John Creasey - The Toff In Town

He was hardly inside the cab before it started off. He watched the passing traffic and the passing people with a benevolent eye, and now and again burst into a chuckle. He pondered over the new move, trying to see any way in which it would work to his disadvantage and perhaps put Snub in more danger; none presented itself. From the beginning, Merino and Pauline had been determined to make Allen do exactly what they wanted, and—he was necessary to their plot, necessary because of the proposed broadcast. Spiriting Allen away was the perfect answer to the threat to Snub.

A plain-clothes detective was in the street near Byngham Court Mansions, and undoubtedly he noticed who climbed out of the taxi which Perky pulled up close to the front door. Rollison hurried upstairs. When he reached the top, his head began to ache more painfully, but he was still in high feather. Sam was on the landing, and greeted him cheerfully.

Rollison rang the bell, and this time Barbara was no longer answering it. She looked surprised to see him, and her eyes were swollen, as if she had been crying.

“Well, how’s the invalid?” asked Rollison cheerfully.

“He’s—a bit better.”

“He’s still here?”

“Yes—yes, of course,” said Barbara. “He’s getting up now.”

“And in a bad mood, is he?” asked Rollison gently. “I shouldn’t be too worried this morning. Tempers get frayed after you’ve been drugged.”

“He seems to have gone right back,” said Barbara. “There are moments when I almost——”

She broke off abruptly.

Rollison said: “What was this morning’s trouble about? Any particular thing?”

“Well, yes—but that was the excuse, not the reason,” said Barbara. “He’s lost a piece of paper, on which there were some notes. I destroyed them by accident, and—oh, but it doesn’t matter !”

She turned away.

“Don’t let it get you down,” Rollison said quickly. “I’ve an idea which will help, I think, and—we’ll see it all through.”

Barbara didn’t answer.

Rollison called out: “Allen! Are you up?”

Allen called a surly answer from the big bedroom.

He was dressed, but hadn’t shaved. He stood by the window, with smoke curling from a cigarette which drooped from the corner of his mouth. His eyes were lack-lustre, and he showed all the symptoms that might be expected in a man who had been given a dose of morphia.

“Now what do you want?” he demanded.

Rollison said: “About this broadcast—Pauline Dexter wants you to make an alteration or two, doesn’t she?”

“I don’t see that it’s any of your business,” growled Allen. “In fact I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. Things aren’t any better, they’re worse than they were when you joined in. I was right when I told you to take your nose out of my affairs.”

“That’s a bit hard,” said Rollison mildly.

“Maybe it is, but now you know,” Allen put a trembling hand to his lips, to take the cigarette out “I’m tired of it all !” he went on unsteadily. “I’ve fought as much as I can, but I’m not going to fight any more. Pauline wants to have a say in the script—okay, she can have it. That’s final. And when I’ve broadcast on Saturday night, it’ll all be over—thank God, it will all be over!”

He turned away from Rollison.

Barbara in the doorway, looked from Rollison to her husband, but did not move.

Rollison looked at Allen’s set profile and squared shoulders

—and the three of them stayed like that for a long time. All was quiet in the room. In the street, traffic passed noisily; a boy walked, whistling shrilly, along the pavement.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

PRISONER

IF Allen broadcast to Pauline’s instructions, would Snub be all right?

And if the broadcast went off without a hitch and the woman’s purpose was served, would it really help Allen or his wife?

As he looked at Allen, Rollison realised that the events of the past twelve hours had affected his own judgment. He had been seeing things too close up, had been too worried because of Snub, talk of the broadcast and the murder of Merino, to see the whole facts.

Something was to happen after the broadcast—a happening so important, worth so much money, that Merino had been prepared to give away those stupendous diamonds to make sure nothing prevented it.

The wearing of Allen’s nerves; the lesser crimes; the capital crime; all these were due to one thing only—the unknown motive.

Supposing Snub were sent back after the broadcast, his life saved by giving Pauline the victory, would Snub rest happy? Would he, Richard Rollison, ever be conscience-free?

Rollison looked over the roof-tops, thinking on these things —and then glanced at Allen. And he saw in Allen’s eyes a glint which hadn’t been there before. It was a disturbing glimpse of something which he couldn’t place properly, unless it were this: that Allen had been so whipped and beaten by events that he had become cunning and crafty in his all-consuming desire to let the woman have her way, and so be free from trouble.

What had happened between Allen and Pauline Dexter?

He felt, vaguely and yet with a stirring of a new alarm, that she had bent him completely to her will.

Allen looked away, and spoke roughly:

“Haven’t you heard enough?”

“Yes, quite enough,” said Rollison. “I still think you’d better come with me.”

“I’m staying here!”

Barbara broke her long silence.

“Won’t it—won’t it be better just to let Bob broadcast?” she asked. “You said yourself that everything might be all right after Saturday. And if the broadcast can settle it, don’t interfere. It can’t do any serious harm.”

“I don’t give a damn what harm it does,” said Allen harshly. “I’ll be able to rest, that’s all that matters now. I can’t stand this any longer, my nerves won’t take it.” He shouted now. “So clear out, Rollison!”

“I wish it were as easy as that, but there are complications,” said Rollison. “Remember Snub Higginbottom?”

Barbara started. “Is he back?”

“Where does he come in, except that he works for you?” asked Allen. “I remember you, now. You were with him in Regent Street a few weeks ago—I told Barbara you looked as if you’d come right out of the pages of the Tailor & Cutter. ” He gave a little, mirthless laugh. “That isn’t far out. Well, what about Snub?”

“He also lent a hand,” said Rollison. “As a result, he disappeared. Pauline Dexter tells me that she knows where he is. I can’t imagine he’s having a very nice time, and I don’t think they’ll stick at murder if it serves their purpose.”

Barbara exclaimed: “No!”

Allen swung round on her:

“You seem to have forgotten how to think or talk, all you do is to run round with a face as long as a wet week, bleating: “Oh, dear, what will happen next?” I’m fed up to the teeth with it.” He ignored the crushed look in Barbara’s eyes, and turned on Rollison. “Supposing Snub has caught a packet? That’s up to him—and up to you. I told you to keep out of it. I couldn’t have put it more clearly.” He stepped forward, and took Rollison by the shoulder. “You know where the door is— you know it a damned sight too well. I’m wondering if this was your little love-nest while I was away. Bar seems to think you’re the cat’s whiskers.”

Barbara cried: “Bob, oh, Bob!”

Allen pushed the unresisting Rollison again.

“Caught you out, have I? The guilty secret at last, and——”

Barbara said in a low, strangely clear voice:

“You’ve sunk about as low as men can sink. I’ve tried—how I’ve tried—to help you. But now——”

Allen shot out his hand and grabbed her shoulder. He pulled her towards him, as he had done when she had first threatened to ask the police to help. He seemed to have forgotten that Rollison was with them.

“You’ll stay here and do what you’re told I If you don’t, you’ll——”

He snatched one hand away and made as if to slap her across the face. Before his hand landed, Rollison jabbed a short-arm blow to the chin which made Allen’s head jerk back. He staggered away from Barbara, who stood as if petrified, her face white, her lips parted. Rollison pulled Allen forward and repeated the blow, and Allen slumped down, unconscious.

Rollison stopped him from falling heavily, then slipped his hand into Allen’s inside coat-pocket and drew out a foolscap envelope. Inside was a copy of the script which Rollison already had. There was also another typewritten sheet—and a glance told Rollison that it was the new version which Pauline wanted broadcast. He tucked the envelope into his own pocket.

“I think I had better get him away for a bit,” he said quietly. “He’s not himself, don’t forget that.”

Barbara drew aside in tacit acquiescence. Rollison dragged Allen to the door. Sam was in the hall, and his eyes rounded.

“Knocked ‘im cold?” he demanded eagerly.

“Help me downstairs with him, and then come up here— you’re on guard in the hall for the rest of the day,” said Rollison briskly. “Mrs. Allen will get you a comfortable chair. I’d rather you weren’t here on your own,” Rollison added to Barbara, who nodded vaguely, uninterested now.

They got downstairs without being seen, and the cab was so close to the entrance that it was easy to lift Allen inside without the man in the street noticing. Rollison climbed in and Sam slammed the door. Perky started the engine and drove away at moderate speed.

Allen’s head lolled back against the corner but he began to regain consciousness before they had reached Edgware Road. He blinked dazedly, sat upright and moistened his lips, then rubbed his jaw, which was already showing signs of swelling. He worked his mouth about slowly, but by then, there was an intelligent gleam in his “ Allison would not have been surprised had he tried to get out of the cab when they slowed down at a traffic jam. Instead, he looked at Rollison with sullen hostility.

“Where are you taking me?”

“To some friends,” said Rollison. “If you’ve any sense you’ll stay there, and you’ll be all right. Aren’t you tired of being Aunt Sally for Blane and his mob to knock down?”

“He’s not the only one who throws his weight about,” Allen growled. “Barbara shouldn’t—my wife shouldn’t be left alone at the flat,” he said. “It’s too big a strain on her.”

“So you have flashes of sanity,” said Rollison.

Allen drew in his breath—and then suddenly turned his face away. He gritted his teeth, as if to prevent himself from breaking down, took out a plump silver cigarette-case and rooted in his pockets for matches. Rollison gave him a light.

“What good will it do if I go into hiding?” Allen demanded at last. They’ll find me—they’ll always find me. They’re too strong for me and for you. It’s best to get it over; let them have their way. Perhaps I’ll be left in peace after that——”

“Isn’t it time you told someone what’s behind all this?” asked Rollison. “And why Pauline wants you to alter your script for to-morrow night?” When Allen did not answer, he went on: “This business appears to have started when you were half-way home from Burma. It followed something you did while you were in Burma. And it was something which made you more scared of the police than of Merino.”

“Who?” asked Allen, and added slowly: “You said something about Merino before—who is he?”

“Blane’s employer. Pauline Dexter’s boy friend,” said Rollison. “ Haven ’ t you met him? He’s the man who telephoned you so often.”