John Creasey - The Toff In Town

The light flashed!

Rollison released the big man and stepped aside.

“Would you like one without the beard, sir?” asked Jolly politely.

“Without——” roared Merino.

“Not a bad idea,” said Rollison. Merino swung round on him, but this time the gun was pointed towards his chest. Rollison’s expression had altered completely; he looked grim and dangerous.

Rollison said: “See if it’s real. The beard, not Merino.”

“Very good, sir.” Jolly stepped forward swiftly and, before Merino could jerk his head away, took a hearty tug at the beard. Merino gasped. Jolly darted back, saying as he did so:

“It appears to be real, sir.”

“We could shave it off,” mused Rollison.

Merino backed towards the wall. His red lips were parted and drawn back from his white teeth. He was rigid with rage and Rollison believed that whatever the danger, Merino would try to do violence if they approached him.

“But, sir,” went on Jolly. “I believe the police are able to remove the beard in a photograph sir, and by a process of facial measurement, identify the man, even though, when apprehended, he has no beard. Of course if you would prefer me to get the razor——” He broke off, inquiringly.

“Next time,” decided Rollison.

There won’t be any next time,” breathed Merino, and all his swaggering bravado had gone. “I’ll have the pair of you fixed, I’ll—”

“Now don’t make me change my mind,” advised Rollison. “Jolly’s a very good barber.”

“You’ve had your chance, you’ll regret you’ve done this to me !”

“Oh, vanity, where is your common sense?” sighed Rollison. “There’s always an advantage in playing against a man as swollen in conceit as you are, Merino. Get out.”

Merino moistened his lips, then turned his back and went into the hall. Jolly went across the room, passed the man and opened the front door. Merino did not look at him, but as he stepped over the threshold, Rollison called:

“Merino.”

The big man stopped and looked round.

“Don’t try any more rough stuff on the Aliens. And see that Mrs. Allen returns to her flat to-day. Otherwise

Merino shot him a furious look, and went out of the flat Jolly quietly closed the door.

Rollison looked out of the window and saw Merino get into the cream Chrysler. He was alone, and no one else was in sight. The Chrysler its engine making hardly any noise, disappeared round the corner.

“I did wonder whether we should follow him,” Jolly remarked.

“Let him sweat,” said Rollison. “Nicely done, Jolly. But now, confess and admit that you got quite a kick out of it—much more than if he’d been photographed at Scotland Yard.”

“I did feel a slight exhilaration, sir,” conceded Jolly. “I was particularly glad that we thought of taking his photograph. Also he showed that he was opposed to having it taken, which suggests that he is now somewhat worried about the possible consequences. The quicker we get some prints of that picture the better, sir.”

“While we’re about it, we’ll get a picture of Pauline Dexter. That’ll do Snub good, if nothing else.”

“Talking of M. Higginbottom, sir, he has returned,” said Jolly. “I tried to convey that information to you. I am glad to say he came up the fire-escape. He said that he imagined it would be better to keep out of sight if anything were—er— on the go, as he put it. He is having a snack in the kitchen. I persuaded him not to show himself to our visitor.”

“Happy thought,” said Rollison, and glanced at his watch. “By jingo, it’s five to five! Snub! ”

As he finished calling, the kitchen door opened and Higginbottom appeared, hastily swallowing a mouthful of “snack”.

He was a young man of medium height, well-built and lean, dressed in neatly pressed flannels and a brown sports-coat. His curly, light brown hair was untidy and his face split in a broad smile. His button of a nose could hardly have been snubbier, and his merry blue eyes surveyed Rollison as he said:

“How I kept out of sight I just don’t know.”

“It’s much better that you aren’t known to these people yet. Learn the story off by heart, with all the characters concerned, and then go out and hire yourself an opulent car. Try Gordon ’ s Garage. ”

“So I’m for the road,” said Snub.

“You may be. Take it to Lilley Mews, near New Bond Street, and put it into the lock-up garage number 5.” Rollison tossed him a key. “Clean the window which looks out on to 7, Lilley Mews, where Merino and his lady-friend live. Have some trouble with the car and behave like an amateur mechanic— and make a careful note of all the visitors to number 7. It’s a two-in-one flat so we’re interested in everyone who goes in or out. Take the Leica, photographs might be useful. All clear?”

“Aye, aye, sir!” Snub grinned, and then looked troubled. “The Aliens?”

“I think they’ll pull through,” said Rollison. “I must fly.” He hurried into the hall and, taking his hat off a peg, said over his shoulder: “I hope you had a good holiday?”

“All the sweeter for being the shorter,” said Snub. “You forgot to tell me whether to carry a gun.”

“You can wield a useful spanner if it comes to the point. If Mr. Wardle rings, Jolly, tell him I’ll be along in ten minutes.”

“Very good, sir.”

And Rollison went out, jamming on his hat and hurrying to the top of the stairs.

He tripped on a piece of string, fastened across them. He grabbed at the bannisters, saved himself from falling—and saw a small packet lying two or three stairs down. In a vivid moment he realized the possible danger—and he leapt over the packet, stumbled, reached the lower landing—and then a vivid flash and the roar of an explosion almost blinded and deafened him, and the blast pitched him forward on to his face.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

BUSINESS AT THE B.B.C.

THROUGH the pall of smoke which floated about the staircase and the landing, Rollison saw first Jolly, then Snub. He waved to reassure them. His head was ringing; and a splinter of wood from the banisters had made a nasty gash in his hand, which was bleeding freely. That was not the worst. Doors opened downstairs, and the occupants of the other flats hurried towards the scene, a woman calling out in alarm.

Rollison made himself stand quite still, and called:

“An accident. It’s all right, just an accident.”

“ Accident! ” gasped a man who came out of the flat nearest to Rollison. The whole place was shaken!”

Sorry,” said Rollison. “My man was making an experiment. Jolly! Clear up the mess, and don’t forget that message for Mr. Wardle.”

“ Very good, sir,” said Jolly.

Rollison turned and went on downstairs, holding on to the banisters. He ignored the indignant coments of the neighbours, and smiled at them placatingly. When he reached the foot of the stairs, a motherly little woman holding a Pekinese in her arms—which looked up at him with protuberant eyes —cried out:

“Mr. Rollison, your face! And your hand! You must have them attended to !”

“I will, very soon,” said Rollison. “Must hurry now.” He gave her a flashing smile, not realising that smoke had blackened his face and that there were several scratches from which blood oozed. Because of the black, his eyes looked feverish and his lips moist and red. He reached the street, took in several gulps of clean air and felt a little better.

Jolly appeared by his side.

“You should really come and have that hand dressed, sir,” he said.

“I will,” said Rollison. “Shortly. You deal with these people, and when the police arrive, tell ‘em I tripped over a string that was tied across the stairs, and the explosion came from a brown-paper packet. Don’t let that reach the crowd,” he added in a whisper, as several people drew near. “I’ll be all right,” he added, although he felt as if he had received a heavy blow on the head.

“ Very well, sir,” said Jolly.

“And tell Snub to keep out of sight,” ordered Rollison.

He turned towards Piccadilly, pushing his way through a thickening crowd, and saw a taxi drawn up at the side of the road.

Perky Lowe began to get down from his seat.

“Stay there,” Rollison said, and pulled open the door and climbed in. He sank back in a corner and Perky drove off rapidly. As they turned the corner, he glanced through the partition opening, and asked:

“ ‘Orspital?”

Rollison gave a weak chuckle.

“Not yet. Aeolian Hall.”

“Oke,” said Perky, “but you need——”

“I’ll get all I need there,” said Rollison.

“Well, you’re the boss,” said Perky.

Rollison leaned forward to look into the glass of an advertisement mirror which was fitted in front of him, and understood why the little woman had been so alarmed. He smoothed down his hair which was standing on end, and brushed the dust off his clothes, then dabbed at the blood on the back of his hand. He leaned back with his eyes closed, still unable to concentrate, but by the time the taxi reached the Hall, he was pondering over the daring of Mr. Merino.

Had Merino himself fixed that string and set the trap? Had he had time?

“ ‘Ere we are,” said Perky. “Want me to wait?”

“Please.”

“Okay—give you me report later,” said Perky. “Not that it’s much, Mr. Ar.” He jumped down from his seat and helped Rollison out—and Rollison certainly looked as if he needed helping. “Sure you can walk?”

“I’m all right,” said Rollison, stubbornly.

He went into the large, rather gloomy entrance hall of the building. It widened a little further along, where a broad staircase covered with blue carpet led upwards. Rollison had an impression of blue carpet, dark brown polished wood and glass all about him.

Standing near one wall was a tall, well-dressed man in striped trousers, a black coat and a Homburg hat—Freddie Wardle.

Opposite Wardle sat a commissionaire in a uniform which had been copied from the police. The commissionaire stared in amazement and Wardle stepped forward gaping.

“Roily!”

“Slight mishap,” said Rollison. There’s a first-aid room here, isn’t there?”

“Yes, of course,” said Wardle. “Come along.”

He did not ask questions, but led Rollison to a wide staircase —not the one he had noticed. There were only a few steps, and Wardle led the way along a narrow passage with cream walls. He turned into a room which was painted white, there were rows of bottles and first-aid equipment, a hand-basin and some cases of surgical instruments.

“Better wash first,” said Wardle. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

He was away for several minutes and when he returned, Rollison was drying himself on a bloodstained towel. The colour had returned to his cheeks and he looked much more himself. None of the scratches on his face was serious. His hand wound was rather ugly, and he allowed Wardle to bathe and then bandage it. Throughout the operation Wardle made no comment—a remarkable reticence, which Rollison appreciated. At last the job was finished, and Rollison combed his hair and shrugged his coat into position.

“Much better,” he said. “Thanks.”

“What the devil are you up to?” demanded Wardle. “I hope you’re not going to try any of your fancy tricks here, Roily.”

“Not my tricks, the enemy’s,” said Rollison. “I don’t know what they’re going to do, old chap. Sorry. And I don’t see why there should be trouble here; this happened before I left the fiat.”