John Creasey - The Toff and The Sleepy Cowboy

“Mr. Jolly,” announced Loman. “Tucson is just the place for you. It’s full of senior citizens.”

“Of what, sir?”

“Senior citizens. Old folk who —”

“You must forgive me, sir,” said Jolly, very firmly, “but I am doubtful whether I should like Tucson.”

“Not like Tucson!”

“No, sir. I —”

“Everybody likes Tucson!”

“Sir,” said Jolly, standing with the tart in one hand and a silver slice in the other, “with the greatest respect, I do not believe that I would enjoy a temperature of a hundred and five to a hundred and fifteen, which I understand is common in summer. Moreover I like some humidity, and I understand that the humidity in Tucson except during the summer heat is not high. I am moreover allergic to certain pollens and dust irritates the membranes of my nose and throat. Further, with a few exceptions the buildings are of one or two storeys only, I understand, and I enjoy heights. Moreover —”

“Roily,” said Loman, in a sharp voice, “how come your man knows so much about Tucson?”

“He knows much more than I do,” Rollison conceded.

“When I heard that Mr. Rollison was going to meet you at the airport I consulted the encyclopaedia,” stated Jolly. “Further, I talked to a friend in Thomas Cooks and he was good enough to send me a brochure on Tucson and Southern Arizona. It is fascinating, sir, but not for me.” Jolly left this statement hanging for at least twenty seconds, and only when it was at last obvious that Loman was too flabbergasted to reply did he ask : “Will you have cream with the apple tart, sir? Or would you prefer cheese?”

“Cream,” Loman answered huskily.

Rollison caught Jolly’s eye as Jolly went out; they were brimming over with merriment. Loman’s were not; they were brimming over with something which might have been yearning. He forked a piece of the apple tart and cream, placed it in his mouth, and the only word to describe his expression was ‘reverence’. When he had finished, he said, still huskily :

“In the right place, Mr. Jolly would be worth a million dollars.”

“You must tell him so,” said Rollison.

“I believe he would listen to you before he would listen to me,” commented Loman, with obvious regret. He scraped up the last morsel and pushed back his chair.

His expression changed; he took on a bleak look at mouth and eyes and stared intently at Rollison.

“You sent for me and now you’re giving me the brush off,” he said. “I want to know why.”

“I did not send for you. Until today I had never heard of you, and I am giving you the courtesy I would normally give to a guest,” replied Rollison.

Silence fell upon them.

Jolly came into the room with coffee on a tray but he did not speak, simply placed the coffee on a small table in the main part of the room, and withdrew. Neither of the others appeared to have noticed him.

“Mr. Rollison,” Thomas Loman said, “one of us is lying, and I know it isn’t me. I want to know the truth right now.” He raised his large, well-shaped hands, so powerful looking, and crooked the strong, lean fingers. “If you won’t give it me straight, I’ll have to force it out of you. I’ll give you one more chance. Why did you send for me? Why did you write and tell me that if I came at once, it would be worth a million pounds — not dollars, pounds?”

He pushed his chair farther back and stood looming over the Toff, unquestioningly menacing, hands still thrust forward and fingers crooked.

8

“ . . . Pounds not Dollars”

A GREAT DEAL HAD HAPPENED to Rollison that day. He had been woken out of deep sleep to answer a call about this man of whom he had never heard. The incident of Pamela Brown had been amusing and yet exasperating, the attitude of William Grice had been annoying, and the attack at the airport had, he knew, a delayed action shock effect. It was a combination of all these things which had worked in him to make him keep his composure: until now.

Suddenly, he felt a blaze of anger.

He had to fight back the impulse to jump to his feet and get his blow in first. Angry though he was, he was aware that Loman was very powerful and at least fifteen years younger than he.

“Sit down,” he barked.

Loman leaned farther forward.

“You are going to tell me, or —” he began.

Rollison shot out his right hand, gripped a bony wrist at the vital spot, and twisted. Taken entirely by surprise, Loman went staggering backwards and thumped against the wall. Rollison rounded the table and stood in front of the younger man, who began to slide helplessly down the wall, losing height rapidly.

“Now behave like a rational human being or get out,”

Rollison said coldly. “The rest of this affair is bad enough without having you behaving like an ill-bred bull.”

He stared icily upon his guest, then turned and went into the Trophy Room, where Jolly had appeared as if by magic. He gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, saying in effect : “Leave this to me,” and poured out coffee. Jolly hovered, out of Loman’s sight. Rollison was aware that the young American was standing upright again but had no ideas what his mood would be like.

Loman stepped down from the dining alcove as the telephone bell rang. Rollison moved like a flash to the desk, plucked up the telephone, and announced: “Rollison.” Immediately, a man responded.

“That is Mr. Rollison?”

“Yes,” said Rollison.

“You — er — you did invite me to come and have a drink about five o’clock this afternoon, didn’t you?” the caller went on. “I — er — I wasn’t dreaming.”

“I’d very much like you to come.”

“Then I’ll be there, as soon as I can be. Oh! This is Jack Fisher, the man who saw the explosion this morning.”

“I remember you very well,” Rollison said.

“Do you know if they’ve caught the men yet?” asked Fisher, and added in a voice touched as if with horror: “To try to kill you — why, it’s criminal!”

In spite of himself, Rollison chuckled. “Yes, isn’t it? Soon after five, then.” He replaced the receiver and turned round slowly, not sure how near Loman was yet acutely aware of him. If this really came to a conflict he must finish it very quickly.

Loman stood like a big boy with a slightly hangdog air.

“I’m sorry,” he said simply.

“If we have to tangle with each other, let’s make sure it’s for a good reason,” said Rollison. “Help yourself to sugar and cream.” He stood with his back to the fireplace, cup in hand. After lunch Jolly always served tall, slender cups; after dinner, demi-tasses. “Have you got this letter which was supposed to be from me?”

“No,” answered Loman. “All my baggage was stolen on the flight from Tucson to New York. And nearly everything else was stolen on the B.O.A.O flight.”

“You mean they robbed you twice?”

“They surely did. And I was doped twice, too.”

“Oh,” said Rollison slowly. “It looks as if they didn’t find what they wanted in the baggage, and had a second go.” He moved quickly, lifted the telephone, dialled the number of Scotland Yard, asked for Grice and was pre-pared to have to leave a message. But Grice himself answered. “Bill,” Rollison said. “Loman was doped and robbed on his Flight — number?” he asked Loman.

“Flight 212, TWA.”

“Flight 212, TWA,” Rollison passed on to Grice. “He was given a shot on that aircraft, too, so it’s possible the same man or woman did the two jobs. Is there a way of checking the two passenger lists?”

“As far as we can judge, Loman was the only passenger who was on both flights. All the others who left the aircraft at Kennedy have been traced by New York,” Grice responded. “But whoever it was probably didn’t use the same name. I’ll check, though. Has Loman been able to explain?”