John Creasey - The Toff and The Sleepy Cowboy

“Except what?”

“Except it seemed to me he might have something very special in his baggage for them to give him a shot and make sure he didn’t wake up in time to prevent them from claiming it.”

“Nothing else at all?” asked Rollison. He had not really expected more, and yet he was disappointed. He liked the other man, could well believe that he had taken the chance exactly as he had said, and yet . . .

“Mr. Rollison, the whole set-up seemed phoney,” Tetano declared at last. “It seemed to me they might be drawing attention to this cowhand while they were doing something else, and I wanted to find out what the some-thing else was. That’s one reason I am so mad, I allowed him to be doped in the B.O.A.C. plane, but when I saw him in his seat I got out quick to see if I recognised any of the other passengers. I didn’t and came to the conclusion it was not part of the baggage racket. Now maybe I wonder if it has anything to do with these bombthrowings. And I guess —” his eyes crinkled at the corners as he went on: “I wondered if you know more about it than you admit.”

“So Bill Grice has been talking,” Rollison remarked.

“Yes, sir, he has been talking,” replied Tetano. “He seems to think you are a cross between a saint and Machiavelli. He lives in a state vacillating between being frightened of what you’ll do next and being frightened for you.”

“Just between you and me,” said Rollison, “I think I’m a little frightened for myself, too.”

He looked up as Grice returned, pale-faced; shook hands with Luigi Tetano, who went out with a chief inspector who followed Grice in, then raised his hands in a hopeless kind of gesture.

“Still of the same mind?” Grice demanded.

“Yes, Bill.”

“I’ve instructions not to try to stop you if you’re set on going into the place,” announced Grice. “And not to encourage you, either. Rolly, I’d a thousand times rather go myself.”

“I know you would,” replied Rollison. “But if they are what you fear they are, they wouldn’t let you in. They will let me in — and they may even let me out. One thing, Bill, or rather two.”

“Anything.”

“First, don’t let Tommy Loman out of my flat,” said Rollison. “He could go to the Browns’ house and ruin everything.” Grice nodded. “Second, don’t let Luigi Tetano leave the Yard until you hear from me.” Grice looked surprised, but nodded again. “Now!” went on Rollison briskly. “I have half a dozen tear-gas cigarettes and one palm gun. Wish me luck!”

“Luck,” Grice almost groaned.

Rollison went downstairs. His Bristol was parked just round the corner, in Broadway, with two policemen watching it. No one made a move as he got in; no one followed as he pulled off and drove away. It was almost strange not to be followed by a police car. Traffic was still thick but the roads were drying except for pools in the kerbs, and there was a freshness even in the fume-laden streets, unbelievable freshness in Clapham Common, rising from the rain-soaked grass and the glistening, rain-wet leaves. He drew near the Browns’ house but did not turn into the drive. Instead he pulled in at the first available parking space along the street, and walked back. With the contrariness of autumn, the sun was shining low but brightly, and the air was warm and sticky; he was glad he had not brought a raincoat.

He turned into the house drive, and studied the garage, where the assault had been made. The rain had drowned or muddied all clues, brown and yellow and golden leaves were on the damp gravel. The M.G. was where the girl had left it the night before.

There was something left behind; a vital clue, some-where.

Tucked between the garage door and the wall of the house was a small black dress bag, with a petit point rose in pale pinks and whites and blues. That was where it must have fallen when she had been attacked. He felt the familiar shudder go through him, but did not pick the handbag up. He turned back to the arched portico of the front door, with freshly painted sides and colourful tiles on the floor. The door itself was jet black, the knocker, bell-push and letter-box old-fashioned brass; it needed cleaning.

He pressed the bell but could not hear the ringing.

People passed in the street; cyclists passed; and motorists. But all of them seemed far off and remote, although they were within earshot. He heard footfalls on the other side of the door, heard the handle turning, next a faint creak as the door opened. A man in his late twenties stood there, sufficiently like Pamela Brown for Rollison to think: it’s her brother. The man was pale and uneasy.

“I’m Richard Rollison,” Rollison said, pleasantly. “I’ve come to see how Miss Brown is. I do hope she’s better.”

“She — she is all right,” replied the other. “I’m her brother. Please —” he seemed to gulp. “Please come in.”

He stood to one side.

Beyond him was a large hall, with a streak of vivid sunlight coming through on one side and what looked like the shadow of a man’s head and shoulders against the light where it struck a wall of pale-colour. Rollison could see a staircase, rising on one side; this much wider than most, with oil paintings, furniture and tall doors.

He stepped inside.

Before he was past young Brown, before he could see clearly about the hall, a man cried in a hoarse, penetrating voice:

“Get out, get out! They’ll kill you I Don’t come in !” Several things happened at once.

A man, out of sight until then, slammed the door so that Rollison was shut inside, and at the same moment gave young Brown a savage kick which made him gasp, stagger, and fall. Another man, at the head of the stair-case, began to fall. Rollison could not see more than his tumbling figure but he felt sure this was the older Brown. This man reached the bottom of the stairs and fell in a heap, breathing heavily, and making no attempt to get up. Still another man appeared at the head of the stairs, holding a gun. He was Hindle ! And although he did not look round Rollison sensed that the man who had been behind the door also had a gun.

Hindle reached the foot of the stairs and said, sneering : “Come into our parlour.”

“Said the spider to the fly,” Rollison capped with hardly a pause. “And before either of you make the mistake of using a gun on me, let me remind you of the oldest and simplest trick of all. I left a letter with the Editor of the Globe this afternoon, to be opened only if I died. I assured him it meant nothing while I was alive but would be the scoop of his lifetime if I were to die by violence today, or even fail to reappear by eight o’clock this evening. But you must be businessmen as well as rogues,” he added, lightly. “As businessmen, why don’t we talk?”

19

Business

CLEARLY, HIS REMARK was the last thing either of the men expected. Hindle, stepping from the shadows at the foot of the stairs, was suddenly struck by a shaft of sunlight which turned him into gold. The brilliance dazzled him. If ever there was a chance to turn the tables it was now, but Rollison did not attempt to, and the man from behind the door ordered:

“Don’t move.”

Young Brown was now in a huddled heap on the floor. His father still lay, unmoving, at the foot of the stairs. He might be unconscious; or he might be dead of a broken neck.

Hindle stepped out of the vivid light, into the shadow; and he became again a grey shadow of a man.

“Talk?” he echoed. “What have we to talk about?”

“Enough,” Rollison said.

Hindle stared, puzzled, but did not move his gun, and Rollison was right in the line of fire. Except for young Brown’s gasping there was no sound, until suddenly a thud came from upstairs, footsteps sounded, a door banged. At the head of the stairs, Pamela Brown ap-peared; another shaft of sunlight struck her face, so that it seemed to make a physical barrier she could not pass.