John Creasey - The Toff and The Sleepy Cowboy

“Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon,” the woman returned, and went downstairs with unexpected vigour.

10

Wild, Wild West

ROLLISON STOOD AT THE DOOR of the fourth apartment until he had heard the woman’s footsteps clatter down the stairs, patter across the hall, and be cut off by the closing of the street door. Then he turned to the other door and tapped; there was no answer. He banged with the side of his clenched fist but there was still no answer.

He went down on one knee and examined the lock.

It was one of the old fashioned mortice type, difficult to open unless one had the know-how. He had. He took a knife from a special pocket in his trouser waist-band, one with a surprising number of blades — a souvenir of Poland, where knives were knives. This had a pick-lock blade. He used it quickly, not worrying too much about noise as the flat seemed to be empty. The barrel resisted for a long time but at last shot back with a snap of sound greater than he liked.

He paused, but no other sound came.

He pushed the door open cautiously, seeing more and more of the room beyond. Someone might be there, lying doggo: Alec George King, for instance. Certainly no one was in this room, which was pleasantly furnished but in no way remarkable.

Two doors led off on one side; one, off the other. He checked the one first; it was a bathroom. He checked one of the others to find a small kitchen. So the third door would lead to a bedroom. He pushed it open cautiously, and saw a huge, king size bed, the kind of bed a really tall man could stretch on.

On the bed was a stetson hat, of pale brown leather; and laid out was a suit which, even at first glance, was not a conventional cut. He went farther in, and at the side of the bed saw a pair of western riding boots, not unlike Tommy Loman’s. He felt quite certain that the guess that Tommy was to be impersonated was justified. Now, he needed to find out all he could about the plot.

There was a small dressing-table and a chest of drawers; he went through every drawer but found only clothes. A hanging cupboard was filled, half with a man’s apparel, half with a woman’s; there were no papers. He moved back to the living room and saw a small writing desk, much higher than most; obviously this was to allow Alec George King to get his knees under. The long middle drawer was unlocked and inside were oddments, cheque books, cheque stubs and letters. Rollison scanned the letters which were all demands for payment of overdue bills.

Folded in a bank statement was an even sharper demand for the clearance of an overdraft.

Rollison went through the other papers with extreme care, and found one thing he was looking for in the paying in book. A week ago, King had paid five hundred pounds into his bank account, putting this into credit by over three hundred pounds.

There was nothing to indicate where the money had come from.

Rollison tried two smaller drawers in the bureau; one was unlocked, and contained postage stamps, pins, clips and other trifles. The other was locked. He used the pick-lock blade of his knife again, and in a few moments the lock turned and he pulled the drawer open gently.

Inside, were pencilled notes kept in diary form. Obviously the early notes had been jotted down from memory, for they ran:

Sept. 15/16 — A.W. called.

Sept. 17— Saw A.W. who outlined the general idea.

Sept. 17/18 — Talked it over with Effie, who didn’t like it much.

Sept. 19 — Asked A.W. how much it would be worth — he said £5,000 minimum, £500 at once — cash.

Sept. 20 — Talked it over with Effie again and she agreed to go ahead if I would salt the first £500 away.

There followed some notes about a meeting with the mysterious A.W., his promise to pay a further £500 once King had started ‘the job’. There was a cryptic note: “I was always good in a Yankee part!” If that meant what it seemed to, King did not know the difference between a Yankee and a man from the south west, but that was a passing thought. How had King started to earn that second five hundred pounds? There was another note:

Oct. 3rd — Effie says she can’t tell the difference.

Oct. 4th — I did the tape and posted it to A.W.

Oct. 6th — A.W. delighted — he coughed up the second £500.

Rollison put this aside and looked about the room, saw a portable record player in one corner and a small tape recorder with several tapes kept in place with rubber bands, on a nearby stool. One tape was on the recorder, ready to play. Rollison studied the instrument and then switched it on. There were some squeaks and scratches, before a man’s voice sounded.

“Sure — that’s my name . . . I come from Tucson, Arizona . . . I work at the Lazy K ranch between Tucson and Nogales . . . Well, why not . . . Thomas G. Loman . . . I am twenty-eight years old . . . I was born in Truth and Consequences, New Mexico . . . My grandfather was English. He. . .”

Rollison heard the tape right through. There was a great deal of repetition, obviously King had been learning all he said by heart, so as to stand in another man’s place. Here in the heart of London an Englishman had been learning to take on the identity of Thomas G. Loman! He switched off, thinking that if he took the tape it would warn King that he had been traced; for the time being it would be better to leave it.

Rollison had been here for about half an hour.

The woman whom he assumed to be the Effie of the notes might be back at any moment. There wasn’t time to listen to any more tapes. He sat at the desk and scribbled out a copy of the notes and the dates, added the name and address of King’s bank manager, and went to the door leading to the landing.

He heard no sound.

He opened the door and stepped on to the landing, turned and bent down to lock the door, always more difficult, with a pick-lock, than opening it. He worried even less about noise, breathed with satisfaction as the lock clicked, straightened up, and turned round.

Framed in the open doorway of Flat 4 was a man who had a stocking drawn over his face, as a mask.

He covered Rollison with an automatic.

* * *

Rollison stood utterly still.

So, for a few moments, did the man with the gun. There were noises from the street; cars, whistling, voices. There was music from the flats below, but up here there was just the stillness and the silence. It seemed a long time before the man in the doorway said: “So you made it.”

“Sooner or later,” Rollison replied, “I always do.”

“You won’t after this,” the other said, softly. “Who knows?” Rollison shrugged.

“I know. You won’t live to.”

Rollison did not speak, but simply raised his eyebrows. The man in the doorway moved to one side, and said: “Come in.”

“I would rather stay here,” replied Rollison.

“So I’ll have to shoot you there,” the masked man retorted.

“I would rather you didn’t,” said Rollison, and began to walk towards the other.

The man could be the one who had hurled the hand grenade: there was no way of telling. His hand was steady and his voice cold and calculating; there was no way of being sure whether he would shoot. If he, Rollison, allowed himself to go into the other flat, he would be trapped; here, with the stairs and the hallway below, he had some freedom of movement.

He must take a chance and leap for the stairs.

It had to be the right moment — the exact moment.

He was within a yard of the man who could shoot him at point blank range, so it was literally now or never. He actually flexed his muscles to duck and spring towards the stairs when a door opened somewhere below, with a squeak, and footsteps sounded in the hall. The eyes behind the mask swivelled to one side and on that instant Rollison kicked the man on the shin. Gasp of pain and the swivelling of the gun came simultaneously but Rollison had time to chop with the side of his hand on the gun-wrist.