John Creasey - The Toff In Town

“I’m sorry you were roughly handled, sir,” said Jolly.

“He could have been much rougher,” Rollison confided. “He was waiting on the landing and had one fixed idea. To put the fear of death into me.”

Then he could not have known you very well,” observed Jolly.

Rollison chuckled.

“Nicely said I On the other hand, he knew me and he knew that I’d been to see the Aliens. The position is this: Mrs. Allen is distressed because her husband is in a spot, and he . . .”

There were few gaps left in the story five minutes later, and Jolly, whose ability to grasp quickly the essentials of such a recital was unrivalled, forbore to ask questions, although he looked very thoughtful. He was lukewarm about Ebbutt’s men but he accepted them philosophically.

Ten minutes after the door had slammed on Rollison, they went to their rooms. Almost immediately afterwards, Rollison came out of his and went to the front door.

He opened the door, as Jolly called:

“Have I forgotten anything, sir?”

“No, I had. A pity the key was in the lock.”

“ Was, sir?”

“Was.”

“Then I will arrange for a new lock to be put on to-morrow morning,” said Jolly. “I think that would be wisest, don’t you?”

Rollison considered.

“Yes,” he agreed, “and then again, no. If they’ve a key and want to get in, why not let them? We could prepare a petting party for prying prodnoses.”

“With respect,” said Jolly, “I think you have taken too many risks already. The risk with Mrs. Allen and the man Blane was, perhaps, justified, although you would have felt very badly, very badly indeed, sir, had Blane been there with the express purpose of murdering Mrs. Allen.”

“I would, but it wasn’t likely,” Rollison said.

“It was possible,” said Jolly firmly. “And I think you were ill-advised to allow this man to hold you up, sir, since you had warning of his presence, he might also have been here with homicidal intent——”

“Pessimistic to-night, aren’t you?” asked Rollison.

“I see no reason why you should risk being murdered, sir. There are risks and risk s ——”

“You have a Johnsonian profundity at times,” said Rollison solemnly. Yes, Jolly, I will have a care.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Jolly. “Good-night again.”

“Good-night,” said Rollison gravely.

Rollison closed his door behind him, smoothed down his hair, exuded a long breath, and sat down on the foot of the bed to take off his shoes. He undressed slowly, thinking of diamonds—chloroform—a terrified man—a distressed wife—a knife—fear of the police—and violent gentlemen who acted with quite remarkable speed. This, then, was no ordinary affair of crime. Of course not. Allen’s fear and consequent wildness; his wife’s misery; these things were damnable.

He was tired; he must get to sleep, and in the morning bring a clear mind to bear upon events. He was already drowsy, and all was well for to-night To-morrow

He slept

He stirred, because of a sound in the flat. He tried to ignore it, but the sound was too insistent A bell was ringing.

He woke up reluctantly.

The bell kept ringing.

Bill Ebbutt must have felt something like this when he had been disturbed. Who on earth was calling at this time of the night? The Aliens? He flung back the bed-clothes, suddenly wide awake and alarmed. The main telephone was in the hall, and there was an extension to the study, but not to any of the bedrooms. He switched on the bedside light and hurried across the room—and as he opened the door, Jolly entered the hall, blinking.

“Yes, sir,” said Jolly.

Rollison lifted the receiver, now convinced that it was the Aliens. He said: “Rollison speaking,” and heard a sound—as if Button A were being pressed. He was prepared to hear Barbara’s voice, not the pleasant, mellow voice of a man.

“Is that Mr. Richard Rollison?”

“Yes, speaking.”

“I’m so sorry to disturb you at this hour,” said the caller, “but I think it better that you should be disturbed like this than — be hurt, don’t you?”

Rollison said slowly: “I don’t quite understand.”

“It’s a shame when you’re not yet fully awake,” said the other, with a laugh in his voice. “You remember the man who called to see you about an hour ago?”

Rollison said: “Vaguely.”

“Oh, it will soon be clearer,” the other assured him. “I just want you to know that he was serious. I should hate to have any misunderstanding.”

“Oh, there’s no fear of that,” said Rollison. “Which of your boy friends learned my name?”

“I have an envelope addressed to you in my hand this very moment,” said the caller. “It was in the dashboard pocket of your car. And my messenger remembers—vaguely—what a pity people are vague!—that you have something of a reputation for helping lame dogs over stiles. Allen isn’t a lame dog.”

“He’s a lame man.”

The other laughed.

“Yes, isn’t he? He broke his leg doing something he shouldn’t have done, it isn’t true that he broke it when his plane crashed. But don’t take me too literally and don’t be persuaded by an attractive young woman that you ought to become a modern Don Quixote. This is an age of selfishness.”

“You’re quite a philosopher,” remarked Rollison.

“I am many things,” said the caller, “and particularly a man of my word. Don’t come into this affair, Mr. Rollison. Be advised. Keep out——”

The sound of the receiver being hung up crackled in Rollison’s ear. He turned and contemplated his man, no longer the slightest bit drowsy. The caller’s mellow voice had held a quality of menace, not wholly hidden by the note of laughter. According to Barbara, Allen was terrified by a man with such a voice and a man who knew exactly what he aimed to do, and was extremely self-confident

A sound disturbed Rollison again, the ringing of a bell, at first far away and then much nearer, until it seemed to be almost in his ear. The fumes of sleep receded slightly. Confound it, this was too bad; it was still pitch-dark. Jolly could—no, it wasn’t fair on Jolly. He got out of bed. The bell kept ringing. Perhaps the Aliens—but he didn’t worry about the Aliens, Bill’s men were there. Good old Sam and Bert.

He reached the telephone.

Jolly spoke from his door, a bleary-eyed figure.

“Can I help, sir?” he asked glumly.

“Sorry about this,” said Rollison, stifling a yawn. “Hallo, Rollison speaking,” he said into the telephone.

“Oh, Mr. Rollison!” It was a girl—fresh, eager, almost excited. “That is the Mr. Rollison, isn’t it?”

“I hope it’s the Rollison you want,” said Rollison, signalling wildly; Jolly turned into the study, to listen-in on the call. “Who is that?”

“My name doesn’t matter, Mr. Rollison,” said the girl, “but a friend of mine spoke to you a little while ago, didn’t he? He just asked me to ring up—to tell you not to forget.”

“Oh,” said Rollison heavily. “Just that?”

“Yes, you won’t forget, will you?” asked the girl brightly.

“I shall not forget——”

“I’m so glad,” said the girl, “and I know he’ll be delighted. Good-night——”

When next Rollison woke, it was daylight. By his side was morning tea, the newspapers and the post. Among the post was a card from Snub Higginbottom, depicting the belles of Blackpool. This focused Rollison’s thoughts on the Aliens, and he dwelt on the young couple as he bathed, shaved and breakfasted; later when he went into the study to answer urgent correspondence, Jolly followed.

Jolly by day was a funereal figure, partly because of the clothes of convention, partly because his habitual expression was one of unrelieved gloom. This morning, he looked tired; and, consequently, more glum than ever.

“Dark depressed thoughts, Jolly?” asked Rollison. “Before we have ‘em, send a telegram to Snub, will you, and ask him to catch the first train back.”

“The telegram has already been sent, sir,” said Jolly. “Here is an affair of violence, which might be construed into attempted murder—not an isolated case, but a series of calculated assaults and a man, or men, who appear to work with complete disregard for the law. Do you agree with that assessment of the situation, sir?”

“Yes,” said Rollison, “but need you be so aggressive about it?”

“I apologise if I appear to be over-emphatic, sir, but the picture you have drawn of Mr. Allen does not show him in a particularly pleasing light. He is not a nice young man.”

“He was,” said Rollison.

“How can you tell that?” challenged Jolly.

“Because Barbara married him,” said Rollison.

“That may be so, sir,” said Jolly, “but I have known very nice young women marry— bounders, sir. We have no real infor-mation about Mr. Allen, and yet we are considering humouring him by withholding information about these crimes from the police. That is a serious offence, sir.”

“Very,” agreed Rollison.

“And unwise, indiscreet, capable of being misunderstood, and possibly leading to considerable disunity between you, and die police,” said Jolly. “My opinion, sir, is that neither Mr. Allen nor Mrs. Allen is worth taking such risks for.”

“Oh,” murmured Rollison blankly.

“Further, sir,” continued Jolly remorselessly, “we have obtained assistance from Mr. Ebbutt and some of his friends. You know that Mr. Ebbutt’s friends are not always reliable, in so far as they allow their natural exuberance and aggressiveness to override considerations of diplomacy, and they are not always persona grata with the police. It is quite possible that the police will discover that they are taking sides in an affair of violence at your request. If that were to happen, possibly something more grave would follow.”

“Jolly,” said Rollison, “I quite agree.”

Then may I hope you—we will advise the police immediately?” asked Jolly.

“No,” said Rollison.

“I hope we won’t regret it, sir.”

“But we will protect our flanks,” said Rollison, obligingly. “Have you seen the oddments I brought back from the Aliens last night?”

“Yes, sir, I have seen them—as well as the knife which was wrapped in a table-napkin. I have not touched the handle.”

“Good. You can spend an interesting morning pretending to be a detective,” said Rollison. Test that handle for prints, photograph any prints you find, run through the contents of the pockets, find out if there’s anything to show us for whom Blane works. Summarise the details on a single sheet of paper, typewritten for preference, and have them ready by midday.”

“Very good, sir,” said Jolly. “You will be going out this morning?”

“Yes. I’m going to find out all that I can about young Allen —what he was before the war, what really happened to him in Burma, whether he’s interested in precious stones, whether events have made him what he is to-day. All these and other things, Jolly, including—why was he asked to broadcast in In Town To-night ?”

“Many people who appear fleetingly in the public eye broadcast in that programme, sir,” remarked Jolly.

“Oh, yes. But Allen’s been home for several weeks. The B.B.C., whatever may be its shortcomings, is never weeks behind with the news. Allen was news a little while ago—I dimly remember reading something about him in the Morning Cry— but he isn’t news now. Yet suddenly the B.B.C. wakes up to the fact that he has a story which will probably interest the three or four million listeners who switch on at 6.15 every Saturday night.”