John Creasey - The Toff and The Lady

Renfrew said: “I told you to come to-morrow, Farrow.”

“It wasn’t soon enough,” said Farrow, “I’m taking enough chances as it is.” He played up well, adding nervously: “How do I know I won’t be arrested for that murder?”

“She’s not dead yet,” said Renfrew, damning himself utterly. “I’ll see that you’re all right, Farrow, but not now. Did you see Rollison in the waiting-room?”

“Yes.”

“Did he speak?”

“No, but I don’t like the way he looks at me.”

“You fool!” came a woman’s voice, with a note of searing contempt which probably made Farrow flinch. You don’t like the way he looks at you! Why”

“Be quiet, Gwen,” said Renfrew, nervously.

Rollison, standing quite still, was aghast at the truth which was now all too evident. Gwendoline was in that room. She was a party to all that Renfrew had done, was in his full confidence and intent on keeping Farrow quiet.

So many puzzles were solved with that realization. Gwen’s manner before the attack on her; she was afraid he suspected the truth and in a mad moment, had thought of killing him. Her lies about seeing the Lady of Lost Memory, her hatred— to provide grounds for her behaviour—her anxiety to keep the a” air from the police, her complaisance with Pomeroy, who was a party to the plot; all those things fell into place.

There were others.

Everything Gwen and Renfrew had told him could be discounted. He should have realized before then Gwen had cut his hand to try to send him to his death. Renfrew had not been near enough to the window to use a knife. Her professed anxiety for her father and her carefully prepared story of her suspicions of him—all was false. She had once called at the Strand office of Pomeroy, Ward & Pomeroy, but he had not paid that enough attention.

How she had lied!

All that passed through Rollison’s mind as he stood in the hall. Then he pushed the door open slowly, and could sense the sudden tension which had sprung into the room, but he could not hurry; in whatever else he had been right, he had completely misjudged Gwendoline.

He went in.

Renfrew was sitting at a bureau desk in a large, plainly furnished surgery, and Gwendoline was by his side. When she saw Rollison she jumped to her feet, and into her eyes sprang an expression which he had seen before, at the time when she had drawn an automatic from her pocket. Then he had thought her overwrought and hardly responsible for her actions, but now fear made her desperate.

Renfrew backed further away. Gwendoline snatched her bag from the table and opened it.

Rollison said: “I shouldn’t do that.” The words were the same as he had used before, only their tone was different. She kept her hand inside her bag, and glared at him, while Renfrew, making a desperate effort to regain his self-control, stepped forward and slammed the door, avoiding Farrow who tried to stop him.

“It’s all right,” said Rollison to Farrow. He was still looking at Gwendoline, and she returned his stare with all the malignance of which she was capable, cold, murderous, utterly evil. “So this is how it is! With Hilda dead you would be worth a fortune on your father’s death.”

She said: “Don’t move an inch.”

He stood quite still.

“And I thought Renfrew was the evil genius! I almost wish that Hilda would die; you would then be hanged, the pair of you—hanged by the neck until you are dead”

“ Be quiet! ” screamed Gwendoline.

“With a bandage over your eyes and only the hangman on the gallows with you,” said Rollison, in a voice low-pitched with cold fury. “Clever Gwendoline! You showed Hilda that letter you found, didn’t you? You made her suspicious of David, you tortured her mentally and you tortured him, setting one against the other while you stood by and gloated, seeing your plans maturing and your hopes increasing, with your lover aiding and abetting. How long would you have waited before killing David?”

She said: “I am going to shoot you.”

“There are a lot of things you’re going to do,” said Rollison. “Among them you’re going to talk freely. Where does Pomeroy come in this, where does the Countess come in, where”

“Look out!” cried Farrow.

He shouted as Gwendoline snatched the gun from the bag and, watching her closely, Rollison flung himself to one side. Renfrew, uttering a hoarse cry, rushed towards the door. Farrow shot out a leg and tripped him up—and Gwendoline fired.

A bullet passed between Farrow and The Toff, another was nearer The Toff as he went forward, and the third hit the floor as he reached her and struck her arm down. He twisted her wrist until she gasped in pain and the gun dropped. But she was not finished yet. She pulled herself free and then flung herself bodily at him, gouging at his eyes, kicking at his shins and trying to knee him in the groin, but he got a grip on her wrists at last and forced her away from him. She stood like that, bent forward, the breath hissing between her clenched teeth. Behind them Farrow was standing over a prostrate Renfrew.

There was a wild banging on the door, and the receptionist screamed:

“Help! Help! Let me in, let me in! Help!”

“Keep her quiet,” said Rollison to Farrow, and the “footman” went towards the door, while Renfrew dragged himself painfully to his feet and Gwendoline dropped into a chair. He picked up her gun and motioned with it to Renfrew, making the man join Gwendoline. Renfrew stood beside her with one hand pressed heavily on the desk.

“And telephone Superintendent Grice,” Rollison called to Farrow.

Renfrew gasped: “Rollison, you’re wrong. We—we didn’t do anything; Hilda has a weak heart, she might die at any time, I tell you she might die at any time!”

“With help from adrenalin,” said Rollison, coldly.

“That wasn’t me, that was Farrow!”

“Not Farrow,” said Rollison. “Renfrew, if Hilda dies you’ll hang— unless you turn King’s Evidence. You might escape death if you do that.”

“Don’t talk to him,” muttered Gwendoline. Her eyes were bloodshot and she was still breathing through her mouth.

Rollison said: You had planned this before Pomeroy came along, hadn’t you? And Pomeroy discovered what you were doing and saw a way of turning it to his advantage;

Pomeroy was doing Barrington-Ley’s accounts” He broke off for a moment, and then his voice grew stronger and there was a note of elation in it. “I’ve got it! The simple things! The Relief Fund money was going through Barrington-Ley’s accounts, like a dozen other charity funds, the American money was rightly transferred here, Pomeroy was after it, he could best get it by falsifying the main accounts, appropriating the money but making it look as if Barrington-Ley had used it. The rumours about his financial difficulties were spread to make that look convincing—and what a chance for you, sweet Gwendoline! How well Pomeroy would make it sound —you would kill Hilda, he would kill Barrington-Ley, because if the rich man lived the truth would one day out. For his risk Pomeroy had the Relief money, for yours you had the fine inheritance. Pomeroy didn’t mention also that when you had it you would forever be in his power, did he?”

Gwendoline said, after a pause:

“It was all Pomeroy, all Pomeroy!”

“Yes!” cried Renfrew. “Yes, we couldn’t help ourselves!”

“You’d better rely on turning King’s Evidence,” Rollison said. “Denials won’t help you and nothing will help Gwendoline. Let’s have it Renfrew. You were in Pomeroy’s confidence, weren’t you—he could safely let you be in it, and he wanted you to do so many things, such as killing the Countess. He was to murder Barrington-Ley and you were to swear that it was suicide. Come on, Renfrew! Take what chance you have!”

“If you” began Gwendoline, grabbing Renfrew’s arm.

“Yes!” screamed Renfrew. “He made me do it, I couldn’t help myself, it was Pomeroy, all Pomeroy”

Then he began to talk, so swiftly and with such fluency that Rollison found it difficult to understand all he said. As he talked he damned Gwendoline so completely that she turned her bloodshot eyes away from Rollison and stared at the blank wall.

Farrow stood by the door, listening, saying nothing. He had pacified the receptionist, and except for Renfrew’s voice there was no sound in the room.

Renfrew had been desperately hard up, and so had Gwendoline, who received an allowance ample for her own needs but ridiculously small for his. His practice was small, for he had not been in Wimpole Street long, the expenses were enormous, his personal extravagance unlimited . . . .

Barrington-Ley would not increase his daughter’s allowance. Perhaps, thought Rollison, as he listened, David had some idea of the depths of evil that was in his daughter. She had evolved the plan to kill first Hilda and then her father; with Renfrew’s help it should be easy, he could have signed the death certificates. Had the plot not spread wider, they might have succeeded and now be living in luxury. But into the black plot came Pomeroy, fat and genial and garrulous, and above all dangerous. He came first because a company to whom Renfrew owed money had put the account into his hands. He appeared helpful and sympathetic and offered to advance money on expectations, and Renfrew told him of

Gwendoline and his hopes. Skilfully Pomeroy had drawn out of them the idea of murder, played on the theme and developed it; then whenever Renfrew showed signs of reluctance, used pressure because he knew the whole of Renfrew’s financial plight.

In all of this, Gwendoline supported Pomeroy.

Pomeroy, keeping in the background at the Strand offices, visited Barrington-Ley, won his friendship, won the business for Pomeroy, Ward & Pomeroy, ingratiated himself and at the same time spread rumours here and rumours there.

There was some truth in the cry: “ It was all Pomeroy! ” Some, but not enough.

“It was Pomeroy,” said Renfrew, “who had discovered that Lila, Countess Hollern, was in charge of the Relief Fund in New York, had influenced Barrington-Ley to sponsor the Fund in England, counting on willing assistance from Hilda. Pomeroy had arranged the transfer of the money and had the handling of it. Pomeroy put the whole foul plot into operation, conceived and executed it, with the help of Marcus Shayle and Malloy, of Janice Armitage—although hers unwittingly. It was Pomeroy who, through Shayle, made Phyllis apply for a post at the Lawley Nursing Home”

For the first time, Rollison interrupted.

“Could Pomeroy make sure that she got that post?”

“Of course he could!” cried Renfrew. “The matron was in his power, she had been mixed up in one or two unsavoury cases. Pomeroy discovered it, and made her do what he wanted. She said she would not go on after the attack on the Countess, but she was persuaded to continue when the Countess recovered. Then Pomeroy sent Barrington-Ley there, the matron knew he was drugged, she was going to tell the police. Pomeroy killed her”

Rollison said: “She was poisoned with the same poison as that used on the Countess, at a time when Pomeroy, Shayle, and Malloy could not have got to the nursing home.”

“I didn’t kill her!” gasped Renfrew. “Rollison, you’ve got to believe me, I didn’t kill her! I didn’t give the Countess enough for a fatal dose. I couldn’t really bring myself to kill

Mrs. Barrington-Ley!”

“But the matron was poisoned and she died,” said Rollison. He turned and looked at Gwendoline. Renfrew cried: “She knows where to get at my drugs.” Gwendoline sprang at him as she had sprung at Rollison. Her fingers clawed his cheeks until the blood ran, she bit and kicked and scratched him until Rollison dragged her away. As she was struggling in his grip and Renfrew was leaning over the desk with his face buried in his hands, there were heavy footsteps outside and Grice led in his men.