John Creasey - Stars For The Toff

Rollison said quietly: “My word on it, I won’t leave here until I’ve heard from you. Will you do something for me at the Yard?”

“ For you?” Clay was taken aback.

“I need to know all I can about Mrs Abbott, her late husband, their family, business and background. Now she’s been murdered you’ll have to check these points, and I think they might help me to clear Madam Melinska. Normally, Mr Grice would let me know anything which had no direct bearing on the case. Will you do so?”

Clay still looked startled. “I need to get permission.”

“I’ll be grateful if you will,” Rollison said.

Clay nodded, and turned away. Two minutes later he and his men had left the flat, Jolly appearing as if by magic as soon as the front door had closed on them.

“Is the man quite mad?” he demanded.

“Just over-zealous and convinced I’ve been treated too leniently for too long,” Rollison said. “They’ll hold off unless they get something much more specific. What’s your man got to say for himself?”

Jolly answered: “Not a word, sir.”

“Let me have a good look at him,” Rollison said, and added: “that valet idea was very clever.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Jolly, almost smugly. “It seemed one way to prevent the police from suspecting that we were keeping him prisoner. I’ll go and get him, sir—I locked him in the spare-room bathroom.”

The spare-room bathroom had a ventilator but no window.

Rollison moved to the living-room window and looked down, seeing Clay striding to his car, glancing neither right nor left. The crowds were beginning to disperse but there was still a large number of people in the street, and it passed through Rollison’s mind that they could quite easily have mobbed Clay had they known about the warrant.

Suddenly he heard Jolly call:

“Will you come here, sir?”

There was a note of alarm in his voice, and Rollison moved swiftly. Jolly appeared at the spare-room door.

“He’s unconscious, sir.”

“What?”

“It’s almost as if he—was asphyxiated, sir.”

Rollison said: “He can’t have been.” He thrust his way across the bedroom and into the bathroom, sniffing: the air was clear, there was no lack of oxygen. The stranger was sitting on the floor, head lolling on his chest, arms draped by his side. Rollison felt his pulse; it was steady enough, but faint. He hoisted him up and carried him into the spare room, laying him on the bed. Jolly had already loosened his collar and tie, and now Rollison gently pushed up one of his eyelids.

Jolly moved forward to peer at the pupil. “A pinpoint , sir!”

“Morphia,” Rollison said with relief. “He came prepared, didn’t he? Rather than answer questions he put himself to sleep. But he’ll wake up, Jolly. Go through his clothes, find out what he has in his pockets, and let me know. I’ve got some telephoning to do.”

* * *

“Madam Melinska is perfectly all right, Richard,” said Lady Hurst. “And has every confidence in you. I hope it isn’t misplaced.”

“So do I,” said Rollison earnestly. “Has Mona said anything?”

“I am afraid she is rather a sullen child. So many pretty ones are.”

“Win her round,” urged Rollison. “Turn on your charm, Aunt Gloria, I’ve never needed it more. Find out all you can about her aunt and uncle, friends, family and relations. And please, soon ,” he pleaded.

“I will certainly try, if you think it will be of any use.”

“It will—and I ’ ve every confidence in you, ” Rollison said, warmly. “ Now , Aunt—”

He was smiling when he rang off.

Jolly appeared as he replaced the receiver.

“He has removed every identifying mark from his clothes, sir, and there is none in his pockets—no clue at all to his identity, unless this is a clue, sir.”

Jolly held out his hand, palm uppermost. On it was a small coin, so small that Rollison nearly dropped it when he picked it up. Then he said in surprise:

“It’s one of our old threepenny bits—no, not ours, South African—a ticky, didn’t they call them? South African, Jolly.”

“And South Africa has a common border with Rhodesia, sir,” Jolly observed.

“Yes indeed. Put it back where you found it—he needn’t know we know about it. And now, how about a quick cup of coffee—I may be too busy for dinner.”

It was nearly an hour later that Chief Inspector Clay telephoned.

“In view of new information which has become available, Mr Rollison, we are not proceeding with the charge,” he announced.

“Thanks,” said Rollison, “very understanding of you.”

“On the other matter, inquiries are in hand and any information which is not confidential will be passed on.”

“Thanks again,” Rollison said more warmly. “Is anything known?”

“Harold Abbott committed suicide, sir.”

“Any close relatives?”

“The Abbotts were a childless couple,” said Clay. “As far as we can ascertain the only surviving relative seems to be a niece, Miss Mona Lister.”

“What did Abbott do for a living?”

“He appears to have been of independent means,” answered Clay. “If I have further information I will telephone you in the morning.”

“You’re very good,” Rollison said gratefully.

He rang off, went into the spare room to examine the stranger, whose condition was unchanged, and called Jolly. “If this fellow doesn’t come round in an hour, send for Dr Webber. I think he’s all right, but we’d better make sure. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

“Mr Rollison, sir—”

“Yes, I will be careful. Especially as I’m going to use your car.”

“This is a very peculiar case, sir.”

“It is indeed.”

“You can trust no one at all.”

“No one at all,” echoed Rollison. “You may be right. If you really get worried, call Miss Cordman’s flat. If things work out as I think they will, I shall almost certainly trust her.”

“Not too far, sir, please ,” Jolly begged.

Rollison went out by the back door and the fire escape, to evade those people still gathered in Gresham Terrace. Jolly’s Morris, black, shiny and immaculate, was housed in a nearby garage; one of the policemen had put the Bentley in alongside it. Slipping quickly into the driving seat, Rollison swung the Morris in the direction of Charing Cross. Pulling up outside the station, he strode inside and took the brief-case out of the locker. He then went back to the car, drove to the Embankment, pulled up once again, and at long last opened the case.

Inside, was a thick file of papers.

On the outside, it was marked: Madam Melinska. Dossier and Proof.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“ Dossier And Proof ”

Rollison read until the light began to fade and he could read no more. Twelve men and women were listed in the dossier; each had been a client of Madam Melinska, each had been persuaded to give her a substantial sum for investment on their behalf. In every instance this money had disappeared.

No cases had been brought, some of the victims not wishing it to be known they had consulted a fortune-teller, others not wishing it to be known that they had lost money, or been made fools of.

Rollison sat back and reflected. It was chilly; once or twice he shivered.

After a few moments he left the car, carrying the brief-case with him, and walked to a telephone kiosk on the other side of the Embankment. The white hulls of old sailing ships which had carried countless heroes on countless adventures, gleamed in the dusk. Opposite, silent, ghost-like, was the Temple. Across the river the Festival Hall was bright with welcome lights, and the new Shell House was like a diamond corsage draped on the sky.

He dialled Olivia Cordman’s number. Brr-brrr; brrr-brrr: the ringing went on and on for what seemed a very long time. A shadowy figure approached, looking sinister, misshapen, in the half-light; a man waited close by, jingling coins. Brrr-brrr; brrr-brrr; brrr-brrr—Better give up, thought Rollison. Pity.

“Who the devil’s that? ” demanded Olivia in obvious exasperation. “I can’t even take a bath without—”

“—a hungry man asking to be fed.”

There was a pause. Then: “Who is that?”

“My aunt calls me Richard.”

“Who—oh, Rolly : Pleasure took the place of exasperation. “Are you serious? Are you hungry?”

“Famished. I thought—” added Rollison diffidently— “that you might like to cook me supper.”

“I’d love to, but it will have to be bacon and eggs. That’s all I’ve got.”

“Just the supper we can talk over,” said Rollison approvingly.

Olivia laughed. “Was there ever a time when you didn’t want information? But honestly, I’ll love to see you. When will you be here?”

“Is twenty minutes all right?”

“Make it half an hour,” pleaded Olivia.

“Half an hour it will be.”

“That’s lovely!” She rang off, giving Rollison the impression of simple delight; and he remembered Jolly’s warning. Smiling, he went out of the kiosk and into the road—and a car, parked without lights, started up with a venomous roar. Suddenly the headlights were switched full on, blinding him. For a split second he could not decide whether to leap forward or back, the glare was mesmerising, terror pounded in his heart. Then he flung himself forward. The brief-case went flying, the roar of the engine was deafening, and Rollison felt a sensation almost of numbness as he fell full length on the hard concrete. As he fell, the powerful lights and a dark shape passed barely an inch behind him, and the roaring died away.

Another car drew up, brakes squealing, and two men leaped out of it. Rollison grunted and groaned as he staggered to his feet. The two men helped to steady him.

“Are you all right?”

“My God, that was a miracle!”

“The crazy fool!”

“Must be drunk.”

“How many were in it?” Rollison asked.

“Just the driver.”

“ Must be drunk.”

“ Are you all right?” the first man repeated.

“Er—yes. Bloodied but in one piece,” Rollison said. “Have you seen my brief-ca—ah!” A woman held it out to him. “Thank you very much. I—ah—must look where I’m going. Sorry to cause such a sensation.”

“If you’re all right—”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Have you a car?”

“Are you all right to drive?”

“Are you sure? I’ll gladly take you—”

“Or you could get a taxi.”

As they talked, still excited and greatly incensed, they moved along the road until they reached the Morris. Bending his back to get inside was excruciatingly painful, and once in, Rollison sat back, sweating. The barrage of questions started again. They were embarrassingly helpful.

Help from many unexpected sources.

“I’m sure I can manage,” Rollison said.

“You ought to report it, you know.”

“Oh, no harm’s done.”

“He must have been mad.”

Or a murderer, thought Rollison.

“Well if you’re quite sure . . .”

They stood and watched as he drove off, handling the controls stiffly at first but gradually improving. He went cautiously to Cheyne Walk, where every parking space seemed full, then found a spot outside Olivia Cordman’s front door. Normally he would have slipped in without trouble. Now, turning to look round was like knifing himself in the ribs; it was even worse getting out. He looked about and saw an old-fashioned lamp-post with a bar just beneath the lamp, and eyed it speculatively; swinging was supposed to be good for a strained back. He stretched up gingerly, managed to get a hold, and hoisted himself high.