John Creasey - The Toff and the Fallen Angels

Twenty minutes later, Rollison turned into a narrow lane off Fleet Street, parking his car half on the roadway and half on the pavement. Striding along a narrow alley, which had run between two buildings for at least a hundred and fifty years, he came to a modern plaza from which rose a vast edifice of cement and glass, dwarfing the ancient buildings nearby.

This was the new house of The Globe Newspapers Limited.

If he had any luck, Gwendoline Fell would be in her office.

She was indeed, an unbelievable Gwendoline Fell, wearing a huge, floppy-brimmed flowered hat, a sleeveless dress of a delicate shade of puce, and elbow length kid gloves; and she was ravishingly made-up. Four girls and a long-haired youth sat in an outer office reading newspapers, two of them cutting out columns and articles with huge, shiny shears. Each looked up at the Toff with unashamed curiosity; and each manoeuvred to get a better look at him as he shook hands with Gwendoline.

“Do sit down,” she said.

“Where do you keep your motor-scooter?” he inquired.

“Near enough to give me no difficulty in following shady individuals,” answered Gwendoline Fell, half-smiling. “What trouble can I help to get you out of, Mr. Rollison? Or perhaps I should ask if you’ve come to plead with me not to make a big story out of your latest abysmal failure. Do you feel proud to have been sitting with poor Sir Douglas when the glass splintered in his face? And how clever you were—only two small scratches yourself, I see.”

“Ah,” said Rollison. “But I lead the charmed life of the indolent and the lucky.” He gave his gayest smile. “Do you want to find out the truth about the vendetta against Naomi Smith and her fallen angels?”

“Her—what? Oh, I see. Your name for them. How very poetical. If I were in an argumentative mood I might toss up whether to challenge the first part of it or the second. But please go on.” She smiled, suddenly all charm.

“You’re very kind,” said Rollison drily. “I now doubt very much if Sir Douglas Slatter is the villain, which means that I think someone else is engineering the hate campaign. If it is believed that Sir Douglas has given in and is allowing the girls to stay in Number 31, the campaign to drive them out will be stepped up, and—”

“You are on the side of the fallen angels,” interrupted Gwendoline. “Do you want them all to have their heads bashed in?”

Rollison sat back in his chair and looked at her levelly, then slowly rose to his feet and turned away. He did not hurry, neither did he dawdle. He could just see the outline of Gwendoline’s face and hat in one of the glass walls turned into a mirror by two filing cabinets, and beyond he saw the occupants of the outer office trying to disguise their interest. Gwendoline neither moved nor spoke, even when he opened the door. She believed he would turn back, of course, that he was merely bluffing. He nodded pleasantly to the others and went into the glass-walled passage beyond, without once looking back. As last he came upon a wall through which he could not see; beyond was the battery of lifts, and a clock made in the shape of a map of the earth with the words 7th Floor above it.

He pressed for a lift, to go down. He was not angry, not even annoyed, and only slightly exasperated; he simply did not see how any good could come of such persistent conflict; and as Gwendoline had not come after him or sent one of her staff, she was apparently in no mood to change. It was a pity, but he had friends in Fleet Street who would undoubtedly give this case the kind of publicity he believed it required.

The automatic lift was some time in arriving. He was the only occupant, and as he strode through the hall he met only messenger girls and doormen. He stepped on to the plaza of near-dazzling white steps, opposite the alley, and turned towards the narrow entrance. As he did so, a motor-scooter engine pop-pop-popped from the right, and round a corner of The Globe building came Gwendoline Fell in all her finery, including the hat, astride her motor-scooter. Rollison stopped, and she drew level with him.

“Please come back,” she pleaded. “I won’t be bitchy again.”

He looked at the absurd hat, and his determination wavered.

He could impose conditions; he could complain or explain or ask her to listen to reason. Instead, he found himself smiling.

“Whatever you are, you’ll be. But yes, I’ll come back. Shall I come with you, or—”

Gwendoline gave the stand of the scooter a most unlady-like kick, and got off. She raised a hand to one of The Globe employees. “George will look after this, won’t you George,” she said, then strode along at Rollison’s side, back to the building.

None of her staff looked up this time; only their scissors seemed to snip with very much greater vigour. Inside the main office, Gwendoline went back to her chair, tapping the arm of Rollison’s as she passed it.

“How can I help?” she asked.

“Tell the world in your column tomorrow that Sir Douglas has a heart of gold and you have it on good authority that he has given way to the angels, who may stay in possession of the house.”

“Has he?” asked Gwendoline.

“Can I speak strictly off the record?”

“Yes.”

“He is not going to renew the lease of Smith Hall but he is going to give them another house.”

“Give?” echoed Gwendoline, her eyes rounding. “Give,” repeated Rollison solemnly.

“And I can’t say that?” sighed Gwendoline. “I am only flesh and blood, you know.”

“He told me in strict confidence. And even if he hadn’t, I wouldn’t want you to use the full facts yet. Isn’t the truth enough to make your story sensational? Before the rat incident he was adamantly hostile, so he had a remarkable change of heart.”

“He certainly did,” agreed Gwendoline. “Can you be sure that if I tell the story, as you ask me to, it will get the results you want?”

“I’m sure there’s a good chance of it doing so. I think there will be more attacks, but that house and those girls will be as closely protected as royalty. I don’t believe, this time, there will be the slightest chance of the attackers either doing harm or getting away.”

They sat quite still, their eyes meeting in a silent chal-lenge. At last Gwendoline gave a decisive little nod.

“I’ll do it your way,” she said. “May I add one plea?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Can I know what help you’re going to get?”

Rollison chuckled.

“Yes, gladly. Meet me at ten o’clock tonight outside the entrance to Aldgate East Underground Station, crash helmet, motor-scooter and all.”

“I’ll be there,” said Gwendoline with relish. “I will certainly be there! Is there anything else I can do to help?”

“At this moment, check at the Yard to see if Super-intendent Grice is in and if he’ll see me right away,” said Rollison.

Before he had finished speaking she was lifting the telephone, and he listened as she spoke crisply and precisely: at the desk she seemed much more mature. She replaced the receiver, and nodded with satisfaction.

“I understand that he wants to see you,” she said, and this time the glint in her eyes was mischievous. “I hope you’ll be free to meet me tonight.”

* * *

Grice was in his bright new office at the bright new building which would never, for Rollison, capture the romantic appeal of the old Scotland Yard. About a quarter of the size of Gwendoline Fell’s, there was all glass in one wall. The others, decently opaque, were hung with photographs of police football and cricket teams, and long-pensioned-off senior officers. Grice motioned to a chair.

“What’s the latest news about Slatter?” Rollison asked.