John Creasey - The Toff and The Sleepy Cowboy

Hindle cackled again, and even Derek grinned; and for the first time, both men lowered their guns. The woman looked down over the balustrade, the field-glasses dangling.

“What’s been happening down there?” she called.

“Rollison’s come to make a deal,” explained Hindle. “Don’t worry your head about it, Lou, just keep an eye on those windows.”

“Where’s the girl?” demanded Hindle’s wife. “She picked the lock with a hairpin, the pin’s still in the door. I couldn’t help it,” she added querulously. “I was making sure the house wasn’t watched.”

“It certainly wasn’t your fault, Lou,” said Hindle, soothingly. “You don’t need to worry any more.”

She said: “That’s good, Arthur,” and turned away.

Rollison continued to look upwards until he saw that she was no longer on the landing or the passages, so she must be in one of the rooms. The two Hindles were more relaxed than Rollison had yet seen them, Derek the more wary; Hindle himself gave the impression that he had rid himself of a great burden.

“I’ll make a deal with you at seventy-five to us, twenty-five to you,” he said; and sneered: “So this is how you make your money!”

“It’s one way,” Rollison answered. “I’ll settle for one-third.”

Derek said angrily : “There are three of us, as well as Ma.”

“Derek,” said his father, “the Toff can help us a great deal. He can smooth away a lot of difficulties, and I don’t want any more argument. I’ll settle for two-thirds, Rollison.”

“That’s good,” Rollison said softly.

“How can we be sure he’ll keep his word?” demanded Derek. “It will be a long time before Alec —” he nearly choked —”a long time before Tommy gets his money. How do we know we’ll get our share?”

“That’s just what I mean,” said his father. “We’ll have an agreement made out between us, and we’ll have a tape recorder record, too. We’ll have the Toff as tight as he’s got us. He’ll vouch for Alec being Tommy Loman, he’ll help to get everything settled quickly with probate. How about that — a man with an unassailable reputation like the Toff won’t have anything to worry about. It couldn’t be better, Derek.”

“He’s not going to leave here until he’s signed a confession,” Derek insisted.

“We all sign one,” Rollison interposed. “And we all put the same confession on tape, too. When we’ve all got copies we’ll be able to trust each other.” He slid his hand into his pocket and took out his cigarette case, selected a cigarette as if casually, but actually made sure it was one of those which contained a phial of tear gas. He put the cigarette to his lips and slid the case back into his pocket. “Why don’t we get down to business?” He took out a book of matches, aware that Derek was watching every movement he made very closely, and laughed : “I still don’t know how you fixed Alec George King. He threw me and the police off the scent.”

“He’s a friend of Derek,” Hindle declared.

Rollison spun round, his expression changing on the instant: “He knows you! Why, he can give this away in five minutes!”

“Take it easy,” Derek said, sneering. “He doesn’t know me. I’ve supplied his pusher for a year or two, that’s all.”

“Pusher? Heroin?”

“Anything that comes,” said Derek. “But it was too dangerous to go on with, and he couldn’t find the dough so he had to do this deal. Don’t worry about him or anyone.”

Rollison put the cigarette to his lips and struck a match.

“There’s just one person I worry about now.”

“If you mean Effie —”

“I don’t mean Effie,” Rollison said. “I mean Tommy G. Loman. Is he alive or is he dead. When did you make the switch?” He smiled into Hindle’s eyes. “Alec George King has done a wonderful job, he’s fooled everybody except me, and if I hadn’t realised he was King and not Loman, I would never have been able to make this deal. But for the record — where is he now?”

* * *

Outwardly, he looked so calm and self-possessed. Inwardly, he was seething with anxiety, not only for himself, but for the real Tommy G. Loman.

Was he alive?

Or was he dead?

20

Switch In Time

THE TWO HINDLES stood silent.

The match burned low in Rollison’s fingers and he shook it out, glanced about for an ashtray, and moved to one on a table against the wall. Hindle moved uneasily, and Derek said:

“Forget him.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Rollison sharply. “I can’t put all this through if the real Loman can appear out of the blue at any time.”

“You said there were other ways to keep a man quiet than killing him,” Hindle said.

“Not where Loman is concerned,” Rollison replied sharply. “I want to see him, alive or dead.” He laughed, without any humour. “That’ an apt phrase in the circumstances. Wanted Thomas G. Loman, alive or dead, with a million pounds on his head. Where is he? Where was the switch made?”

“You’re so clever, why don’t you guess?” sneered Derek. “Pop, we don’t tell Rollison anything else, he knows plenty. I’m not so sure he isn’t bluffing, that we’re not falling for a big confidence trick. I —”

He broke off, as a telephone bell rang.

Tension, eased until Rollison had switched the subject, demanding to see the real Thomas G. Loman, came screaming back. The harsh ringing of the bell made it worse. The elder Hindle raised the gun again as Derek moved towards a telephone standing on a table near a doorway on the right.

He said hoarsely : “Don’t move, Rollison.”

“Your son isn’t safe to have around,” Rollison said, the unlighted cigarette still in his mouth.

Derek reached the telephone and snatched up the receiver. Veins stood out on his forehead; so did blobs of sweat. He was so beside himself that he picked the receiver up while standing awkwardly to cover the Toff : for a moment the muzzle actually pointed at his own head.

“Yes?” he rasped; there was a moment’s pause and he went on: “Yes, Alec?”

Alec.

Alec — Alec — Alec — Alec!

That was the moment when Rollison knew the whole truth; the moment he had fought for, staked his life on.

He had been as sure as he could be since Pamela had been attacked here that her companion had attacked her, not an unseen man. There had been time before her rescuers arrived; just time. Had they been half a minute later then her newfound lover would have choked her to death. He had felt certain that the man whom he had at first believed to be Thomas G. Loman was in fact Alec George King. And from the moment of realisation there had been only one concern in his mind: to find the real Thomas G.

Now, a man named Alec was on the telephone, knowing the Hindles were at the Browns’ house.

Derek listened.

He twisted round, and his lips twisted in rare malevolence.

“Shoot him in the guts!” he cried. “He’s conning us — one of Grice’s men let it out, Alec heard them.” Alec George King, alias Thomas G. Loman, at Gresham Terrace. “He’s conning —”

Rollison blew the phial of tear gas into Hindle’s face before he realised what his son was saying. Derek twisted round, caught a wrist in the telephone cable, and jerked it free and levelled his gun, but before he touched the trigger Rollison used the small gun and a bullet caught the younger man in the shoulder. Derek grunted and jerked back, and Rollison shot him again with greater calculation, in the back of his gun hand.

Hindle was reeling about helplessly, hands at his streaming eyes.

Rollison listened intently but heard nothing upstairs. He picked up the telephone as the man named Alec called:

“Derek, what’s happened? Are you there, are you there?”

Rollison simply rang off, and held the receiver down for a moment, then dialled 999 — the Emergency number. He was answered at once, and in seconds was speaking to Grice.

“Bill, there’s a freelance newspaperman named Jack Fisher, attached to the construction side of London Air-port. He was doing an inside story on a building strike when Tommy G. Loman’s plane arrived. Find Fisher and I think you’ll find the real Tommy G. Loman . . . No, not the man at my flat, that’s King . . . The switch must have been made at London Airport and the real Tommy G. smuggled out through the new building work . . .He might still be there, there are plenty of places to hide a man at London Airport.”

He did not add: “And hide a body.”

“What about you?” demanded Grice.

“I’m fine. The Browns are as innocent as doves, the Hindle family is here waiting for your chaps to come and pick them up. We may need an ambulance and we cer-tainly need a doctor for the older Brown — he was thrown down the stairs.”

Grice said: “Wait a moment.” His voice faded and in the distance Rollison heard him say on another telephone: “London Airport Police, quickly . . .” Then in a louder voice he went on to Rollison : “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe the man at your flat isn’t the real American.”

“Brilliant act, isn’t it?” asked Rollison.

“Brilliant. It —” There was another pause before Grice went on: “I’m going to take your word for it, but I still don’t believe it. When — when did you begin to think —?” Grice broke off again, helplessly.

“There were a lot of indications, given hindsight,” said Rollison, “but can’t they keep? I want to tell Jolly, and get King himself. He is still at my flat, I take it?”

“No doubt at all,” answered Grice. “Jolly was on the telephone only twenty minutes ago, and Loman himself —” Grice gulped — “I mean, King alias Loman picked up an extension and said: ‘You find the Toff, do you hear? You find the Toff.’ Yes,” went on Grice, “he’s there all right. Are you going straight to the flat?”

“As soon as I’ve tidied up here,” Rollison said.

As he spoke, there was a rat-tat-tat at the front door; the first of three police cars had arrived. Rollison left the Hindles to them, told them about Mrs. Hindle, up-stairs, and went to the cupboard beneath the stairs. The one thing above all others that he hated was the need to tell Pamela the truth about her Tommy, but at least the time was not yet.

“The police are in possession,” he told her and her brother. “The Hindles are under arrest, and we know where to find King.” He helped Pamela into the big hall, saying : “I had to discover where he was, and couldn’t find the whole truth any other way.”

“Richard,” Pamela said. “I will never forgive myself for not trusting you.” Then her tone changed. “How soon will a doctor be here for Daddy ?”

“One’s on the way,” Rollison reassured her. “I don’t think he broke any bones, and he’s probably suffering from severe concussion.”

“As soon as I know that for sure,” Pamela said, “I want to go and see Tommy.”

“Mr. Rollison!” a police sergeant called from the door. Rollison had never been more glad of an interruption.

As he pulled up outside 25g Gresham Terrace, three-quarters of an hour later, Grice opened the door of a car which was double-parked and approached him. He might have news of Fisher as well as the real Tommy Loman. Rollison’s heart pounded for the sake of a man whom he had never seen. But Grice was relaxed, and his stride was springy; he did not have the manner of a man bringing bad news.

“Alive?” asked Rollison.

“Alive.” Grice stated, simply. “He was kept in an old hut on the building site. I’m pretty sure they were going to keep him alive until cement was being poured at the next section of the new terminal — they would have killed and buried him in double quick time. They kept him alive on bread and water, but he seems able to walk under his own steam. The switch was made with the connivance of a nurse, who was well paid. He’s now at the airport hospital.”