Double for the Toff

by John Creasey

  “Why, hallo,” greeted Rollison, amiably. “Forget your key?” He stood aside and gestured to them. “Come in, do, but don’t come too close, or I might get angry.”

  One of these was the man whom Kitty had allowed to escape; the other was a stranger. They had much in common, for they were men of medium height, wiry, strong-looking; not big, but obviously tough. One of them dropped his hand to his pocket and brought out a gun.

  “Don’t make a noise,” urged Rollison. “I believe there’s a baby next door.”

  “You stay where you are,” the man ordered sharply.

  “Do we have to shout?” protested the Toff, and beamed at them.

  They were puzzled because they had not the faintest idea why he was so sure of himself; they would probably never understand. He drew at his cigarette, keeping his hands in sight, and took no notice at all of the other’s automatic. Both men had recovered from the initial surprise, and one of them moved swiftly into the bedroom, while the other covered Rollison as if ready to shoot at the slightest move.

  The man came out of the bedroom.

  “Where is she?” he demanded.

  “Sleeping Beauty?” asked Rollison, blandly. “She didn’t like it here any longer, so I let her go away.”

  “Don’t talk out of the back of your neck. She’s in this flat.”

  “Two magicians in conflict, that should be interesting,” said Rollison, and seemed really delighted. “I waved a wand and said abracadabra, and presumably you’re going to wave yours and say the word backwards. May I listen and watch?”

  “You talk too much. Where is she?”

  “My dear chap! Don’t you know?”

  “Go and look for her,” the man with the gun ordered his companion. “She’s about somewhere.”

  “If you find her, give her my love,” said Rollison, and moved to a table and leaned against it.

  The man with the gun was watching him closely, and was palpably suspicious of a trick. Neither of them spoke, while the second of the intruders stormed from room to room. Obviously he looked under beds and inside wardrobes and cupboards; as obviously he opened every door, slamming some of them, and muttering to himself. It was five minutes before he came back to the hall, and there was an ugly expression on a hard, thin face.

  “I can’t find her.”

  The man with the gun demanded savagely: “Where is she, Rollison?”

  “You must take your choice,” said Rollison, brightly. “I’m told there are five hundred apartments in the building, and she’s in one of them. I have friends—didn’t you know? You gave me just time to get her out and come back to say hallo. You want her, I’ve got her. You’ve got Cedric, and I want him. We could do a deal, couldn’t we?”

  “If you don’t tell us where she is, I’ll put a bullet into you,” said the man with the gun flatly.

  Rollison crossed his ankles and shifted his position so that he was much more comfortable. Outwardly he seemed nonchalant, but in fact he was not feeling nonchalant at all. The man might mean what he said. Here was the moment of crisis; the moment for the other to call his bluff. One shot could do terrible harm, and there was nothing at all he could do to prevent the man from shooting.

  Would he want the Toff injured?

  Would he believe that an injured man would talk more freely?

  Rollison did not shift his position again. The seconds ticked by. His forehead felt warm, and he knew that there was a beading of sweat on it, but he did not touch it with his hand, and he maintained his smile. He heard the heavy breathing of each man; they wanted to shoot, but they were not sure that it would help them. So as he had hoped, above everything else they wanted Kitty Dwight.

  A minute must have passed.

  “Make up your mind, I’m getting quite stiff,” murmured Rollison.

  He straightened up from the table – and then without the slightest warning leapt at the man with the gun. He glimpsed the startled look, and the tensing of muscles, knew that the shot was coming, and flopped down. The bullet zipped over his head. He clutched the man’s legs round the knees, heaved, and brought him crashing; there was another shot, a soft sneeze of sound, a thud, and a little shower of plaster. He reached the other side of the hall, his own automatic in his right hand, while the other man’s gun was on the floor.

  “How does it feel to be on the receiving end?” he inquired. “If you’re anxious to learn the trick, it is largely psychological. You bluff the other chap into thinking that you’ve been turned into a pillar of stone, and at the crucial moment you prove that you haven’t. Of course you might get a bullet where it hurts—it depends on whether the risk is worthwhile. Turn round. And you on the floor—get up, and face the wall.”

  The standing man hesitated, and then turned. Rollison moved to him, tapped his coat and arms and legs, made sure that he was not carrying a gun, and backed away. Then he picked up the other man’s gun, as its owner got slowly to his feet and turned to face the wall. Rollison opened the gun and looked inside; it was fully loaded. Now that the immediate crisis was over, he felt hot, as well as uneasy in his stomach; he needed another drink.

  “Supposing we try to make sense out of this,” he suggested, with an effort. “What has Cedric Dwight got that you want?”

  Neither man answered.

  “What makes you try to frighten the life out of him?” asked Rollison. “Will it help if you drive him off his head?

  There couldn’t be anything in that, could there? I mean, who would benefit if Cedric was proved to be non compos mentis? Uncle, brothers, cousins, or aunts? I haven’t much time to inquire into the family tree of the hapless Cedric, but it shouldn’t take long. It could take even less time if you start talking. My—ah—name is Rollison. People call me the Toff, and I have quite a reputation. You could ask some of Ebbutt’s friends, and they’ll tell you that if I think the cause is just, I will gladly break a man’s neck or other parts of his anatomy. This is a hard world,” he went on with great earnestness, “and when dealing with animals one occasionally has to behave like an animal, no matter how repugnant it is. I feel, in fact,” he said more softly, and flicked the safety catch of his own automatic so that they could hear the sound. “I feel the urge to be animalistic now. Ebbutt was a close friend of mine. You showed him no mercy. You didn’t show any mercy to me when you threw me in the river, either.”

  A man turned his head. He was sweating and he was grey, and his mouth was working.

  “We don’t know anything,” he exclaimed. “We only do what we’re told. That’s God’s truth.”

  Rollison moved, and rapped the man’s head with his knuckles, made him stagger forward towards the wall. He felt as furious and bitter as he sounded, not for himself, nor even for Cedric Dwight and his terror, but because of what had happened to Bill Ebbutt.

  “Who are you working for? I’ll give you thirty seconds to answer.”

  Then, he heard footsteps on the carpeted passage outside; running footsteps. Both of the prisoners turned their heads towards the door, as if in hope. Rollison backed a pace so that he could cover them and the newcomer. He saw the third, small man, who pulled up short at sight of the gun, whose mouth was open, and who gasped: “The police are coming! There are two cars, waiting at the corner.”

  There was nothing to be done about it, Rollison admitted gloomily. Ten more minutes, even five more, and he might have wrung some useful information out of these men; now, he had to let them go, or make sure that they would tell the police all they could about him.

  Did that matter?

  He did not know how it was that the police had come, or what had caused an alarm. There was an outside chance that it was to do with trouble in another part of Apex House, but that was hardly likely. A car at each corner meant that they were planning to converge; and also meant to make sure that no wanted man could escape from here.

  More thoughts flashed through Rollison’s mind.

  If these men were held by the police, there would be three les
s to work against, and that could do no harm.

  One man swung round: “You’ve no more right here than we have. If the cops—”

  “But they know I’m here to look after Cedric and his Kitty,” said Rollison brightly.

  He slipped the gas pistol from his pocket, and pulled the trigger so that the gas billowed about the faces of the two men by the wall. The messenger turned and ran, and Rollison did not attempt to stop him, just saw the horror in the faces of the two men who had seen him pull the trigger and who doubtless thought of death.

  They began to choke as the gas bit at their nostrils and their throats.

  He pushed them backwards, into the main bedroom, slammed the door and locked it on them, and then hurried to the front door. He heard the thud of footsteps, but nothing else. He was hot and sticky, and his head was throbbing, but his spirits were higher than they had been since Isobel had come to see him. Isobel. Was she sleeping the sleep of the innocent, or was she sleepless because of the danger to her boy? Was there also danger to her? Should she be watched?

  He heard footsteps, not far away, and knew that the police were hurrying. It would be useless to run, and pointless to try to get away. The only thing worth trying was to persuade them that the raiders had spirited Kitty Dwight away.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Morning

  Three men appeared in the entrance of the flat, all large and massive, and only one of them familiar to Rollison; but that one was a godsend. His name was Bryant, he was now a Chief Inspector, and at one time had been a detective sergeant in serious trouble; the kind of trouble which might have condemned him to the ranks for a long time to come. Rollison had seen the trap into which he had fallen, opened it, and enabled him to escape.

  In a dozen ways since Bryant had shown real gratitude. He was obviously in charge of the trio, for he was a middle-aged man, and the others were in their early thirties. He pulled up short at the sight of the Toff, then he gave a curiously one-sided grin.

  “They told me you were mixed up in this business, but I didn’t think you’d let us take you red-handed,” he said. “What’s the excuse this time?”

  “At least I’ve got no alibi,” said Rollison, almost sadly. “I’m just a much-misunderstood man.”

  “See who else is about,” said Bryant to the two detectives. Looking curiously at Rollison as if at an exhibit in a zoo, they obeyed. They would soon find the two unconscious men, but neither victim would be able to talk for at least half an hour. “Well, Mr. Rollison. Have you any right to be there?”

  “The right of a loyal citizen,” said Rollison, earnestly, and then surprised the other by adding: “Mind if I sit down? I’ve had about all I can take.”

  “Something to hear you admit it,” said Bryant. “What with the river episode and the trouble at Whitechapel, you ought to have been in bed hours ago.” He waited until Rollison sat in an easy-chair by the side of a table with a few glossy magazines on it, as if in a doctor’s waiting-room. He was not only big and broad, but very thick-set, he had a square chin and a rather flattened face, almost too broad; his short nose and short upper-lip did not make him look handsome; just strong. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to see if Dwight was home.”

  “There’s a message from Mr. Grice saying that he’s at your place.”

  “The mills of the Yard grind slowly, but they grind exceedingly fine,” said Rollison, heavily. He took out cigarettes, but Bryant shook his head, and Rollison lit one. “He was at the flat, but was spirited away. Jolly was shanghaied. I caught one of the gentry responsible, but he took a sleeping pill, and so he can’t be persuaded to talk. I’d promised Dwight I’d help in every way I could, and he was nervous about his wife, who was here alone, so I came to see if I could help her.”

  He looked and sounded grim as he said that.

  “Could you?” inquired Bryant.

  “Arrived too late,” declared Rollison.

  Bryant looked at him from narrowed eyes, as if trying to assess the situation thoroughly, not convinced that he was hearing the truth.

  “There were two chaps here, and I ran straight into them,” Rollison went on. “We had a bit of a shindy, and I managed to put them to sleep.” He paused; and almost immediately heard an exclamation from one of the other men. “Your chaps seem to have found ’em,” he added dryly. “I was trying to make them come across when a scout they’d stationed outside said that you were on the way. What brought you?”

  “We had a telephone call from the night porter, who said that some men had broken in and were on the fifth floor,” Bryant answered. “We found two motor-cycles parked nearby—and each one had double registration plates, so we knew what to expect. Did these fellows talk?”

  “They said they acted under orders, but wouldn’t say from whom.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Hmm, what?”

  “Pity we came so soon,” said Bryant, dryly. “They might talk to us, but they’d much more likely to talk to you. Is Mrs. Dwight here?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “I wish I did,” said Rollison, without batting an eye. “I think she would probably talk to me with a little persuasion, but I doubt if she would to the police. She seemed to think that her dear Cedric was in some kind of trouble, and that it wouldn’t do for the police to know about it. Of course, I might be wrong,” Rollison added, as airily as he could, “but I’d like to think I could have half an hour’s talk with her first.”

  Bryant’s deep-set eyes were crinkling at the corners. He knew exactly what the Toff meant, and was going to accept the situation. A different type of man, or one who did not owe the Toff a debt, would try to force the issue, would hector him and be obtuse.

  Suddenly, Rollison yawned.

  Bryant said: “I’ve seen men tired, but never more tired than you look, Mr. Rollison. Will you sign a statement in the morning?”

  “Glad to.”

  “Is your car here?”

  “Don’t say your chaps didn’t recognise my T-model Ford!”

  Bryant chuckled. “I thought you drove a Rolls-Bentley; didn’t know that you’d come down in the world. You’d be better off if—”

  He stopped, looking at his two men who appeared from the bedroom, to report their find. They had tried to bring the three men round, but had no effect at all. As they finished, there were more footsteps outside, and to his great relief, Rollison saw Wrightson come in. There was an ugly bruise over Percy’s right eye, and a cut on one side of his mouth, but his eyes were bright and alert.

  “Never wanted to see a man more,” declared Rollison. “Chief Inspector Bryant was going to offer to run me home, and you know what it’s like riding in a police car. Or don’t you?” Wrightson gave a quick grin, and Bryant kept a straight face; the two men were very much alike in some ways, but Bryant was the more massive. “Is Jolly outside?”

  “No, sir. He returned to the flat,” answered Wrightson.

  “I hope he’s turning my bed down,” said Rollison. “This is a night when I want someone to undress me. All clear, Chief Inspector?”

  “Until the morning.”

  “Thanks,” said Rollison, warmly.

  He went out with Wrightson, watched by curious policemen on duty in the passage and at the lift. He passed the door of Number 226, and wondered whether there was any chance that the police would find Kitty: they had only to step right out on to the balcony. There was nothing he could do about it, and just then nothing that he wanted to do. He had a fit of yawning, which reminded him of Kitty, and kept on yawning on the way to the old Ford. He bent down and got in as Wrightson opened the door – and bumped his head, because he saw Kitty Dwight in the back of the car, still dead to the world.

  “Jolly and me fixed it,” Wrightson said, with deep satisfaction. “Got her out just in time.” He grinned crookedly. “That man Jolly’s a proper caution. Never seen a man of his age move so quickly, and the way he picked the lock of th
e flat next door to Dwight’s place—strike a light, it would give the cops the belly-ache for a fortnight. There’s a garage right underneath. Jolly took us through that way, and parked the old Ford just inside so the cops wouldn’t take any notice of it. Then he went off in the Morris. I tell you, he’s a proper caution.” Wrightson took the wheel as if he were used to the car, and glanced over his shoulder. “She’s a bit of all right, too, if you ask me. Don’t come much prettier. Where’d you think she got that outfit?”

  “Limehouse, Chinatown,” Rollison said, solemnly.

  Wrightson actually guffawed.

  By the time they were at Gresham Terrace, however, he was his more solemn if not saturnine self. Rollison opened the front door, and Wrightson lifted the girl out and carried her upstairs. No one appeared to be watching, and certainly no one followed on their heels. Jolly was at the open front door of the flat, and except that his eyes had a glassy look, of tiredness, he seemed his usual self.

  “I’m very glad to see you back, sir.”

  “I’m even glad to be back,” Rollison said. “I hear you’ve been qualifying for the Houdini stakes.”

  “It was really a matter of timing, sir,” Jolly answered. “I left immediately I could, and luckily found Mr. Wrightson staggering to the Ford. He soon recovered. I doubt very much whether it would have been possible to bring the young lady away but for Mr. Wrightson.”

  Jolly’s tone was positively warm as he looked towards the boxer.

  “Teamwork and timing, that’s what it was,” declared Wrightson. “I’ve dumped the dame on the spare bed. That okay?”

  “I’ll see to her,” said Jolly. “Have you any idea how long she is likely to sleep, sir?”

  “If she took what I think she took, eight or nine hours,” said Rollison. “How about the Sleeping Beast?”

  “He is still unconscious, sir,” Jolly answered, and made his way to the spare room.

  Wrightson watched him with an expression of unwilling admiration, and then gave his one-sided grin.

  “I tell you,” he announced earnestly, “he’s a proper caution. Now, Mr. Ar, it’s time you put your head down; you want twelve hours straight. Don’t worry about anything else, Jolly and me will see to it. Anyone who can get away with what you’ve got away with to-night couldn’t never go wrong. There’s just one thing,” he added, looking at Rollison with his head on one side, and the light of interest in his steady grey eyes.