Here Comes the Toff (7 page)

He went on talking.

Most of what he said was nonsense, the kind of nonsense he was apt to talk at some length. But he was watching the door closely all the time, and he saw the hand that appeared round it. A hand holding a gun.

He paused for a moment, and as silence descended the gun disappeared. The door was open only just wide enough for the gun and hand to get through.

Irma said something, and Rollison hardly knew what it was.

He slid his own right hand to his coat pocket after transferring the telephone to the left, and drew out an automatic. He talked back, and as he started speaking the gun showed again. He felt on tenterhooks as he levelled his own gun towards the hand at the door. “And then,” he said to Irma, “I might believe you. But not now, certainly not now.”

The brim of a hat showed at the door, which was opening slowly, stealthily.

“Rollison, listen to me, I want …”

And then the man at the door came through, his finger on the trigger of his automatic, while Rollison squeezed his own trigger at the same time. Two flashes of flame, two silenced shots – and the telephone crashed from Rollison's hand.

 

 

In the Toff's life things happened swiftly or not at all; or at least it seemed that way. The moments of preparation, the seconds which had seemed like hours while the man at the door had waited for the best moment to shoot were forgotten.

There was the gunman reeling back behind the door, while his gun hit the carpet. There was the Toff, his left wrist strained by the way the telephone had been shattered in his grasp. It was in pieces, now, on the floor. And the shock at his wrist, stabbing through him and momentarily sending him off his balance, stopped him from moving as fast as he wanted.

The door banged as he started for it.

He had struck the gunman's automatic and not his wrist; he knew that, for he had seen no sign of blood. Now he hesitated for a split second, uncertain whether there were more men outside. He heard a man hurrying downwards, and took a chance and opened the door quickly.

No one was in sight, but a trilby hat was lying by the wall.

The Toff went through – and then the Toff had one of those falls which he frequently claimed were good for him. He struck something with his shin without knowing what it was, and went sprawling forward. He put his shoulder down to break the impact, and the fall did not even wind him. But it lost him precious seconds, and when he stood up and hurried to the head of the stairs he knew that it was too late for him to catch the gunman.

He went down, however, and looked along Gresham Terrace.

The red rear light of a car was disappearing into Brook Street and it seemed reasonable to assume that it carried his man. Certainly it was reasonable to believe that he, Rollison, could not catch up, no matter how he tried, and in a chastened frame of mind he went back to his flat.

The thing that had tripped him was a piece of cord, tied across the doorway. Obviously, the gunman had prepared for pursuit, and dealt with the likelihood accordingly. About that attempt to kill him there was a thoroughness which the Toff, who could look at many things in a detached frame of mind, was compelled – wholly without approval – to admire.

He straightened his clothes, combed his hair, and then went thoughtfully to the telephone in his bedroom. It was a separate line, and not an extension, and he got through to the operator without trouble. He reported a damaged instrument, and then asked for a Mayfair number – the number of Irma's flat. There was some delay before she answered.

“My sweet,” said the Toff in his most honeyed voice, “I am going to wring your neck for that.”

He heard Irma gasp.

That in itself was an achievement, and did something to restore his self-respect, for he knew that it was her first intimation that the attack had failed. He went on: “I let your little man get away, Irma, as I can put him in jail when I want to. I saw that murder, you know—the Sidey murder. But I haven't quite connected him up with you and Kohn, and I don't propose to risk another acquittal. Am I understood?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Irma said harshly.

“Don't you, my darling? Think hard, and it might pierce the little grey cells. My love to Leo, and tell Benson I think he's a punk gunman.”

“I don't know …”

“What I'm talking about, of course. You said so before,” went on the Toff, “and doubtless you'll say it when you're in a dock on a murder charge which you can't wriggle out of. It's after the trial that I'm going to squeeze your lovely neck, metaphorically. The silken hemp will tighten very quickly, Irma, which is a pity in some ways, I think; there ought to be a method of prolonging the deed for ladies like you, and gentlemen like Leo. Oh, and before I go—has Benson found his other boot yet?”

Irma used words which were not nice from a lady, and the Toff reproved her before he rang down abruptly, smoothed his hair, and glanced at his watch.

It wanted two minutes to seven.

Rollison frowned, for Jolly had not yet returned and he suspected that Renway was one of those impossible men who are always punctual. It was unlike Jolly to be late, and the Toff wondered whether it was possible that an accident, in the way of an attack, had befallen him. There was nothing that could be done at that moment to investigate, and the Toff picked up the pieces of the broken telephone, frowned, and then cut the wire close to the wall. It would have been difficult to explain the damaged instrument to Renway; he would not have been able to miss seeing it when he arrived.

It was now seven o'clock precisely.

The front-door bell rang, and Rollison's estimate of Renway's punctuality proved right. Renway came in, a man of medium height, well wrapped in a heavy coat, wearing a trilby pulled down over his forehead, mufflered, and yet obviously cold. The room was warm, and the Toff shepherded his guest to a chair near the fire and busied himself at the cocktail cabinet. He asked questions …

“Sherry, please, Rollison. Very dry. Can you manage that, I wonder? So many of you younger people seem to think that sherry is a drink of the past, but believe me …”

“Amontillado,” said the Toff amiably.

“Oh, excellent, excellent.”

The Toff, with one eye on the door, felt considerable relief, for Renway was not going to demand to see the picture immediately. Would Jolly come in time? And if he failed, would Renway be easily put off with apologies?

It was not, thought the Toff, a good moment.

He studied Renway as the latter sat back, warming his feet in front of the wide electric fire. A stouter man than he had first appeared to Rollison, there was no doubting the lines of worry at his eyes and mouth. He seemed older than he was, for the Toff had discovered that he was not yet sixty, while he would have passed for a man of seventy anywhere. His hair was more white than grey, his eyes were watery and red-rimmed, and he looked as if he suffered from insomnia. His skin was white and puffy, and he had every appearance of a sick man. A faint blueness at his nose suggested to the Toff that Renway might suffer from a weak heart; the lobes of his ears suggested the same thing.

His voice was mellow and pleasant, however, and untroubled.

He was dressed in a dinner-jacket of old-fashioned cut, and made no attempt to ape youth – which was a little surprising in a man who was setting his cap at so youthful a beauty as Irma. Everything about Paul Renway, in fact – even before he started talking – suggested that he was a self-made man who cared nothing for appearances.

“Take me for what I am,” he seemed to say, “that's all I want.”

The Toff, seeing this, was not displeased, but he was getting more concerned about the missing de Rossi. Could one invite an expert to pass judgement on a picture which was not there?

“Ve-ry, ve-ry good,” said Renway, holding his glass up and regarding the amber liquid with an appreciative eye. “I'm glad to know that all modern taste is not debased, Rollison. These fiendish cocktails—paugh!”

“They show,” said the Toff, leaping at the opportunity, “the effects of a speed-crazy world. Neurosis rules the land, the youngsters don't know whether they're coming or going, excitement—spirits—fun and games all the time. It's deplorable.”

“An admirable sentiment, Rollison, admirable! You know, when you telephoned me about that picture …”

The Toff held his breath, but retained a poker face.

“About that picture,” repeated Renway, as if with malice, “I was most interested, Rollison. I've heard many rumours about you, you know. Queer stories.”

“Ah,” thought the Toff, “I'm saved.” Aloud: “Have you?”

“Oh, yes. Quite a reputation in your way, I'm told. A strange habit, investigating crime. It is a habit, of course? Of course,” added Paul Renway, turning the question into a statement, “but it can be assumed that you find considerable interest in it. Types, I assume. Peculiar types of men about, of course. I've always known that. Evolution, eh?” He pronounced the word as if it was his own coining, quite obviously finding it an absorbing topic.

The minutes passed, and the Amontillado sank lower in the bottle. Three cigarettes disappeared, and no Jolly had arrived; there was no picture.

“Yes,” said Renway reflectively, “I'm not usually eager to make new acquaintances, Rollison; at my time of life one knows one's friends. Frankly, I would have refused to come to see any man but yourself about that de Rossi. However, I felt that a chat would be most instructive. Most instructive. What time is it?”

“Just on a quarter to eight,” said the Toff, and prepared himself for the worst.

“A quarter to—God bless my soul! I'm due at the Embassy at eight o'clock, Rollison. That picture, quickly, please. I'll be putting my coat on.”

Rollison stood up, groaning inwardly, assisted Renway with his coat, spent some seconds looking for his hat and finally felt that some kind of act must be staged.

“It won't take a moment, Renway, and you're only five minutes from the Embassy on foot. My man will get it.”

He went to the fireplace and pressed the bell.

He knew that Jolly would not come; he wondered how he would extricate himself from this impossible situation, for Renny was already looking impatiently at his watch. Rollison was inventing what seemed to him the most likely story, that his man was under notice and thoroughly unreliable, when the door opened and Jolly entered.

The Toff stared.

“You rang, sir?” said Jolly deferentially.

“Er—yes, Jolly. That …”

“The picture, sir?” said Jolly. “I will get it at once, sir. A moment, sir.”

He retired to the kitchen quarters, while Renway looked again at his watch, and the Toff brushed his hand over his forehead and silently blessed and yet cursed Jolly. But what mattered was that the picture arrived.

Renway took one glance at it.

“My dear Rollison! To think
that
a de Rossi. It's not even a good imitation. I'm sorry, my dear fellow, extremely sorry. Now … look here, come round and see me tomorrow, I'll show you some genuine pieces. Wonderful pieces,” added Renway reverently. “Do come.”

“I'll be delighted.”

“Excellent, excellent.”

Renway nodded, and Jolly opened the door – that from which the shooting had taken place, not the one through which Renway had entered – and then he suddenly darted through into the hallway. Renway stared in astonishment, while the Toff gulped – and something, somewhere, snapped with a
twang
!

“Excuse me, sir,” said Jolly, returning, poker-faced.

Rollison showed Renway downstairs, and to his car.

As the Daimler drove off he drew a deep breath, and returned to his flat to find Jolly stooping down and picking up the cord, which was broken in the middle.

“Jolly,” said the Toff slowly, “there is something the matter with me. I forgot that possibility.”

“I saw it just in time, sir,” said Jolly. “If you will excuse me, I will put a little iodine on the graze which the breaking of it caused.” He bowed and retired, and returned to find the Toff contemplating the pieces of the broken telephone.

“Was everything satisfactory, sir?”

“Nearly,” said the Toff. “I've seen Renway, and struck up an acquaintance that will be useful in the future. He's tired, and I think he's worried, but he's very self-satisfied. Jolly, why didn't you let me know you were back?”

“I returned only a few minutes before you rang, sir. There was considerable difficulty in obtaining the picture.”

Rollison smiled crookedly.

“Trust you to have an answer, eh? Well, it worked. And, Jolly, Irma sent a nasty gunman, named Benson, I fancy, to shoot me. Instead, he gave the works to the telephone.”

“The anticipated violence, sir, is beginning.”

“Ye-es,” said the Toff. “Jolly, I'm going to Lady Anthea Munro's flat for an hour. Slip along to the Embassy and make sure that Irma and Renway are there together.”

“Very good, sir. There—er—there is one other thing.”

“Hmm-hmm?”

“The dealer who sold me the picture, sir, told me that Mr. Renway is a frequent visitor. I introduced the subject discreetly, of course. There was a point of interest which I felt should be passed on.
Mr. Renway and his nephew have been quarrelling a great deal of late.”

“Have they?” said the Toff, very thoughtfully. “Nephew and heir, isn't it?”

“Presumably, sir.”

“And they're bad friends. Over what?”

“The nephew's choice of a lady friend does not please Mr. Renway, sir.”

The Toff snorted – literally – and when he recovered himself he congratulated Jolly, after that worthy had assured him there was no more information that might be usefully obtained from the art dealer. But to Rollison the piece of gossip was significant indeed. Irma might have excellent reasons for wanting an estrangement between Renway and his nephew.

Could the unknown girl and cause of the trouble be working with Irma?