John Creasey - The Toff and the Fallen Angels

A girl was crying.

A second had rushed to one of the babies and picked it up with a gesture of desperation. Almost at once other girls went to the remaining babies.

Rollison reached the side door of the cage and opened it, but no-one seemed to notice him go in. Something started them all talking against one another, the only one who seemed to keep absolutely silent was Anne.

“I’m going tonight!” one girl gasped.

“We can’t stay—we’ll have to go somewhere,” mut-tered another.

“But we haven’t anywhere else to go !” came from a realist.

Others were crying . . . more were talking, saying the same kind of thing.

“We’ve got to find somewhere.”

“It’s impossible to stay here.”

“Did you see them? Actually on Donald’s pram.”

“Two huge rats.”

“I once heard of a rat—”

“For heaven’s sake be quiet, Chloe !”

“How—how did they get in?”

“Yes—how did they get in?” demanded another. “There must be a hole in the netting.”

Immediately, several of the girls began to scan the foot of the cage, which Rollison was already doing. So far he had found no break—no sign of anything which was large enough for a mouse to have got through. Several of the girls saw and recognised him, one or two said ‘hallo’. Slatter was still watching from his study window. A policeman appeared at the door leading from the house, followed by a second, who made a bee-line for Rollison.

“Did you see what happened, sir?”

“I saw two rats but I didn’t see how they got in,” answered Rollison. “And the wire doesn’t seem to be broken.”

“Been a lot of rats since they pulled down that old house and started building,” the policeman said.

Then Rollison saw a hole almost at shoulder height and not two feet away from the policeman’s face. The man turned. The girls were still talking, some were trying to soothe and reassure the others. The girl who had first raised the alarm was now by Anne, who held one of the children in her arms.

“My God!” breathed the policeman. “Look at that.”

He was looking at the spot which had caught Rolli-son’s attention—a round hole cut in the strands of the wire. It had obviously been done recently, there were shiny surfaces to some of the cut strands, catching the sun. It was about the size of a football, perhaps a little smaller, and a dozen rats could have got through there.

“They were placed inside all right,” the policeman said. He was in his twenties, red-faced, grey-eyed, healthy-looking. “My God, what swine I They’ll do anything to drive these girls out, won’t they? Anything.”

“It certainly looks like it,” agreed Rollison. “Have you advised the Yard?”

“No. I just came to see—” the man hesitated, then took his transmitter out of the inside of his tunic. “I’ll report to the station, sir.”

“Yes. And someone must have seen this chap,” Rollison pointed out. “He had to walk to the net, cut it, and walk back. Didn’t you have a man out here?”

The policeman did not appear to be listening, but was reporting over the microphone.

“Edwards here, sir . . . Someone cut a hole in ..”

Rollison moved off, leaving him to it. Two girls, one a flaxen-haired beauty who seemed to have stepped straight out of a film set, and a smaller one, with flaming red hair, were talking together. They stopped as Rollison came up with them, and fell into step by his side.

“Do you know who did it?” the taller girl asked.

“Not yet,” said Rollison.

“You never will,” said the red-head. “Thank God my offspring was adopted last month, I don’t have to stay any longer. It’s a pretty foul situation, isn’t it, Mr. Rollison?”

“Sickening,” responded Rollison. “Apart from guesswork, do either of you know who is behind it all?”

Both of them looked up at Slatter’s window; he was just turning away. Rollison went across to Anne, who was watching her companion crooning over a baby, obviously soothing herself as much as the child. Anne saw Rollison, and turned her head to him.

“Has he admitted it?” she asked drily.

“No,” answered Rollison.

“And no doubt you believe him,” Anne said stonily. “This is about the last straw. Heaven knows what would have happened if Judy hadn’t come out to see what was upsetting the babies.” She saw Rollison’s expression, and went on: “Yes, this is Judy Lyons.”

Judy half-turned.

“Hallo,” she said. She had a pert, pretty face and a bright, easy voice. “I suppose you still think you’re the great detective. After this, you don’t imagine that any of us will buy that, do you?” She kept moving the child to-and-fro. “I was one of those who said our worries were over when I heard you were interested, but I couldn’t have been more wrong.” She tossed her head and turned back to Anne. “What are we going to do?”

“We’re going to cover up that hole,” Anne said, proving that she had been on the alert, “and then we’re going to have a rota watch while the babies are out here. We’ve three with chicken pox, and one of the mothers is down with it, too. And then—well, we’d better have a meeting this evening, to decide what to do. Will you come and answer some questions? On how the rats invaded the children of the damned?”

She, too, looked up at the window where Sir Douglas Slatter had been standing. But it was empty, now, and dosed.

CHAPTER 14

Motive?

“YES,” answered Rollison, “I will come to the meeting if you’ll give me safe conduct from angry mothers! What are you going to use to mend that wire?”

“I expect we’ll use wire,” answered Anne. “I know we promiscuous young women are not supposed to know about anything but luring young men to our beds, but we’re very capable, really. Jennifer will—why, there is Jennifer!” A little girl who looked in her mid-teens appeared from the back door with a grey metal tool box in her hand, and a coil of wire over her shoulder. She had mousey hair and a snub nose and freckles beyond count, and was dressed in blue jeans and a loose fitting red shirt. She flashed brilliant green eyes at Rollison and Anne. “Come and meet Mr. Rollison,” called Anne, and the child came across and dropped a mock curtsey.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Rollison, I’ve heard about you. Fancy actually admitting we exist!”

“And fancy you existing,” retorted Rollison. “So you’re the do-it-yourself member of the establishment?”

“When I wear trousers I’m the maintenance engineer,” said Jennifer. “Do you know who made that hole?”

“No.”

“Well, as the great detective, why don’t you find out what was happening next door?” suggested Jennifer. “Anyone can sneak in from there and if your arms are long enough you could actually stand in Sir D’s garden and cut the wire. Or is he too rich to be suspected?”

“Jennifer, pet, the chips on your shoulders would make a log fire big enough to roast the poor devil,” protested Rollison. “Haven’t any of you heard of a little thing like evidence?”

She made a face at him, and walked past. The noise had subsided, and although there was much talk and now and again a subdued outburst of laughter, there was not a single crying baby.

“What time is your meeting?” asked Rollison.

“It’ll be about half-past eight. You don’t have to come,” Anne said. She turned her brown, speculative, almost brooding eyes towards him, and added: “You don’t always have to take me too seriously, either.”

“No,” agreed Rollison, “but the choice is a little tricky. I can’t always decide when you’re telling the truth and when you’re set on deceiving me.”

Once again he succeeded in shaking Anne Miller out of her calm. He smiled and turned. There was no sign of Naomi Smith, and had she been at home she would certainly have been here. He went through the house, heard a baby gurgling in a room on the right, but did not go in. A police car was in the street, and three plainclothes men were heading for the back of the house. Rollison recognised none of them, and did not stop. He turned again into Starter’s house, and rang the front door bell, as he had before.

Guy Slatter opened the door.

“Hallo,” he said, standing aside. “Come in.” His manner showed a complete change from the aggressiveness of their last encounter. “This time, I think, my uncle would like to see you.” He led the way upstairs, and as they reached the door of the study, Angela appeared at the end of the passage. Rollison glanced at young Slatter. He was surprised to catch on his face an expression of almost fatuous admiration.

Angela, looking very demure, gave a half-smile as she passed.

“Good afternoon, sir.”

Guy murmured something, as he opened Slater’s door. The most noticeable thing here, Rollison thought, was the quiet, although the window had been re-opened. Slater placed a hand on some papers, to stop them from blowing, and rose from the desk.

“I’m glad you came back,” he said. “Please sit down. All right, Guy.”

Guy moved off with alacrity, letting the door close with a loud click. The old man looked across at it with resignation, but made no comment.

“Why did you come back?” he asked.

To find out whether, after the rat interlude, you would reconsider your decision,” Rollison said. “Obvi-ously someone is determined to drive those girls away—by frightening them or pressuring them by threats of, and even by actual, murder. If you changed your mind, no one would retain the slightest suspicion that you are responsible.”

“Mr. Rollison,” said Slatter, placing both hands palms downwards on his desk, and looking like a newly-shaven Old Testament prophet, “I shall not extend the tenancy of this house next door to those particular tenants. I am quite determined. I want peaceful occupancy of my own home and it is impossible in the present circumstamces. They must go. However, the rat interlude, as you call it, did distress me. So did the attack on Mrs. Smith. I am not of course involved in either, and am quite indifferent to any form of suspicion which may fall on me, and your quite unworthy attempt to blackmail me into giving way is not the reason for what I am about to offer. I have a great deal of property in London, some in areas more suitable than this for a hostel. I am prepared to give premises of similar size to the sponsors of Smith Hall, on two conditions. One : that they move immediately the alternative accommodation is available, which I think will be very shortly. The other, that the transaction is kept quite confidential. No one is to know. And if you wonder why I make the second condition, I will tell you : if it were once known that I had made a gift I would be inundated with requests from other sources for donations.”

Rollison thought swiftly. A property of size anywhere in London would cost at least twenty thousand pounds, and such a gift even from a wealthy man was munificent indeed.

As he sat there, trying to think how best he could tell this man how warmly he regarded the offer, there was a violent crash, and a half-brick hurtling through the window. Startled by the expression on Rollison’s face, which appeared a half-second before the impact, Slatter swivelled round in his chair.

“Duck!” roared Rollison.

But it was too late. Glass cascaded into the room, over Slatter’s face and hands, over the desk and the floor. Rollison sprang to his feet. A sliver of glass cut into his cheek, causing sharp pain, but it did not stop him. He reached the window and peered out through the huge star-shaped hole in the glass.