The Toff and the Great Illusion

by John Creasey

  “I see,” mused Rollison. “She was in a hurry at lunch and—upset?”

  “Well, she did seem a bit put out, but nothing like she is now,” said Moor. “When I did manage to get her on the phone, earlier this evening, she said she would see me at half-past nine. She was in a hurry, then, but I thought she sounded more composed than she had done earlier.”

  “But she was late,” murmured Rollison. “That’s all you know?”

  “Absolutely everything,” said Moor earnestly. “It’s shaken me. Oh, there’s one other thing! When she did get in tonight, she’d obviously forgotten that I was going to be here. She seemed thoroughly upset – she was frightened. I asked her why, and she said something about serious trouble and there was nothing I could do to help her. That—er—that’s why I was so pleased to see you.”

  Rollison smiled, absently.

  “Having heard of the Toff? Never get yourself a reputation, it always rebounds. Did she say anything to suggest that her bother might be the kind in which I could help?”

  “Well, no; but—” Moor broke off. “Oh, I don’t know! But there is something wrong, Mr. Rollison. I don’t understand how anything could have affected ’Gina like this, but—look here, can you do anything? You must know something about it, or you wouldn’t be here.”

  “I can only try,” said Rollison.

  The maid returned, still prim, but with her face set firmly; Rollison read Georgina’s answer in the girl’s expression, and hardly needed to hear the quiet: “Miss Georgina regrets she cannot see you tonight, sir.”

  “Oh, damn!” exclaimed Moor. “I—good Lord!”

  “Sir!” exclaimed the maid. “Sir!”

  She stood staring at Rollison’s back, and Moor stared, equally astonished; for Rollison was halfway up the stairs. He reached the landing, looked along the darkened passages, and saw a sliver of light at the foot of one door. The maid’s footsteps pattered urgently up the stairs in his wake. He strode along to the room where there was a light, and tapped sharply.

  “What is it now?” demanded Georgina; her voice was taut, almost hysterical.

  “Put a wrap on,” said Rollison, opening the door an inch. “I’m coming in, ’Gina.”

  “Miss Georgina!” gasped the maid.

  Rollison pushed the door wider open and stepped inside.

  Georgina was standing in front of a dressing-table in a satin slip, her wavy auburn hair over her shoulders; she looked quite lovely, except for the expression in her eyes; it was akin to terror, and Rollison hated the sight of it.

  “You’ve got no right to do this!” the maid began, angrily. “If you don’t go I—I’ll call the police!”

  Rollison turned and looked at her.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “You can wait here, if you want to.” He left the door open and, stepping towards the bed, sat on the edge. He picked up a dressing-gown from the foot-panel, and held it out to Georgina. She took it mechanically, her eyes on him all the time. “No, ’Gina,” said Rollison, rallying her calmly, “you’re not getting anywhere behaving like this, you know. What’s the trouble?”

  Georgina gasped: “What—what do you want?”

  “All I wanted to find out was whether you’d seen the name ‘Charmion’ anywhere again?” said Rollison. “That’s all, but now—why so worried, ’Gina? And why can’t I help?”

  The maid’s expression had altered; she stood by the door but was no longer so grim as she had been; it was almost as if she were now on the Toff ’s side.

  Georgina put the dressing-gown on, but did not speak.

  “Well?” asked Rollison, gently.

  “I—-I can’t tell you anything,” mumbled Georgina. “It—it’s nothing to do with you, it’s personal. Rolly, don’t worry me, please.”

  “But I must—” began Rollison.

  “And what must you do?” demanded a man from the passage.

  It was a firm voice, that of a man who knew his mind; and its owner came in. He was tall and well-built, wearing an overcoat of excellent cut, and carrying a hat and gloves. His full, florid face was purposeful, and his blue eyes were very direct and hard. Rollison had seen him before and recognised Roland Blanding; the tag ‘strong man’ had often been applied to Blanding, and his appearance justified it. He walked with a firm, deliberate tread, but made little or no sound, only partly because of the thick carpet. The Toff might have been justified in thinking that Blanding had approached stealthily; but then, in such circumstances, Blanding would have been fully justified in doing so.

  “Father!” exclaimed Georgina; it was, somehow, like her to utter just that word, and then to turn and collapse on the dressing-table, burying her head in her arms and beginning to sob.

  “Well?” Blanding’s lips hardly moved; they were well-shaped but thin, and tight set.

  Rollison said: “You know me, perhaps?”

  “I do not,” said Blanding crisply. “Nor do I know what right you have to force yourself into my daughter’s room. Get out!”

  “Later,” said Rollison, standing up. “I think—”

  “I do not know who you are, and don’t care,” said Blanding. “I do know that unless you are out of this room in thirty seconds, I shall throw you out. And if you are not—”

  Rollison said: “If I go out of here, may you and I have a talk?”

  “We may not!” snapped Blanding. “I have told you to get out.”

  “Oh,” said Rollison, a little foolishly. “A showdown?” He sat on the edge of the bed again and looked into the man’s steady eyes. “If it has to be, it has to be. Don’t you think—”

  Blanding took four steps forward, and stretched out his right hand.

  The Toff let him grip his coat, then, almost lazily, moved his right hand and gripped the older man’s wrist. He did not appear to do so tightly, but the strength went out of the man’s arm, the strong fingers loosened their hold.

  “I’m serious,” Rollison said. “We must talk.”

  He thought that Blanding might try to fight, even considered the possibility of his telling the maid to telephone for the police. He stared into Blanding’s narrowed eyes, seeing a little vein swelling in the man’s neck, and getting larger; a pulse in Blanding’s temple was beating, the vein, blue against the redness of his skin.

  Georgina sobbed, deep, wracking sobs, the only sound in the room.

  Then, slowly: “Go downstairs,” said Blanding. “I’ll join you there in five minutes.”

  “No,” said Rollison. “No consultation with Georgina first.”

  “Damn your insolence!” roared Blanding. He tried to snatch his hand away, failed, then swept his other hand towards Rollison’s face; Rollison pushed it away with an almost careless ease, and then stood up; he moved Blanding from him, and the man staggered.

  “Are you coming?” Rollison demanded.

  Blanding did not once look away from him until, after a long period of silence between them, he looked at Georgina. Her sobbing had quietened; although her shoulders still shook, and she did not look up.

  Blanding turned to the maid.

  “Stay with Miss Georgina,” he ordered, and then moved towards the door. Guessing something of the anger raging in him, and giving him full marks for his iron composure, Rollison reached the door at the same time as Blanding. They walked side by side along the passage and down the stairs.

  Moor was standing bewilderedly at the drawing-room door.

  Blanding ignored him, and Rollison gave him a smile which was a warning not to join them. Blanding led the way to another room; taking a key ring from his pocket he unlocked the door of a square study, lined almost to the ceiling with hooks in glass-fronted cases. There was an atmosphere of snug opulence about the room; the walnut desk glistened beneath the desk-lamp which went on from a switch by the door; and everything seemed new.

  Blanding closed the door, but did not sit down.

  “Well?”

  Rollison took out his cigarette case.

  “I�
��m sorry about this,” he said. “I was afraid that if I went we might lose precious time.”

  “As far as I am concerned you are talking nonsense,” said Blanding, ignoring the case. “Say what you have to say, and get out.”

  Rollison shrugged.

  “If you’re going to keep it up, I can’t help either you or Georgina.”

  “I was not aware that we needed help.”

  “Weren’t you?” Rollison lit a cigarette and dropped the match into an ashtray. Georgina knows she does, but she’s afraid of asking for it. Afraid is an ugly word.”

  “If you are trying to make me think—” began Blanding.

  “Great Scott, no!” exclaimed Rollison. “You can’t make men think; if they won’t do it themselves you might as well give up trying.”

  Blanding’s face took on a deeper shade of red.

  “Your manner is quite offensive.”

  “I know,” said Rollison. “I’m sorry. I think Georgina is in acute danger, and I want to help her. I don’t think you realise it, and I don’t think she does.”

  “I think you are talking nonsense!”

  “I may be,” admitted Rollison. He drew deeply on his cigarette, then stepped across the room and sat on the comer of the desk. Blanding did not move. Two leather armchairs, with well-filled cushions, stood on either side of a red brick fireplace, a reading lamp and a book-rest near one of them; a book was lying open upon it. Rollison saw the title at the head of a page: The Faith That Must Offend. He narrowed his eyes and looked more earnestly at Blanding.

  “Yes, I may be,” he continued, “but this afternoon I saw a woman, rather older than Georgina, but as attractive in her way. She had been strangled.”

  “What the devil are you talking about?” demanded Blanding.

  I’ve shaken him,’ thought Rollison, and felt more hopeful. “What I saw this afternoon,” he said aloud. “The woman who was murdered was frightened – as Georgina is frightened now – and there is some reason for thinking that the same people caused the fear in each case. I can’t be sure. Incidentally, the police know all about it.”

  Blanding relaxed, stepped to his desk and selected, with great care, a cigar from a silver box. Then he said: “Will you have one of these? A drink?”

  “No, thanks,” said Rollison, surprised at Blanding’s changed manner. “Seriously, Blanding, I’m sorry about the incident upstairs. If I hadn’t felt that it was urgent I shouldn’t have forced myself into ’Gina’s room, and I certainly wouldn’t have had a trial of strength with you.”

  “If you’re serious, and there’s anything in what you say, that doesn’t matter,” said Blanding, testily. “I can hardly believe that you’re right. My daughter—” he made the word emphatic, as if to make sure that Rollison understood that he regarded Georgina as his real daughter, not one by marriage—“has had a severe shock.” He broke off when Rollison smiled faintly, and for the first time a glimmer of a smile showed in his own eyes. “Yes, I do know you! I was saying, Georgina had an extremely severe shock this morning.”

  “What was it?” asked Rollison.

  “A close friend of hers was involved in a road crash yesterday. You may know him – Teddy Marchant. He—but, of course, Rollison! You figured prominently in the Marchant Trust case, didn’t you?”

  Rollison said, swiftly: “Yes.” The news was a sharp blow, for he had been very fond of Teddy Marchant; but he forced himself not to think too deeply about it then, and added: “Was Georgina as fond of Teddy as all that?”

  “I think she was. She is—” Blanding hesitated, and then said resignedly: “Well, she is a little inconsistent, but I had hoped that she and Marchant—” he broke off, while Rollison thought of Bob Moor’s hopeful ‘practically engaged’. “However, the point is that Georgina was very much affected by the news, which reached her before lunch.”

  “Yes?” said Rollison.

  “And I think it is the reason for her breakdown,” went on Blanding. “She has been very jumpy all day, but forced herself to remain at her work. She is—” he paused—“very highly strung, Rollison.”

  “Yes,” repeated Rollison.

  “Is that all you can say?” demanded the older man.

  “I’m trying to fit everything in its place,” Rollison said. “Not easy. Not—” he Blanding paused—“normal for Georgina.”

  “As I say, she is highly strung.”

  “Ye-es,” said Rollison again, and then smiled quickly, almost nervously. “Is it just nerves? Has she always been quite so jumpy? Or have you noticed it more in the past few weeks or months?”

  “I think she had been more serious about Marchant, and the fact that he has been on operational duty has affected her,” said Blanding, stiffly.

  “It could be, but—she has been more jumpy lately?”

  “She has.”

  “Could there be something else, too?”

  Blanding said: “Exactly what do you mean?”

  Rollison eyed him evenly, and then said, in a slow, measured voice: “If I were to follow my inclination I’d ask you to get a doctor to examine her, and then go by what he says,” he said. “But you can face it. I think she may have been taking drugs.” Blanding snapped: “What’s that? Georgina! Rollison, if I thought you were serious—”

  “I know, I know,’ said Rollison hastily. “You would knock my head off. Blanding, why should I express an opinion like that for the sake of it? If it’s true, then she’s not far gone and you’ll be able to pull her round with proper treatment. If I’m wrong—well, no harm is done.”

  “I think the suggestion is positively slanderous!”

  “Will you call a doctor?”

  After a prolonged pause, in which neither man’s eyes dropped, Blanding snapped his fingers and said: “Oh, I suppose I’d better; I won’t be satisfied until I know that you are talking nonsense.”

  “That’s fine,” murmured Rollison. “I hope I am, but—” he shrugged. “Can you get him here tonight?”

  “I certainly don’t propose to waste time,” said Blanding. He looked towards the telephone, and then, his hand stretching out towards it, added: “But you didn’t come to see whether Georgina was taking drugs. What did you want from her?”

  “I wanted to find out whether she knows anything about a man named Charmion,” said the Toff, almost casually. Then he stared, his eyes widening in amazement, at the transformation in Blanding; he had never seen more fury in a man’s eyes.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Toff Keeps His Own Counsel

  Before then, Blanding had looked as if he would strike the Toff, and his anger had been clear although controlled; now it made him like a man possessed. His whole expression changed, his voice was thick, he strode to Rollison and gripped his arms. Rollison could feel his fingers trembling.

  “What the devil do you mean? What has Charmion to do with it? If you don’t speak at once, I’ll—”

  Rollison made no effort to release himself.

  “A Charmion is in it,” he said, “but I don’t know how, and I don’t know which one. I had an appointment with ’Gina this morning and before I arrived she had been given a card with the one word ‘Charmion’, in ink which faded. One Charmion and I have not been friends in the past, and I thought it was a crack at me. It might have been the reason for Georgina’s manner today – not the fact that Marchant was hurt.”

  Blanding growled: “Is that the truth?”

  “Of course it is,” said Rollison, and then, gently, released his arms; they hurt where Blanding had gripped them. “What do you know of Charmion?”

  He wondered what the reaction would be if he told Blanding that Charmion had seen Georgina, who had left him promising to do what she could. He wondered, too, what made Blanding fly into so wild a fury.

  “And that’s all?”

  “That’s all.”

  Blanding said: “If I thought that man was worrying Georgina I would—” he broke off. “Damn you, Rollison, you’ve upset me more tha
n I’ve been upset in years!”

  “Not I,” said Rollison. “Blame the facts, not me.”

  “I’m not so sure,” said Blanding, He stepped to the telephone, referring to a pad of numbers before dialling one. He did not speak until the receiver crackled, then: “Is Dr. Race there, please? … Sir Roland Blanding …” he waited without looking at the Toff, and when the receiver crackled again went on: “Race? Blanding here. Can you come over at once? … To see Georgina … I’m not sure, but I’m worried … Good. I’ll see you in half an hour.” The inflection of his voice did not alter, and when he replaced the receiver he looked at Rollison and then at his cigar, which had gone out. He struck a match and drew on the cigar. “He’ll be here quite soon. We’ll know then.”

  “Good!” said Rollison. “Meanwhile—what of Charmion?”

  “I have no desire to hear the name mentioned,” said Blanding slowly.

  “Now, come,” reasoned Rollison, “if Charmion – one or the other of them – is behind this, he may have been responsible for supplying drugs to Georgina.”

  Blanding said, in a tone of horror: “What did you say?”

  “Need I repeat it?” asked Rollison.

  Blanding stood staring at him and in the man’s eyes there was an expression akin to that in Georgina’s earlier in the evening. It made Rollison wonder whether this man would talk freely or whether he would take refuge in a silence which would only serve to worsen the situation.

  Rollison spoke after a long pause.

  “What do you know of Charmion?” he asked mildly. Blanding said: “I would like to see the man in hell!” He said ‘hell’ as if he meant it; it was no mere figure of speech. That, and the title of the opened book on the rest, told Rollison something of this man; he was earnest and sincere, and he believed in eternal damnation; so, for that matter, did Rollison.

  “How long have you known him?” Rollison asked.

  “Three years too long,” said Blanding.

  “You mean just three years?” Rollison’s heart leapt and he felt a keen anxiety, greater than any since he had entered this house.

  “I mean three years, almost to the day,” said Blanding. “And he …”