John Creasey - The Toff and the Fallen Angels

Oct.10th, 192.. Bought 21 Padfield Road, Fulham, SW6 £399

Total outgoings over 40 years £1,070

Total income from rents over 40 years £4,180

Sold, Oct. 1st, 196.. at a price of £5,550

On the opposite page were details of tenants and repairs, and general details about the house, offers of purchase and the amounts involved.

This book had a hundred and twenty entries, of houW.1 which SlaW.C.1had bought aareas—atn nearly every part of London. There was a similar book which covered properties in the S.W.1, W.1. and the W.C.1. and W.C.2 areas—at least as many properties, some of them costing a hundred thousand pounds and all sold for at least ten times the purchase price after yielding a substantial income for twenty or more years.

It was easy to think of old Slatter sitting in this very chair and making the entries carefully, with an old-fashioned J-type nib.

Then Rollison came upon a small book, which covered the properties in Bloomdale Street and other streets nearby. Slatter had once owned a whole block of forty-four houses, but had sold them over the years until now he owned only two—this one and the house next door. On the entry for this house was a cryptic :

Offered £45,000 by Bensoni and Tilford . . . refused.

And on the pages covering the house next door, Smith Hall, was a similar entry:

Offered £32,500 by Bensoni and Tilford . . . refused.

Both entries had been made only two weeks ago.

Rollison was sitting back, studying these entries and comparing them, recalling all he could of the firm of Bensoni and Tilford, one of the biggest housing and construction companies in Britain, when he heard a giggle. There was no mistaking it—a girl was approach-ing up the stairs, giggling. Almost at once a man said in a harsh whisper :

“Be quiet! There’s someone here!”

That was Guy Slatter, and he could not be more than ten yards from the open door of the room. But for Angela’s warning giggle, Rollison might have been caught red-handed at the desk.

He did not even push the drawer in, but stood up swiftly and tiptoed towards the door. There was another giggle, much more subdued, from Angela. By then he was standing at the wall alongside the door. He heard a footfall, saw a shadow—and it was remarkably like the shadow which he had seen outside the house next door on the previous night.

Very cautiously, Guy Slatter appeared.

He looked across at the desk, and there was enough light for him to see that the drawers were open and books cluttered the desk. The sight made Guy stride into the room, and as he passed, Rollison struck a chopping blow on the back of his neck—the kind of blow that could kill. Guy staggered forward a few paces, then crumpled up.

Angela appeared almost instantly in the doorway, staring as if dumbstruck at the untidy heap on the floor.

Rollison moved to Guy, bent down, and felt his pulse. It was beating, but he was out cold, and was likely to be for several minutes. Rollison went to the desk and put the book covering this property back into the drawer, placing it beneath the one which was already there, as if the burglar had not had time to inspect that before being disturbed. Angela hadn’t moved when Rollison reached her. He put an arm round her waist and hustled her into the passage.

“What brought you back?” he demanded.

“Guy decided he liked me much better at home. Rolly, I tried to keep him away, but—”

“Did he give any special reason?”

“No. No, I don’t think so—”

“Angela, my poppet, I think you’d better come with me,” said Rollison. “You can tell me everything on the way.”

Angela hesitated, and then said: “I rather like him, Rolly, but I think perhaps you’re right. Did you get what you came for?” They were already hurrying down the stairs.

“I think so,” Rollison answered.

“Don’t I qualify for the C.I.D.?” Angela demanded.

“You certainly collected the evidence,” Rollison said. They went out the back way and walked in the opposite direction to Smith Hall. No-one appeared to notice them leaving the grounds by the narrow tradesmen’s entrance. “What did happen?”

“Guy had a telephone call at the nightclub,” answered Angela.

“So he left a number where he could be found after you’d persuaded him to take you out,” said Rollison. “So his mind wasn’t entirely on you and romance. Did he answer the call at the table?”

“No, he went out to the foyer,” answered Angela. They reached the Austin A35, and she paused, her voice changing as she asked plaintively: “If I get into that it won’t blow up, will it?”

“I’ll lift the bonnet first,” said Rollison and he did so at once, so that the clear light from a street lamp shone on to the engine. “Nothing there that shouldn’t be,” he assured her, opening the door for Angela, then taking the wheel. “And was he on edge to go as soon as he had the call?”

“No, but he kept looking at his watch,” said Angela. “What time did the call come through?” asked Rollison. “About twelve o’clock.”

“That was about the time when Smith Hall had visitors,” remarked Rollison. “Did he seem pleased or sorry?”

“Oh, pleased,” answered Angela. “I had the idea that he wanted to be away from the house for a couple of hours, I didn’t have to persuade him very hard. And although he kept telling me how beautiful it would be to spend the night alone with me, I can’t say he behaved like a gallant lover.”

“When did he say he suspected someone was at the house?” They were moving along Holborn, then, heading for Oxford Street.

“As soon as we came in. He brought me the back way, and when he found the door open he became suspicious. After all, that was natural. Rolly, did you really find out anything that matters? Did you find any other evidence that it was Sir Douglas who tried to attack Naomi Smith?”

“Good lord, no !” exclaimed Rollison.

She gaped up at him.

“But—but—”

“His clothes were mud-stained and the things were in his wardrobe, but he hadn’t worn them,” Rollison said. “He couldn’t possibly have moved at speed, and would probably have broken his arm if he’d jarred it against mine like the attacker did. No, it wasn’t Sir Douglas. He could possibly have another nephew who could get into his clothes, and put them back in his wardrobe, but I don’t think it very likely.”

“You mean—Guy was going to kill Naomi?”

“There’s certainly a possibility that he was,” answered Rollison. “But I don’t believe he’s the moving spirit be-hind all this, although he may have murdered the four victims. We need to find the influence and the pressures behind Guy Slatter,” added Rollison, as he pulled up outside his house in Gresham Terrace. “I wonder,” he went on almost as if speaking to himself, “whether there is a Mr. Bensoni or a Mr. Tilford in the firm.”

“What on earth made you ask that?” cried Angela. The man who telephoned him was named Bensoni. I heard the head waiter say so. ‘Mr. Pensoni is on the line,’ he said. I haven’t any doubt at all.”

CHAPTER 19

Busy Morning

JOLLY was still up, the trophies on the wall glowed under special lighting; Angela, though wide-eyed, gave a gargantuan yawn.

“Ring Grice at the Yard,” Rollison said to Jolly. “If he’s not there, call him at home. Angela, pet, if you want to be up in time to greet the morning you’d better go to bed.”

He stopped her in the middle of another yawn.

“Not until I know what you’re up to,” Angela said. “Why is Bensoni—”

He patted her head with insufferable condescension as he passed on the way to the bathroom. When he came back, Angela was sitting, dwarfed, in his huge chair, and Jolly, looking rather like a rehabilitated mummy, was at the telephone.

“Mr. Grice’s home number is ringing, sir.”

“Thanks.” Rollison took the telephone as Grice growled a discouraging “Hallo’.

“I’m sorry about this, Bill,” Rollison said in his warmest tone. “But I did promise to keep you informed.”

“Then inform me,” Grice said coldly.

“The man who attacked Naomi Smith was Guy Slat-ter, and—”

“Mister Rollison,” interrupted Grice, “you didn’t wake me up in the middle of the night to tell me the obvious, did you? We have been pretty sure it was Guy Slatter all the time, but we can’t yet establish that he killed anyone.

From his reputation, we’re fairly certain that he’s not capable of running this by himself, certainly not of arranging for a gang of young ruffians to attack the hostel as they did tonight.”

“I heard a rumour about that,” murmured Rollison. “And I didn’t ring you simply to give you the name of the murderer. Someone slipped up badly tonight, and Guy had a call from a certain Mr. Bensoni.” There was a moment of silence, as if Grice were trying to see the significance of the name; and then his voice rose almost to shrillness. “Bensoni and Tilford !”

“Builders, construction engineers and estate de-velopers,” said Rollison earnestly. “They, at least, are used to organising demolition gangs and so forth, and there are already flats in construction on a nearby site!

“Are you absolutely certain about this?” demanded Grice.

“I am certain that Guy was called to a telephone by a man said to be Mr. Bensoni, while at a nightclub—what nightclub, Angela?”

“The Hip-Strip,” called Angela promptly.

“The Hip-Strip, in Soho,” said Rollison. “I also know that he then began to agitate to get back to the house. What happened when he got there, according to my niece Angela, is that he nearly caught a burglar and the burglar got away.”

“I wonder who that burglar was,” said Grice, drily. “Where are you?”

“At home—and I do not want to go to the Hip-Strip Club,” declared Rollison. “I want to go to bed, because I think it’s going to be a very busy morning. That house is being closely watched, isn’t it?”

“Not closely enough,” admitted Grice. “But it soon will be. Goodnight.”

Rollison put down the receiver as a miniature striking clock on the mantelpiece struck two. Angela rose slowly from the chair and peered up into Rollison’s face, like a trusting child.

“So I’m not such a bad detective,” she remarked.

“You have eyes like a hawk and ears like a bat’s,” answered Rollison. “Now you have to prove you can manage with four hours’ sleep.”

“Oh, that’s plenty for young people,” declared Angela, and skipped away to dodge his descending hand.

* * *

It was full daylight when he woke, to find Jolly by his side proffering tea and the Daily Globe on a tray; Jolly must have been out to get a copy as early as this. Rollison struggled up—as the miniature clock struck six. He felt a little heavy in the head and behind the eyes, but all that had happened and all that might happen today flooded through his mind by the time he was sitting up and opening the newspaper, while Jolly poured his tea.

“Shall I call Miss Angela, sir? She is very soundly asleep.”

“Give her another twenty minutes,” said Rollison. “I want to be off by seven.”

“To the hostel, sir?”

“To check with Grice, check with Ebbutt, and then get to Bloomdale Street,” answered Rollison. “I—my! They’ve certainly made it the story of the day!”

There, on the tabloid front page, was a picture of Sir Douglas Slatter, of the shattered window and of the house next door. The headlines screamed :