The Toff on Fire (14 page)

“Okay,” he said at last, “I'll get her.”

 

 

The telephone bell rang in Esmeralda's room.

The flat was a small one in a narrow street which led off Shepherd Market, that tiny village in the heart of May-fair. She was in the flat alone, for it was after ten o'clock, and the friend who shared this with her left for her office each morning at nine o'clock.

Esmeralda said: “Damn!”

She was sitting cross-legged on a single bed, with the sunlight shining on her from a small window, and it made her hair look lovely and her face quite beautiful. The eagerness in her green-grey eyes gave her a fresh vitality, too, and she kept smiling, a little tautly. In front of her, and all around her, were several newspapers, and she looked from one to another, reading them all. The stop press item fascinated her.

The bell rang again.

She pushed the newspapers aside, and leaned forward to try to reach the telephone without getting up, but it was out of reach. So, she pushed the papers away and slid off the bed. She was wearing a bottle green house jacket, open at the front, and panties and a brassiere, and the little gas fire didn't keep the room warm. She shivered as she picked up the telephone.

“Hallo.”

“Is that Miss Esmeralda Gale?”

“Yes.” She was almost curt.

“Miss Gale,” the caller said, in a rather high-pitched voice, “I'm speaking for the
Weekly Call.
We are very interested in having a story from you—”

“So are several magazines,” Esmeralda said, brusquely.

The man chuckled.

“I'm not surprised! But I doubt, if you will get any better offer than ours, Miss Gale, we are able to pay extremely well for exclusive stories. We have in mind four or five weekly instalments about this matter between the Toff and the—the Doc—at say two hundred and fifty pounds for each. If that interests you—”

“Well,” said Esmeralda, less brusquely, “I can't pretend that it makes me want to ring off. “But—” Her eyes began to shine.

“Knowing how many people will be worrying you,” the man said, “we thought it would be wise if we were to come to terms quickly. May I call and see you?”

“When?”

“In a few minutes. I am speaking from a box near your flat. And if it appeals to you, then we can go straight to my office, and make final arrangements.”

“Give me ten minutes,” said Esmeralda, “and I will certainly talk about it with you. I can't make any promises at this stage, though.”

“I quite understand that,” said the man with the high-pitched voice. “I'll call on you in ten minutes.”

He rang off.

Esmeralda put the receiver down slowly, hesitated, and flung her arms up in the air and gave a little jig.

“I can't help it if Rollison thinks I'm a beast, I knew it would earn a fortune! If he only knew how I
long
to get my hands on some real money. It can't
do
any harm, either.”

Then in a flurry of quicksilver movement, she started to dress, putting on a dark red suit. In nine minutes she was ready, and in ten the front door bell rang. The little flat was in a shocking mess, she knew the breakfast things were still on the table in the living-room, and neither bed was made. She put on a black sealskin coat, then a small black hat, picked up her handbag and hurried to the door.

A tall, thin-faced man stood on the step.

“Miss Gale? I'm from the
Call.”
He smiled as he spoke, and she didn't particularly like the way his lips curled, but that didn't worry her; she hadn't actually liked any of the men to whom she had talked last evening. “If I may come in—”

“I thought we'd go straight to your office,” said Esmeralda, “unless you—”

His smile widened, and he looked pleased.

“Yes, of course, if you're ready to do that. My car's just along the road.” It wasn't in the lane, but in the square, a hundred yards away. They walked towards it, passed by some of the villagers, passed a man pushing a fruit barrow and calling his wares.

The car was an Austin Cambridge, with a driver.

Esmeralda got in the back, when the man opened the door. He climbed in after her. She flopped down on the seat, and then eased herself up to straighten her skirt. The man offered cigarettes, and she took one readily, drew in the smoke, and settled down.

“Where is your office?” she asked.

“The main offices are in Fleet Street,” the man said, “but we may have to go to a sub-office afterwards. You're not in any hurry, I hope.”

“Oh, no,” said Esmeralda helpfully, “I've plenty of time.”

It was five minutes afterwards, when they turned into Piccadilly, that she first began to feel tired. She blinked and told herself that she mustn't doze off, she wanted to be at her brightest. But her eyelids seemed to get heavier and heavier, and she started to yawn. It wasn't as if she'd been very late the night before, but the night before that—

Her eyes closed.

Vaguely, she heard the man say: “Okay, Jack, she's off.”

Off? What did that mean? She was off? Off where? What was he talking about—

She
was off!

He was talking about her, he obviously knew she would soon go to sleep, he had expected it. She was
off.
She forced her eyes open, stared at him, and saw his expression change; he was sneering at her. She tried to get up, but her limbs felt stiff and her body heavy. Her hand touched the handle of the door but slid off it, and the man pulled her back and then held her down on her seat.

Sleep swept over her, killing fear.

Rollison woke.

He could feel pressure at his shoulder, and resented it; he didn't want to wake. But the pressure was insistent, and he was being shaken firmly. This would be Jolly. He was snug and warm and his eyes were so tightly closed that he knew he hadn't had anything like enough sleep; he must get rid of Jolly. It was no use him walking about like a sleep-walker.

“… is waiting, sir,” Jolly said, as if from a long way off.

“… really important, sir.”

There was a moment's pause, as Rollison tried to open his eyes, and then Jolly stopped shaking him, and there was a different sound, at the door; a different voice, too.

“All right, Jolly, I'll wake him.”

That was Grice.

Rollison worked his arms out of the bedclothes, and slowly held them up, as in a token of surrender. Then he began to hitch himself up; yawning. There was a clink of cups. He blinked at Grice, who stood at the foot of the bed, tall and good-looking in his sallow, tight-skinned way, his expression quite neutral. Jolly was pouring out tea. Bless Jolly.

“Thanks,” said Rollison, and took a cup. He sipped, then squinted up. “Morning, Bill.”

“It's half-past two.”

“Afternoon, Bill.”

“Where were you last night?”

“Out.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Just out.”

“Exactly what were you doing?”

Rollison sipped again, put the cup and saucer on a bedside table, and waved his hands and smiled amiably. Then he wished he hadn't, for his split lip stung, and he winced. But he still waved his arms, and said: “Burgling houses and things.”

“For once I believe you. What made you break into Dr. Marling's home?”

Rollison stared. “Whose?”

“You heard me.”

“The trouble is that I haven't heard of the doctor you spoke of, as far as I recall. Marling, did you say?”

He picked up his cup again, and retained a bland expression, but he was by no means sure that he could get away with this. Grice had jumped to the right conclusion, and if Grice thought that it would help, he would drive his accusation home; provided he had any evidence. Had he? It was conceivable but unlikely that the Toff had been recognised, but—

Forget it.

Grice was alone, which meant that he didn't want any official notice taken of what he was saying. So this visit was not really ominous.

“Yes,” Grice said, “I meant Dr. Marling. He is feeling pretty mad about a man who broke into his house, and afterwards attacked him with ammonia gas. So are two of my men, who had the same treatment and whose car was stolen—”

“Police
car stolen?” Rollison gaped. “Surely—”

“All right,” said Grice, “I doubt if I could prove it, even if I tried. Stop fooling, and listen. How well do you know Esmeralda Gale?”

“Hardly at all.”

“Is that true?”

“Absolutely true. I met her at a cocktail party—but I've told you all about this,” protested Rollison.

“I know,” said Grice, “and now I think I believe you, so it shouldn't make a lot of difference to you. She's missing.”

“What?”

“She left her flat this morning with a strange man, was driven off in a dark blue Austin Cambridge, and hasn't been seen since. She was to have lunched with her aunt, Mrs. Wylie, but didn't turn up. Where is she?”

Rollison didn't speak.

“I know that she put a spanner into your works when she talked so much to the Press,” Grice said, “but that doesn't mean that you can hide her away and—”

“Wrong,” said Rollison, and he knew that Grice would need no more telling that this was the truth. “I don't know where she is. I haven't seen her since she was here, and—are you sure about this?”

“Positive.”

“But she can't have been gone long—”

“That isn't the point. She was to have seen her aunt, and it was an important matter. Do you know much about Miss Gale?”

“Hardly a thing, except that she wouldn't exactly frighten me on a dark night.”

“She is the daughter of a wealthy man who died heavily in debt,” said Grice, “and she was left without training for any job, without any way of earning the kind of living she was used to. You probably know that. She's an independent type, and wouldn't take too much charity from her aunt and uncle, so got along on her own. Wylie thinks she told the press about this for what they'd pay her. He's pretty mad about the way she talked, you can imagine that he doesn't relish the newspapers this morning. He hasn't approved of a lot of the things she's done. The luncheon with her aunt was to talk about that, and she wouldn't be likely to cut it deliberately.”

Rollison finished his tea and said: “Probably not.” He pushed back the bedclothes, and got out of bed. “Ugly. Any ideas, Bill?”

“Not about Miss Gale.” Grice hesitated, as Rollison began to dress, with Jolly handing him his clothes. “I can only say that if she is in the hands of the Doc, I wouldn't like to say what will happen to her.” Grice didn't raise his voice, and that made his words sound even more ominous. “You know the kind of thing the Doc's been doing, now, and I've a clearer picture. I picked up several of the boys last night, and they told me more about the Doc than I wanted to hear.”

“Get anything out of Galloway, the man who was here?”

“No more than you did,” Grice said.

“What about Penn—the chap your fellows held in Throgmorton Square when the Rickett baby was kidnapped?”

“He won't talk at all,” said Grice. “The general picture is identical, though. They contact the Doc at telephone numbers which are changed frequently, or they meet other men by appointment—as Galloway met the man who was with him at your flat—each having the same instructions. The Doc doesn't exactly trust his followers.”

“Wisdom in villainy,” Rollison said. “What about that egg?”

“It's still being studied at an Army Research station,” Grice said. “All I know is that it's made up partly of flame thrower oil, with a detonator to set it off on the concussion principle. A kind of hand-grenade.”

“One word,” Rollison said. “Alarming.”

“That's it. And that's why I'm talking to you, and that's why I'm asking you if you've any reason to believe that Dr. Jonathan Marling is associated with the Doc. Never mind whether you were there last night, or what reason you have for suspicion—just tell me whether you suspect him? If you do—”

There was a sharp ring at the front door of the flat, repeated almost before the echo had died. Jolly, hovering in the doorway, moved round; Grice, the thread of what he was saying broken, glanced at the door with annoyance, Rollison was now dressed except for collar, tie and coat.

The sound of Jolly's footsteps across the flat faded; the door was opened.

Then:
“Oh!”
exclaimed Jolly, in a voice which seemed loaded with alarm.

Rollison was as near the door as Grice, and reached it a foot in front of him, brushing against him as he went out. He heard another man – realised that there were several people coming into the flat. He was prepared for anything; for the frontal attack which could quite easily come from the Doc – but there was Jolly, and if Jolly was in acute danger—

“Careful with her,” a man said gruffly.

Rollison reached the door through which he could see what was happening; and he froze to a standstill. Jolly was backing away from the open door. Several men, two of them carrying cameras, were outside, two were coming in – and between them they carried a woman.

Rollison didn't recognise her.

She was half-conscious. Her face was bruised and battered. Some of her hair had been pulled out. Her clothes were torn. The two men who made a chair for her carried her gently across to a big couch, and laid her on it. As they did so, Rollison saw the cards which were pinned to her clothes.

They were his cards; the cards he had delivered the night before.

 

 

As the men put the woman down, she groaned. Rollison was already moving to the bureau where Dan Rickett had left his note and so begun all this. He lifted the telephone and dialled a number. Men streamed into the flat, and cameras were raised, flashlights made the room bright. There was a hum of talk, outside and inside the flat, but Rollison was oblivious of most of this. He studied the injured woman and the cards, and listened to the dialling sound.

He was answered. “This is Dr. Harrison's residence.”

“Is Dr. Harrison in?” Rollison asked. “It's Richard Rollison here.”

“Yes, sir, I'll put you through.”

“Ask him to come across to my flat at once, will you?” asked Rollison. “An accident case.” He put down the receiver, and went quickly across to the woman. She had stopped moaning, and was looking about her. Jolly was coming from the bathroom, carrying a bowl of water and a sponge. Grice was standing over the couch, as if forbidding anyone to come nearer, but no one tried. More cameras clicked and flashed as Rollison drew near.

The woman was staring up at him.

“You—you—you're Mr. Rollison,” she said, in a husky voice, as if it hurt her to speak. “You—you're the Toff.”

In spite of the bruises, in spite of the bleeding, he recognised her. He had seen her photograph at Rose Cottage, where her mother and her father had been murdered. This was Evie Rickett, mother of the baby whom the police were looking after. She began to shiver, and someone said: “Bring a blanket,” but Rollison only heard that as if it had been uttered a long way off.

“Yes, I'm Richard Rollison,” he said, and went down on one knee beside the woman, and smiled. “I've some good news for you.”

She stared at him, her face puckering.

“Good
news?”

“Very good,” he assured her, “your baby is quite safe and quite well. He's in a nursing home, with a strong police guard. You will be with him soon, too.”

She tried to sit up, although obviously movement hurt her. She gripped his hands tightly, and seemed as if she meant to pull him towards her. Her eyes blazed with an indescribable radiance.

“Is that true, is—is Baby—”

“Quite safe. Quite well.”

“Oh, thank God,” she said, “thank God.”

Then, she began to cry, sinking back on to the cushions and putting her hands to her face; and it seemed as if she would never stop crying. Jolly came back with the blanket, and one of the women newspaper reporters came forward and picked up the sponge and wrung it out. Rollison hadn't noticed their going, but several of the others had gone, now, in a rush to their newspapers or telephones. Two policemen had arrived, and were at the open door.

Grice touched Rollison's shoulder.

“Yes, Bill?”

“You'd better handle her,” Grice said. “I shouldn't think she's dangerously hurt, and if we can get a statement before she's taken to a nursing-home—”

“No nursing-home, unless it's essential—she stays here,” said Rollison gruffly. “I think the injuries are superficial, too. Just to impress us. How the devil she got here—”

“I've just been told,” Grice said, “she was thrown out of a car at the end of the street. A reporter chased the car, we haven't heard whether it has been traced yet. She kept saying the same thing over and over again, she had to see you, it was a matter of life and death, and the newspapermen decided they'd better bring her up.”

“Good thing she wasn't worse than she is,” Rollison said. He spoke almost absently, while taking out cigarettes. “Here's Harrison, we'll soon know the score.” He went to the doorway to greet a middle-aged, bullet-headed man dressed in dark grey, and who carried a large black box-like case. He had florid cheeks and bright blue eyes, and seemed to regard everything that he saw here with complete equanimity.

“Thanks, Charles,” Rollison said. “Here she is. I'd like her to stay here, if a nurse is all she needs for a bit, and we'd like her to talk.”

“Really matter?”

“Yes.”

“All right,” said Harrison, and went across to Evie Rickett, who was still crying.

Twenty minutes later, she looked better. Her face had been bathed and the bruises and the cuts treated. She was a mass of sticking plaster, but no stitches had been necessary. Her hair was drawn back from her forehead, throwing her pleasant features into sharper relief. Jolly had taken the cards from her dress, one by one and with great care, and they were on the bureau. Two C.I.D. men had arrived, and Grice was giving them instructions – to look for the reporter who had followed the car, and to have the cards tested for fingerprints.

Harrison said: “No reason to move her, get her into that spare room of yours, that's all. I'll arrange for a nurse—”

“We'll do that,” Grice said, quickly.

“Please yourself,” said Harrison, “all that matters is that she feels secure. In spite of Rolly here, I'd have guards back and front, and a couple on the roof if I were you.”

“Thanks,” said Grice, dryly. “I will.”

Rollison said: “Thanks, Charles, you're always on the spot.” Then he forgot Harrison, and turned back to the couch. Evie Rickett's swollen eyes and puffy lips would have told their tale without the cuts and bruises; but she was much calmer, and didn't hesitate to speak.

“You won't let anything happen to Baby, will you? You won't let him be—be taken again.”

“You haven't a thing to worry about with him,” Rollison said, “he's as safe as the Crown Jewels.” He won a smile.

“I'd like to know what happened to you after you left here,” he said gently. “Will you try to tell us?”

She hesitated. Tears were very close to her eyes, and Rollison wondered whether she would be able to bring herself to talk; but gradually she began, and the story unfolded graphically and in a way which made all the people present feel a deep and bitter hatred towards the man who had caused this suffering.

She did not say that she knew her husband was a crack, burglar, or that he had the proceeds of a big robbery hidden away. She just said that the Doc wanted something from him, and he would not give it up. The Doc had threatened the baby, and:

“We just had to get him away,” Evie said, “we knew the Doc's men were after us, and we couldn't get far. Dan said you'd see that Baby was all right, he said he'd back you against the Doc any day, so we brought him to you, and—”

She broke off, choking.

No one spoke, before she went on: “Then we had to get down to my Ma and Pa, at Guild ford, we was flat broke, and we knew they'd lend us a bit of ready. Dan was all for getting out of the country, but—”

She nearly broke down again.

Gradually, the whole story came out. The old couple getting the money from a hiding-place, while Dan Rickett was working on the motor-cycle, which had been missing badly. Desperately anxious to make sure that her child was all right, Evie had called Rollison.

“And then Dan started blowing his horn, so I knew something was up. A car came up, nearly crashed into Dan it did, and men jumped out and come at me. My mum tried to stop him—”

The men had killed both the old folk, and carried her and Dan away, with the motor-cycle fastened inside the boot of the big car. She hadn't seen Dan since they'd been taken out of the car an hour or so later, blindfolded so that they could not see where they were.

Now the story was told, Evie looked so white that she might faint at any moment.

“Evie, just tell us this,” Rollison said. “Where have they kept you?”

“I don't know,” Evie said wearily, “it's been in a big cellar, that's all I know, I think it was beneath a pub.” She paused again, and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. “There was a smell of beer and spirits, you can't mistake it, I—but what does it matter? They kept threatening Baby, they said if they couldn't make Dan do what they wanted, they'd kill Baby.”

“What do they want so badly?” asked Rollison.

Evie's reddened, roughened hands clenched, and her shoulder squared. She looked at him levelly, and it was obvious that she had no thought for herself, only for her husband. She looked at Grice and at the two policemen, swift, fleeting glances, and then she said with great deliberation: “It's no use asking me, I don't know.”

She knew.

She would probably deny it even under threat of death, but she knew that her Dan was a thief, she knew that he had made a big haul which the Doc wanted from him; but she would not betray her man.

“All right,” said Rollison, and smiled as if he believed her. “What else can you tell us, Evie? Have you seen any of the men at this place that smells like a pub?”

“No, they—they put some drops in my eyes, I couldn't see, it wasn't until this morning that I could see,” she said, “and then they put a bandage round my eyes. Someone took it off after I was thrown out, and—”

“That's right, sir, according to a statement I was given,” a policeman said to Grice.

Grice nodded.

“What's the point in me lying?” asked Evie Rickett, and she looked almost scornfully at the speaker. “I just haven't seen anyone, Mr. Rollison. It's no use asking me. If—if I could do anything to help you catch the swine, do you think I wouldn't?”

“You'd help,” Rollison said, and hesitated before he asked her: “Did you have to bring any message for me?”

“Yes,” she said, huskily.

“What was it?”

She drew a deep breath.

“I was to tell you that if you didn't throw your hand in, Esmeralda Gale would get a lot worse than I got. That's the message, that's all I can tell you.” Evie drew back, now, and closed her eyes and her voice dropped to a whisper. “I can't talk any more, I just can't talk, but—I want to see my baby. Please can I see my baby?”