Here Comes the Toff (10 page)

“I'm not even going to shake hands with you, you incomparable charmer. If I do I shall forget myself and confess my love, and then what would poor Jamie do?”

“Fool! Rolly, I've discovered something about Wrightson and his girl.”

“Good. Is she a Commie?”

“I wish you'd be serious. She writes.”

“Well, that's no crime.”

“Modern stuff,” said Anthea. “Slightly advanced – but nice. I've been dipping into her latest –
Things We See
– and it's good, Rolly, it really is. I'd like to meet her. What kind of a man is this Renway?”

Rollison followed the trend of her mind.

“Very chaste, I imagine, where women are concerned. One of the old school, who considers the modern miss improper if she wears no stockings, and thinks toreador pants a creation of the Devil.”

“That,” said Anthea, “explains it. Phyllis Bailey's very modern—no dirt, Rolly, but definitely frank.”

Rollison leaned forward, scanned a few pages of the book lying open on the bed, and then looked up thoughtfully.

“Certainly it explains Renway's dislike. I wonder if she's a beatnik or jeebies' chick, all wild parties and bad language.”

“She isn't. Her people are
most
respectable, and she lives in Chelsea with them. She's rather sweet, I'm told.”

“Who told you?”

“A friend who knows her.”

“Hmm. Intelligence level?”

“High, apparently.”

“Renway's opinion is different. Well, I'm bound to see something,” said Rollison, “although I'm a long way from sure what it will be. You don't know anything more about Wrightson, do you?”

“Not a lot,” said Anthea. “I found a girl who's fiancé knows him. He plays cricket and rugger, and got his cricket blue for Oxford five years ago. He doesn't do anything but help his uncle in his private business, and he's always been pretty fond of the old man. So far he hasn't shown anyone that he feels differently about him. He's quite crazy about Phyllis Bailey.”

“He looked that way to me,” said the Toff. “Anthea, you've been a big help, and thanks a million. Keep your ears and eyes open, and if you learn anything else that might be useful, phone me. Jolly can take a message if I'm out.”

“What a funny-looking fellow he is, Rolly.”

“Is he?” smiled the Toff. “He'd be delighted if he heard you say so, my pet, he thinks he always looks miserable. And now I'm off! Oh, when does the ankle begin to support you again?”

“Tomorrow,” said Anthea firmly. “Doctor or no doctor.”

“Sense or no sense,” smiled the Toff. “All right, but it's on your own head if you have to go back to bed for a week. And what would your Jamie do then, poor thing?”

He went downstairs, dexterously escaping Lady Munro, knowing that the drawing-room door opened as the footman closed the front door behind him. He stepped into the darkness of Park Lane, pondering on Anthea's information, and finding that it was more of a hindrance than a help.

In one way, that was.

It was easy to understand why Renway would not countenance the engagement of his nephew to a women who wrote what he would consider ‘advanced' literature. Or, more likely, ‘obscene' literature. The library at the St. John's Wood house had proved that his taste was very innocuous, for none of the more advanced novelists had been included – there had been no Huxley, no Joyce, no Lawrence, only the steady, middle-of-the-road type of book, in which the characters were, for the most part, fully, even excessively, clad.

Renway was obviously stubborn too, and a man of set ideas.

The snag, as the Toff saw it, was that Anthea had located so sound a reason for Renway's opposition to the Wrightson-Bailey match, that it seemed unlikely that Irma was fanning the flames. The flames just would not need fanning. If that assumption were the right one, it cancelled the theory that Irma was trying to get Wrightson disinherited so that she would have more money when she married Renway.

If
she married Renway.

Of one thing the Toff was certain. If she married him, he would not live long. Irma would not stand marriage to the old man; she would only contemplate it if he could be killed off, and his money pass into her hands.

The Toff had been rather fond of that theory, but now that it was weakened he thought more of the new electrical company that Renway was starting.

Wrightson could be believed, of course.

Moreover, Renway had assured Rollison that Bi-Nationals were perfectly good shares to hold. That might mean that Renway did not expect his new company to affect the Bi-National Corporation, or it might have been a move to cover up the indiscretion of his confidences in the Toff.

How far, in short, could Renway be trusted?

There were other questions.

Rollison wanted to get in touch with the man Martin, who might throw an interesting light on Sidey's activities. Martin had introduced Sidey to the millionaire, and then Sidey's true worth had been discovered, and both men had been fired. Rightly so. But thereafter, unless he was right off beam this time, Sidey had been murdered at Kohn's instigation.

Why should Kohn want Sidey dead?

Conceivably because he knew more than he should about the millionaire's new company, and on that assumption, Martin also knew something. Martin, then, was working with Kohn – and perhaps he too was in danger of his life.

“It doesn't clear up very much,” the Toff admitted to himself, and he turned the wheel of his Frazer-Nash towards Gresham Terrace. To do so he had to make a sharp turn, and as he was concentrating on it, a car shot out of a turning opposite.

It happened as quickly as that.

The car had been without lights, and in the shadows. The Toff had not even seen that it was approaching, had not heard the engine until it accelerated sharply, rasping through the comparative silence of the night.

Rollison did the only thing he could, and trod heavily on the accelerator. Even then he wondered whether he would be in time; for a split-second it seemed that the other car would crash into him, striking the Frazer-Nash broadside. He knew fear in that split-second, a fear which was worse because there was little he could do.

And the the crash came.

The oncoming car struck the Frazer-Nash on the rear wheel, and the smaller car swivelled round, completely out of control. The Toff was jolted violently against the windscreen as the car reeled over to the right. He had been travelling at forty after the acceleration, and if he crashed it would mean serious injury at least.

He felt debris flying about him, and a piece struck the windscreen of the Frazer-Nash, dropping back after powdering the safety glass. The blow paralyzed him for a moment, made it impossible for him to regain control, while the car heeled over sickeningly.

 

 

It was one of the worst moments of the Toff's life.

It would have been better had he been able to do anything at all, but to sit there with his mind active but his body helpless took him almost to the pitch of despair. He knew that the car had crashed into him deliberately, knew that this was another move on the part of Irma and Kohn, knew that he should have been expecting it. And in truth he had been prepared for an attack, but the way the other car had shot from the shadows had beaten him completely.

The Frazer-Nash struck something on the kerb, shuddered, and then very slowly sank back on all four wheels; the engine stalled.

There was a moment when the Toff was there alone, seeing what had happened. A street lamp, its light doused, had stopped the car from going over, but the standard itself was broken. It crashed down across the bonnet of the Frazer-Nash, and glass splintered about Rollison's head.

And then came footsteps, shouts of alarm, and the shrill blast of a policeman's whistle.

Rollison, for once in his life, was half-carried from the car, and he heard a man say gruffly:

“Lucky beggar—he ought to've been dead.”

“Don't say such a thing, George!” A woman sounded shocked.

“I mean nine times out'a ten he would'a been. Wasn't his fault, I see what happened. The other car come across, and that lamp was out. Funny, that's what it looks to me.”

Rollison was helped to the railings of a house, and he leaned against them thankfully, more stunned than hurt. He fumbled for his whisky flask; a swig, neat, did him good. A sensible policeman made no attempt to ask questions, but started a search for the driver of the other car, which had come off far more badly than the Toff's.

Someone offered Rollison a cigarette.

“Thanks,” he said, and accepted a light. “All right, constable, I'm doing fine. Is the other poor chap hurt?”

The policeman had come back now that three others had responded to his whistle, and in the dim light from distant lamps he looked puzzled and perturbed.

“He's not there, sir.”

The Toff stared.

“Not
there
?”

“No, sir. He must have jumped out when he saw it coming. Come and have a look for yourself.”

The Toff accepted the invitation, and went towards the wreckage of the car which had crashed into him. Thirty or forty people had already gathered and dozens more were trailing up, to be moved on by the police. Rollison's mind was working fast again, and he knew the solution to this mystery before he saw the wreckage of the big car, which was unrecognizable, smashed to smithereens.

“Constable, I'd like to get away from here, straight to the Yard. Report this just as it's happened, and if you'll feel happier, send a man to the Yard with me.”

The constable stared.

“I—oh, Mr.
Roll
ison.” He touched his helmet, and made it clear that he did not consider it necessary for the Toff to go to the Yard under escort. Rollison left the fringe of the crowd and the policemen to the immediate problem of clearing the wreckage, and walked slowly – for he felt a little unsteady – towards Westminster.

Kohn, quite obviously, was quickening the pace.

There was no specific reason for going to the Yard, except that this crash must be reported to McNab, and it would look far better if he did it personally. There was, of course, a chance that McNab would not be at his office, but that hard-working officer proved to be at his desk, with a sergeant sitting at his side. He looked up when the Toff entered, and started.

“Rollison, what's the matter?”

“Matter?” asked the Toff, genuinely surprised.

“Your forehead, mon!” McNab pushed his chair back, while the Toff rubbed a hand across his forehead, to find that the blood from a cut had congealed. He realized that he must appear to be in a far worse state than he was.

McNab said abruptly: “All right, Wilson, we'll finish that tomorrow. Come along to the first-aid-room, Rollison.”

A mirror showed Rollison that he looked a scarecrow, and certainly gave evidence of being in a rough-house. He washed, to find the cut not serious, although McNab insisted on dabbing iodine on it, and was only just prevented from using sticking-plaster. Brushed, his hair tidied, and his clothes smoothed down, Rollison felt much better. The effect of the smash was wearing off.

McNab's office was empty when they returned.

“Now, then, what is it?” demanded McNab.

“The truth, and nothing but the truth,” said Rollison. “A simple enough matter, Mac. A lamp bulb or two had been removed to make the corner of Gresham Terrace dark, and a car was waiting for me on the other side of the road. The driver hurtled it at me, and jumped clear before he could suffer any harm. A good try, if an old one—the old tricks always come off best.”

“Who was it?”

“I'm not a seer! But it's connected with the Sidey business, of course.”

McNab settled back in his chair, and demanded to know just what the Toff had been up to. Rollison gave him a brief outline. He had no desire, yet, for the police to know too much – and he had sound reasons for that.

The police, of course, would tackle Benson directly that man was incriminated. They might also go for Kohn, and almost certainly they would question Irma if it were known she was in any way connected. To do that might stop the whole plot from maturing at once, but there was no definite evidence against Kohn or Irma, and Benson was only useful because he might lead the Toff to bigger things.

McNab listened, his chunky face expressionless, a pipe drooping from the corner of his thick lips. His light blue eyes stared unwaveringly at the Toff, who was in no way disconcerted.

McNab shrugged at last.

“This doesn't tell me enough, Rollison. You've been looking round friends of Sidey, you say, and—och, it's nonsense!” went on McNab, lapsing into broad Scots. “I'm not fule enough to believe ye've told me all there is to tellit, Rollison. Ye'll find one day ye'll be killit before ye've been wise an' come here with a full story.”

“It will be a sad day,” said the Toff sorrowfully, “but I'm hoping for the best. What have you been doing?”

The Chief Inspector lifted a stubby forefinger.

“Trying all I know, Rolleeson, with no results. Sidey's wife knows nothing, or pretends she doesn't. Sidey was running straight until he was dismissed from his job, and then it seems he fell back into his old ways. For the rest—there's nothing to be told.”

“So you're no further ahead.”

“Not an inch,” said McNab.

“A pity,” said the Toff, and then gently: “Sidey's wife—Minnie, isn't it?
Does
she know anything?”

“She insists that she doesn't.”

“Hmm,” said the Toff, and McNab made no further comment, which was in itself surprising, for it was virtually an invitation for the Toff to try to find out something from Minnie Sidey. It was obvious that McNab was completely puzzled, and that the police had so far unearthed nothing which would incriminate Kohn or lead to Irma.

The Toff was neither surprised nor sorry.

There would be time for the police later, and he would not delay it unnecessarily. But was keenly aware that precipitate action might lose him the day – and in spite of his caution, McNab could be precipitate.

 

The Toff returned to Gresham Terrace, pondering the Martin-Sidey-Minnie angle, and deciding that Minnie must be interviewed, and soon.

Not unnaturally, he considered that the Wrightson angle was, for the time being, the least important.

He was not to be blamed for that assumption. To all appearances it was a matter which concerned the private lives of Wrightson and Renway, and there appeared to be no sound reason for connecting it with the Irma-Renway tie-up. He did not dismiss the possibility that it was connected, of course, but certainly he would not have been surprised to learn that Irma was uninterested in Jim Wrightson.

Nor did he see any object in visiting Phyllis Bailey.

Anthea had, in fact, yielded more than he had expected in the way of assistance. His own talk with Wrightson had been informative, but Wrightson was the type of youngster who would get on his high horse quickly if he learned that his Phyllis was being questioned. He had enough on his mind as it was, and the Toff went to bed early, prepared for a day in the East End on the morrow, to find – if it were findable – what he could about the part Charlie Wray had played in this affair.

Which was not likely to be welcomed by Wray.

And which did nothing to help Phyllis Bailey, although she had no idea that she needed help. Despite the interlude with Jim Wrightson on the previous night, she had found herself that day convinced that the engagement was doing him more harm than good. She had convinced herself that he hated the thought of a break with his uncle, a break inevitable while she was engaged to him.

The bridge-party on the following night found her inattentive, and unpopular with her partner. She missed a Grand Slam which a beginner would have called, at a moment when she was wondering whether to tell Jim, to telephone him, or to write to him.

Renway had made it clear not only that he considered her a scheming hussy, but that she would do his nephew considerable harm if she persisted in the engagement. That night, particularly, she was more concerned because she knew it was zero hour. The old man would either withdraw his objections, or the break would come.

If it did come?

She was robbing Jim of his prospects, standing in his way and doing a lot more harm than she could possibly do good. If she made a firm stand on the following evening – provided Paul Renway had maintained his objections – she would have much more self-respect. It would at least serve to prove just how much Jim cared.

Had she been honest with herself she would have admitted that was her chief concern.

The prospect was not a cheerful one, and she disliked the long bus ride back to Chelsea, since it allowed her to dwell on the situation. When at last she reached the bus stop she hurried along Dray Street – in the better residential part of Chelsea – anxious to get home, and find someone to talk to.

She would not have noticed the men who were waiting opposite the house had they not stepped forward. She started; it was dark here, and she could see little more than their outline.

“Excuse me, Miss …”

“I beg your pardon?” Phyllis sounded stiff.

“I hope I haven't startled you.” The shorter of the two men was speaking, his voice suave. “Are you Miss Bailey—Miss Phyllis Bailey?”

“I am.” Her thoughts flew immediately to Jim. “Is there something the matter?”

“Nothing serious.” The speaker smiled, and his expression was pleasant enough. “Mr. Wrightson …”

So it was Jim. Her eyes narrowed, and she waited tensely for the man to go on. In that moment she realized more than ever before how much Jim mattered.

“A slight accident in his car,” said the shorter man, easily. “Nothing to worry about, I assure you, but he would like to see you at the St. John's Wood house. If you are free, of course.”

“I'll go at once.” She started to turn back to the main road. “No need to worry about buses,” said the stranger. “Jim asked me to come and collect you.” He pointed to the car on the other side of the road. “We'll be there in twenty minutes.” There was something in his smile that she did not like, and on the spur of the moment she said: “I'll have to slip in and tell my mother.”

As she spoke there was a queer impression in her mind that all was not as it should be. She knew few of Jim's friends, and from the short man's mention of his name it seemed he was a friend – but this was hardly the way Jim would have sent for her. And why had
two
men been waiting?

The speaker's next words came quickly.

“It won't help, I'm afraid. We've knocked several times, but had no answer.”

Phyllis frowned, for she had had no idea that her family would be out. She excused herself and unlocked the door with her key. There was no one in, and she left a brief note:
I'll be back late
.

That was enough to prevent her parents from worrying. “All clear?” asked the man smoothly as she reappeared. “Will you sit in the front with me, or do you prefer the back?” “The back, please.” “Right-ho! Hop in!”

Phyllis obeyed, and a few seconds later the car, a modern streamlined Austin, moved silently from the kerb. She was more worried than she showed; a slight mishap might mean anything, and Jim would not alarm her unnecessarily. At least, he was at his home and not at a hospital, a reassuring thought.

It was warm in the car.

It grew warmer, and she felt tired. Her head dropped once or twice, and she closed her eyes, only to force herself awake again quickly and look round, uncertain where she was. The third time she did not open her eyes, and her breathing grew very soft and regular.

The car did not go to St. John's Wood, but took the main Essex road.

At a junction of the road across Epping Forest the Austin stopped and the smooth-voiced driver – none other than ‘Ritzy' Martin – stepped out. The road was deserted, but even had a dozen people passed they would have thought it nothing but thoughtfulness to tuck the rug round the knees of the sleeping girl.

He jumped back into his seat and slammed the door.

“She's all right,” he said. “Sweet dreams until the morning and then a thick head. After that—well, we don't have to worry.”

“Ask Mr. Ruddy K.,” grunted the taller man, whose voice was a long way from pleasant, and would have aroused Phyllis's suspicions had she heard it. It was harsh, ill-educated, and certainly not that of a man whom Jim Wrightson was likely to call a friend.

The run to Epping had been made to ensure that no one had followed, and they turned back, eventually reaching a house in Leaning Street, Aldgate.