The Toff and The Sleepy Cowboy t-57

by John Creasey

  “No,” answered Rollison. “I’d like him to go before Miss Brown arrives. Has anyone called?”

  “No, sir. Mr. Ebbutt has sent six men who have stationed themselves in the street and at the back of the building. Two policemen are back and front, too. I don’t think there is too much danger,” Jolly added, soothingly.

  “I shouldn’t be too sure,” said Rollison.

  “Seriously, sir?”

  “A man who escaped on a motor-cycle lobbed another bomb, this time a fire-bomb, at the house I was in at Chelsea,” said Rollison. “Then he seems to have escaped through a window and leapt on his motor-cycle as Loman would leap on his trusty steed. I’ll give you all details later. Er — Jolly.”

  “Sir?”

  “Miss Pamela Brown carries a pistol.”

  “Indeed, sir.”

  “Yes, indeed. If you think there is any need, take the gun out of her bag, take the bullets out, and put the gun back.”

  “I will certainly do my best, sir. Have you any reason to believe that Mr. Fisher is armed?”

  “I don’t yet know what to make of Mr. Fisher,” Rollison replied thoughtfully. “I shall soon find out.” He went to the study-cum-living room, to hear Fisher say with both heat and emphasis :

  “I still say that his most remarkable case was the one about the voodoo doll. Did you read that?”

  “Why, sure thing, I read all about it,” answered Loman. “It was fascinating, Jack. But the story I prefer is the one when he was helping those fallen women —”

  “Angels.”

  “Huh?”

  “Fallen angels.”

  “Sure, that’s what he called them,” conceded Loman, “but —”

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” Rollison strode forward into the room at a pace suggesting that he couldn’t get in fast enough and had heard nothing of what had been said. “Mr. Fisher, I can’t say how sorry I am that I’m late.”

  “It’s perfectly all right, Mr. Rollison. Don’t worry at all.”

  “Jolly’s got you a drink, I see?. . . How about another?” He refilled Fisher’s glass while the man stared at him as if not quite sure that he was real. Soon, he was drinking their health, they were asking questions about the past and the future, but neither mentioned the present until Fisher asked:

  “Did they find that motor-cyclist?”

  “They haven’t yet,” answered Rollison.

  “But he’s the key to the whole thing!” cried Fisher. “Once they know why he tried to kill you the rest is bound to fall into place. Isn’t it, Mr. Rollison?” He spun round to Rollison for confirmation. “They mustn’t let him get away!”

  “They’ll catch him, sooner or later,” Rollison said reassuringly.

  “They should have caught him already,” Fisher de-clared angrily. “I —” He broke off, and forced a smile. “Well, I don’t want to spoil a wonderful evening like this by losing my temper, do I?”

  “Lost tempers can do a world of good,” Rollison soothed. “I came nearer to losing mine this evening than I have for a long, long time.”

  “You!” exclaimed Fisher.

  “How?” inquired Loman.

  “You can’t start a story like that and not tell us what happened,” protested Fisher.

  “No, I suppose I can’t,” Rollison said. “Well, it was something like this.” He moved to his desk and touched a switch which meant that in the kitchen Jolly would hear what he was saying. “I came upon the motor-cyclist again, or he came upon me,” he went on. “He was in the home — the flat — of an actor who plays character parts, and whose wife is going to have a baby.”

  He paused.

  Both men stared, and he was sure that Jolly was sud-denly spellbound, pausing in the middle of whatever culinary art he was engaged upon. Very carefully, he went on:

  “The motor-cyclist first wrecked the place, with a hand-grenade I suspect, and finished it off with a fire-bomb. All of us were lucky to escape with our lives.”

  “All of you?” asked Loman, faintly.

  “Did the motor-cyclist get away again?” demanded Fisher.

  “He did.”

  “No wonder you were mad!”

  “I wasn’t exactly angry about that, I was too glad to be alive,” Rollison retorted. “But I began to lose my temper when someone suggested that I’d thrown the bomb —”

  “Who on earth accused you of that?” cried Fisher. “The little mother-to-be,” stated Rollison.

  “The little bitch!” Fisher’s voice rose. “As if you —”

  His championship of Rollison was almost too much to stand, Rollison thought; and wondered whether Fisher got all his thrills vicariously.

  “Would you say that?” asked Loman, quietly. He had been eyeing Rollison very thoughtfully all the time. “In that condition women can say some wild things.” When neither of the others commented he added lamely : “I guess.”

  “Women are always saying wild things,” grumbled Fisher.

  “Richard,” asked Loman. “What made you angry?”

  “They began to blame me when the woman had to be hurried off to hospital,” Rollison stated carefully.

  Fisher groaned: “Oh, no.” He backed a pace to a chair and sat on the arm, gaping at Rollison, while Loman simply took another sip of his drink and remarked:

  “They had to blame someone. Did the woman see the man or the motor-cycle?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “Well, perhaps they didn’t believe in him,” said Loman, with a slow smile. “Perhaps they were ready to believe that the man who won all these trophies was capable of anything.” There was a hint of laughter in his eyes. “Now if they started to suggest the baby was yours —”

  “How on earth could they?” demanded Fisher, angrily.

  The problem, thought Rollison, was going to be to get the over-earnest Fisher away before Pamela Brown arrived, and while he was dwelling on that the telephone bell rang. He sat at his desk and pulled the telephone towards him while Loman went to the far end of the Trophy Wall, and Fisher glanced at his watch.

  “This is Richard Rollison,” Rollison announced.

  “This is Stevens of the Daily Globe,” a man replied. “Good evening, Mr. Rollison. Were you at the scene of a fire in Fell Street, Chelsea, this afternoon ?”

  “Yes,” answered Rollison.

  “Did you raise the alarm, Mr. Rollison?”

  “No. I was too busy chasing the man who had started the fire.”

  “Did you catch him, sir?”

  “No. He escaped on a motor-cycle.”

  “Do you know he was the man who started the fire?” asked the reporter, with mild insistence.

  “I am satisfied he did but I couldn’t prove it.”

  “I see, sir. Were you in or outside the house at the time?”

  “Inside.”

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Rollison. I have a state-ment from a Mr. Hindle, who lived in one of the flats downstairs, to the effect that you appear to have been upstairs just before the explosion which preceded the fire.”

  “I was,” stated Rollison.

  “And according to this gentleman, sir, the wife of the tenant of the flat upstairs believed you had been in her flat during her absence. Had you sir?”

  “If she was absent, how could she know?”

  “Isn’t that evading the question, sir?”

  Rollison found himself teetering between annoyance and amusement; and for the moment amusement won. He chuckled.

  “No comment,” he said.

  “Mr. Rollison, in the public interest —”

  “In the public interest and in the interest of the Globe newspaper, no comment,” insisted Rollison.

  “Mr. Rollison — your duty is surely —”

  “Do you know, Mr. Stevens, I have known many police officers less naive in their questions and far less likely to prejudge an issue than you.” Rollison said. “No more questions — at least, no more answers.” Now, he was neither amused nor annoyed, b
ut very wary.

  “Mr. Rollison,” the newspaperman went on. “I don’t know that you are in a position to flaunt the Press. The lady in question, the wife of an actor, gave birth to a male child, this afternoon, a premature birth believed to be as a result of the incident. It is of considerable importance in your own as well as the public interest, for the truth to be known. Before going to hospital she accused you of forcing entry into her flat, and leaving behind a high explosive bomb which wrecked not only the flat but led to the destruction of the upper part of the house. In the public interest —”

  “Mr. Stevens,” Rollison interrupted.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do I understand you want a statement from me?”

  “Yes, sir. In the public —”

  “The woman is a liar,” Rollison said.

  “Mr. Rollison! A woman in such a condition would hardly make such wild accusations without some reason to believe them. If you were in her flat, sir, she may well have reason to believe you did cause the destruction —”

  “I did not,” Rollison said, “and her condition might well have made her hysterical.”

  “Were you in her flat?” demanded the newspaperman, in his persistent way. “That is the crucial question. If you can deny that, the Globe will naturally publish the denial. If on the other hand you cannot or will not deny it, then the Globe will of course publish the lady’s statement —”

  “And lay itself wide open for action for libel,” Rollison interrupted. “Let me ask you a question, Mr. Stevens. Have you interviewed the husband, Alec King?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “We have not been able to trace him, but the moment we do —”

  “Now that really will be in the public interest,” said Rollison, firmly. “Find the missing husband, and you might find the answers to most of the questions you’ve asked and a lot you haven’t asked. Goodnight.”

  On that crisply uttered word, he rang off.

  12

  Pamela Brown

  ROLLISON TURNED FROM the telephone to find both of his visitors watching him, Jack Fisher frowning, Tommy Loman with characteristic calmness; he seemed always to be looking not only at but beyond the Toff, like a man used to peering into long distances.

  “Was a newspaper trying to blackmail you?” demanded Fisher.

  “More like whitemail,” answered Rollison lightly. “Even the police are not above trying it at times. Forget that, please. How about another drink?”

  “No, really, I must go,” said Fisher, as if regretfully. “I have an appointment at half-past six.” He gave a smile which brightened his blue eyes. “A date, you know.”

  “You want to be careful,” remarked Loman. “You don’t want to give anyone an excuse for whitemailing you. Does he, Richard?”

  Fisher frowned, until suddenly he saw the point and gave a hearty laugh, while Rollison chuckled and Loman regarded him with almost benign approval. Fisher left, effusive in his thanks, and Rollison sent him on his way with a quiet:

  “How could I do less for a man who was such a help?”

  Fisher, apparently covered in embarrassment, hurried down the stairs. Rollison turned back into the big room, to find Tommy Loman regarding him with his eyes smiling but his face set and even stern. Rollison was strangely aware of the contrast; it was seldom that he had to look upwards at a man, or be looked down upon. They stood for a few moments and to Rollison this seemed the first quiet spell he had known all day.

  At last, Loman sank into a large armchair, diagonally across a corner, and Rollison sat in a rather smaller chair, opposite.

  “Is that right — he did you a service?” asked Loman thoughtfully.

  “Yes.”

  “He’s a funny little guy.”

  “How funny?” asked Rollison.

  “Cute.” Then Loman went on: “Kind of nervous. Didn’t you think he was nervous?”

  “I make some people nervous,” Rollison remarked.

  “Not that kind of nervous,” replied Loman. “He was surprised to see me here when he arrived, I seemed to make him kind of jumpy.” That slow, attractive smile dawned and stayed.

  “Have you ever looked up at a giraffe without expecting to?” asked Rollison lightly. “Tommy, I’ve a guest coming for dinner and I’d like to talk to her alone for half an hour or so before we eat. Would you mind —?”

  “I can take a bath,” Loman interrupted, instantly placing his hands on the arms of his chair. “You don’t have to eat with me, Richard. I can go into the kitchen with Mr. Jolly, he —”

  “I only need half-an-hour tete-a-tete,” Rollison said firmly. “I —” There was a ring at the front door, and he broke off to say: “This may be her.”

  Loman was on his feet in a trice, uncoiling like a giant spring. He went to the spare room along one passage while Jolly went to the front door along the other. Rollison could see the lounge-hall from here but before he saw the visitor he knew it was Pamela Brown, because she said in an eager voice:

  “Mr. Rollison is expecting me.”

  “Miss Brown?” asked Jolly, standing aside. “That’s right — Pamela Brown.”

  “Mr. Rollison is certainly expecting you,” Jolly said, and turned as Pamela entered.

  My! thought Rollison.

  She looked ravishing in a dark green dress with a deep V neckline, her hair piled high, her eyes bright, ear-rings dangling and a brooch glittering at her bosom. The dress rustled faintly as she walked. It fell just above her knees, and for the first time Rollison saw that she had beautiful legs; he already knew that she moved with youthful grace. He was out of his chair and on his feet when she came in with one arm held out; he extended both hands and took hers.

  “Ravishing!” he uttered the word that had first come to mind.

  “Oh, thank you!” She had nice, cool hands, and she looked into his eyes, not about the room. “It’s lovely to be here.”

  He held on to her hands a moment longer than was necessary, then drew her into the room. She looked about her, at and beyond the Trophy Wall, at the paintings on one other wall, at a group of four etchings of old London, and at the pieces of antique furniture ranging from Elizabethan through Georgian and Regency to Victorian all of which fitted perfectly in their places and merged together.

  “What will you have to drink?” he asked.

  “May I have something soft — ginger ale or bitter lemon?”

  “Of course,” he said.

  “You see,” she exclaimed with the familiar naivete. “I don’t drink alcohol.”

  “Not at all?” He was surprised.

  “Never.” She gave the word a slight emphasis and her eyes danced. “What a lovely flat you have. And — may I have a closer look at those macabre things on the wall?” She took her drink and they moved towards the wall as she went on almost in the same breath. “Did I see Baby Blue Eyes in the street as I was parking my car?”

  “He’d just been in for a drink,” said Rollison. “How well do you know him?”

  She looked at him quite sharply. “I’d never met him until this morning,” she said. “What makes you think I know him?”

  “He didn’t mention you to the police,” said Rollison drily. “I couldn’t believe that was an accident.”

  “Oh, poof! He was dazzled by the Toff and just didn’t see me!”

  “Any man who doesn’t notice you is no man,” replied Rollison.

  “But how gallant!” Her eyes danced again. “Well, let’s say he was so overcome when he realised who you were and what had happened, that he forgot me.”

  “Which would make him even less of a man.”

  “You are determined to live up to your reputation!” She looked away from him at the silk stocking which was draped over a polished brass bracket, and asked with new-found solemnity: “Is that a murder weapon?”

  “Yes. Did you know about this wall and my reputa-tion or had you been looking me up?” he asked.

  “Who could te
ll me?” she asked.

  “Any newspaperman who wanted to.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Yes, I suppose so. Well, as a matter of fact, I knew.”

  “Just as you knew I was going to meet Tommy Loman at the airport.”

  “Yes,” she said. How beautifully her eyes glowed. “Mr. Rollison —”

  “Richard.”

  “Richard, I cannot tell a lie!” She was acting very slightly, as if this in many ways amused her; she was laughing partly at herself, partly at the situation, partly at him. She lowered her voice and went on melodramatic-ally: “I am a private inquiry agent.”

  “Good God!” he gasped.

  “You mean I fooled you?” She was delighted.

  “You fooled me utterly. At the very least I thought you were a seductress, plotting to seduce Tommy Loman.”

  “Oh, nothing so unexciting,” she replied. “He isn’t the man I would try to seduce! I wrote to Tommy Loman and invited him in your name to come to London and see you,” she went on simply. “I signed the letter P. Brown, for Richard Rollison.”

  This time Rollison was really astounded, but all he said was: “In my name?”

  “Yes. I thought he would come if you invited him, whereas if a strange woman wrote, he might shrug it off. Aren’t you going to ask why?”

  “Yes,” Rollison said heavily. “Why?”

  “Because I believed he would run into trouble if he just arrived here and had nowhere to go for help.”

  “I see,” said Rollison.

  He was studying this young woman much more closely, reasonably sure that she was telling the truth but fully aware of how easy it would be to be fooled — ‘seduced’ — into accepting her on her face value. The harder he looked, the more flawless her complexion and the more beautiful her eyes; and the dress was most enticing, showing just enough of her white bosom and shoulders. She seemed to sense that it was a moment for silence and she made no attempt to speak or prompt him.

  “Why should he run into trouble?” he asked. “Because he was coming to claim a fortune which someone else wants to take from him.”

  “What fortune?”