John Creasey - The Toff and The Sleepy Cowboy

“You can find me an actor, six feet six or seven, lean as a lamp, stands and walks with a slight stoop, has a long, lean face and a spade-like jaw. He must be around twenty-five to thirty years old and able to speak with the accent of a man from the great south west of America.”

After a moment’s pause, Percy retorted:

“That’s a tall order.” They both laughed, before Percy asked: “What do you want him for?”

“Probably, attempted murder,” Rollison answered.

“Murder!” exclaimed the little woman, who came in briskly with a tray holding glasses and a small decanter. This would be cherry brandy, Rollison knew; it was part of the ritual of a meeting of old friends.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Percy said. “Now leave us alone, unless you want to be frightened out of your wits.” The smile he gave the woman as she went out was one of deep affection. “What else can you tell me, Rolly?”

“He may be in training to impersonate a man who answers the description I’ve just given you.”

“Well,” said Percy Bingham, pouring a little brandy into small, bow-shaped glasses. “I know of only three possibles. Eyes?”

“Honey-coloured.”

“I know of only one possible,” Percy said, with abso-lute certainty. “If there is an actor who fits, this is your man. Of course your man may not be an actor.”

“I think he is,” Rollison said. “Only an actor could do what I think this man is going to do. Can you find out if he’s free?”

“Yes, of course.” Percy gave a twist to his chair so that he was close to a row of three-drawer filing cabinets, one red, one black, one green. He pulled open the middle drawer in the green cabinet and ran through a number of cards under the letter K. Deftly, he selected one card, glanced at it, then handed it to Rollison while he wheeled himself closer to the telephone and began to dial.

King, Alec George, the card was headed : Flat 3, Rubicon House, Fell Street, Chelsea, S.W.3. Rollison knew the narrow street and thought he probably knew the house, too. Age: 27 (at 1st January 1968). Educated:

Nelson College. That was a small public school with a liking, obviously, for the sons of sailors.

Training: South Western Repertory Company. Special suitability: Character acting for very tall, supple man. For tall, read 6 feet 7 inches.

Acting Career. As a child, a number of walk-on parts . . .

There were several short paragraphs about the plays, films and radio he had appeared in and at the foot a note saying : Photograph and Physical Details: Over. Rollison flicked it over as Percy began to talk on the telephone. A large face was there, vivid, arresting. This man was like Tommy G. and there were some striking similarities, including the long, spade-shaped chin, the jutting eyebrows. Among the physical details were:

Height : 6’ 7”

Hair : Fair

Eyes : Pale brown

Distinguishing marks on face: None

Rollison put the card aside as Percy replaced the receiver.

“Me first?” he asked, and went on when Rollison nodded: “His wife answered. She says he’s in work, what she calls a very important part but they must not say what it is. When I said I might find him work for at least a month she said this present part would go on for a long time. Sound like your man?”

“It could well be,” Rollison said. “Percy, you’ve been invaluable. But then, you always are.” He sipped the brandy and they chattered for five minutes before Rollison stood up briskly and said: “I ought to be on the way.”

“Don’t wait so long before you come again,” Percy urged.

He was at his desk near the window when Rollison walked past, hand raised. A breeze set the leaves of the trees rustling, and would give Percy Bingham much pleasure; he had moved to this particular spot only when he had learned that he would never walk again.

Rollison reached his car.

Not long ago, not far from here, someone who had wanted him dead had put high-explosive under the bonnet, set to go off at a touch of the self-starter. It was absurd to think there was a booby trap under the bonnet here, but — well, he would look.

There, fastened to the self-starter, was a small plastic phial.

There, in fact, was a bomb.

He stood staring down, a shiver running up and down his spine. People passed, glancing at him. He looked along the street, then down to the canal and the path alongside it. The boys were still tossing stones but the ducks had gone. A car passed, slowly, and he looked up.

A man sitting next to the driver of the car, a Rover, was staring at him. He had a chubby face, a beautiful olive-skin, and fine brown eyes; Rollison had last seen him in Gresham Terrace.

The car gathered speed and went on, and before Rollison could move, other cars were in the roadway. Farther along, he saw a policeman’s helmet. He bent closer to see how the plastic container was fastened to the metal, and could see no way.

Suddenly, he realised that it was stuck on; and with a quick-setting glue, that probably meant it was very tight indeed. He straightened up, to find the policeman very close by, a pale-faced weakling of a man to look at.

“Good afternoon, sir.”

“Good afternoon,” returned Rollison, and forced a smile: “Do you recognise me by any chance?”

“No, sir, I —” the man began, and then his eyes lit up and he exclaimed. “You’re the Toff, sir! Mr. Rollison!”

“That’s right on the nose,” Rollison said. “You know that I’m not half-witted and mean what I say, don’t you?”

The man looked puzzled, but was game.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, someone has glued what looks like a bomb on that part of the self-starter, under the bonnet,” Rollison said, pointing as he went on: “I have an urgent appointment, and can’t handle this job myself. Will you ask your division for help — don’t touch it yourself, it’s glued on.”

“I won’t touch it!” The policeman straightened up, gulping. “Then — then all of those stories they tell about you are true.”

“Oh, just one here and there,” Rollison said. “I must run.”

He did run, literally, to the end of the street known as South Canal, and saw three empty taxis pass just before he was near enough to hail, then had to wait several minutes for one, as only buses and private cars passed. His chief purpose in running was to make sure he was not held up by a lot of questions, which would be inevitable if divisional detective officers arrived.

A car slid to a standstill in front of him.

The man with the olive-coloured skin was at the open window, next to the driver, and he said :

“Are you Mr. Rollison?” He pronounced the name Rawlson.

“Yes, but —”

“Can I give you a lift?”

“No,” Rollison said, backing away as he went on solemnly : “My mother always told me never to go in cars with strangers.” He smiled fleetingly, then espied a taxi with its sign lighted, and he hurried towards it, one hand outstretched.

The man with the American voice might shoot him.

But nothing happened, and twenty-five minutes later Rollison got out of the taxi at the corner of Fell Street and, it proved, Rubicon Road. He paid the driver off, then stood at the corner, looking at a house which stood on its own, not really large but certainly not small. On a wooden door were the words : RUBICON HOUSE. No one was in sight when the taxi turned the corner, and Rollison walked slowly and thoughtfully towards the front door.

As he did so, he put one of the blow-pipe cigarettes to his lips.

This street door was unlocked and he went into a square hall, which had a few pieces of heavy furniture and two bamboo chairs, to see a staircase with an arrow on the wall, pointing upwards to Flats 3 and 4. He went up the wide carpeted staircase. As he reached the landing a small, young woman obviously far gone in pregnancy opened the door marked 3, came out and closed the door firmly. He turned towards the other flat across the landing, just saying: