John Creasey - The Toff and the Fallen Angels

“No.”

“Well, as the great detective, why don’t you find out what was happening next door?” suggested Jennifer. “Anyone can sneak in from there and if your arms are long enough you could actually stand in Sir D’s garden and cut the wire. Or is he too rich to be suspected?”

“Jennifer, pet, the chips on your shoulders would make a log fire big enough to roast the poor devil,” protested Rollison. “Haven’t any of you heard of a little thing like evidence?”

She made a face at him, and walked past. The noise had subsided, and although there was much talk and now and again a subdued outburst of laughter, there was not a single crying baby.

“What time is your meeting?” asked Rollison.

“It’ll be about half-past eight. You don’t have to come,” Anne said. She turned her brown, speculative, almost brooding eyes towards him, and added: “You don’t always have to take me too seriously, either.”

“No,” agreed Rollison, “but the choice is a little tricky. I can’t always decide when you’re telling the truth and when you’re set on deceiving me.”

Once again he succeeded in shaking Anne Miller out of her calm. He smiled and turned. There was no sign of Naomi Smith, and had she been at home she would certainly have been here. He went through the house, heard a baby gurgling in a room on the right, but did not go in. A police car was in the street, and three plainclothes men were heading for the back of the house. Rollison recognised none of them, and did not stop. He turned again into Starter’s house, and rang the front door bell, as he had before.

Guy Slatter opened the door.

“Hallo,” he said, standing aside. “Come in.” His manner showed a complete change from the aggressiveness of their last encounter. “This time, I think, my uncle would like to see you.” He led the way upstairs, and as they reached the door of the study, Angela appeared at the end of the passage. Rollison glanced at young Slatter. He was surprised to catch on his face an expression of almost fatuous admiration.

Angela, looking very demure, gave a half-smile as she passed.

“Good afternoon, sir.”

Guy murmured something, as he opened Slater’s door. The most noticeable thing here, Rollison thought, was the quiet, although the window had been re-opened. Slater placed a hand on some papers, to stop them from blowing, and rose from the desk.

“I’m glad you came back,” he said. “Please sit down. All right, Guy.”

Guy moved off with alacrity, letting the door close with a loud click. The old man looked across at it with resignation, but made no comment.

“Why did you come back?” he asked.

To find out whether, after the rat interlude, you would reconsider your decision,” Rollison said. “Obvi-ously someone is determined to drive those girls away—by frightening them or pressuring them by threats of, and even by actual, murder. If you changed your mind, no one would retain the slightest suspicion that you are responsible.”

“Mr. Rollison,” said Slatter, placing both hands palms downwards on his desk, and looking like a newly-shaven Old Testament prophet, “I shall not extend the tenancy of this house next door to those particular tenants. I am quite determined. I want peaceful occupancy of my own home and it is impossible in the present circumstamces. They must go. However, the rat interlude, as you call it, did distress me. So did the attack on Mrs. Smith. I am not of course involved in either, and am quite indifferent to any form of suspicion which may fall on me, and your quite unworthy attempt to blackmail me into giving way is not the reason for what I am about to offer. I have a great deal of property in London, some in areas more suitable than this for a hostel. I am prepared to give premises of similar size to the sponsors of Smith Hall, on two conditions. One : that they move immediately the alternative accommodation is available, which I think will be very shortly. The other, that the transaction is kept quite confidential. No one is to know. And if you wonder why I make the second condition, I will tell you : if it were once known that I had made a gift I would be inundated with requests from other sources for donations.”

Rollison thought swiftly. A property of size anywhere in London would cost at least twenty thousand pounds, and such a gift even from a wealthy man was munificent indeed.

As he sat there, trying to think how best he could tell this man how warmly he regarded the offer, there was a violent crash, and a half-brick hurtling through the window. Startled by the expression on Rollison’s face, which appeared a half-second before the impact, Slatter swivelled round in his chair.

“Duck!” roared Rollison.

But it was too late. Glass cascaded into the room, over Slatter’s face and hands, over the desk and the floor. Rollison sprang to his feet. A sliver of glass cut into his cheek, causing sharp pain, but it did not stop him. He reached the window and peered out through the huge star-shaped hole in the glass.

No one was in sight. And the only place for anyone to hide was in the house next door.

He saw a policeman, running and staring up: he pointed to Smith Hall, then turned to face Sir Douglas Slatter.

Slatter was sitting, as if stunned, blood streaming down his face, where glass had struck the flesh like daggers.

In a sharp, authoritative voice, Rollison said : “Sit still, Slater. Just sit absolutely still.”

He glanced quickly outside again and saw Naomi Smith, then he turned back to the injured man. With gentle speed he pulled out the glass splinters—those from near the eye first. The astonishing thing was Slatter’s statue-like stillness. His face was set, he did not move a muscle.

There were cries in the gardens outside, and a baby began to scream. There were also sounds inside this house, and as Rollison drew out the last splinter, the door opened and first Angela and then Naomi Smith appeared. Angela drew in her breath with a sharp hiss, Naomi’s cheeks blanched but she came across without hesitation, and called to Angela :

“Bring a wet towel—quickly. Then a bowl and more towels.”

Angela turned and ran, as Rollison took out a handkerchief and placed it gently over the largest of the cuts.

“Unless your eye is damaged, there’s nothing serious,” he said in a reassuring voice. He withdrew the handkerchief, now stained crimson, and went on: “Open your eye slowly—very slowly.”

Slater made no attempt to open his eye and did not move; it was almost impossible to detect the signs of breathing.

“Douglas,” Naomi said firmly and clearly, “try to open your eyes.”

Her words had not the slightest effect, and she gave Rollison a quick, frightened glance. Rollison now saw a faint movement at Slatter’s lips, and felt his pulse; it was beating very slowly. The eye was filling up with blood again and he dabbed the handkerchief on with great care.

“I think he’s in shock,” he said. “Do you know his doctor?”

“Yes—Dr. Morrison, who lives at Number 7.”

“Will you find out if he’s in?”

“But—”

“I’ll see to Sir Douglas,” Rollison promised.

She moved to the telephone as Angela came in with a towel, wrung out loosely. She unfolded it as she approached, then placed it with great care over Slatter’s face. She did not press hard, but moulded it over his features, even into his eyes. Rollison had a moment to glance outside; a policeman was looking up at the window, as if measuring the distance.

“Is Dr. Morrison in?” Naomi sounded remarkably collected. “Mrs. Smith, for Sir Douglas Slater.”

Another policeman appeared inside the cage next door.

“We’ll need more towels,” Rollison said to Angela. “Is Guy Slatter in?”