John Creasey - The Toff In Town

Everyone had been downstairs to the underground café and had tea; that interlude had helped them to get together. They now seemed like old friends. Rollison marvelled at the way in which he had come to know not only what the people looked like, but so much of their past lives. For each had rehearsed several times, until Rollison knew their life-stories almost off by heart. The busker and the artist were chatting freely in one corner, the Italians were congratulating themselves in another, and now and again the pianist strummed the keys. Hedley and the official staff were having a hurried consultation and looking at the tenor. The Danes, and several of the visitors, were chatting together. The Lundys and two other people in evening-dress were sitting in a row, swapping stories. Allen, who had rehearsed twice and seemed word and voice perfect, had lost something of his tension. Rollison, who had tucked the note back into his pocket, had watched every man and woman, every official who had entered the studio, but saw no one who appeared to take the slightest interest in Allen. Lundy certainly didn’t

Yet the note had been clear-cut:

“Don’t forget you’re being watched in the studio. If you get a word wrong, you won’t leave the room alive.” Little wonder that Allen was nervous!

He wasn’t sure whether Allen knew who was here, working for Pauline, but every time the door opened Allen glanced towards it, drawing in his breath.

McMahon breezed in, caught Hedley’s eye, grinned and nodded, saw Rollison and gave an almost imperceptible wink, and made straight for the Lundys. They obviously knew him. Someone asked what he was doing there and he turned the question aside easily.

Allen watched the newspaper man closely, suspiciously, having no idea who he was.

Rollison, now sitting next to him, asked quietly:

“Recognise anyone yet?”

“No.”

“Still determined to go on with it?”

“Of course I am. I can’t hold out any longer at this pressure. Don’t be a fool.”

Rollison said: “All right. Let me have another look at your script, will you?”

Allen hesitated, then held it out, Rollison read it as Hedley came up to Allen with the tired-looking man who had a friendly twinkle in his eyes and who had not raised his voice or shown any sign of impatience during the early, trying period of the rehearsals. He was the producer.

“All ready for your piece, Mr. Allen?” he asked “You’ve been word-perfect in rehearsals, and absolutely right with volume. You’ve a slight tendency to lower your voice at the end of a paragraph, and you might try to keep it up.”

“All right,” said Allen.

“I did wonder whether you’d care to start, instead of wind up,” said the producer.

“It would be over then—you’re a bit nervous, aren’t you?”

“I’d rather be the last performance,” said Allen with a sickly grin. “I—er—I telephoned my wife and told her that I wasn’t on until the end, she might miss part of it if I start too early. If you don’t mind——”

“No, no, that’s quite all right. It’s just as you prefer.” The produced glanced at the clock. “Ten minutes to go—Signer Toni, perhaps you will have one more rehearsal——”

“Si, si, signore.” Toni jumped towards the mike, gripped it, measured it, stared it in the eye and then took up his stance. The little comedy was played through again and went without a flaw, the purity of his voice held every one enthralled. McMahon looked at the Italian thoughtfully; in fact, everyone watched him, and so no one noticed the door open and Jolly put his head inside the room.

Rollison caught sight of him when he had been there for a couple of minutes, and immediately stood up and tip-toed across to him. Hedley turned and put his hand to his mouth for silence—Hedley and the producer were noticeably more touchy now that they were approaching the big moment

Rollison whispered: “What is it, Jolly?”

“I’m sorry to worry you now, sir, but I thought I ought to come,” said Jolly. “Mr. Higginbottom just telephoned.”

“Oh,” said Rollison heavily.

“He said that we were not to be intimidated because he was in difficulties,” went on Jolly. “But I gather from what he said, that he has been told to tell us to make sure the Mr. Allen broadcasts the new version. In fact, the woman came on the line and repeated her threat that we would not see Mr. Higgin-bottom again unless the broadcast went through perfectly. What are we to do, sir?”

Rollison said: “We must find out who’s watching Allen. There’s no other way.”

“I suppose not, sir,” said Jolly. “How—how do you propose to interfere with the broadcast, and make Mr. Allen say the wrong words?”

Jolly spoke carefully, as if he had difficulty in getting his words out. And between the lines, Rollison read his plea: “Can’t we let it go through? Can’t we give Snub this chance?”

The producer came up and spoke sharply.

“Come in if you’re coming, please—and no talking when the red light’s showing, we’ll be on the air then.”

“Sorry,” murmured Rollison. “Far corner, Jolly,” They tiptoed across the studio.

Allen was on an end seat of the front row. He glanced at Jolly without any great show of interest, and kept looking hard at McMahon. There was much hustle and bustle in the studio. The artist was at one table, the young Danes already sitting at the other one. The interviewer would move from the first to the second table to carry out successive interviews, being given time to move by an announcer, who would speak for a few seconds between each “act”. Only a few minutes remained. There was a sudden hush; everyone stared at the green light which glowed near the clock, waiting for it to turn red. A tall, good-looking young man arrived, one obviously known to the staff.

He moved to the upright microphone, buttoned his jacket, coughed and, without a glance at the script in his hand, began to speak.

He had been so casual that the others hardly noticed that the red light had replaced the green. In a voice so familiar that it seemed as if it came from a friend, he spoke briskly:

“ This is the B.B.C. Home Service. ”

Nothing happened when he stopped. Rollison looked about him in surprise, Jolly peered at the announcer, everyone waited and seemed to think some catastrophe had befallen the programme—and then Rollison saw that the announcer was looking through the glass partition and realised that the programme’s signature tune, the Knightsbridge March, was being played on a gramophone in the control room. The tall young man turned away and began to speak again.

“ Once again we stop the mighty roar of London ’ s traffic and from the great crowds we bring you some of the interesting people who are In Town To-night! ”

He stepped away from the microphone, and there was another silence while the London Again Suite, Oxford Street, was played over the air but did not sound in the studio. In the hush, it was impossible for Rollison and Jolly to whisper to each other. Then the wandering artist moved his script, coughed nervously, and Wentworth began to speak.

The programme was really on; in half an hour Allen would finish, that red light would fade, the green replace it. Green for safety . . .

Jolly put his mouth close to Rollison’s ear.

“You were going to tell me how you expect to influence what Allen has to say,” said Jolly. When Rollison simply looked at the back of Allen’s head, Jolly went on: “Are you sure it will be the right thing to do, sir? Is there any way of making sure that it will help the situation?”

Rollison said: “Jolly, supposing we do what we’re told—what will happen? Can these people afford to release Snub? He may have been on the spot when Merino-was killed—we still don’t know who murdered Merino, you know. It’s even possible that Pauline will manage to fake evidence which can’t be denied that Snub killed him. She’s clever and cunning, and I wouldn’t like to say that we can outwit her simply by giving way now and hoping to fight another day. Don’t forget that she’s put everything in getting that message put across to-night, and if she succeeds in that, then she’s won. If we’re to have a chance, the message mustn’t go out, and we have to find who ever is working for her here.”

Hedley glanced at him, obviously disapproving. The Danes had finished, the busker was about to perform. In the control room several people were standing against the wall. No one appeared to be taking any notice of Allen, but the minutes were flying by, and his turn would soon come. Next were the Lundys, then Toni—seven or eight minutes at the most remained.

“Well?” asked Rollison.

“You’re quite right, sir,” said Jolly, “but if Allen is determined to do what the woman has told him, how can you prevent him?”

Rollison said: “He’s sitting there with his script rolled up, he won’t open it again until he goes to the mike. Hemmingway’s advised him not to read it too often. He’ll be called to the table so that he’s waiting there while Toni’s giving voice. He might look through the script then and see it, but there’s a good chance that he’ll look on the first page and not turn over a leaf. Until he turns over, he won’t see what I’ve done.”

“What have you done?” asked Jolly in an agonised whisper.

Rollison said: “I’ve slipped back the original page of script —given him another copy. When he starts to read the second page, he’ll be reading that original, and he’ll be well on the way before he realises that it’s not the revised version. He’ll either stop altogether, or pause and then go on reading what’s in front of him. It’s going to be a tense minute, Jolly.”

“Tense !” echoed Jolly.

Hedley positively glowered at them.

Rollison stood up, waited until Toni had started to sing, then tip-toed towards Allen. He ignored the frown of many who glanced at him. And Toni’s singing reached a pitch of perfection which it was almost sacrilegious to interrupt. Rollison sat down on a chair by the wall, so that he could see everyone, including Allen.

Then he saw the door open.

He caught his breath. It didn’t open wide at first, no one else noticed it, the Italian’s voice drugged all of them—but Rollison watched the door, fascinated. Who would dare to come in now?

The door opened a little wider.

Rollison saw a hand gripping it—a small, gloved hand. Then a neatly shod foot and a well-turned ankle appeared; whoever it was, was dressed in black, with sheer silk stockings; he imagined Pauline’s golden curls.

The newcomer stepped in.

It was Barbara Allen I

She looked swiftly round the studio . . .

Hedley had seen her, and raised his hand in urgent warning. Allen, sitting at the microphone, looked up and stiffened. Rollison saw his scowl— he looked then as if he hated his wife. No one else appeared to notice that anything was unusual, and the Italian’s song came towards its end, a gentle, pleading end.

He finished . . .

“ And also in the studio, ” began Wentworth, smiling at Allen, “ is a man who has one of the most remarkable stories ever told, to tell us. He is Mr. Robert Allen, until lately Wing Commander Allen of the R.A.F., who was lost in Burma for several years—exactly how long, Mr. Allen? ”

Allen opened his mouth but didn’t speak. It was only a momentary silence, no longer than that which had followed the introductions of the other broadcasters, but to Rollison it seemed an age. Now, too, he had to try to watch Allen and the others in the studio—and Barbara. She took in the situ-ation at a glance, raised her hand to catch Rollison’s eye and began to creep round the walls of the room. Hedley went swiftly towards her, to try to stop her, but she ignored him.