John Creasey - The Toff and The Sleepy Cowboy

“You’ll really let me go?”

“I shall expect dinner tonight, tete a tete, at my flat.” Her eyes lit up.

“That would be lovely!”

“Don’t get yourself killed before then,” he warned. “And be careful crossing the road.”

She was already sliding along the seat towards the far door, looking at him but groping for the handle. She found it and opened the door, turned to get out, then stopped on the edge of the seat, turning her head as she cried:

“What’s the name of the street where my car is parked?”

“Hood Lane,” he replied without hesitation.

“Thank you,” she said, got out, bent down to stare at him intently for a few moments, and then went on fervently: “Bless you. Bless you!” She jumped away, slammed the door, and ran, waiting for cars to pass. He watched her moving with most attractive ease, and marvelled. Then he saw her waving at a taxi, and saw the taxi slow down.

“Lucky Pamela,” he said aloud.

She probably did know how lucky she was to be alive.

Certainly he knew how lucky he was, too, but — he did not understand the situation at all. Why try to kill him? Why follow him and the girl to the airport? He had another feeling, which made him shiver; he must have been followed but he hadn’t noticed the motorcyclist until he had pulled the car up here. Once he had the girl, he had not even troubled to keep a look-out. On such an affair as this, he must not be even momentarily careless twice.

Why

There was no point in asking himself that question, but he simply had to find out. And there were only two ways in which to do so. One, through Pamela Brown whose address was imprinted on his mind from the envelopes in her handbag; the other, through Thomas G. Loman. He sat back, feeling bleak and grim, and it passed through his mind that he had not even got out to examine the damage to the car.

He got out.

At least a dozen dents showed, and two places where the metal was actually jagged; that made him tighten his lips . . . Two minutes later when tall, lanky, fair-haired Alex Paterson came up with another detective and the youth, the sight of the jagged edges of metal torn by pieces which had been flung into the air by the bomb made their lips tighten, too.

“That was a hand grenade,” he remarked.

“Yes,” Rollison said. “These gentry will stop at nothing, will they?”

“What do you know about these gentry, Mr. Rollison?” asked Paterson.

“They appear to be able to operate on both sides of the Atlantic,” Rollison answered. “And those on this side are deadly. That is absolutely all I know, although I hope to learn much more.” He looked grimly into Paterson’s face and went on: “In fact I am going to. Has Loman come round yet?”

“No,” answered Paterson.

Rollison looked at him steadily, pondered, and asked: “How soon can we make sure no one throws a hand grenade at him?”

“My God!” breathed Paterson. He swung round to his car, picked up the radio telephone, and gave instructions.

Throughout all this, the young man with the piercing blue eyes watched Rollison intently, and now Rollison turned towards him, thinking absurdly: Baby Blue Eyes. There was a baffled look in those eyes, which were a most remarkable blue, and Rollison had an impression that he was suffering from shock.

“May I know your name?” asked Rollison.

“Eh? Oh. Yes, of course. Fisher. Jack Fisher. I — I can’t get over what you did and what happened. You —”

“Mr. Fisher,” Rollison interrupted, “what time do you come off duty?”

“Oh. Four o’clock, I’m on early turn.”

“I’d very much like to talk to you when you’re free,” Rollison said. “Perhaps we could have a drink.”

“At your place?”

“Yes, of course.”

“The place with the trophies?” asked Jack Fisher, and then apparently he realised he was being naive, and straightened up. “I’d like that very much, sir. I live in Fulham so I’m not very far away from you.”

“Shall we say five o’clock?” suggested Rollison. “The address is on the card.”

“Five o’clock,” said Baby Blue Eyes. “On the dot. I’ll look forward to it enormously.”

Paterson came away from the car at that moment, while the man with him began to pick up pieces of metal from the ground; only then did Rollison notice that the man had cleared the dirt and grass off the windscreen. There were three chips in the glass, obviously caused by metal fragments, but no other damage. Paterson glanced at this and said:

“When they say safety glass they mean safety.”

“Yes,” Rollison said, heavily. “Can you have this cleaned up for me?”

“I’ll fix it. You just leave the keys,” Paterson promised. “Get in my car, will you?”

His was a Morris 1800, and Rollison got in next to the driver’s seat, heard Paterson give instructions to his solitary man, and then saw another carload of policemen arrive. Paterson did not wait to talk to them but joined Rollison and started off. He kept silent until they were through the tunnel and on the way to a small group of buildings between two of the main terminals. The red cross denoting First Aid was at one driveway and they turned into this. As he swung into a parking place, Paterson said:

“I talked to Grice, at the Yard.”

“Good.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Why should I?” asked Rollison. “Does he still think I know more than I’ve admitted about this affair?”

“I got that impression,” Paterson answered, coming to a standstill. He had to move his bony knees to one side in order to get them clear of the dashboard : moving, he was an ungainly man. “And when I told him there had been an attempt to murder you, he asked me to make sure you’re protected — he’ll send a couple of men to take over from mine, Mr. Rollison.”

This meant that Rollison was going to be followed wherever he went.

“Everyone is being most considerate,” he observed drily. “It may be hard to believe, but I’m more interested in seeing Thomas G. Loman than I am in hearing how worried everyone is about me.”

He flashed a smile, and Paterson laughed.

There were two men at the entrance to the two-storey hospital building and another just inside, and when Rollison and Paterson went into a narrow passage off the main one, another man was at the swing doors. At least, the danger was being taken seriously. Paterson led the way, pushing open a door marked ‘Private’ and Rollison found himself in a small, square, green-painted hospital ward with one bed.

On this, his feet thrusting out at the foot, was a man who lay on his back, with his eyes closed and nothing, at this distance, to suggest that he was alive.

6

Thomas G. Loman?

IN ONE CORNER of the room a small man sat, with a pocket book in his hands. He stood up slowly, gaze fixed on Paterson, who was looking at the bare feet, which were almost at right-angles from the heels. From this angle the toes, particularly the big toe, looked huge. A nurse pushed her way past Rollison and lifted the blanket which draped over the bony ankles, pulled it down and placed it over the feet. It covered them from the top but gave them no real protection. But it was warm in here.

“I told you to watch his feet,” the nurse said.

The small man did not answer.

“All right, nurse, thanks,” said Paterson, and he looked at the small man. “Has he moved, Jones ?”

“Only his feet,” said Jones. “It seems like a reflex action to me.”

“Has he said anything?”

“Every now and again he gives a kind of snore,” announced Jones.

“What is a ‘kind’ of snore?”

“It’s a gulp, really,” answered Jones. “I can’t really explain, but — oh! There’s one corning!”