The Toff and the Great Illusion

by John Creasey

  Standing on the landing, he saw that there was only one flat on that floor – the ‘5’ was marked clearly in white on a dark door. He heard voices – a man’s and a woman’s. He did not know why he was surprised at hearing a woman’s. He was about to ring the bell when he heard a door open and the voices grew louder. He stepped aside; there was a note in one of the voices which struck a familiar chord, and made him move swiftly back into the shadows of a comer.

  The door opened.

  “Yes, yes,” the woman said, “I know; I’ll do what I can.”

  Rollison kept quite still; he saw her clearly as the light from Charmion’s flat shone upon her. She was clad in a macintosh too large for her, and wore a wide-brimmed hat, but there was no mistaking her.

  Charmion, his face set but his eyes glittering, watched her as she began to go down the stairs, while Rollison tried to digest this new development – the fact that Georgina Scott had visited Charmion. As he stared, unseen by Charmion, he remembered how surprisingly she had been affected by the man’s name, written in fading ink, on the card at the Kettledrum.

  Chapter Eleven

  Accident Or Design?

  Rollison kept quite still.

  He wanted Charmion to go in and close the door, for he was on tenterhooks to follow Georgina, whose footsteps were getting fainter and fainter.

  So long did Charmion stand by the door, after all chance of seeing Georgina had gone, that the Toff wondered whether it were by accident or design. He had not been stealthy in his approach to the top floor, and the man might have heard him coming, and suspect that he was waiting in the shadows. Then Charmion turned and looked towards him; the room light was behind the man, whose face was in shadow; it looked like a death’s head, except for the odd, unnatural brilliance of the eyes. That was a trick of the faint blue light in front of him, but it was none the less effective.

  “Why don’t you come out?” asked Charmion. His voice sounded tired. “Why must you play such foolish tricks?”

  He could not possibly see the Toff, who did not move, believing then that Charmion was not sure of himself.

  “Oh, come out!” snapped Charmion. The Toff started to emerge from his comer but suddenly stood rigid, hardly breathing, for another man moved from the opposite comer.

  The man went forward with heavy tread; Rollison could not see his face, but he recognised the sturdy figure, while the voice would have betrayed Mike Anderson anywhere.

  “Have you got eyes in the dark?” he asked.

  “Who are you?” Charmion demanded. He seemed very tired.

  “I’m from the Press,” said Anderson, “just paying a little call, Charmion.”

  “What interest has the Press in me?”

  “What interest have you in the Press?” retorted Anderson. It was a superficially bright remark, and Rollison believed he made it because he wanted to gain time. Neither of them could have anticipated the oath which shot from Charmion’s lips, although Rollison was carried, mentally, away from the landing to his own flat, where he had looked down upon Charmion and the man had spoken with such passion.

  “I hate the Press!” cried Charmion. “Every man working on it, every foul-minded reporter, every filthy sub-editor’s pencil, every machine, every inch of paper! Do you understand? I hate the Press!”

  “Don’t you think we’d do better inside?” interrupted Anderson. “You have neighbours.”

  After a pause, Charmion said: “What do you want from me?”

  “A story,” said Anderson.

  “I have no desire for the cheap publicity that you can give me,” said Charmion. “I want to forget what happened seven years ago, but you—of course, you will breathe into the corpse of the past and give it a life that will send shudders of delighted horror down the backs of your witless readers. I have no time for the Press.”

  “You’ve time for me,” said Anderson, grimly.

  “I have no—”

  “Because I’ve just seen your wife,” said Anderson.

  Charmion raised one hand as far as his chest, the fist clenched. He backed into the room, so that he looked as he had at Rollison’s flat, colourless and faded, a man who had lost all interest in life but who was suddenly filled with a dread which might goad into vigorous, artificial life.

  “Are you—lying?” His voice was strangled.

  “I’ve just seen your wife,” repeated Anderson.

  There was another pause, and during it the Toff faced the Solomon’s choice ahead of him. If he revealed himself and went in the apartment with Anderson he might learn much; but he wanted to find Georgina. All hope of following her had gone, but she might have gone straight home, and be easily persuaded to talk. Anderson, of course, knew that he was there; the blue light had been enough to reveal his features, and his approach could not have been concealed from the landing. Yet Anderson preferred to say nothing.

  “You’d better come in,” said Charmion, still wearily, and stood aside.

  Anderson went through, and the door closed on them. Rollison waited only until he heard the second door close, then hurried down the stairs, running when he reached the second landing. He rushed out of the door of the building, drew up when he saw a shadowy figure passing, and heard a casual American voice ask him where in hell he was going. Then a taxi drew near.

  “Taxi!” Rollison called, and the driver pulled in towards the kerb, a few yards ahead of Rollison, who hurried towards it. “Twenty-nine, Portman Place,” said Rollison, and the door slammed behind him.

  Thus he eluded Grice’s men, who phoned a report immediately. Grice told them to go to Gresham Terrace and report as soon as Rollison returned.

  Rollison sat back, glad of a chance for reflection, yet not certain that he had made a wise choice. Jolly had hit the nail on the head when he had said that in this affair there was no time to concentrate upon any single issue; too many things happened simultaneously.

  Had Anderson seen Charmion’s wife? Or had he said so simply to force an interview? He had talked as if the fact that Charmion was married had been a well-known one; but, as far as Rollison knew, he could only have learned of it as a result of his investigations after his visit to Hilda’s room.

  “He’s no fool,” Rollison reflected. He lit a cigarette, then closed his eyes, to concentrate upon Georgina. It was remarkable what little he knew about Georgina Scott; but then, there was no reason why he should know much.

  Her mother was a quiet, languorous woman, beautiful in a very different way from Georgina, with none of her daughter’s woolliness of mind and word. Sir Roland Blanding was, in fact, her stepfather, who had made his money in patent foods and was now at the Ministry of Agriculture. The family was wealthy – but it was only after reflection that Rollison realised he did not know who Georgina’s real father was, only that her mother had married Blanding some five years before, and that it had caused much comment, for Blanding had been eligible in every way.

  “Of course,” mused Rollison, “there’s no reason why Georgina’s father should have been anything but worthy, but I don’t like little mysteries.” He opened his eyes when the cab slowed down, surprised to find himself in Portman Place. The driver was going slowly, trying to see the numbers painted on the pillars at the porches of the houses.

  Rollison tapped on the glass partition.

  “All right, I’ll find it,” he said.

  “We just passed twenty-one,” said the cabby, “it’ll be about ’ere, sir.” He leaned out of his seat and opened the door, and Rollison climbed out, paid him, and stood in the silence as the cab moved off.

  Some distance away the hum of traffic made a faint background of sound, yet seemed to serve chiefly to emphasise the quietude. So did the faint strains of music, presumably from a radio, which filtered from behind the curtained windows. The wind and rain had stopped, although it was only a brief lull, and as Rollison found the porch of Number 29 a gust of wind came whining and tearing about the street, whipping his hat from his head. He saved it.
The wind took his breath away and made him swing round, to turn his back to it. Then it went away up the street, moaning as if trying to find some precious thing that it had lost, leaving the street in a brooding silence.

  “I wonder if she’s back yet?” Rollison said aloud.

  Georgina might have gone elsewhere, he knew, so this might be a completely wasted visit; probably he would serve his purpose best by knocking and inquiring from her. But he was reluctant to do that and waited for three more gusts of wind before, in the fourth lull, he heard footsteps approaching him.

  Turning, he saw the beam of a small torch pointing towards the pavement and shining on neat shoes and well-turned legs, each more clearly defined in turn as the newcomer drew nearer; he thought it was probably Georgina, although he could see nothing above her knees. Another gust of wind made her stop, sending her skirts swirling about her thighs; but when it had gone she hurried on, shone the torch towards the four stone steps of the house, and mounted them. It was Georgina.

  “Shall I show myself now?” Rollison asked himself.

  Georgina inserted a key in the lock; the silence was deep enough for him to hear that clearly. If he called her, out of the darkness, he would give her a fright and she might be more prone to talk; on the other hand, a fright might make her obstinate and give her time to think about the reason for his questions. It would be better to pretend that be knew nothing of where she had been, but try to get her story in an indirect way. So he waited for the door to open; a faint light shone from the hall, putting her figure in clear silhouette.

  That was not all.

  “’Gina!” exclaimed a man’s youthful voice, and the door remained open, Georgina poised on the threshold, staring at someone whom Rollison could not see.

  “’Gina!” repeated the man, agitatedly. “I’ve been waiting for an hour!”

  “Oh,” said Georgina, in so low a voice that Rollison could hardly hear the words, “I’m sorry.”

  She went in; a man’s shadow appeared on the porch, a hand gripped the side of the door, and then it closed; sight and sound of them disappeared, and another gust of wind swept along the street in its melancholy quest.

  “So,” murmured Rollison somewhat inanely. “An anxious boyfriend.”

  He waited for two or three minutes, so that his arrival would not appear too great a coincidence, and then went up the steps and rang the bell. There was a long delay, and he rang three times before a maid answered the door; Rollison thought that she looked as if she had been awakened from a sleep, for her hair was ruffled and her small white cap on one side; her eyes were bleary. She was hardly civil.

  “I want to see Miss Scott,” said Rollison crisply.

  “Oo?” demanded the maid, puzzling Rollison, for Blanding was not a man to allow shortcomings amongst his staff. “Oh, Miss Georgina. She ain’t in.”

  “Isn’t she?” asked Rollison, sharply. He stepped past her into the narrow hall, and took a card from his pocket. “Tell her that I am waiting, will you, and be quick!”

  “But—” the maid began, and then a door opened along the passage and Georgina appeared, while the young man’s voice came from the room, protestingly.

  “But confound it, ’Gina—”

  “It’s no good Bob,” said ’Gina, dully, “I’m too tired to think about anything tonight.”

  “Miss Georgina—” began the maid.

  “Gina,” said Rollison, stepping forward and smiling at Georgina, who turned and stared at him. There was no doubt at all that she was startled, that of all the people in the world Rollison was the last she wanted to see. It was a vivid, revealing flash, and although it faded quickly and she forced a smile, she would never convince Rollison that she was pleased to see him. And—

  She was frightened.

  “Why, Rolly!” she said, and her teeth flashed in the mechanical smile. “What on earth are you doing here so late?”

  “Is it ever too late to wish to see you?” asked Rollison, amiably.

  “Don’t be an ass!” Georgina was making a real attempt to appear normal, and Rollison admired her for it.

  Framed in the doorway of the room on the right was the young man, personable-looking, obviously dissatisfied, frowning a little and, quite clearly, wondering what the devil this handsome stranger was doing here so late at night. The maid stood by the front door, prepared to open it at a word from Georgina.

  Georgina looked towards her, and said sharply: “You may go, May.” The maid pouted, but went off, and Georgina shrugged; there was exasperation in her manner, as if she were tired of dealing with recalcitrant servants. “What do you really want, Rolly? Oh, I—this is Bob Moor. Bob, you probably know Richard Rollison.”

  Moor stared into Rollison’s face, his eyes taking on a hint of wonderment, almost incredulity – there was something naive in his wide-eyed appraisal.

  “Rollison!” exclaimed Moor. “You mean—I mean—are you the—”

  “Bob!” exclaimed Georgina. She broke in simply to prevent the word “Toff” from being uttered, and Rollison was acutely conscious of Georgina’s underlying fear. She was breathing heavily, and fighting a losing battle against revealing her perturbation. “Bob, come round in the morning, will you? Rolly, I’m absolutely exhausted, I’m tired out; oh, it’s been such a wicked day. I’m sure I shall dream all night!” She shuddered, realistically; only the expression in her eyes told Rollison that she was lying desperately. “Perhaps you’ll give me a ring in the morning, too, Rolly?”

  “But—” began Moor.

  “I won’t keep you five minutes,” Rollison promised her, earnestly.

  “Look here, you can’t go like this!” broke in Moor, and any doubt that he was as much on edge as Georgina faded completely. “’Gina, you must be reasonable! Mr. Rollison will probably—”

  “Oh, don’t pester me!” cried Georgina. “Why don’t you go home? I’m tired of talking, I’ve a dreadful headache, I can hardly keep my eyes open! I won’t say another word tonight, do you hear? Not another word!”

  And then, tears flooding her eyes, she turned and blundered towards the stairs, beginning to run once she reached them, and not looking back.

  Moor stood outlined against the doorway, wide-eyed, staring first at the girl and then, as she disappeared round a bend in the stairs, towards the Toff.

  Chapter Twelve

  Mr. Robert Moor And Another

  “I—I just can’t understand it!” exclaimed Moor. “It beats me—it absolutely beats me!”

  His eyes, large and blue and innocent, were turned towards Rollison, who was taking out his cigarette case. Moor accepted a cigarette and they lit up.

  “I—I’m all at sea,” continued Moor. “I say—you are the Toff, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Rollison. He had little time for false modesty, and he knew that hero-worship might be outweighed, then, by the urgency of the situation. “What’s the trouble, do you know?”

  “I don’t really. Georgina seems to have gone completely bats!” Moor was smoking his cigarette too quickly. “Did you want to see her urgently?”

  “Yes,” said Rollison, “and it’s more urgent than ever, now.” He looked about the hall and saw a bell-push. He pressed it, while Moor stared at him. “You must know about the trouble.”

  “We-ell—yes, I suppose I do.” Moor was nervous. “That is, she’s frightened about something, but she won’t tell me what it is. I can’t understand it. Why, she’s altered completely in a few hours! I saw her this morning, and—”

  “What time this morning?” asked Rollison.

  Moor looked away from him, and then smiled, a faintly abashed smile. It made him look a very pleasant young man indeed and, oddly, it also made him seem older than he had been while so perturbed and serious. “It was soon after nine. I came round and strolled with her to Lewis Street, where she works these days. I—er—I’m on leave, you see, and I’m rather at a loose end.”

  ‘Except,’ thought Rollison, for ‘dancing attenda
nce on Georgina.’ There might be many worse things than that, and this young man looked wholesome, the type to appeal to her. He had fair, rather fine hair that curled, and his fresh complexion was slightly tanned. His blue eyes – astonishingly clear – were fringed with long, fair lashes. He was trying to grow a moustache, which would never really mature.

  “She was as right as rain then,” said Moor. “But at lunchtime she dashed off after about three minutes – wouldn’t even stay to eat, and I’d—”

  “Did she say why she was in a hurry?” asked Rollison, but before Moor could answer a swing door opened on the right of the hall and the maid appeared. She had tidied her hair and straightened her cap, and she looked a little self- conscious. “Yes, sir?”

  “I want you to take a message to Miss Georgina,” said Rollison. “Tell her that it is most important that I should see her for five minutes.”

  This time the maid did not argue, but said “Yes, sir,” and turned away at once Rollison waited until she was out of earshot, and then said quietly: “Did she?”

  “What?” asked Moor. “Oh, say she—why she was in a hurry? No, she didn’t explain at all. She just told me that something rather unexpected had cropped up and that she couldn’t stay. It was at the Waldorf. Before I could persuade her she’d gone off. I rang her up three times at her office, but either she wasn’t there or she wouldn’t speak to me. I can’t believe she wouldn’t come to the phone,” added Moor, earnestly. “I mean, we—” he hesitated and then went on in a rush of confidence “—we’re practically engaged!”

  ‘Practically’, thought Rollison, would not cut a great deal of ice with Georgina, who had been thrice engaged already. Obviously Moor was her present favourite, and it was not like Georgina to cut a man as she had apparently cut him. It was not, simply, a question of ‘off with the old and on with the new’; Georgina might change her affections, but she would always be very nice about it.