John Creasey - The Toff In Town

Even with the door open the garage was poorly lit by day, because of the backs of tall houses on the other side of the road, which hid the sun, and in any case Merino was dumped well down, out of casual sight.

He slipped inside.

“Going places, Mr. Rollison?” a man asked.

Rollison stiffened, but forced himself to turn round slowly and to look at the speaker, who stood outside the garage, showing a polite smile.

It was the middle-aged reporter of the Morning Cry.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

TRICK TO JOLLY

ROLLISON turned his back on the car and leaned against it, maintaining his smile, and slipping his hand into his pocket for his cigarette-case. The reporter, named McMahon, was a friendly soul whom he knew well—but he was first and last a good reporter.

Rollison held out his case, standing so that McMahon could not get too near the car.

“Thanks,” said McMahon, who had no accent to justify his Irish name. “Well, are you?”

“I’m always going places,” said Rollison. “You take a lot of satisfying, don’t you?”

“I was taught to believe only half what I see and nothing that I hear,” said McMahon. “Come off it, and give me the story. And before you say there isn’t one, listen to me,” he went on. “Two or three of Bill Ebbutt’s bruisers were out all night and I heard a whisper that they’d been on a job for you. There was that explosion on the staircase yesterday. Is somebody trying to get a flat by bumping you off?”

Rollison said: “Well, you seem to know a lot.”

“Be yourself,” urged McMahon. “You’re not usually like this, you don’t hold out on us.” He stretched out a hand and pressed it against the corner of the M.G., and if he came a yard nearer, he would be able to see Merino. “Let’s have it, Roily. I’ll keep it off the record, if you like.”

“Nice of you,” murmured Rollison. “Perhaps you’re right, Mac——”

“Now you’re talking!”

“That’s the trouble, I’m not at liberty to talk.” Rollison smoothed down his hair, wincing when he touched the bruise. “I might drop you a hint, if that’ll help.”

“Maybe it will,” said McMahon.

“There might be something interesting in Saturday’s show of In Town To-night. ” he began, cautiously, “and——”

“Oh, come off it,” said McMahon. He took his hand from the car and came forward, and Rollison’s heart beat faster, he found it almost impossible to keep quite steady. “ In Town To-night ’ s a nice gossip column, but——”

“Oh, this is special,” Rollison assured him. “It might be sensational. Among others, the police will be present—although the B.B.C. may not know it. If you know anyone who can get you in——”

“I know Hedley,” said McMahon, and his eyes gleamed. “Okay, Roily I’ll be there—I’ll just breeze in.”

“For the love of Mike, keep it to yourself!”

“You bet I’ll keep it to myself—one reporter’s quite enough if anything’s going to happen there! Got any background stuff, so that I can write it up beforehand? I’d like to catch the Sunday Cry —don’t forget we’ve got a Sunday paper, will you?”

“I won’t forget, but I can’t give you any background,” said Rollison. “Aren’t you ever satisfied?”

“No, never,” said McMahon, “but thanks. Nice car you’ve got here,” he added, and looked deliberately into the back through the rear window.

Rollison stood waiting for the outburst, screwed up to a pitch of icy tension.

“ Very nice,” said McMahon. “Which way are you going? If it’s Fleet Street, you might give me a lift——”

Rollison gulped. “I came to get some papers out of the car,” he said, and for the first time ventured to look into the back.

If Merino’s body were invisible from the rear window, he might yet get away with it; it was quite possible that the corpse had sagged down during the night

He couldn’t see the body.

The body wasn ’ t there.

Jolly looked up as Rollison entered the flat and remarked that he hadn’t been gone long. Rollison gravely agreed and went into the study, calling: “Jolly!” in a loud voice, as he reached his desk. When he turned round Jolly stood respectfully in the middle of the room, his brown, doleful eyes showing no expression.

“The body isn’t there any more,” announced Rollison slowly.

“I’m afraid I must accept full responsibility for that, sir,” said Jolly. “After you had dropped off to sleep, I couldn’t rest for thinking about it, and I put the situation to Ebbutt, over the telephone. He immediately agreed to take the necessary steps. I understand that the corpse now reposes in a box in the cellar of a disused warehouse.”

“Oh,” said Rollison heavily. “Trick to Jolly. You gave me the worst five minutes and the best split second I’ve had for a long time, and I freely forgive you.”

“Thank you, sir. And I have cleaned the back of the car and made sure that it can be used,” said Jolly, “There is no fear of any fingerprints being found. Unfortunately there was nothing in Merino’s pockets which would help us. But at least we have to-day in which to work without undue anxiety here. If only we had some indication of where Mr. Higginbottom might be, we could feel so much easier in our minds. I suppose you will find out what alteration was wanted in Mr. Allen’s script as soon as you can, sir?”

“Yes,” said Rollison. “I——”

The telephone bell rang.

He broke off and motioned to the instrument, and Jolly lifted the receiver, saying as if it were a refrain: “This is the Hon. Richard Rollison’s residence.” He had hardly finished before he lowered the receiver from his ear, and stared in astonishment at Rollison.

“It’s her!” he exclaimed.

“Pauline!” cried Rollison.

He should have expected a call, should have known that her daring outclassed even Merino’s. She would be as calm as she had been at the flat, and he must match it

He took the receiver and said:

“Good-morning, Miss Dexter.”

“I’m so glad we’re on friendly terms,” said Pauline, gaily. “I heard you call my name out when Jolly told you I was on the line. How is your poor head this morning?”

“Rather battered,” confessed Rollison.

“I hope it’s not so painful, you looked terrible last night,” said Pauline. “I knew you’d feel like murder when you reached home, that’s why I left the flat—and I shall stay away for a few days. I rang up to remind you that you must persuade Bob Allen to do what I’ve told him.”

“Not easily,” said Rollison. The way she had brought in the word “murder” was clever—she used the same method of oblique approach as with her threats.

“That’s good,” she said warmly. “And please don’t try to find me, you won’t succeed, I’ve been so careful about everything. You found that package in your car, I expect?”

“Package?” echoed Rollison.

“Yes, in the back.”

“I found nothing worth looking at,” said Rollison. For the first time, his spirits rose. Pauline should have let well alone, and not given him a chance to confuse and puzzle her. This was the first mistake she had made, and had slipped into it so unwarily. There was certainly nothing in it this morning; the car’s been thoroughly cleaned and the upholstery vacuumed. What was in the package?” Rollison sounded genuinely curious.

Pauline did not answer.

“You may as well tell me,” went on Rollison, earnestly. There isn’t much you’ve kept back from me. By the way, how is Mr. Merino this morning?”

“What a beautiful liar you are,” said Pauline.

“My dear Miss Dexter,” Rollison said reproachfully, “I don’t understand you. I thought we’d sworn not to deceive each other. Let me go over the details again. I’m to persuade Allen to incorporate certain alterations in his B.B.C. script, so that your message can go out to your friends. That’s it, isn’t it?”

“I said nothing about a message.” Her voice was sharp.

“But you talk so obscurely that I have to read between the lines,” protested Rollison. “And if the message doesn’t go out as you’ve instructed, one of your thugs will be on duty in the studio to take aggressive action. Very thorough, Miss Dexter.

Shall I see you there?”

“You will not!”

“Oh, what a pity,” said Rollison. “Because I think we ought to meet again before long—in fact before to-morrow night. I’m not at all sure that I’m doing the right thing by taking your instructions, but you may be able to convince me if we have a little chat. How about Blott ’ s, at twelve-forty-five? I won’t leave you in the lurch this time, and the waiter won’t spill your soup.”

“Obviously you’re feeling very much better,” said Pauline. I hope that doesn’t mean that the police have been consulted. If they show up, you won’t see Higginbottom again.”

He had so shaken her composure that she came out with a direct threat!

“No police—I always prefer working without them,” said Rollison firmly. “If I were to tell them about you, my pet, I wouldn’t be able to wring your neck myself. I’m looking forward to doing that later, but I’ll do nothing violent at Blott ’ s:

Her voice lost all trace of its silvery note, became coarse, ugly.

“I’ve warned you what will happen if Allen doesn’t alter that script.”

She was badly shaken, she had been living on her nerves, a tiny crack in her armour had quickly grown larger, perhaps large enough to destroy her defences.

“But he isn’t even going to broadcast,” he said gently.

“ What! ”

“I’ve been thinking about it, and I’ve just decided that it will be much better for him to stay at home to-morrow night,” Rollison said. “Pity in some ways; I think he would sound well over the air, don’t you? But it just won’t do, we can’t use the B.B.C. for such dark deeds as yours. And you’ve slipped away into the country, after giving him a dose of morphia, so I’ll give him another dose and take him away for a day or two. You’ve got Snub, I’ve got Bob Allen, and that about makes us equal. Good-bye, my pet!”

“Rollison!”

“What, are you still there?” asked Rollison, sweetly.

“Rollison, if you stop Allen from broadcasting, you——”

“Sorry, my love, but there’s no drawing back. Good-bye!”

“Rollison!”

He rang off.

Jolly stared at him with glowing eyes.

“And that was a nice instalment of reward,” said Rollison. “Jolly, telephone Ebbutt and tell him that I want to hide Allen away for a day or two. He must be able to collect him at short notice. I’ll go and get Allen, and take him straight to the gymnasium. “Right?”

“ Very good, sir!”

Rollison hurried across the hall and downstairs, gladly enduring his aches and pains. The morning was much brighter, almost another day. He was angry with himself for not having thought of this before; it was so obviously the right thing, the only thing. Pauline desperately wanted Allen to broadcast. If anything could lure her out of hiding, making him vanish would do it.

He turned right, towards the garage, but before he had gone two steps a cheerful Cockney voice sounded.

“Want me s’morning?” demanded Perky Lowe.

Rollison swung round.

“You’re just the man,” he said. “Byngham Court Mansions, in a hurry!”