John Creasey: The Toff and the Fallen Angels

“I daresay,” said Bill, still abashed. “All the same, I never ought to say things like that to a guest. Here ! Not come to do a story about me and my boys, have you? I dunno that I want—”

“I just wanted her to know I’m not the nincompoop I sometimes look,” said Rollison. “Can we go into the office?” They crowded in, while sparring and the vaulting, the punching and the jumping continued. “Bill,” went on Rollison, “I need about two dozen of your boys for a job which could be very nasty.” He explained, wasting no words, obviously confident that Bill Ebbutt did not need telling anything twice.

“I get the picture,” Ebbutt said. “If anyone does lay on a kind of all-out attack, you don’t want to be caught napping. What do you really want, Mr. Ar? One man for one girl? Only way to make sure they get absolute protection.”

“If you can manage to find twenty-two—”

“Cor, bless you, there’s so much short time and re-dundancy I could do fifty! Get ‘em over there asking for jobs, no one will be surprised. O.K., Mr. Ar, you leave it to me. The flipping coppers—beg your pardon, Miss—are the first line of attack, we stand by to pick up the pieces. I’ll go over and spy out the land after the pub’s closed. Now, how about coming across to the Blue Dog for a couple, Mr. Ar? And you, Miss—it’ll be a kindness, to prove you’ve no hard feelings.”

“Roily,” said Gwendoline Fell, some time later, “I like your friends very much, and they certainly like you. Perhaps I was a little hasty when I first talked to you. I think I’ve reformed.”

“I don’t mind you reforming, providing you don’t blame me for it,” said Rollison. “I can’t wait to read your column in the morning.”

“If you care to come to Fleet Street, you could see some early editions now,” said Gwendoline.

“Nothing I’d like more,” said Rollison. “But I’ve an appointment I mustn’t miss. Show an unnatural restraint, Gwendoline—and don’t follow me.”

As far as he could judge he was not followed by her or by anyone else on his way to break into Sir Douglas Slatter’s house. He called Jolly from a call box and made sure Angela hadn’t telephoned; so she had Guy Slatter out somewhere in the West End.

And the big house should be empty, although the police were nearby.

CHAPTER 18

Burglary

ROLLISON drove past both houses. There were two police cars, and policemen were to be seen patrolling the grounds. The front porch of Number 29 was brightly lit and there was a light on in an upstairs room. Rollison parked not far from the spot where he had left his car that afternoon, and walked by a roundabout route across Bloomdale Square towards the back of the house. There were bright lights at Smith Hall, in spite of the fact that it was midnight, but only one light glowed at the back of Slatter’s house, and he judged it to be on a landing.

The police were not watching Slatter’s; their fears were for the residents of Smith Hall.

Rollison went to the back door of Number 29, and tried the handle; the door yielded, so Angela had done her job.

An inside door was open and a dim light showed. He slipped inside, closed the outer door and entered a large kitchen which led to the passage alongside the stairs. Landing and hall lights were fully on. He opened the doors of the main downstairs rooms, satisfied himself that they were empty, then went upstairs. All landing lights were on, but the house was absolutely silent. He went into the first bedroom he came to. Obviously occupied, a man’s clothes were everywhere, on the bed and on the floor; the door of a bathroom, leading off, was open and water dripped from a shower.

Rollison opened cupboards and drawers until he came to one which was locked. He forced this, without difficulty. His eye lighted on a bundle of letters addressed to Guy Slatter.

Love letters?

He opened two, and each was on the same theme. Both of them were from dead Winifred de Vaux, stating simply that Guy was the father of her child. They went further, and stated with some bitterness that this had happened before to other, many other, unfortunate girls, all of whose illegitimate children Guy had fathered.

Very thoughtful, Rollison went out, leaving the door ajar. He entered a room opposite.

This was obviously Sir Douglas Slatter’s room. There was a huge Victorian wardrobe, of some dark, highly polished wood, a dressing table and chest of drawers of the same suite. The wardrobe was where the stockings and gloves had been hidden. Rollison saw a photograph on the dressing-chest, of young Guy taken a few years ago. The likeness between the two men had been quite remarkable, even then. By it was a smaller picture—of Naomi Smith.

Rollison left the door ajar, and began to search.

He found the drawer where the stockings had been kept; Angela had left one behind. In another, immediately above it, were ordinary clothes and underwear. Beneath a hanging section were several pairs of shoes, and Rollison took each pair out and examined it.

On one, were mud stains and splashes; the kind of marks there would quite likely be on the shoes of a man who had run over muddy ground—as Naomi’s attacker had run. Rollison put these back, and then looked through the clothes. There was a pair of flannels with mud splashes at the turn-ups, some nearly as high as the knees.

He was putting these back when he heard a sudden furious blaring of horns, not just one or two, but half-adozen on different notes. He heard voices, too; shouting and whistling. He went to the window, keeping close to the side, and looked down into the street. A convoy of cars, eight or nine of them, was pulled up in the road, blocking all the traffic in each direction, and youths poured out of them, heading for Smith Hall.

For an awful moment he was afraid the large scale attack he had half-feared had come before Ebbutt’s men were here to help. Four policemen appeared in a solid line, blocking the gateway, but three youths rushed into Slatter’s drive, and vaulted the wall. They did not go to the front door, but hurled stones at the side door and the windows of Smith Hall, while the honking and bellowing and whistling grew worse.

Rollison ran out of the room, down the stairs to the back door—and saw the youths already on the run; two scared girls were standing at one window, which had a big hole in the middle. Cars snorted and moved off, tyres screeching. From the corner he could see two policemen grappling with some of the youths, who broke away and rushed towards the last car, which was already moving. A man leaned out to drag the youths in, as the cars swung round the corner, engines roaring.

Slowly, silence settled.

Very clearly, a girl’s voice sounded :

“I can’t stand it, I just can’t stand any more !”

It was Judy Lyons.

Someone began to soothe her, someone else called out:

“Nor can I.”

The sound of Naomi’s voice followed, calm and clear despite the ugly incident.

“Is anyone hurt? I want to know at once—is anyone hurt?”

No-one had been hurt, it seemed, but Judy was still sobbing, her wails low, persistent and hopeless. Rollison withdrew cautiously. The noise of the invasion had died away, even the distant sound of racing engines had gone. Policemen were talking, and police cars had appeared. One man began to report what had happened as the newcomers drew near and inspected the damage to the windows.

Rollison went back into Slatter’s house, and hurried up the stairs. As he reached the main bedroom, it occurred to him that he was using the house almost as if it were his own. He crossed to the photographs and studied them, then tried all the drawers in the room. None was locked. He went across to the study, and saw flashlights down below, heard voices through the window. But hardboard had been placed across the broken pane, there was no danger of him being seen if he were careful. He took a pencil-slim torch from his pocket, twisted the top so that it spread a glow of diffused light, then sat in Slatter’s chair and tried the drawers.