John Creasey - The Toff and The Lady

“Why, Rolly, how delightful!”

“The word is beautiful.” smiled Rollison, taking her hands. “You ought to be prostrate after the ball, and instead you look as if you want to compete with the morning dew. How are you?”

“ Very pleased,” said Hilda. “We made nearly six thousand pounds for charity, Rolly, isn’t it magnificent? I do wish you had been there, but how sweet of you to send a cheque. Do sit down. What will you have to drink?”

“Nothing, thanks.”

“Oh, you must!” She fluttered to a table where there were decanters, bottles and glasses which shone in the light from an electric chandelier. I feel like champagne,” she said, “but I don’t suppose you do. Whisky or brandy?”

Rollison laughed. “Whisky, thanks. You’re very bright.”

“Haven’t I every reason to be bright?” she demanded.

“I suppose so. Hilda” He stepped to her side and

watched her handle the decanter, the rings on her small, white hands glittering, everything about her light and lively and lovely. She deliberately ignored the more sober note in his voice as he went on: “Who is Pomeroy?”

“Pomeroy?” echoed Hilda. Her hand tightened on the glass, but she had herself under control and looked at him brightly. “Oh, that funny little fat man. He’s come to see David. Isn’t he sweet?”

“Why does he want to see David?” demanded Rollison.

“I don’t know,” said Hilda. “Is that as you like it?” She handed him his glass and looked him squarely in the eyes. “I never interfere with anything David does. Finance is absolutely beyond me, Rolly. Cheers!”

“Cheers,” said Rollison, and sipped his drink. “Is David in?”

“No, he’s not,” said Hilda. “But you know what it is like these days—loans for Africa, loans for India, loans for every country which needs them; he’s so busy, poor dear, that he hardly ever gets in early. Oh! If you’re thinking of Mr. Pomeroy, he’s waiting for David—he said he would wait until half-past ten, and I didn’t like to refuse him, although goodness knows when David will come back. Is that all right?”

“I can’t interfere,” said Rollison, deliberately obtuse.

“I mean the whisky?”

“Oh, yes, thanks.” Rollison followed her as she walked to a chair, and sat down. He had not suspected Hilda of such ability to dissemble. She was worried, but determined not to admit it. “How is the lady of the lost memory?” he asked, casually.

“Poor thing, she’s had a relapse,” said Hilda, brightly. “I was hoping she would be able to come here for a few days, but she isn’t likely to be released from the nursing home for a week. Perhaps she’ll have recovered her memory by then. Wasn’t it a strange business?”

“Very.”

“No one seems to know her,” said Hilda. “After the story in the newspaper I quite thought a lot of people would prove they had seen her before. A few have claimed to know her; a policeman was here a little while ago and he told me so, but he said they were just seeking publicity. Don ’ t people do strange things?”

“Very strange,” agreed Rollison.

“But then, you’re an expert on odd happenings, aren’t you?” said Hilda. She put down her glass. “Why, Rolly! Perhaps you can help her!”

“What makes you say that?” asked Rollison, a little heavily.

“Why, it’s a mystery, isn’t it?” asked Hilda, eagerly. “It’s exactly the kind of thing that interests you—I’ll introduce her to you when she’s a little better. Will you have another?”

“No, thanks,” said Rollison. “And I ought to be going.”

“What, so soon?” Her voice suggested that she wanted him to stay, but she stood up promptly. “Do come again when you can spare a few minutes, Rolly, and if you are interested in my lost lady, that would be splendid!”

Rollison found himself in the hall, with Hilda chattering all the time. The footman appeared from a doorway and opened the door. Hilda repeated how delighted she was that he had called and how she hoped that he would come again soon— and then Rollison found himself on the porch, with the door closed firmly behind him, and a feeling of great disquiet in his mind.

The disquiet continued.

The lost lady did not die, and the doctors said that she would be able to leave the nursing home by the end of the month. There were no further attempts to attack her. Phyllis Armitage resigned from her post, and, as far as the police and Rollison were able to find out, did not seek other work. Her sister came to stay with her at the flatlet.

On the day after Rollison’s burst of activity, Grice went to the offices of Pomeroy, Ward & Pomeroy. The two firms were in many respects as one, and had the same principals. Grice was received by a pompous, well-dressed gentleman who denied all knowledge of the sporting gent, but admitted that Marcus Shayle was his head clerk. Shayle had not come to the office that morning.

He did not come to the office that afternoon, nor on the following days. The police found no trace either of him or the man in coloured check tweeds. Messrs. Pomeroy, Ward & Pomeroy, Grice told Rollison, were very correct in their behaviour, and professed to be puzzled by the disappearance of their head clerk.

The Barrington-Leys left London for their Sussex home. On the two occasions when Rollison tried to get in touch with Gwendoline, he failed—and obviously she meant him to fail.

In all thirty-five people wrote to Scotland Yard or called there in person, declaring that they had recognized the photograph in The Record. The lost lady was variously described as a Pole, a Czech, a Russian, a Greek and a French Countess, the wife of a grocer’s assistant, a school-mistress, a spiritualist medium, an obscure musical comedy star, the winner of a beauty competition a few years ago and other things, but none of the claims could be substantiated. The only two people who gained the ear of the police could not name her, but said that they had seen her in a small restaurant in Soho, where she had dined in a secluded corner on three successive nights before her appearance at Barrington House. Grice went himself to see the proprietor, and arrived when the lady in question was in her secluded corner, vaguely like the woman of the photograph; she was a mannequin at a West End store.

“It can ’ t just peter out,” said Rollison, glumly.

He tried to find out what loans Barrington-Ley was financing, but no one in the City was able to give him reliable information. There was a vague rumour that Barrington-Ley was not well, but there were no open suggestions that his fianances were in bad order. Friends had advised him to rest, which was why he was out of London, but he visited the City two or three times a week and maintained a regular correspondence with his office.

Then dawned the thirtieth of September.

Never had Jolly known Rollison in such poor spirits over so long a period. Seldom had he spent so many evenings at home, renewing, he said, his acquaintance with the older poets, but often sitting with a book open in his hands and obviously pondering over more recent matters. On the twenty-ninth of September, Jolly, almost distraught, clung to the hope that a regimental dinner would cheer him up. It did—and, walking along the wide passage of the officer’s club he saw Grice.

“Great Scott!” he said. “Have you joined the Army?”

“Where is she?” demanded Grice, sharply.

“Who?” inquired Rollison.

“Rolly, you’ve gone too far this time. Where is that woman?”

“Which woman?” asked Rollison, but the smile left his face and his mind flew to the unconscious woman of the pale face and the lack-lustre eyes.

Grice, who was breathing rather heavily, rested a hand on his arm. Only a serious matter would have made him brave the lion’s den and go through the obstructionist ceremony which all without a special pass were compelled to endure downstairs.

“The woman has disappeared from the nursing home,” he said, with great care. “The matron says that she had a letter from you, and within an hour she had gone. She dressed in the evening gown in which she was first found, as she had no others. She wasn’t fit enough to travel far. Where have you taken her?”

Rollison said: “Is the nursing home watched?”

“That’s nothing to do with it.”

“It’s a lot to do with it,” said Rollison. “If it were watched your men either fell down on the job, or else she went out dressed very different from what you say. Had you a man on duty?”

“Two,” said Grice.

“Then probably she didn’t go out in an evening gown,” said Rollison, hurrying along the passage with a hand on Grice’s arm, “and she certainly didn’t get a letter from me.”

“She did,” said Grice. “I’ve seen it.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE TOFF HAS A VISITOR

THE letter, which was soon established as a forgery, said so little that Grice admitted that there was no real reason for thinking that it explained the woman’s disappearance. In fact as they went to Grice’s office, Rollison came to the conclusion that the Superintendent had never been really convinced that he was behind it, but had drawn a bow at a venture.

The letter said that Rollison knew the woman’s identity.

Grice said: “Do you?”

“No,” said Rollison.

“You haven’t sat back and counted chickens this last three weeks, have you?”

“I’ve got no practical results,” said Rollison. “Have you?”

“None at all.” admitted Grice. He sat back, worriedly. “I know no more about her now than I did when she first appeared, but at least one attempt has been made to murder her, and I am afraid of what might happen next. We might find her body. Why were you so interested in the Barrington-Leys?”

“Because she turned up at their house.”

“You know the family well, don’t you?”

“Fairly well.”

“Why did they suddenly leave London?”

“I haven’t a notion.”

“The daughter came to see you on the day you first heard of the affair, didn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“What about?”

“I don’t see why this interests you,” said Rollison, “but she came because she didn’t want her mother to dispense charity on this woman. She thought I might be able to say enough to discredit Lady Lost.”

“That’s pretty thin,” said Grice. He leaned forward. “Rolly,

there are times when personal loyalty has no place in one’s actions. If you are hiding, or trying to hide, anything about the Barrington-Leys, you are making a big mistake.” He paused, then asked tersely: “Is Barrington-Ley in difficulties?”

“Not to my knowledge,” said Rollison.

“Did you know that they’ve recently used Pomeroy, Ward & Pomeroy for most of their audit work?”

“Yes,” said Rollison.

“Then why the devil didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought it was general knowledge to the police if not to the public.”

“I doubt that,” said Grice, still bad tempered, “but I suppose I’ll have to accept your word for it.” He stood up. “Rolly, we’ve worked together a lot and I’ve always given you your head when I could. I hope you won’t let me down this time. You know something more than you admit, don’t you?”

“Nothing that even remotely concerns the police,” said Rollison. “I have told you of the little fat man who was with Marcus Shayle—have you traced him yet?”

“No,” said Grice, sourly, “although I think he is a Pomeroy. The principals aren’t too happy about him.”