Accuse the Toff (13 page)

 

If the Toff's expression relaxed enough for Peveril to see that his equanimity was momentarily shaken, Peveril made no comment. The Toff rubbed the fingers of his left hand along the barrel of his revolver, making the other back a pace and knock against the window.

‘Are you really as frightened as all that of a gun?' murmured the Toff. ‘It isn't like you; too many people aren't acting as they should. Including Patrushka.' Much of what had happened was beginning to make sense and he contemplated the wisdom of forcing the interview with Peveril a stage further when there was a sudden, high-pitched scream from beneath the flat.

It came so abruptly and with so little warning that even Rollison turned his head. But Peveril was too startled to turn the carelessness to his advantage.

‘What's that?' he demanded hoarsely. ‘What was it?'

‘We needn't worry,' said the Toff but altered his mind when there came a loud pattering on the stairs and a woman's voice raised hysterically.

‘Murder, murder! Help! Police! Murder, murder!'

‘What the devil's happened?' snapped Peveril. ‘We can't stay here doing nothing!'

‘I shouldn't let it worry you,' said the Toff. ‘Someone has chosen this afternoon, of all times, to have a bath.' He cut short Peveril's abrupt interruption, adding sharply: ‘I used the bathroom for Ibbetson's bosom friend, Fred. I also locked the door.'

‘All the tenants have keys,' muttered Peveril, turning pale. ‘Was— was he all right?'

‘He wasn't dead when I left him, if that's what you mean,' said Rollison. ‘Nor was he conscious or comfortable. I wish that woman would stop screaming,' he added testily.

The woman's cries remained shrill and high-pitched although they sounded farther away. Heavier footsteps followed on the stairs and a door banged open. Then a man's voice came after a moment of silence so acute that it made Rollison and Peveril stare at each other, animosity forgotten in uncertainty.

‘My God!' exclaimed the speaker. ‘Get away, Lucy, you don't want to see this. Send—send for the police.'

With one accord Rollison and Peveril stepped through the lounge to the landing. Hurrying down the stairs to the bathroom, they saw the door wide open. A woman in a dressing-gown of bright hues was hurrying down the next flight of stairs while a man's shoulders blocked the door. Rollison reached him and asked mildly: ‘Can I help?'

‘Eh?' A heavily-built man with two or three days' growth of stubble on his face, dressed in the uniform of the AFS, turned sharply. His eyes reflected shock and horror and his lips twitched. ‘Er—no, I don't think so. Look at that.'

Over his shoulder both Rollison and Peveril peered towards the bath: only the torso and legs of Ibbetson's “Fred” were visible at first but on the top of the dirty sides of the bath were bright red stains. Tight-lipped, Rollison craned his neck so that he could see the man's head and shoulders.

Someone had cut Fred's throat.

Whoever had committed the crime had made no nicely-judged cut but had slashed with vigour. Rollison saw the man's head lolling backwards, remembered how he had bundled him into the bath and left him helpless. While he had been talking to Peveril the murderer had stalked; and Rollison could conceive only one reason for the murder: Fred as a prisoner, perhaps under arrest, might have talked: that risk had been liquidated.

‘You said—' began Peveril hoarsely.

Rollison dug an elbow sharply into his stomach, making him stop. The AFS man was staring fascinatedly at the gruesome sight and did not notice the byplay.

‘The Yard should know about this at once,' said Rollison. ‘Peveril, will you try to make sure that no one leaves the house? I'll send a policeman along as soon as I see one.'

He turned without waiting for an answer and hurried down towards the street. The crisp, cold air was welcome and refreshing. From the downstairs flat he heard a woman speaking urgently, presumably into the telephone, and in the room opposite another woman was sobbing hysterically.

The Toff hurried past and turned towards the Vauxhall Bridge Road. He had gone a hundred yards or more before seeing and beckoning a policeman in uniform who stopped and saluted.

‘Did you want me, sir?'

‘You're wanted at Number 9, Queen's Place,' said Rollison quietly. ‘It's not nice, constable, in fact, it's murder. If you're wise you'll keep an eye on the occupant of the top flat. I'm going to see Superintendent Grice immediately.'

Without waiting for a response, but silently congratulating the constable on the calm way in which he reacted, the Toff hurried to the nearest telephone kiosk and from it dialled the Yard. He was disappointed, for Grice was out. He made a brief report to another Superintendent – who promised immediate action – and added: ‘I've asked a local constable to keep an eye on a man named Peveril who lives at the top of the house. I was going to ask Grice to get a search warrant for his rooms before this happened. This will be a good opportunity but don't start to build a case against him. He didn't do it.'

‘Are you sure, Mr. Rollison?'

‘He was with me when the man was killed,' Rollison assured him and rang off.

He had no regard for Fred and, until the moment of peering over the AFS man's shoulder, had contemplated the prospect of doing violence to the thick-set man with some eagerness. The sight of the blood-red gash, and the knowledge of Fred's complete helplessness when he had been killed, gave him an uncomfortable feeling of self-reproach. It was useless to make assumptions but it seemed that Ibbetson was responsible for the murder and he no longer cared whether Grice put out a call for the plump man or not. He had tried hard to find just what was behind the affair before any definite steps were taken but there were limits to the patience of the police and to the risks he dare take.

He took a taxi to Gresham Terrace, pondering on the conversation between Peveril and Ibbetson and his conviction that Peveril had almost certainly expected to be followed. He did not try to solve the problems presented by that tortuous-minded solicitor but considered the man Lancaster, who now loomed as large in the affair as Lancelot Brett.

It was nearly five o'clock when he reached the Terrace.

A smaller Harridge's van was standing outside and when he approached his flat he heard voices, the deep one of Grice's sergeant alternating with the suave tones of the quiet-voiced man who had acted so expeditiously and proved that Harridges did indeed provide exemplary service. Entering, Rollison nodded to the salesman who approached with his hands fluttering gently and saying obsequiously: ‘I felt that I should come to make sure that everything was to your satisfaction, sir.'

‘Ah, yes,' said Rollison. ‘A very good job, thanks.'

For the first time the little man was slightly out of countenance, as he said gratefully: ‘I'm glad that you think so, sir. Perhaps I may have the privilege of showing you—'

‘Thanks, no,' said Rollison, and smiled distantly. ‘I'm sorry. My preoccupations don't include furniture at the moment but everything looks fine.' The lounge, in fact, was resplendent with new easy chairs and two settees which looked the acme of comfort; the hour and a half since he had left had seen a miracle performed. ‘I'll let you know if there's anything else,' he added. ‘Goodbye.'

‘Goodbye, sir,' echoed the soft voice faintly and the man went towards the door. Standing by it, he cast one surprised and reproachful look over his shoulder, then squared them and went firmly outside.

The heavy features of Grice's sergeant were turned with stolid curiosity towards the Toff.

‘You do get things done, sir, don't you?'

‘Get things done?' ejaculated the Toff bitterly. ‘I vacillate, I hesitate, I start a dozen things and finish none of them. Get things done be damned, I—' He pulled himself up with a start and shrugged his shoulders. ‘All right, all right, it's simply a matter of opinion. I'm going to have a drink,' he added firmly. ‘Care to join me?'

‘Thank you, sir, but it's rather early for me.'

‘It's far too early for me,' declared Rollison but went into the dining-alcove, mixed himself a whisky and soda and drank it deeply. Then he lit a cigarette and the action reminded him of the cigarette he had dropped from Peveril's case. He went through the flat tempestuously, leaving the sergeant staring at him perplexedly and found that the kitchen had been scrupulously tidied. He muttered an imprecation and called: ‘Sergeant, at the double!'

The sergeant obliged but remained bewildered.

‘Who cleared this up? There was a cigarette squashed on the floor and I want it'

‘A cigarette?' echoed the sergeant.

‘Yes. I trod on it. And I'm not the arch-priest of anti-waste; it must be analysed.' Opening the kitchen door, Rollison stepped to the iron landing of the back stairs and pulled off the lid of the dustbin.

‘Any luck, sir?' asked the sergeant anxiously.

‘I do believe there is,' acknowledged Rollison, his tension easing as he stooped down and retrieved the trodden cigarette which was on the top of a pile of dust and rubble. ‘The gods relent sometimes, even for me. I won't need you here now,' he added, after a pause. ‘Take this with fear and trembling to the Yard and get it analysed as soon as you can, will you? It may be just Virginian tobacco mixed with choicest Eastern blends, as we're always assured on the packets but, whether or no, have copies of the analysis sent to Superintendent Grice and to me.' He paused and then relaxed with a smile. ‘That's if you don't mind.'

‘Of course not, sir.' The sergeant put the cigarette into a small envelope he took from his pocket, looked lingeringly about the flat, picked up his hat and went out after asking whether Mr. Rollison was sure that there was nothing more he could do.

Rollison spent a few minutes contemplating each room. Harridges had left nothing undone and he made a mental note to pay the soft-voiced salesman a visit of congratulation.

‘But not until this is over,' he added
sotto voce
and stepped to the telephone, picking up the directory and glancing through the LANs. There were too many Lancasters for him to hope to select the right one and he did not propose to ring each number on the chance of having some luck.

‘If only I knew why Peveril was so sure that I would hand the black case over,' said Rollison aloud. ‘And why he kept switching his reactions. And why June-Patrushka lied to me.' He considered the possibility that Peveril had done all the lying, shrugged the thought away and then heard footsteps outside. They were brisk and yet sedate, the familiar approach of Jolly.

Rollison stepped towards the door, listening for an indication that the girl was with him but, when he opened the door, only Jolly was there with a key extended in his hand.

‘Thank you, sir,' said Jolly. ‘Good evening.'

‘Where is she?' demanded Rollison sharply.

‘I very much regret, sir, that I cannot tell you,' said Jolly. ‘Allow me.' He waited with a hand on the door for Rollison to go back into the flat, followed, removed his hat, muffler and coat with a deliberation which set Rollison's nerves on edge and then eyed his employer frankly. There was little expression on his dyspeptic face but he lifted his hands in a gesture of resignation rare in him. ‘I'm sorry, sir, but at the last moment she evaded me. I am afraid that it was in some measure my responsibility.'

‘Oh,' commented Rollison blankly. ‘I'd been relying on a talk with the lady.' His disappointment was greater than he allowed Jolly to see: ‘When was this?'

‘No more than half an hour ago, sir. As we left the office.'

‘She mixed with the crowd?'

‘Er—yes and no, sir. She did go into the crowd and get separated from me but an oldish gentleman was waiting in a small car for her and she joined him. They went off together and the young lady turned and waved to me.' The very flatness of Jolly's tone expressed the degree of his mortification and was enough to make Rollison smile faintly. It was easy to imagine Jolly's feelings when she had turned and waved, almost certainly mockingly, after he had faithfully kept her company all day.

‘An oldish man and a small car,' Rollison mused.

‘A distinguished-looking gentleman,' elaborated Jolly, ‘and the number of the car was FX 21K. I assure you that Miss Lancing appeared so appreciative of your kindness during the day that I felt quite sure that she would return willingly with me. It was not so much a case of me keeping near her, sir, as of her keeping close to me. She was good enough to initiate me into the particular work which we were executing and she expressed her pleasure at my proficiency.' Jolly took a deep breath. ‘I was completely deceived, I'm afraid.'

‘We both were. What was the work like?'

‘It was simply the sorting of mail,' Jolly assured him, ‘and she was right in one respect at least, the office is considerably under-staffed. The Commandant went so far as to ask me whether I could spare an hour or two each day to go along and help during busy spells, such as this, but I was, of course, evasive in my answer. And after Miss Lancing's duplicity my interest in the work is hardly what it was. There is a possibility that she will return there tomorrow, of course,' he added, without much hope.

‘It could be. Was she known as June Lancing at the office?'

‘Oh, yes, sir.'

‘Not as Patrushka?'

‘Patrushka?' echoed Jolly, puzzled.

‘I won't go into that again,' said Rollison hastily. ‘Obviously she wasn't.'

He explained what Peveril had told him of ‘Patrushka' and went into considerable detail about the affairs of the day. It was always restful to make reports to Jolly who was a listener in a thousand but who occasionally made comments which were both shrewd and pertinent. Jolly heard him out, interjecting only a congratulatory comment when he mentioned that he had been able to get released from the office and, as he talked, Rollison considered the problems presented in a fresh light, feeling much less jaded than he had.