exclamation had understandably annoyed Harrison. But he recovered quickly, and he said sharply: “There’s something wrong, all the same. Come round at once will you?”
Harrison rang off without answering.
The Toff felt irritated with him, and yet acknowledged that the man had some excuse.
The Toff waited for fifteen minutes, and during that time heard something that sounded like crying from the bedroom. Anthea was working the oracle; Fay could safely be left to her. Yet that peculiar suspicion – if it could be called a suspicion – persisted. Why had Fay been so insistent that something was wrong?
Could she have had prior knowledge?
The Toff was still wondering when the door-bell rang, and he admitted Harrison. He recognised the man immediately, although it was a year or more since they had played on opposite sides, and then they had been in flannels and had had little to say to each other. Before that, however, Harrison had frequently played against the Toff, who was a medium-paced bowler of some renown, and a batsman good enough for most first-class counties.
Tall and almost weedy, with an untidy mop of dark-brown hair, large horn-rimmed glasses, and a continually aggrieved expression on a homely, even pugnacious, face, Harrison walked with a stoop, and was the last man who would have been expected to be successful at any game. He was dressed in an old pair of flannels and a tweed jacket worn a little at the elbows, and was smoking a pipe that would soon become offensive. But his eyes were smiling behind his glasses; he was not the sourpuss that he liked to pretend.
“Hallo, Rolly—glad to see you.”
“Thanks,” smiled the Toff. “Having a good season?”
“Fair, thanks. You haven’t been playing a lot, have you?”
“One way and the other, I’ve been busy,” said the Toff, “but we needn’t worry about that now. Are you sure about this message from Draycott?”
