The Toff on Fire (6 page)

The two men from the car?

He peered over the edge of the banisters, to see two heavily built men approaching the foot of the stairs.

He unlocked his own front door, opened it an inch or two, then closed it with an audible click, and started down the stairs. He kept close to the wall, so that the men would not be likely to see him until they were on the same flight of stairs.

 

 

When Rollison reached the landing of the next flight, he heard the faint sound of a footfall; that was all. He went to the side of the banister and peered cautiously into the well. He could see only one of the men, but could hear the other. The stealthiness of their movements surprised him, for surely they thought he was inside the flat – and safely out of earshot. It seemed almost as if they were waiting for something to happen.

Rollison went down another flight of stairs. Then he saw a head appear, followed by another. The men reached the landing below and started for the next flight, still very cautious. He was so placed that they couldn't yet see him. As they came into full view, he jumped at them. They first saw him in mid-air, only a few feet above them, and the shock was so great that they stood as if mesmerised. He was so near that he could almost touch them with his feet when one of them gave a gasping cry, and turned to run. The other thrust his right hand towards his pocket, obviously going for a weapon, but he had no time to get it. Rollison crashed into him, bowling him over, and the man groaned as he toppled backwards. Rollison, his own fall broken, twisted to one side but couldn't save himself from falling, too. He saw several things happen at once.

The man who had turned to run was still on the move, now at the foot of this flight of stairs, turning and looking over his shoulder. He had one hand thrust outward's, as if to save himself from banging into the wall. The man on this landing hit the back of his head against the floor with a crunching thud; then he lay still, arms and legs flopping down. A gun poked out of his coat pocket, obviously that was what he had been trying to get.

If one man was armed—

Rollison rolled over, reaching for the gun. He saw the man at the foot of the stairs swing round, saw the gun in his hand, too. There was a sharp hiss of sound, and Rollison flopped on to his stomach. He thought he heard a humming sound of a bullet but it might have been imagination. He levelled the gun he had taken, and squeezed the trigger; the recoil was sharp, but the sound very subdued. He heard the bullet strike the wall below; then there was a gasp. Still on his stomach, head towards the top of the stairs, he wriggled forward to peer down.

The other man below was closer to the next flight of stairs than he had been. He held his gun cocked, but didn't look as if he enjoyed the idea of a duel. He caught sight of Rollison and fired again as Rollison took another shot at him.

“With love to the Doc,” Rollison said, “but don't add any kisses.”

The man below him darted back out of sight, and odd little sounds suggested that he was on his way down. Rollison got to his feet and moved to a spot from which he could see the hall. The man appeared close to the wall, peering upwards. He was heading for the front door, and there was little likelihood that he would come back alone.

Rollison fired again. A bullet smacked into the floor not a foot away from the other's foot. As it did so, the man leapt desperately for the street door, which was ajar. He didn't close the door as he rushed out.

Rollison relaxed, drawing the back of his hand across his forehead; he was wet with cold sweat. Then he eased his collar, dabbed at his neck, and slipped the gun into his pocket. Next he studied the unconscious man, who had fallen just clear of the hair carpet, and struck the stone floor. The blow might have put him out for ten minutes, or he might come round at any moment; and people from the other flats might come up or down the stairs.

“I hate to do it,” Rollison said. “I'd much rather make you walk.”

He bent down, hoisted the man to his shoulders, and straightened up. He staggered, but kept upright. Now and again he rested on the way up, but he reached the landing outside his front door without disaster. He was breathing very hard, and thinking harsh things about the soft life he had been living, when he felt his victim's body stiffen.

The man was coming round.

Rollison let him slide to the ground, then supported him against the wall. Two old folk had been choked to death, and this man's hands might be the hands which had done the choking. They were big and powerful. He wasn't fully conscious yet, but his eyelids were flickering, and he was able to stand upright. Rollison was grateful for the respite, and the chance to get his breath back. He took out a cigarette but didn't light it, and he waited for understanding to dawn in the other's eyes.

Those eyes opened very wide, and for the first time the man appeared to realise what had happened. He opened his mouth, and closed it again, abruptly. He squared his shoulders, looked right and left, towards the head of the stairs and then towards the unlocked door, which was within hand's reach of him.

He seemed to go stiff with fear.

“Good morning,” said Rollison politely. “Quite chilly, isn't it?”

He wasn't surprised when the man reared up, turned, and flung himself towards the stairs. Rollison promptly put out his right foot; the other tripped over it and fell headlong, this time hitting the floor with his forehead.

“First the back and then the front; you're making quite a job of it,” murmured Rollison. “But as you work for the Doc, he'll probably patch you up. If he ever sees you again, of course.” He grinned almost inanely as the other began to get to his feet. “That will depend on the little chat we're going to have.”

The man was now on his knees; swaying.

“You can do better than that,” encouraged Rollison, “get straight up and step right into my parlour.”

The man licked his lips; and there was terror in him.

He was as tall as Rollison, which meant that he stood over six feet. He was very broad, and looked very powerful. His face was ruddy-hued, as if he lived an outdoor life, and there was little doubt of his physical strength. There was nothing ugly or uncouth about him; his features were quite good, and he wasn't bad-looking.

But he was terrified.

That might be partly due to shock at coming round and finding himself a prisoner. Whatever the reason, the fear was there.

Frightened men often talked freely.

“After you,” invited Rollison, and extended his hand towards the door.

The man said: “I—I—no! Don't—”

“But I insist,” said Rollison earnestly,
“toujours la politesse
and all those continental gallantries. Inside.” He took the man's right arm and propelled him towards the door – and met a weight of resistance he hadn't expected.

Fifteen stone of flesh, bone and blood leaned heavily against him, as if in desperation.

“No! Don't—don't go in there!”

“I assure you that it's quite habitable,” Rollison said, “in fact it's fairly comfortable, even though you aren't likely to experience—” He paused. “
What
did you say?”

‘I won't', or ‘don't'?”

There was the fear, naked fear on the big face and in the pale grey eyes.

“I—I—I—” the man began, and then he wrenched himself free and dashed for the stairs again, as if he could sweep Rollison and all opposition aside. Rollison stopped him with a short arm jab to the stomach, then gripped his right arm again and pulled it behind him and thrust it upwards in a hammer-lock. Now the man was helpless; if he didn't go wherever he was pushed, his arm would break.

“Forward, ever forward,” said Rollison firmly, “and don't try any more tricks.”

“Don't go in there,” the man screamed, “don't go in, you won't come out alive!”

Rollison stood quite still, with his prisoner still held in that unbreakable lock, only a foot or two from the door which he had been about to open. He felt a cold shiver running up and down his spine; it was a long time before he had felt as shaken as this. The fear in the man's voice was so shrill that he did not doubt that he told the truth; that at least he believed that if he went into the flat, he wouldn't come out alive.

Rollison asked, coldly: “Why?”

“There—there's a trap!”

“What kind of trap?”

“If—if you open the door wide—”

“Go on, or you'll really get hurt.”

“If you open the door wide, it will—it will work like a flame gun!”

Rollison felt more coldness creeping along his spine, being quite sure that this was true.

“Who put it there?”

“We—we—we—”

“You and your gallant friend who ran out on you?”

“We had to!”

“I've heard that kind of I-didn't-mean-to-do-it story before,” said Rollison, and eased his neck again. “Would you like to know something? I don't believe you.” He started to push again, but as he did so the man back-heeled, and then tried to struggle, as if he would risk a broken arm or any other injury, would do anything at all to avoid going into that room.

“Well, well,” said Rollison. “How is it rigged?”

“On—on—the wall above the door. There's—there's a release catch when the door opens.”

“And it will fall down and explode, is that it?”

“Yes!”

“If that's the case, why did you come up the stairs when you expected me to open the door and be blown to bits?”

“We—we wondered what was up, whether you suspected—”

“Suspected what?”

“Whether—whether you suspected the trap. We wouldn't have come near enough to be hurt, the stairs would have saved us.”

That was reasonable; and it coldly underlined his fear.

“Most interesting,” observed Rollison. “I'll watch you burn under your own firecracker.” He tightened his grip on the man's arm so much that the other could only stand there, a foot or two away from the door, his head twisted round so that he could stare at Rollison and beseech him.

“Don't make me go in there, don't make me go!”

Rollison said, softly: “Did the Doc send you?”

“Yes!”

“How did he know that I was after him.”

“He—he—he—he—”

“I heard that part, and don't hold out because of what the Doc might do to you. If I don't get all the answers I shall push you into that room. I can, you know. How did he know?”

“He—he had a man watching Rickett, Rickett couldn't go anywhere without being followed, no one can. Rickett and his wife won't have a chance.”

“I see. Where is Evie now?”

“I don't know!”

“What about Dan Rickett?”

“He—he's trying to get out of the country, I think; I don't know where he is now, I wasn't in the Guildford side of it, I just had my orders this morning.”

“From the Doc?”

“Yes.”

“Who
is
the Doc?”

Something seemed to happen to the big man. He moistened his lips and relaxed, no longer fighting against Rollison's pressure. There was something like derision in his voice when he answered:

“I don't know who the Doc is any more than you do! If you think you've got a chance against him, you must be crazy.”

“It takes people different ways,” Rollison murmured. “So you don't know the Doc. How do you get his orders and how do you report?”

“I can tell you that, but it won't do you any good,” the man said. “I use a broad who lives in Victoria, Lancing Hotel, Queen Street. But that won't help you—”

“What's her name?”

“Maggie.”

“Maggie what?”

“Jeffson.”

“I'll have to have a little talk with Maggie soon,” promised Rollison, “she'll probably want to send some flowers to your funeral. Unless you prefer cremation. If you're really clever, you can push that door open an inch or two, and lift the firecracker off the wall. That way will be economical, and—”

All the man's fear came pouring back.

“No, don't try that,” he begged, “don't try it, if it slips it'll do for us. I
know
it will. I've told you all I can, give me a break. D'you hear me? Give me a break.”

“All right,” said Rollison, quietly, “I'll give you a break.” He released the man's hand, but brought the butt of the gun down just behind his ear; one blow was enough to make him fall, unconscious. It was a matter of seconds to rip off his tie, knot it about his ankles, then tie his wrists together behind him, using two handkerchiefs knotted together.

He pushed the man against the wall, then turned and hurried downstairs.

He stopped at the street door, but no one was waiting outside. He looked in both directions. The Bristol was where he had left it, but the black car had disappeared. He hurried out and along the street towards Gresham Mews, a little courtyard which had once housed the stables for the gentry in the terrace, and which now housed cars and one or two servants of the few remaining rich. An alley, leading from the mews led to the areas at the back of this side of Gresham Terrace, and led also to the fire escape at Number 22G.

No one was about.

Rollison climbed it, making the iron steps ring, and the handrail shake. A woman at a window half-way up stared at him in surprise; he waved to her. She did not come out on to the platform; probably she wasn't surprised at anything that her top flat neighbour did. He reached the back door of his own flat. It was locked and bolted, but long, long ago he had arranged a contraption beneath the fire escape platform, by which he could unbolt it from the outside. He heard the bolts slide back, unlocked the door, and pushed it open gradually. He found himself looking upwards, to see if any kind of booby trap was there.

He saw none.

He locked and bolted the door after him, then stepped into the small kitchen, which was spick and span and empty. He felt an easing tension as he went past the spare bedroom and his own, and then stepped into the living-room.

The first thing he saw had nothing to do with fire or booby traps.

His trophy wall had been stripped bare.