by John Creasey
“Just a moment!” implored Grice. “Why?”
“A block of flats at Golders Green,” insisted Rollison. “Bowler Hat went to one, didn’t he? Could it have been Rapport Mansions?” When Grice did not immediately reply, he went on: “Don’t say you’ve forgotten that Sergeant Wilson reported—”
“It was Rapport Mansions,” said Grice, heavily.
“Bill, we are in the course of making the biggest fools of ourselves that we are ever likely to make.”
“I wish to goodness you’d explain what you’re talking about!”
“I can’t—I don’t know,” said Rollison blandly, “except that I have a clear idea at the moment, and if I weren’t the butt of the business I’d find it really funny. Still, it will be funny for someone before it’s over. The thing is, old man – have Rapport Mansions watched, as well as your two clubs, will you? Keep your men at Mrs. Charmion’s place and also at the lesser Charmion’s. Make them large men, with very flat feet.”
“But—” began Grice.
“Because,” said Rollison earnestly, “we are being given all these addresses as places requiring attention. We are being directed with much skill to spend precious time on watching them – and who are we to refuse? We are invited to jump into a morass of impossibilities – well, let’s jump. Shall we meet in the morning?”
“Rollison!” cried Grice.
“Let’s say ten-thirty,” said Rollison, and rang off.
He was not surprised to find him looking at him as if he had taken leave of his senses, and Jolly regarding him with mild surprise. He beamed at them and lit another cigarette.
“Grice is cursing me,” he said. “The ingratitude of policemen. Fifi, get to bed. Joe will be all right, they don’t want to do any harm to him. Jolly, if anyone should call, I’ve gone to an Arabian Night’s Entertainment, and I won’t be back until morning.” He buttoned his raincoat about him and stepped to the door, still high on the wave of optimism which had seized him when he had last spoken to Charmion, and which he believed would carry him through to the final phase.
Dark thoughts – the deaths of Hilda and Anderson being most insistent – kept entering his mind, but he repressed them firmly. His mission was for the living, not for the dead. He strolled through the rain towards Littleton Place, until he reached Number 1a. He was not surprised to find it a little difficult to enter; there were two closed doors and two peep-holes, and it cost him ten pound notes before he entered a little foyer, and, from somewhere above his head, heard the strains of hot rhythm. There was nothing about the club, the very name of which he did not know, which seemed in any way different from a hundred others which opened like mushrooms and were plucked away by the heavy hand of the law as soon as their law-breaking became too blatant.
Three doors led from the foyer.
One led, in turn, to a flight of steps carpeted with coconut-matting – the foyer was also covered with the same material – but the others were closed, or almost closed. He thought he saw a flurry of movement at one, which was ajar, and fancied that the handle of the other turned, very slightly.
A middle-aged, comely-looking woman took his hat, coat and gloves; she did not seem the type to be at a nightclub, thought Rollison fleetingly. Armed with a card which declared him to be a club member, he went towards the stairs. He was quite sure that he was watched, equally sure that he had been right, and that the lesser Charmions had deliberately enticed him here. How much of their story was true did not greatly matter; he discounted most of it. All he knew was that they wanted him at this club, and that he was here to oblige them.
A gust of laughter and a blast of saxophone music, both equally raucous, came down the stairs as he sauntered up them. At the top of the stairs a little man, with a beak of a nose and tufts of grey hair over his eyes, regarded him expressionlessly and said: “Good evening, sir.”
Rollison congratulated himself on keeping an impassive face; for this man was Guy – he had been described so often that there could be no mistake.
And yet—
“Good evening,” said the Toff, heavily. The beak of a nose fascinated him.
“Are you alone, sir?”
“Unhappily, yes,” said the Toff.
“I think, perhaps,” said the little man, “that you will find some amusing companions here.”
“Good!” said Rollison.
He did not think that the little man was referring to ladies of leisure; there was something else in the man’s voice, not menace, but a veiled amusement, perhaps even mockery. Expecting nothing except surprise, Rollison stepped through into the room, which was larger than he had expected.
On the dance floor in the centre – just in front of a dais on which a coloured orchestra played with wild abandon – were eight or nine men, all small, like a troupe of gaily-clad acrobats. Scattered about were the club’s patrons, nearly all young.
The troupe on the dance floor held the audience enraptured – and also fascinated the Toff, for each of them had a little, parrot-like nose, a receding chin and grey, bushy eyebrows.
Chapter Seventeen
Vastly Amusing
The little door-keeper was at Rollison’s side, ostensibly guiding him towards a vacant table. Rollison looked down on him.
“Vastly amusing,” he remarked.
“I thought you would find it so,” said the little man. “I will send a waiter to you, sir.”
“Thank you,” said Rollison. “Can I get a drink?”
“With supper, sir, yes.” The man’s voice did not alter in tone, but the hint of mockery remained; his eyes were expressionless, but seemed to mock at the Toff, who sat down slowly and looked at the antics of the men on the dancefloor. They were acrobats of great skill, and, of course, each man wore a mask – a mask exactly like that of the effigy.
Much was made depressingly clear.
He had thought that by finding the manufacturer of the mask and the others he would trace the little man named Guy, and here were eight – nine – few of them, including the door-keeper, for each of whom a mask had been made. It meant that his one real clue faded into thin air, and he was left holding the stuffed canvas of the effigy.
The little men, all clad in riotous colours, were flinging themselves about the dance floor, on each other’s backs, under each other’s legs, sprawling here and jumping there, bounding up and thudding down, to the throbbing rhythm of the Negro band and little squeaks of delight from the actors; laughter, high-pitched and almost hysterical, came from the people at the tables.
There were at least a hundred couples.
A waiter approached Rollison, and he looked up – and stared, again trying hard not to reveal his feelings.
“Good evening, sir,” said the waiter, calmly, placing a menu card in front of him. “I am afraid it is too late for dinner, but everything else is available.”
“Ah, thanks,” said Rollison.
He looked away from the man, yet could see him clearly in his mind’s eye. Dressed in formal waiter’s clothes, tails and white tie and boiled shirt, the waiter’s expression was impassive; his lips were pushed forward, slightly, as if he were about to whistle, and it gave him an air of half-amused complacency – at just such an expression in the Toff, Fifi had been astonished. In short, it was the man of the bowler hat and the furled umbrella.
“I will have some lemonade,” said Rollison.
He wanted to see the man’s face drop, but was disappointed; there was no change in that smug expression. Rollison half-regretted his ‘lemonade’, but he wanted to send some message to whoever had arranged this farcical reception, to let them know that he saw the joke. Then, looking away from the dancing men – whose turns grew fiercer and faster and whose squeaks of delight were outdone only by the unnatural laughter of the revellers – he saw other waiters.
They were not exactly like the man who had served him, but had he seen any one of them, he would have imagined that he had found the bowler-hatted man who had haunted him.
“Indefinitely, sir, for soft drinks,” said the waiter, and went off, leaving Rollison with a distinct impression that his joke had rebounded. He sipped the lemonade, charily; and then he looked at it again, trying not to start; it was a whisky and soda, fairly strong, with a peculiar tang to it – something he could not identify.
The room was tawdrily furnished and decorated. Once there had been an effort to brighten it, and there were daubs of silver paint on the walls, and faint outlines of grotesque, nude figures; the ceiling had been distempered, and the distemper was flaking in a dozen places. The dais was covered with red plush, the only new-looking piece in the room. But the napery was spotless and the silver sparkled.
Then he saw two people who put all thought of the little men and the waiters out of his mind.
They were sitting at a table near the front, the man unsmiling, the woman with him – sleek, dark-haired, a languorous beauty with great, dark eyes – was smiling with detached amusement; he was not altogether sure of the woman’s identity, but he surmised that it was Blanding’s wife.
The man was certainly Sir Roland Blanding.
Rollison stared, and then said, gently: “Ye-es, vastly amusing. I wonder how Georgina is?”
He looked about him for other familiar faces, and hardly knew whether to be pleased or sorry at seeing them. Only the Blandings were there, watching without great interest.
The band was working itself up to a pitch of frenzy; there was little resemblance to music, only a rhythm which seemed to touch the depths of ancient African voodoo. The little men had worked themselves up to a fine pitch, their posturing and gestures obscene; and yet, Rollison knew, they did not step outside the law. Faster and faster they went, until it seemed as if they must drop from sheer exhaustion; and then with a crash the music stopped. The little men began to run from the dance floor, not towards the rear of the room but towards the door through which Rollison had entered. They did not pause until they reached his table; then each one pirouetted and raised his head in a mockery so refined and telling that Rollison had to smile. Each one in turn revolved in front of him, arms akimbo, head held high, and then ran on towards the door, held open by the tenth man.
As the last went by, Rollison mused: “And one of them is Guy.”
A ripple of laughter from the rest of the crowd made him look back towards the dance floor; he recognised Charmion’s brother, who began a silly dance, a piece of buffoonery that was genuinely funny; his wife joined him, clad in a skirt of feathers and a brassiere to match; she looked quite beautiful. Charmion was dressed in old clothes, cloth cap and choker, to contrast with the smooth pallor of her flesh; and they began a dance certainly not inspired in England. It suited the temper of the crowd to perfection, but in the middle of it Blanding rose from his table.
His wife said something; Blanding’s answer travelled even as far as Rollison’s ears.
“No,” he said. “We’re going.”
A few people looked at his tall, distinguished figure, but most of the revellers were intent only upon the Charmions. Blanding placed his wife’s cloak about her close-fitting gold-trimmed black gown, and then led the way to the door. Rollison waited until he was a couple of yards away, then stood up, smiling. Blanding saw him for the first time, and started.
“Good evening,” he said.
“Hallo,” smiled Rollison. “Our night out, isn’t it?” Lady Blanding eyed him with a smile of vague amusement; she was, thought, Rollison, a queen amongst the rabble at the club.
Blanding presented him, with more haste than courtesy.
“What are you doing at this place, Rollison?”
“On a quest,” murmured Rollison. “A quest for adventure and excitement. Aren’t we all? Won’t you sit down?” He waited, and Blanding hesitated; the waiter came up. “Do stay,” he said. “It’s not so appalling from here.”
“Appalling?” echoed Blanding.
“So it isn’t what you like?” murmured Lady Blanding; there was no doubt that she looked at Rollison with admiration. “Let us stay for a few minutes longer, Roland.”
“Oh, yes—yes m’dear,” said Blanding. He seemed put out, conscious of it, and annoyed by it. “I didn’t expect to find—what are you doing here, Rollison? You can speak freely, my wife knows all about what has happened.”
“I shan’t know what I want here until I’ve had time to ponder over it,” said Rollison. “How’s ’Gina?” He looked delighted when Blanding told him that, according to Dr. Race, Georgina would be perfectly all right with treatment provided she was handled with understanding and sympathy for the next few weeks.
“But for you, Mr. Rollison, we might not have suspected the trouble,” said Lady Blanding.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Rollison deprecatingly. “These things get out. Er—Charmion, now. You recognised him, of course.”
“I did. I think he recognised me,” said Blanding.
“He wouldn’t be slow at that,” said the Toff. “So it is the same man? And Georgina, of course, knew of the bother you’d had with a Charmion and was therefore surprised when she read the name this morning. That was enough to upset her, together with the bad news from Teddy Marchant. Nothing else?”
“I don’t think so,” said Blanding.
“That’s fine!” said Rollison, and smiled tentatively. “I’d like to ask what you’re doing here. Dare I?”
“Georgina is a member of this club,” said Blanding, with such an attitude and expression of disgust that Rollison had to hide a smile. “She told us that, and I thought I might do some good by coming.”
“Ah! Because you thought she bought the drug here,” mused Rollison. “The obvious is always the right explanation, isn’t it? Oh, I’m sorry—” the waiter, standing impassively by them, coughed slightly. “What will you have? The lemonade is good,” he added, “and they might have—”
“Nothing, thanks,” said Blanding hastily. “We must go.” He pushed his chair back. His wife rose, but she seemed reluctant.
“Must you?” asked the Toff, regretfully. “Blanding, may I advise you once again? Mud sticks. This place is mud from floor to ceiling, door to window. Very nasty, smelly, oleaginous, which you might not be able to deal with by ordinary cleansing methods.” He smiled, a little inanely, expecting an annoyed frown on Blanding’s face. But Blanding made no comment, only his wife smiled – that vague yet unmistakable smile, as if she were amused and wanted to tell Rollison why, but could not quite summon the energy. “Well, if you must go,” Rollison said, “Good night. My love to ’Gina.”
Lady Blanding offered her hand; her pressure was firm. Blanding bowed, and they went out, with the first man who might have been called Guy bowing low before them.
The music reached a faster tempo, the Charmions were keeping the audience on tenterhooks of excitement; and that excitement, which had its unnatural element and was at all times unpleasant, told the Toff that most of them were either drunk or drug-ridden, But as he looked about him he knew that it would be almost impossible to prove it.
That was not all.
If Grice came here, he would recognise the man at the door as the man whom the girl at Marlborough Street had described as the one who had sold her cocaine; but he could not arrest all nine. If Fifi were to identify the man who had sent her to Charmion, and who thus confessed his knowledge of the whereabouts of Joe, she would be confounded by the appearance of the others. Deliberately the Toff had been led here, deliberately given reason to suppose that he would get results – and then it had all been thrown into his face, a grandiose hoax.
The Charmions had lured him here; but, even if he brought that home to them, would it help him to find who had prompted them?
Above all, what was the motive?
> A man approached him as the Charmions finished their turn; the man was small, well-dressed, inconspicuous and yet, somehow, impressive. He spoke to several other people and then neared Rollison’s table.
“Is everything quite satisfactory, sir?”
“Why, yes,” said Rollison with gusto. “Everything’s fine! Just”—he beamed—“as I expected.”
He thought the man looked startled.
“I’m very glad to hear that, sir. Who recommended you to come? You will forgive me if the question appears to be impertinent, but—”
“Impertinent?” asked Rollison, astonished. “Certainly not! The thing is, I don’t know who recommended me – shall we say I had a number of hints?” He smiled more widely and went on in a soft, caressing voice: “You are, I suppose, the manager?”
“Yes, and at your service.”
“Good,” said Rollison. “Splendid! Give the proprietor a message for me, will you?”
“I will give a message to the Club Committee,” said the manager, promptly.
“A committee, is there?” mused Rollison. “Better still, they’ll know all about it. Tell them that I received the hints, that I admire the scenery, but”—his smile was positively effusive—“the play is poor. Very poor. It wants new lines, it’s old and stilted.”
“I don’t quite understand—” began the manager, but his expression was set; he was alarmed.
“Oh, no, you wouldn’t,” said Rollison. “After all, you only do what you’re told. But they will. Tell them that I’ve seen it so often that I’m more than a little tired of it, and that if they’d really wanted it to succeed they should have—” he paused.
“Yes, sir?” said the manager, politely, but still looking apprehensive.
“They should have made a clean sweep,” said Rollison. “The trouble is that there are too many of the old cast in the play. Especially the curtain-raiser.”
“Curtain-raiser, sir?”
“Yes, of course,” said the Toff. “That’s all we’ve seen so far, isn’t it? But the stage is set for the real piece, I think.” He beamed. “Am I bewildering you? Never mind, tell the committee just what I say, and tell them—” he paused again, still smiling, although with a different expression in his eyes.
