John Creasey - The Toff In Town

“I think they’d appreciate it,” said Rollison.

She laughed again.

“You’re rather sweet,” she remarked. “Is that cushion comfortable? You wouldn’t like another behind your head?” When he said “no”, she took a cigarette from a box near her, lit it, and then put it to his mouth—as he’d done to Allen. “Now you look better,” she said, “I like a man to smoke. Now, to my request! I want you to persuade Bob Allen to go through with the broadcast on Saturday, and to say exactly what I’ve told him to say. He can easily work it into his script, that can be arranged without the slightest trouble.”

“So he’s objecting, is he?” remarked Rollison.

“He’s so stubborn,” said Pauline. “He flatly refuses to do what I ask, but I feel sure he will listen to you. He may not have shown you much respect so far, but he’s impressed by you. If you exert yourself, you can arrange it——”

“So all I have to do is exert myself,” murmured Rollison.

“Yes—and not too much, I shouldn’t think,” said Pauline. “Of course, you won’t want to do it, I know that, but I think you will. He’s a nice lad, isn’t he?”

“Allen? He——”

“Oh no. That boy who works for you,” said Pauline, looking at him with mock innocence; suddenly he wanted to wring her neck. “The one with the funny little nose—I wanted to laugh when I first saw him, I should imagine he makes a lot of people feel like that. Isn’t it odd,” she went on, taking a cigarette, “that some people are born cheerful and everywhere they go they make friends and spread brightness and happiness, so to speak, and others—rather like your man Jolly—spread gloom. What is the boy’s name?”

“Higginbottom,” answered Rollison.

“Oh no!”

“James Higginbottom,” said Rollison firmly.

“Oh, how priceless! Why, it would almost be a relief to him to die, wouldn’t it, with a name like that?”

Then she lit her cigarette, and let smoke trickle from her lovely lips.

Her manner hadn’t changed; she was almost frivolous, like a young girl let loose in adult society for the first time. And she was provocatively attractive, but for the first time since he had come round, Rollison felt real alarm.

“You do understand, don’t you?” she cooed.

“Yes,” said Rollison. “Fully.”

“And you will persuade Allen?”

Rollison said quietly: “Yes, I will.”

Her eyes shone. She jumped up and clapped her hands.

“I knew you’d be sensible! I could tell it from the moment I first met you—Merino would have been much wiser to let me see you before he did, instead of playing that foolish trick with the nitro-glycerine. It was a risk anyhow, because there was no knowing who would be the one to stumble over it. It might have been Jolly, and although he wouldn’t have been much loss to anyone, I expect you would have been angry—even angrier than you were. So that’s settled.”

“That’s settled,” said Rollison, heavily.

“I’m so glad!” He thought it wouldn’t take much to make her pat him approvingly on the head. “Of course, you’ll have to play fair,” she went on. “You see, a friend of mine will be in the studio—it’s so easy to get people into that particular studio—and he’ll be listening. If Bob Allen should say the wrong thing, or anything foolish—well, then there would be an unexpected sound over the air. A shot. I wonder if a real murder has ever been broadcast?”

“And whom would your friend murder?” asked Rollison.

“Well, Allen perhaps—or you.” Pauline laughed. “I know you could tell the police or warn the officials, and try to keep suspicious persons away on Saturday night, but that won’t help you. You see, unless Bob broadcasts exactly as we want him to, you won’t see that delicious Higginbottom again. It must be vexing for you to be trapped like this, but I think you’ll be wise and not fight against it. A sensible man always knows when he’s beaten.”

“Yes, doesn’t he?” asked Rollison. “Where is Merino?”

“He’s gone into the country for a day or two, just in case there should be any trouble over the explosion,” said Pauline. “You haven’t told the police about that, have you?”

“No,” lied Rollison, without a qualm.

“I felt sure you wouldn’t. You’ve something in common with Merino,” she went on musingly, “you’re so fond of your own way.”

“And where is Allen?” asked Rollison, interrupting.

“Oh, back at Byngham Court Mansions by now,” answered Pauline. “He didn’t stay long. I told him what was wanted and gave him a copy of the new script—it’s not altered very much really—and told him he’d have to do it, or he’d know what to expect. I will say this for him, he’s not a coward, we haven’t been able to frighten him into submission. And I sent him away quickly because one of those pug-nosed men you’ve employed followed him, and I wanted to get the man away before you arrived. As soon as he’d gone, Higginbottom was dealt with. We’re efficient aren’t we?”

“No doubt about that,” said Rollison. “Is there any more coffee?”

“Of course !” She took his cup, filled it and brought it back. “I’ve given you a dash of milk this time, and not quite so much sugar. You’re looking rather better. I suppose it’s because you’ve a load off your mind now you’ve decided to take the sensible course.”

“Oh, do you?” said Rollison. “Supposing I were to get up and tie you in a chair, telephone the police and tell them all about this—what would you do?”

“I’d keep saying “Higginbottom”,” she declared and giggled. “Or else “Snub”. Don ’ t be awkward, will you?”

“Are we alone here?” asked Rollison.

“Oh no,” she said, “I didn’t take a big risk like that—one can’t always be sure that a gamble will come off—and you’ve such a reputation as a lady-killer!” She turned away swiftly and pressed a bell-push near the door. Almost at once there was a sharp tap. She called: “Come in,” and a short, stockily-built man appeared, wearing a handkerchief over the lower half of his face. And just behind him stood a still shorter man, also wearing a handkerchief mask.

“All right,” she said. “I just wanted to convince Mr. Rollison that I was telling the truth.”

The taller of the two promptly closed the door.

“And with a head like yours, you can’t be feeling much like fighting, can you?” condoled Pauline. “I wonder if you can drive yourself home?”

“I can get a taxi,” said Rollison.

“You may as well drive if you can, your car’s in number 5,” said Pauline casually. “We sent Hig—Snub off in the one he’d hired. He told us about that, he wasn’t feeling very brave and I don’t suppose he thought that would do any harm. Then we brought yours round here. Oh, you’ll want the key of your garage.” She took a key from a pocket in her dressing-gown and handed it to him. “We took it from Snub,” she told him. “I like that year’s M.G., don’t you? The acceleration is good and the springing first-class. Can you get up?”

She stretched out a hand to help him.

“I can manage,” said Rollison.

He did not trust himself to say much. The girl’s composure, the way in which she hammered every nail right home, was quite remarkably devilish. And yet, as she stood back and watched him with rounded eyes, she looked innocent, beautiful and delightful.

He stood upright; and his head did not ache so much.

“Why, you’re almost yourself, you’ll be able to drive without any trouble,” she said encouragingly. “I’ll get Max to take you over to the lock-up—unless there’s anything else you’d like to say?”

“There’s plenty I’d like to say, but it had better keep for another day.”

“Any day but Saturday.” Pauline went to the door and pressed the bell again. “ Don ’ t try any tricks Mr. Rollison, will you? I really like your Higginbottom, and I could easily get fond of you. I don’t think very much of the Aliens, but that’s beside the point.”

There was a tap on the door.

“Good-night,” said Pauline. “Come in, Max.”

The smaller of the two men appeared; and Rollison had no doubt that it was the “boy” who had been with the “gasman” when this affair had first broken out into violence. Max showed a glimpse of an automatic, then put it into his pocket, holding it all the time. He opened the front door and a cool blast of air swept in.

Good-night!” called Pauline sweetly.

Rollison didn’t answer.

Max led the way across the dark mews to number 5 and opened the door. He switched on a light which cast a glow enough for Rollison to see about the garage. He went between the wall and the car—it was Rollison’s M.G.—and opened the driving door. Then, keeping his distance, and obviously pre-pared for Rollison to strike back, he watched while Rollison squeezed himself in and took the wheel. Rollison gave Max a sickly grin, pulled the starter and put the gear into reverse.

“Good-night!” called Pauline sweetly.

Rollison backed into the mews without mishap, although normally he would not have taken the wheel while feeling as he did now. He glanced round at Max, who stood by the open door, then drove off.

There was nothing unnusual about the streets of the West End. Occasionally a policeman plodded past, taxis and private cars moved about, there were a few pedestrians but not many in these side-streets. It was a bright night and cooler than it had been by day. Rollison found driving less nerve-wracking than he had expected; he could spare time to think. He wondered whether he had been right to come away—but he had been in no shape to plan and think, certainly not to take aggressive action.

He reached the garage at the back of Gresham Terrace, pulled up close to the closed doors, opened them and switched on the light; this was bright, and showed the neatly kept garage, two spare tyres, tins of oil and a few tools. He went back to the car and drove it in, pleased with himself because he judged it to a nicety, stopping an inch from the end wall, and then angry because he could dwell on such trivialities. He got out again, slammed the door and wished he hadn’t because it sent a stab of pain through his head, and then turned to leave.

He stopped abruptly; there was something in the back of the car—something he hadn’t seen before.

A hand lay on the back seat!

Someone was huddled on the floor of the car. Was it—was it Snub? Had that damned woman

He peered inside.

He saw a pale face and a black beard and a small hole in the middle of the man’s forehead.

This was Merino I

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CORPSE

EVERYTHING changed . . .

Rollison stared down at the dead man, hardly realising then that he had driven through the streets with a corpse in the back of the car, without even a rug thrown over it. He saw, not Merino, but Grice. Murder—and one could not play with the police when murder had been committed.

Everything he had planned, the half-formed idea with which he had been toying, all faded.

He straightened up, unaware of pain.

The light shone on Merino’s closed eyes.

Rollison moved slowly away from the car; he had not touched the corpse. The little bullet wound was a familiar enough sight to him; and the dark ridge round the edges, the trickle of blood; he had been presented with the corpse of the man whom he had thought responsible for all that was happening.