John Creasey: The Toff and the Fallen Angels

Jolly lost no time in withdrawing, and Rollison sipped the hot coffee, looking again at the Trophy Wall. He knew it was absurd and there was no reason for it, but he no longer felt that state of glowing contentment. His mood had changed to one of misgiving; the lightness of heart had been replaced by a sense of uneasiness, almost of burden. It was absurd ! He finished his coffee and stood up, approaching the wall behind the large, pedestal-topped desk, and looked at trophy after trophy, almost as if he were seeking in each some memory which would bring back the mood he had just lost.

Or which Jolly had taken from him.

It couldn’t be—surely it couldn’t be—that he was conscious of his age? What man in his middle—well, just passed the middle-forties could feel that? He had never been fitter. “Prime of life’ was not an empty phrase but simply one of fact.

Could he do, today, what he had done in the days long past?

There was the top hat with a hole through it—he would have been dead had he not ducked in time. He could certainly duck as quickly today. There was an old hob-nail boot, one of his earliest trophies; to win that, he had fought off four men and hardly given the danger a thought—he would not relish the same odds today.

But he could face them, surely.

There was the curate’s collar and the chicken feather, the phial of poison and the bicycle chain, the nylon stocking and the palm pistol, the dagger and the sword-stick. Each trophy—and there were fifty in all—was from a struggle against a criminal which he, the Toff, had won. All had brought danger, while in more than half the encounters he had been within an ace of death.

And in almost every case there had been a woman, young, middle-aged, or even old, who had attracted him and been attracted by him. To this day, he could not really understand why he had never married, why, for one reason or another, he had never—since the days of his incautious youth—proposed to a woman.

Yet he had known so many.

He believed—certainly he hoped—that all of them remembered their association with him with no regret at all.

He—

The telephone on the desk rang.

“And in time, too,” he said aloud. “I’m becoming positively maudlin.” He lifted the receiver. “This is Richard Rollison.”

“Good morning, Mr. Rollison,” said a woman with a most attractive voice. “You won’t know me. Though I have written to you. I would very much like to talk things over with you personally! May I?”

He said, without any noticeable hesitation. “Is it an urgent matter?”

“I think it might be.”

“Then in half-an-hour’s time?” suggested Rollison. “Or else this afternoon.”

“I’m at the Mayfair Hotel,” the woman said. “And in half-an-hour would suit me splendidly. Thank you.” And just when he thought she would ring off without introducing herself, she went on : “My name is Smith. Naomi Smith.”

Smith, mused Rollison as he put down the receiver; Smith, Jones, Robinson or Brown, what did it matter? One assumed name was as effective as another. Naomi was not likely to be assumed, however. That had a ring of authenticity.

He moved towards the kitchen. The door which led to it was closed, suggesting that Jolly was preparing a lunch which would send an aroma into the flat if the door were open, so he closed it behind him, and tip-toed towards the kitchen, passing the main bathroom door on one side and the spare bedroom door on the other. Beyond these was his room; and further beyond was a passage leading to Jolly’s room and the kitchen.

This door, too, was closed.

“Onions,” hazarded the Toff, as he turned the handle.

Lo! Onions were, indeed, frying, and giving off a splendid aroma. “Splendid’—the woman on the telephone had said—”Splendidly’, a rather unusual word in those particular circumstances. “Very well’ would have been more appropriate.

Jolly was at the wall-table, and there were traces of mince, potatoes, tomatoes and egg on a chopping board in front of him.

“Cottage pie,” announced Rollison.

Jolly started and turned his head.

“I—yes, that’s right, sir.”

“Enough for three?” asked Rollison.

“Plenty, sir.”

“Be half-prepared,” advised Rollison. “I had a tele-phone call from a woman stranger who will be here just after twelve, and if she measures up to those new standards you credit me with, she may be persuaded to stay to lunch.”

“Very good, sir,” Jolly said. “I wonder—”

“Yes?”

“I’ve been thinking, sir.” Jolly went on, turning the shredded onions over with a wooden fork, “that you have had a very pleasant spell of inactivity—comparative inactivity. You won’t commit yourself to any course of action simply for the sake of having something to do, will you?”

“I hope not,” replied Rollison. “Do you think I might?”

“I have known you feel that the moment has come to—ah—seek pastures new,” Jolly said. “If you will forgive the expression. May I ask whether the caller said what she wished to see you about?”

“No,” said Rollison.

“In that case, sir,” said Jolly. “I ask you most earnestly not to act precipitately.”

“I will ponder profoundly before taking any action whatever,” promised Rollison. “I might even consult you.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Jolly, solemnly.

Rollison went out, closing the door meekly behind him. He went into his bedroom, off which a small bathroom led, and peered at himself in the mirror, then gave a broad grin, showing his very white teeth.

“That’s right, preen yourself,” he jeered.

He went back to the Trophy Wall, but did not spend much more time at it. The past had lost its nostalgic appeal and he was ready for tomorrow. Jolly was right in one way, at least—he hadn’t been very active for a long time.

He wondered what Naomi Smith would be like. There was no reason, except the sound of her voice, why he should be looking forward to seeing her, but he was. He wrote three letters, to the secretaries of committees on which he served, including a London Branch of the Prisoners.” Aid Society, and was sealing the last when the front door bell rang.

It was thirty-one minutes since Naomi Smith had telephoned.

He got up from the desk and waited for Jolly—it would be unkind to open the door himself, and rob Jolly of a chance of appraising the caller. From where he stood, the door leading to the domestic quarters was on the right, the door leading to a wide hall and the front door was on the left.

“Good afternoon,” said Jolly.

“Good afternoon.” The pleasing voice was unmistakable. “Mr. Rollison is expecting me—I am Mrs. Smith.”

“Yes, Madam,” said Jolly, “please come this way.” There was the closing of the door, footsteps muffled by the carpet, and then Jolly appeared and stood aside, announcing:

“Mrs. Smith, sir.”

Rollison moved towards the woman as she came in—and was almost shocked, for she was one of the plainest-looking women he had ever seen; her only redeeming feature, at first sight, were her fine, chestnut-brown eyes.

CHAPTER 2

Fallen Angels

NAOMI SMITH smiled at Rollison, and something in her expression told him that she knew what had flashed into his mind, and was amused. She was dressed in a dark brown suit of good cut, with a most attractive figure. As she sat down he noticed her well-shaped legs, the skirt, which was short but not too short, the hand-made shoes, which were lighter than her suit but toned in with it.

As he took in these details, he moved towards a corner cabinet.

“What will you have to drink?”

“A gin and French, please.”