John Creasey - The Toff and the Fallen Angels

“Thank you, sir,” said Grice.

He had four men with him and they went from room to room, with Slatter accompanying one couple and a middle-aged grey-haired housekeeper the other. Grice went out to his car, had a message telephoned to Roll-son, and then rejoined his men. They had nearly finished, when he heard the housekeeper say to the two policemen with her :

“This is the last room—and there’s a girl sleeping in it. A maid. Don’t frighten her out of her wits.”

Grice reached them as she opened the door, and peered over their shoulders.

There, sleeping the sleep of the innocent, one bare arm over the bedspread, hair spread like leaves over the pillow, was Angela. She looked what she was : little more than a child. Grice eased himself inside the room and looked down at her closely. She was breathing evenly, her lips lightly closed. He gave a half-smile, of pleasure, and then withdrew.

Outside, he said : “Now I would like to see the attic and the loft, please.”

* * *

Just after half-past three, Rollison’s telephone rang again. It made Gwendoline start up from the chair in which she had been dozing, and as he lifted the receiver he heard the one on Jolly’s extension lifted, too.

“Ronson.”

“She’s all right, Roily,” Grice assured him. “She’s sleeping naturally, and I didn’t wake her. There’s no-one who shouldn’t be in the house, no sign of a man who fits the description you gave me, and no mud on any of the doorsteps. I’d leave Angela there. She’s safe enough for to-

night, anyhow, and I’ll have that house watched as well as Smith Hall. We can decide what to do about her to-morrow.”

“Good enough,” agreed Rollison. “The little devil!” But he laughed. “Thanks very much, Bill, and goodnight.”

As he rang off, he heard Jolly’s muted : “Thank God for that,” and he saw Gwendoline by his side, bright with excitement, pretty as the proverbial picture. She clutched his arm and her grip was surprisingly strong.

“Now will you do a deal?”

“Yes,” answered Rollison. “I’ll do a deal and I’ll see you get some inside information, but before we come to terms I’d like to sleep on the situation and see how I feel in the morning.”

“You mean, you’re tired out,” said Gwendoline, giving way to a vast yawn. “So am I! What time tomorrow?”

“Will two o’clock in the afternoon suit you?”

“Are you going to sleep that long?”

“I shall ask Jolly to see that I’m up by nine o’clock, I’ve a lot to do before going to Smith Hall at noon to-morrow,” said Rollison.

“Do you know,” said Gwendoline Fell, “I think that given encouragement, you might be quite funny, after all.” She turned towards the door. “Thanks for the coffee, and the sandwiches were lovely.”

Rollison went with her down the stairs; she was un-believably light-footed and graceful; even when she threw a leg over her motor-scooter she showed grace. She placed her crash helmet firmly on her head and then shattered the street with the roar of the engine, raised a hand, and moved off at startling speed. Rollison watched her out of sight, then, went up to his flat, and along to Jolly’s room.

Jolly was in bed.

“Well, what do you make of that young lady?” asked Rollison. “Do you trust her?”

“I grew to dislike her less as time went on,” admitted Jolly grudgingly. “But I certainly wouldn’t trust her too far.”

“No, nor would I,” agreed Rollison. “Tomorrow, see what you can find out about her background and also about Smith Hall residents Anne Miller and Judy Lyons. Be discrete, and if necessary ask Mr. Grice for help. He’ll probably give it gladly.”

“He is obviously deeply worried,” said Jolly. “It’s very hard to believe that Professor Webberson is dead, sir, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Rollison heavily. “Hard to realise that two of the girls are probably dead, too, and Naomi Smith is on the killer’s list. At least he won’t use the same hammer again,” he added. “About nine on the morning. That will give us five hours’ sleep, with luck.”

“I’ll call you, sir.”

Rollison went to bed with so much on his mind that he half-expected to be a long time getting off, but in fact he was asleep as soon as he had adjusted the sheets and blankets. The reassurance about Angela, shadowed by the other murders, by the dangers, by the threats, had exhausted him.

Jolly brought him tea at five minutes past nine.

At ten o’clock he pulled up outside the modern severity of the new New Scotland Yard, was recognised and passed from constable to sergeant, sergeant to Chief Inspector and finally into Grice’s office. Grice was not there. Three newspapers were open on his desk, an indication of sudden departure.

“He’s with the Assistant Commissioner, sir,” said the Chief Inspector. “He isn’t likely to be long.”

“Thanks,” said Rollison—and the door opened and Grice came in. He did not look in the best of moods, and simply nodded before rounding the desk and shuffling the newspapers into position. “Good morning, Bill,” said Rollison. “I wanted to come and say ‘thanks’ in person.”

Grice grunted.

“The Assistant Commissioner doubts the need or the wisdom of my search of Slatter’s house,” he said. “Slatter’s already been talking to M.P.s and they have been talking to the Home Secretary. Did you have to choose as suspect a millionaire who owns more property in London than any other single person?”

“No,” said Rollison. “Angela chose him.”

“She has been seen in the house this morning,” Grice went on. “I want you to find out why she went there as soon as you can, and if it’s some damned flight of fancy, I want her out.”

“Yes, Superintendent,” said Rollison with tactful humility. “Any news?”

“The sledge hammer was the one used to kill Keith Webberson.” Grice touched a file on his desk. “It had been stolen from a building site nearby, a small block of flats is going up where there used to be a big house. No fingerprints, but there are burned initials on the shaft,” Grice added.

“What intitials?”

“T.S.—and don’t start jumping to any more conclusions.” Grice’s interview with the Assistant Commissioner for Crime must have been very unpleasant. “And don’t ask me whether I’m trying to find the owner, either.” He moved his right hand as one of three telephones on his desk began to ring. “Why should anyone try to murder Mrs. Smith, if we could answer that . . . Grice here.”

His expression changed as he listened, the sense of grievance died.

“Yes .. “ he said. “Are you quite sure? . . . Well, now we know where we are. Is there any way of finding out whether she was killed by the same sledge hammer? . . . Yes, compare the wounds with those on the back of Professor Webberson’s head . . . Yes, as far as I know I’ll be here all the morning.”

He put the receiver down, and leaned back in his chair. Rollison was almost sure what the main news was but he waited for Grice to deliberate, without trying to rush him.

“The body taken out of the Thames was Winifred de Vaux’s,” he said flatly. “The dentist has just given positive identification. There’s no news of the other missing girl. Webberson was murdered about eight days ago—four or five days before the de Vaux girl disappeared. And—” Grice pulled at his lower lip before going on: “And the neighbours across from Webberson’s flat have identified the girl in the photograph as Winifred de Vaux. The woman recognised another visitor to Webberson’s flat, too.”

Grice paused.

“The other missing girl,” said Rollison.

The other missing girl, Iris Jay,” confirmed Grice. “And Mrs. Smith was a regular visitor, too. So the two missing girls and the matron of Smith Hall were regular visitors to your friend’s flat. Rolly,” went on Grice in a brisker, demanding tone, Was Keith Webberson one for the women?”

Slowly, Rollison answered : “When he was younger, yes.”

“Do you have any reason to believe he grew out of it?”

“No,” admitted Rollison. “None at all. But he was one of the group who sponsored this hostel. He—” he broke off, raising his bands, as Grice looked at him severely. “Guilty conscience, do you mean?” he asked.

“It could be,” said Grice. “It certainly could be. Mrs. Smith told me last night that you were going to be at Smith Hall when the surviving sponsors are to meet this morning. I don’t want a man there but I do want a detailed report of what goes on.”

“I’ll see you get it,” promised Rollison.

“Plain and unvarnished,” insisted Grice.

“Yes.”

“And by the way,” said Grice, “I had a report that you had a late night visit from that columnist of the Daily Globe, Gwendoline Fell. What was that sly young woman after?”

“Sly?” echoed Rollison.

“Don’t say she fooled you,” said Grice. He laughed with some show of irritation. “But perhaps she did. She’s twisted more of our men round her little finger than anyone I’ve ever known. Does she want inside information in return for her help?”

“William,” said Rollison with feeling, “you get wiser and wiser and wilier and wilier every day. Yes, that is exactly what she wanted.”

“Be careful how much you tell her,” advised Grice. “If I know her, she’ll want a detailed report of the meeting of the sponsors, too.”

“Plain and unvarnished, no doubt,” rejoined Rollison. “Bill, did you realise you had a lot in common with Gwendoline Fell?”

Grice looked astonished.

“I have?”

“Yes, you,” said Rollison. “You share the illusion that I’m no longer capable of thinking for, acting for and looking after myself. I’ll be in touch.”

He smiled broadly, and moved so swiftly that he was outside Grice’s office before Grice had recovered from the impact of his words. And as he walked along the passages of the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police, he was humming to himself.

In less than an hour, he would be at the meeting of the sponsors; at least, of the four who were left.I

CHAPTER 11

The Four Remaining

POLICE still watched outside Smith Hall, and were stationed at the corners of Bloomdale Street and Bloom-dale Square, in positions from which they could watch Number 29—Sir Douglas Slatter’s house—as well as Number 31. A few bystanders looked on with patient interest as Rollison approached; then a young newspaper photographer sparked their interest by crying out :

“Hold it, Mr. Rollison!”

There was a surge forward from the crowd, and an elderly man whom Rollison had known for years as one of Fleet Street’s most astute crime reporters, came from behind the photographer.

“Good morning, Toff !” he said clearly, smiling.

Among the crowd the name was echoed: Toff—Toff —Toff—Toff, and on two or three lips it reached Rollison’s ears.

“Good morning, Arthur,” said Rollison, above the noise of hammering from the nearby building site.

“What interested you in this—ah—establishment?” inquired the Fleet Street man.

“The murder of a close friend of mine,” said Rollison. “Professor Webberson, do you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know that he was a—ah—sponsor of Smith Hall?”

“Not until recently,” said Rollison. “I did know that he was a man with an exceptional social conscience, and if he was a sponsor here, then Smith Hall was worth sponsoring.” He smiled again and moved on.