John Creasey - The Toff and the Fallen Angels

Jolly was at the wall-table, and there were traces of mince, potatoes, tomatoes and egg on a chopping board in front of him.

“Cottage pie,” announced Rollison.

Jolly started and turned his head.

“I—yes, that’s right, sir.”

“Enough for three?” asked Rollison.

“Plenty, sir.”

“Be half-prepared,” advised Rollison. “I had a tele-phone call from a woman stranger who will be here just after twelve, and if she measures up to those new standards you credit me with, she may be persuaded to stay to lunch.”

“Very good, sir,” Jolly said. “I wonder—”

“Yes?”

“I’ve been thinking, sir.” Jolly went on, turning the shredded onions over with a wooden fork, “that you have had a very pleasant spell of inactivity—comparative inactivity. You won’t commit yourself to any course of action simply for the sake of having something to do, will you?”

“I hope not,” replied Rollison. “Do you think I might?”

“I have known you feel that the moment has come to—ah—seek pastures new,” Jolly said. “If you will forgive the expression. May I ask whether the caller said what she wished to see you about?”

“No,” said Rollison.

“In that case, sir,” said Jolly. “I ask you most earnestly not to act precipitately.”

“I will ponder profoundly before taking any action whatever,” promised Rollison. “I might even consult you.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Jolly, solemnly.

Rollison went out, closing the door meekly behind him. He went into his bedroom, off which a small bathroom led, and peered at himself in the mirror, then gave a broad grin, showing his very white teeth.

“That’s right, preen yourself,” he jeered.

He went back to the Trophy Wall, but did not spend much more time at it. The past had lost its nostalgic appeal and he was ready for tomorrow. Jolly was right in one way, at least—he hadn’t been very active for a long time.

He wondered what Naomi Smith would be like. There was no reason, except the sound of her voice, why he should be looking forward to seeing her, but he was. He wrote three letters, to the secretaries of committees on which he served, including a London Branch of the Prisoners.” Aid Society, and was sealing the last when the front door bell rang.

It was thirty-one minutes since Naomi Smith had telephoned.

He got up from the desk and waited for Jolly—it would be unkind to open the door himself, and rob Jolly of a chance of appraising the caller. From where he stood, the door leading to the domestic quarters was on the right, the door leading to a wide hall and the front door was on the left.

“Good afternoon,” said Jolly.

“Good afternoon.” The pleasing voice was unmistakable. “Mr. Rollison is expecting me—I am Mrs. Smith.”

“Yes, Madam,” said Jolly, “please come this way.” There was the closing of the door, footsteps muffled by the carpet, and then Jolly appeared and stood aside, announcing:

“Mrs. Smith, sir.”

Rollison moved towards the woman as she came in—and was almost shocked, for she was one of the plainest-looking women he had ever seen; her only redeeming feature, at first sight, were her fine, chestnut-brown eyes.

CHAPTER 2

Fallen Angels

NAOMI SMITH smiled at Rollison, and something in her expression told him that she knew what had flashed into his mind, and was amused. She was dressed in a dark brown suit of good cut, with a most attractive figure. As she sat down he noticed her well-shaped legs, the skirt, which was short but not too short, the hand-made shoes, which were lighter than her suit but toned in with it.

As he took in these details, he moved towards a corner cabinet.

“What will you have to drink?”

“A gin and French, please.”

He poured out a whisky and soda for himself, carried the drinks across and sat down opposite her, the small table in between.

“Cheers.”

“Cheers.” Naomi Smith sipped. “And thank you for your courtesy.”

Rollison gave a vague gesture of acknowledgement.

“How can I help you?” As she stared at him with a curiously quizzical expression, he added, smiling: “Or have you come to help me?”

She had a very good complexion for a woman in her forties, he reflected. He was beginning to like her. Almost at once he reminded himself that she might have come to beg or to borrow, even to con him. Back in his memory he remembered a very plain woman named Belle, as convincing a confidence trickster as any he had ever met.

“No,” she said. “I want your help.”

He should have been wary, but he was not.

“In what way?”

“It’s a little difficult to explain simply,” she said. “Will you bear with me if I seem to ramble?” she sipped again. “I am the resident superintendent of a rather unusual hostel, for young women, and I am troubled by a situation which has developed quite recently. Something is frightening them, and two have left without any explanation. I could go to the police but if I did so there might be a scandal, and I’m sure that many of them would greatly resent it. And my control is positive but yet delicately balanced. I could undo in one day what I’ve done—or tried to do—over several years. These are not the easiest days for young people—or for those who try to help and guide them.” Naomi Smith paused, “Have I made any sense to you?”

“In some ways, a great deal,” said Rollison. He considered, and then said tentatively: “You run a hostel for fallen angels, I gather?”

Her smile disappeared, but not in disapproval.

“A very apt description.”

“Very special angels, I gather,” he said drily.

“They are indeed! And mine is a very special hostel’ “Do you own it?” Rollison asked.

No. I manage it fur a group of people who are greatly concerned for these particular young women.”

“I see,” said Rollison. “Is it a semi-luxury hostel?”

“In a way, yes.”

“Requiring certain qualifications,” remarked Rollison. He finished his drink, and gave a much warmer smile. “Would it be better for you to tell me more about the hostel, rather than have me ask a lot of questions?”

She considered, and then answered:

“If you will answer me one question satisfactorily, I will gladly answer all of yours.”

“That’s fair enough,” said Rollison, feeling more and more curious every moment. “I’ll try to be satisfactory!”

“Thank you. The question is, are you strongly prejudiced against young women whom you call ‘fallen angels’? Do you condemn them out of hand as being beyond the pale?”

Rollison began to like this woman very much. He settled further back in his chair, placed the tips of his fingers together and appeared to look over the rim of nonexistent glasses. He contrived, in those moments, to appear a little like the caricature of a pedantic parson.

“No,” he said. “I do not. On the other hand I don’t see the wisdom or expediency of encouraging them unduly.” After a fractional pause, he went on: “Is that satisfactory?”

“Yes,” she said, smiling again. “Yes. Ask me whatever you wish.”

“Very well,” said Rollison. “Will you stay for lunch?” She was obviously taken aback, almost confused.

“How very nice of you! I—” there was another fractional pause. “Yes, I would like that very much. Thank you.”

“I have a feeling we’re going to need a little time,” said Rollison. “Excuse me.” He pressed a bell-push in the wall by the fireplace where logs replaced the winter’s fires. “It won’t be anything fancy . . . Oh, Jolly, Mrs. Smith will be staying to lunch.”

“Very good, sir,” Jolly said, and withdrew.

Naomi Smith looked at the doorway in which he had appeared for a moment, but repressed the impulse to comment on Jolly. She seemed to settle back in her chair, more at ease. Rollison, having had time to study her, found it difficult to explain his first reaction; she was plain, certainly, but somehow, when studied feature, by feature, there seemed no reason for the general effect.

She looked back at him.

“Exactly what would you like to know, Mr. Rollison?”

“I think I’d like to learn more about these angels. How many are there?”

“When we are full—twenty-five.”

“And they can all afford the hostel?”

“I don’t quite understand you.”

“Isn’t the kind of hostel you have described expensive?”

“The girls don’t pay,” she said.

Rollison said, groping :

“You mean this is a state-sponsored institution?”

“No,” answered Naomi Smith, her expression changing as if something had touched her with disappointment. “You are prejudiced against young people, aren’t you?”

“Not knowingly,” replied Rollison. “What makes you think so?”

“Your last remark made it sound as if you were about to say that it was time young people fended for themselves, instead of being spoon-fed by the state.”

Rollison chuckled.

“And that is exactly what I feel about some youngsters. Don’t you?” The question came very quickly and there was a glint in his eyes.

She hesitated; and then laughed in turn.

“I suppose I do, about some. Have I given the impression that I—and the hostel supporters, are overindulgent towards the girls?”

“You have, rather,” said Rollison frankly. “Will you have another gin and French?”

She looked speculatively at her glass, before saying:

“No thank you. Mr. Rollison—”

“Yes?”

“I really am deeply troubled, and I really think from what I’ve heard of you that you are perhaps the only man who both could and would help. It is true that the girls are indulged in some ways. The problem of each differs in kind, of course, and each one needs special treatment and consideration. I try to give both, but it is becoming increasingly difficult. I do need help.”

“What is so special about these girls?” Rollison asked gently.

“It is this: each of the girls has some very special talent, a talent which could be going to waste. Each—as you were so quick to realise—has had a most unsatisfying affaire with a man—or men. Several have in fact been married and deserted, most have had an illegitimate child. You might say as many do, that these young women have asked for trouble, that their rejection of the conventions has made them forfeit some of their rights in society. To me, that is not the most important factor. I do not simply say that these girls need the special care of society because in a way they have been victims of it. I believe absolutely that each should be, and can be, a wholly responsible person in her own right, and that most of these girls can be not only responsible for themselves but of value to the community. But that too is beside the point, as I see it.”

“Ah,” said Rollison. “Is it very rewarding to help them?”

He saw on the instant that he had caused offence, but did not understand why: it had not been his intention. Naomi Smith’s expression changed, she put her glass down, placed a hand on the arm of her chair and stood up quickly and with unusual grace. No-one had ever looked at him with greater intensity or directness.

“I really don’t see any purpose in staying,” she said. “Thank you for sparing some of your time, Mr. Rollison.” She moved towards the door.

At the same moment, Jolly appeared in the other doorway, and said :

“Luncheon will be ready in five minutes, sir.” He realised what was happening and broke off, looking at the Toff as if pleading for guidance on what course to take.