John Creasey - The Toff and The Sleepy Cowboy

* * *

There were the viewpoints of the dozens of news-papermen; the still cameras and the 16 mm. held high above the photographer’s head.

And there was Bill Ebbutt’s view.

Ebbutt, a tall man, was nearer Rollison than any of the others, and nearer the explosion. He watched open-mouthed as Rollison caught the missile, even more openmouthed as it was thrown unerringly into the front room of the empty house. He was the first to reach Rollison, and to see that he was no more than winded and bruised. It was no time at all before the flames began to roar, no time at all before the police were calling at houses nearby with warnings that the fire might spread. Remarkably soon, fire-engine sirens sounded in the distance and more police arrived, to cordon off the danger area. Most of the newspapermen were on their way back to Fleet Street, unable to put their stories in soon enough. Not a man among them failed to start with glowing tributes to the Toff.

An hour after he had left his flat, Rollison went up-stairs with Jolly just behind him; he had wanted Ebbutt to come up but Ebbutt pleaded that he must go home and tell his wife about the events of the past hour.

Half-way down the top flight of stairs was Pamela, her eyes glowing, and just behind her, stood Tommy G. Loman.

“Richard!” Pamela exclaimed, and hurled herself at Rollison. “You’re not hurt, are you? Tell me you’re not hurt!”

“All I need is some trifle,” Rollison said lightly. “And I could do with a brandy as a chaser! No, I’m not hurt — barely a scratch here and there.”

“Richard,” said Tommy, quietly, “that was the bravest thing I have ever seen. And I’ve seen plenty. You expected an attack, didn’t you?”

“If you or I appeared on the scene, yes,” answered Rollison.

“Or Pamela,” murmured Tommy, putting his arm round Pamela’s waist. “And you went to draw the man’s fire.”

“Thank heavens they caught him!” exclaimed Pamela.

“With a little luck a kind-hearted policeman will soon tell us whether he’s talked,” Rollison remarked. “Now I’m going to tidy up, while Jolly produces his dessert.” He left them looking at him with expressions not far short of adulation, and went to his bedroom, then across to his bathroom. He swayed and held on to the hand-basin; the room seemed to be going round and round when Jolly came in, and without speaking, led him back to the bedroom and into an easy chair. Soon, Jolly had loosened his collar and tie, taken off his shoes and sponged his hands and face, his neck and forehead. After a while his head no longer went round and round and there was no drumming in his ears. At last, Jolly brought brandy.

“I must get back to the others,” Rollison said.

“They are perfectly all right, sir,” Jolly insisted. “They don’t mind being left at all. If you really want a little trifle —”

“I shall stick to coffee and brandy,” Rollison decided.

It was not long before, clad in a dressing-gown and wearing fleece-lined leather slippers, he went back to the big room. He did not know what had happened to Pamela and Tommy but they looked radiantly happy. Rollison lowered himself cautiously into his chair which gave him a comprehensive view of the room, and watched them with avuncular interest. The Regency star clock centred over the mantelpiece showed that it was half-past ten; as long an evening as he had ever known.

“You look better,” Pamela said.

“I feel better,” agreed Rollison. “I hadn’t realised the excitement had knocked me silly. Have you two solved all our and the world’s problems while I’ve been taking a snooze.”

“You have,” declared Pamela.

“Surely,” said Tommy G. “The police are sure to make the prisoner talk, aren’t they? And once he talks —”

“Even if he talks he may not know a great deal,” Rollison pointed out. “But with luck we shall get news of Alec King in the morning.”

Tommy nodded soberly.

“Every newspaper in the country will probably carry a picture of him,” he observed. “Even before you proved what a good catcher you were, you were doing fine.” He rose from his chair to his full enormous height, and went on: “Richard, I am going to walk Pamela home, so you can go to bed.”•

There was such positiveness in his voice that he ob-viously expected Rollison to object to his going out. Half of Rollison wanted to say “only a fool in your position would venture out tonight”, but Pamela could be in as much danger as Tommy G. Loman and apparently these two young people had moved a long way from casual acquaintances in the past few hours.

“Tommy,” he said. “I have bad news for you.”

“Richard, I don’t want to be difficult, but I —”

“You will have police behind you all the time,” finished Rollison.

“Oh,” said Tommy. “The cops.” He grinned re-signedly. “Sure. After what’s happened I guess I can’t expect anything else. Did you bring a wrap or a coat, Pam?”

“No,” answered Pamela. “I hadn’t expected to be so late.”

“I’m sure Jolly can find you something,” Rollison offered. “If one of you will save my legs and press the bell by the fireplace —”

In a moment, Jolly appeared.

“If Miss Brown will come with me,” he said, benignly, “she can select which wrap she would prefer.”

He was out of the room with her when the front door bell rang.-

Tommy turned towards it, half way out of the room and into the lounge-hall before Rollison had risen from his chair. Rollison did not know why he felt such sudden tension, was close to screaming point. On such a night anything might happen, men with such daring as the throwers of bombs might easily have charmed their way through the police cordon and be at the front door. One glance at the periscope mirror above the wall was all he needed to make sure.

He need not have worried.

“If you will allow me, sir,” came Jolly’s voice. Jolly must have nipped along the other passage, and he would not open the door without a glance in the periscope mirror. The sound of the front door opening followed and Jolly went on in a voice which, to the Toff’s experienced ear, reflected some guarded pleasure. “Good evening, sir.”

“Hallo, Jolly,” said Chief Detective Superintendent Grice. “Is he all right?”

Rollison smiled and relaxed.

Grice came in, with Tommy who soon went back to Pamela Brown. Jolly appeared fleetingly to announce the policeman. Grice, as tall as Rollison, was still dwarfed by the man from Arizona. They were obviously wary of each other; as obviously Grice had not come to force any issue.

“One thing you can do is to have Mr. Loman and

Miss Brown followed, and Mr. Loman seen back safely here,” Rollison said.

“I have already prepared for that with Mr. Ebbutt,” said Jolly, coming in behind Pamela, “and the police will no doubt follow his men in turn.”

“I should have known,” said Rollison.

He watched Grice’s expression when the policeman saw Pamela.

Obviously, it was one of recognition and there was a hint of surprise. Quite suddenly the others dropped into the background, while Grice and the girl looked at each other.

“Hallo, Miss Brown,” Grice said at last. “Is your father better?”

“Thank you, yes,” she said. “I didn’t realise you knew he’d been ill.”

“He was to have appeared as a witness in the South Western Court two days ago, and sent his apologies,” said Grice. “I thought you’d been laid low, too.”

“I was,” said Pamela, smiling brightly. “Down first, up first.”

“I must say it did you good,” said Grice drily. “Thank you, sir!”

“When this is over I shall want to know why you didn’t come to the Yard with the whole story,” Grice said, in a voice which he tried to make severe but did not wholly succeed.