John Creasey - Stars For The Toff

“ Very well, sir,” said Jolly, his voice dull with disapproval. He made his way towards the woman, who was leaning against the railing outside the house, hair awry, an ugly weal on her cheek.

Meanwhile the young man had taken Rollison’s elbow and was steering him through the front door of Number 22. Rollison touched the handrail.

“I can manage now, thanks,” he said. “Will you lead the way?”

The young man nodded and went ahead, his footsteps sounding clearly on the haircord stair-carpet. Rollison’s eyes, still stinging, were nevertheless much better than they had been, and by the time they reached his flat he could even make out the number on the door. Groping in his pocket, he took out a key and held it toward the stranger.

“Will you?”

“My pleasure,” the young man said, taking the key.

Once inside the flat, Rollison could find his way blindfolded, and he went straight to the bathroom, the young man by his side. He groped for taps; they were turned on for him, the water mixed to tepid warmth. He bathed his face gently, and when he had finished, the young man handed him a towel. Rollison dabbed himself dry, and found he could see quite well; most of the pain had gone.

“Thanks,” he said gratefully.

“At your service,” the young man said. “Feeling more yourself?”

“Much more. Let’s go into the living-room.”

Rollison led the way, noting how the other’s gaze moved swiftly to the Trophy Wall and was held in fascination. He waved his guest to a chair and proffered cigarettes from a carved Malaysian box. The young man selected one with care.

“My name,” he said, “is Lucifer Stride.”

“Ah,” said Rollison. “Lucifer Stride. Where you in Court this morning?”

“I was. Tell me, Mr Rollison—” the young man leaned forward in his chair— “ do you think you can help Madam Melinska and Miss Lister?”

Rollison, vision now nearly normal, was watching him intently. His visitor’s eyes were sharper than he had thought, rather deep-set and close together. His age was around the middle twenties. By the intensity of his expression, Rollison could see that the asking of this question was the entire purpose of his visit.

“I’ll certainly do my best,” he answered lightly. “Though I haven’t had a chance yet to study the case.”

“But Madam Melinska isn ’ t guilty, sir, I know she isn’t. Nor Miss Lister,” the young man added hastily.

“ How do you know?” Rollison asked sharply.

The close-set eyes dropped to the floor, evading Rollison’s penetrating gaze. “I— er—I—”

The front door bell cut sharply across the stranger’s fumbling attempts at explanation.

CHAPTER FOUR

Flat Full

Rollison wondered what was going through the young man’s mind. Who was he, he wondered, and what was his real interest in the case. Oh well, he would have to find out later.

“Come and see this,” he invited.

Followed by the stranger, he went into the hall, and standing a few feet from the door, looked upwards. Over the lintel was a small periscope-type mirror, and this now showed a miniature reflection of Jolly, the woman who had thrown the ammonia, and a policeman.

“Old-fashioned, but effective,” remarked Lucifer Stride. This few minutes respite had given him a chance to recover his sangfroid.

“An anachronism,” thought Rollison, as he opened the door.

Jolly, standing nearest to him, looked searchingly into his face, was obviously reassured, and immediately relaxed.

“Mrs Abbott, sir,” he said.

The woman looked dazed, and now the weal on her cheek was much redder and more noticeable. The policeman was holding her arm.

“Come in, Mrs Abbott,” Rollison said, and for once wished there was another woman in the flat. He led the way to the living-room. Jolly moved ahead and pushed a pouffe into position in front of an armchair. Mrs Abbott was helped into the chair, only Lucifer standing aside with real or affected indifference. Jolly disappeared.

The policeman turned to her reassuringly. “Now don’t you worry, you’ll be all right now you’re with Mr Rollison.” Anxiously he added to Rollison: “You don’t intend to make a charge, do you, sir?”

“No,” Rollison answered.

“Very generous of you, sir. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a lot to do downstairs.”

“What’s happening in the street?” asked Rollison.

“Everything’s quieter, but we had to arrest three of the young women, sir.”

“I see,” said Rollison, glumly. “Was anyone else hurt?”

“No, sir.”

“But don’t be surprised if some are,” interpolated Lucifer.

The policeman looked at him, appeared ready to ask questions, thought better of it and went towards the door. Rollison saw him out, returning to find Jolly sponging Mrs Abbott’s forehead, with Lucifer looking on sardonically. There was now time to study the woman. She was in her middle fifties, Rollison judged—her grey hair seemed to be naturally curly, and in a rather heavy, almost masculine way, she was good-looking. Her eyes were closed, as if she felt relaxed and soothed by Jolly’s ministrations.

Jolly drew back.

“A cup of coffee, madam?” he suggested, and without waiting for a reply he disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

Rollison and Lucifer Stride stood looking at Mrs Abbott, who kept her eyes closed. After a few moments Stride moved to study the Trophy Wall. Suddenly Mrs Abbott opened her eyes and looked straight at Rollison. Not long before she had cried in rage: They killed my husband. And I ’ d like to kill you.”

Rollison smiled at her.

“Hallo,” he said. “Feeling better?”

She didn’t answer.

“You look better,” Rollison said. “Why did you throw that ammonia at me?”

Still she didn’t answer.

“Better still,” said Rollison, “who paid you to?”

In a flash, she cried: “No one paid me!”

Lucifer stood with his head tilted back, as if he were trying to see the bullet holes in the crown of the old top hat. The light from the window glinted on his hair, making it look like spun gold. Rollison moved away from the woman, who was staring at him as if in horror and alarm. Jolly came in, with a tray. Rollison did not repeat his questions but turned away.

“I did it because of my husband,” Mrs Abbott cried.

“I’m sorry about your husband,” Rollison said gently. “What happened?”

“That devil killed him.”

Jolly was pouring out coffee.

“Which devil?” inquired Rollison.

“Madam Melinska!”

“When?”

“It was last year, she—”

“But Madam Melinska only arrived in England a few months ago.”

“My husband met her in Rhodesia,” said Mrs Abbott. “She got her talons into him just like she got them into those other poor fools, and persuaded him to give her money. She was going to invest it for him, if you please! I told him not to trust her, but he would do it and he lost every penny.” Her face was twisted, her lips working. “And then he killed himself.” She stretched trembling fingers for the cup Jolly held towards her. “And all because of that woman, that—that bitch!”

“Or witch?”

Mrs Abbott caught her breath.

“What do you mean— witch? ”

“Some people call seers witches.”

“ She ’ s no seer, she just pretends she can look into the future. She doesn’t care what lies she tells anyone provided she can get her hands on their money. She—”

The telephone bell rang, and she broke off. Rollison moved towards it and lifted the receiver, thinking more about what Mrs Abbott had been saying than about the call. Was she speaking the truth, and was Madam Melinska responsible for her husband’s death? Or was she lying?

“This is Rollison,” he said into the telephone.

“Hallo again, Richard,” said Lady Hurst. “I will say that you excelled yourself this morning.”

“I’m delighted you approve,” said Rollison mildly.

“I approve very much. There is another thing I would like you to do for me, Richard.”

“What is it?”

“Bring those two unfortunate women here.”

“To the Marigold Club?” Rollison asked, not really surprised.

“Yes. They will be much safer and will certainly be subjected to much less annoyance and publicity,” said his aunt. “I have two adjoining rooms ready for them on the second floor. When do you think they can be here?”

“I really don’t know, Aunt,” Rollison answered. “The Features Editor of The Day took pity on them, and I imagine is now offering them a fortune for their story.”

“Far more than it’s worth, I’ve no doubt,” Lady Hurst prophesied. “But they’ll need all the money they can get. Find them, Richard. I would like them both here as soon as possible.”

“Yes, Aunt,” said Rollison meekly, hearing the telephone click as she rang off.

He put the receiver down slowly, aware of Lucifer Stride watching him, of Jolly going back to the kitchen, of Mrs Abbott having a second cup of coffee. His aunt’s voice seemed to echo in his ears; she was right, too. The two women would need all the money they could get. And this pointed to a strange, almost bewildering fact. Madam Melinska and Mona Lister had lured thousands to the Court; they were front page news. These were the days in which a well-known astrologer could make a very good income indeed from a column in almost any newspaper or magazine.

Why , then, were these two so poor?

He moved across to Mrs Abbott, who now gave the impression that she was on the defensive; Rollison could not make up his mind whether to bully or to humour her and decided on humouring, at least for the time being.

“Did your husband see Madam Melinska very often?”

“Often enough. ”

“Was she a popular seer?”

“Too popular, if you ask me.”

“Did she earn much money?”

“ Earn? She’s never earned a penny. But she’s swindled thousands out of the poor devils she’s taken in. Don’t believe this story about her being poor—she’s got a fortune salted away somewhere. You be careful of that woman, Mr Rollison—she’s a snare and a delusion. Any man who falls under her spell will find himself penniless when he wakes up to what she really is.”

There was venom but also an apparent ring of truth in the words. Rollison moved back— and as he did so, the front door bell rang once again. This time, Lucifer Stride moved towards it, but Rollison went ahead, while Jolly’s footsteps were audible as he approached from another passage. So, all three men stood together looking up at the periscope mirror.

There, on the doorstep, were three women.

One was Olivia Cordman of The Day one was Mona Lister; the third was Madam Melinska.

Lucifer made a faint whistling sound and looked at Rollison, eyebrows raised. Jolly pursed his lips. Before any of them moved the bell rang yet again. Olivia Cordman, small and red-haired and impatient, seldom waited long for anybody.

Rollison said: “I’m going back into the living-room. Make sure that Madam Melinska comes in ahead of the others.”

“Very good, sir,” said Jolly.

For a few seconds Lucifer Stride appeared to be undecided as to whether he should stay in the hall or follow Rollison. Then, as Rollison strode forward, he asked: