John Creasey - The Toff and The Sleepy Cowboy

“Why not stay behind and tell us what you’ve just explained?” demanded Grice.

“Are you kidding?” Tetano’s voice rose in a laconic note. “Who was going to believe me?”

“It would have been easier to believe you if you stayed where you were,” said Grice. “Did you get a good view of the assailant?”

“I didn’t see a thing that mattered. One moment I was listening to the lovebirds and the next a rock hit me,” answered the sergeant from Long Island Homi-cide. “Maybe that knocked the sense out of my head and I wouldn’t have run if it hadn’t hit me.”

“Perhaps,” Grice said. “Have you seen Mr. Loman before?”

“Sure — at Kennedy.”

“Just one moment,” Grice said. He went to the door, opened it, and stood aside for Tommy Loman to come in, and as the door closed he asked sharply: “Have you seen this man before, Mr. Loman?”

“Sure have,” Loman replied without any hesitation.

“Where?”

“At Kennedy Airport,” Loman said. “He’s one of the cops there.”

“Have you seen him in England?”

“No, sir, I have not.”

“Did you see the man who attacked you and Miss Brown tonight?” asked Grice.

Loman replied in a wondering voice : “No, I didn’t. I think the guy must have been hiding in the garage. All I know is something hit me in the groin and all I could think of was the pain. That was what I call agony. I didn’t see who it was or what hit me. All I know is that if your men hadn’t followed me, Superintendent, Pam and I both might be dead. How is she?” he added in a rougher voice.

“She’ll be all right in a day or two,” Grice tried to soothe.

“Are you sure, or —?”

“I am sure. She has been seen by her own doctor and by a police surgeon,” Grice replied. “Are you going back to Gresham Terrace? Or would you rather stay here for the night? We could find you a shake-down.”

“I promised Rollison I would go back.”

“I’ll have a car take you,” Grice volunteered. He called for a man on duty outside, and gave instructions. Next he turned to Luigi Tetano and spoke in a more relaxed way. “Mr. Tetano, I am inclined to accept your statement but I’ll need to keep you here overnight.”

“On a charge?” Luigi asked, ruefully.

“No. Until I hear from Long Island.”

“You’ll hear the simple truth,” Luigi assured him. “I thought it was the baggage racket and hopped the B.O.A.C. flight — all airlines will take a cop if he can prove he is one, and let him pay later. You will probably be told I’m absent without leave.” After a pause, he went on: “You can’t mean what I mean by a shake-down.”

“A camp bed,” Grice said. “The folding type. You surely have them in America.”

“A camp —” Tetano started off puzzled and then exclaimed: “Oh, a rollaway! Why sure, that’ll be fine! I didn’t know Scotland Yard was a hotel.”

Grice actually laughed.

“That Rollison,” Luigi Tetano went on in a wonder-ing tone. “He’s quite a guy.”

“Yes,” agreed Grice quietly. “He is quite a guy. I only hope —” He broke off, as if suddenly reluctant to say what was in his mind.

“Hope what?” asked Luigi.

“That he lives through this case,” Grice completed heavily, and looked the American straight in the eye. “I would hate him to die for a stranger he’d never heard of until this morning.”

Luigi Tetano put his head on one side, and then asked softly :

“Are you sure of that, Superintendent? Are you sure Mr. Rollison has told you everything he knows or suspects in this case? Maybe you are but I am not. No, sir, I am not. I am a long way from it.”

* * *

Oblivious of what had been going on, and of Luigi Tetano’s doubts, Rollison slept the sleep of the sedated. It was Jolly who let Tommy into the flat, able to assure him that a police message had confirmed that Pamela Brown really was only slightly hurt.

Outside the police kept watch, while the empty house smouldered.

16

Hero!

ROLLISON WOKE TO VAGUE NOISES, turned over and blotted them out.

He woke again, to quiet, turned over ‘and lay snug but did not get to sleep. Before long, he turned on to his back, and looked up at the ceiling; and as suddenly as new thought he remembered what had happened. He gave a little shiver. No one would ever know how much it cost to stand and wait for a little piece of metal which might blow one to smithereens. That shiver was the last of his conscious reaction to the previous night. He began to think, clearly and lucidly, about all that had happened. Glimmerings of ideas, not yet even half-formed, chased one another across his mind.

There was the obvious question : what was worth this series of vicious attacks?

A million pounds?

Yes, it could be; worse crimes had been committed for less reward, but there was a cold-blooded deliberateness about this affair which was rare.

What could be worth this series of vicious attacks? His, Richard Rollison’s, death?

Each attack had been on him

That wasn’t really true about the blowing up at Rubicon House. The grenade had been tossed into the first-floor flat to destroy the evidence, but at the airport and in Gresham Terrace there had been only one obvious purpose: to kill him. Why? What did he know?

What damage could he do to these desperate men?

He began to feel restless; it was time he was up and doing, finding out what else had happened, if anything; whether the newspapers had really gone to town in their hunt for Alec George King, whether the prisoner had changed his mind, and talked. With the telepathic understanding or awareness which had developed over the years, Jolly appeared silently at the door.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning, Jolly.”

“I’ll bring tea and the newspapers immediately, sir.”

“Have they done us justice?” inquired Rollison.

“I think you will think so, sir.” Jolly withdrew and Rollison hitched himself up on the pillows. Rain spattered the windows like tears from a thousand weeping giants, and the slate roofs of houses opposite glistened beneath grey skies. It was much colder than yesterday, too. He draped a dressing-gown round his shoulders as Jolly came in with the tea tray and several newspapers under his arm. This was one of Rollison’s luxuries; tea and the newspapers, in bed.

“How is our guest?” he asked. “Fully satisfied with the newspapers, sir!”

“Good. And you?”

“Very well and hopeful, sir.”

“Better,” remarked Rollison as Jolly poured tea and he opened the first newspaper : the Globe.

There he was, staring up at himself! And there was King, also on the front page, remarkably like Loman but with some noticeable differences — Loman’s nostrils were wider, for instance. Beneath his photograph was the one word: Hero. Beneath King’s there was the simple question: Have you seen this man? The story of what had happened at Rubicon House and at Gresham Terrace was vividly related, and inside were action photogarphs of the fire. He put the Globe aside, sipped hot tea and opened the Echo. Here, the action photograph was on the front page: there he was, hands cupped as if to catch a cricket ball, elbows tucked in close to his body; and there was the hand grenade, like a black egg! Someone must have been at the window of a house opposite to get such a picture.

Ten minutes later he put down the last newspaper and took his final swallow of now luke-warm tea. He had to wait only for a few moments before Jolly came back.

“Has Grice been calling?” asked Rollison. “Yes, sir — he will be here at eleven o’clock.” Rollison shot a glance at a bedside clock, and relaxed.