John Creasey - The Toff and the Fallen Angels

“Liz,” said Rollison warmly, “it would be wonderful. I’ll talk to her about it. Goodbye.” He rang off before she could get another word in, and then saw his door open a fraction, and Angela’s head appear. She looked half-asleep and so very young.

“It’s me,” she said. “Do I have time for breakfast?”

“Provided you don’t wolf mine,” said Rollison. “I—” He broke off, as his telephone bell rang, and Angela came further into the room. She wore a pale pink quilted dressing gown which was too large for her. “Rollison,” Rollison said into the telephone.

“Roily,” said Grice, in a very hard voice, “were you at Slatter’s house last night?”

Something in his manner told Rollison that the question had grave significance. He could lie, and perhaps never be found out, but if the police had to investigate then Angela would become involved in the lie, and he would break faith with Grice—who had probably assumed that he had been in Bloomdale Street. It seemed a long time before he answered, and while Angela’s eyes grew clearer, the sleepy mist faded.

Then he said : “Yes, Bill.”

“Did you attack Guy Slatter?”

“I hit him on the back of the neck—yes.”

“Did you hit him with a sledge hammer and break his skull?” asked Grice.

Rollison caught his breath.

“Good God, no! Is he—dead?”

“Yes. I had the house watched to make sure no-one went in or out, and no-one did, from ten minutes after your telephone call. When the daily staff went in at half-past six, they found him lying near his uncle’s desk, dead—killed like the others. I think you’d better come over at once, and make a statement.”

“I’ll be there inside an hour,” Rollison promised.

He looked steadily at Angela as he replaced the receiver. She had moved very slowly towards him, and was now within arm’s reach of the bed.

“Guy?” she asked.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Did—did you kill him?”

“Did you see a hammer in my hand?” asked Rollison. “Oh, my God! That way?”

“That way. Angela, listen to me.” He took her hands. “I broke into Slatter’s house last night. You did not leave the door open and you did not tell me where to find the keys. You can tell the police I asked you to persuade Guy to take you out. You can even tell them you guessed why, but you took no active part in helping me. Do you understand? If the police know that, they can make a lot of unpleasantness for you without it helping me at all. Do you understand?”

Very slowly, she answered : “Yes.” She tried to free her hand but could not and that told him how tightly he was gripping. He relaxed a little, then said in a more casual voice : “If you still want to come, we’ve half-an-hour.”

“Just try to keep me away!” exclaimed Angela, and she pivoted round and ran out of the room.

Rollison almost laughed, but there was nothing even remotely funny about the situation, and there were probably dangers which he hadn’t yet seen. Had he been watched at Slatter’s house? Had someone seen him go in and seen him leave with Angela, then gone in and slugged Guy, leaving him dead?

It seemed likely.

Mechanically turning bathroom taps on and off, vigorously towelling, Rollison knew that Guy would not have stayed unconscious from the chopping blow for more than ten or fifteen minutes at the outside. Someone, then, must have gone in almost immediately after they had left. He was sure no-one had followed them, but not sure they hadn’t been watched.

Steam clouded the mirrors and Rollison pushed open the window. As he did so, he caught sight of a movement in the courtyard below.

Two men were stepping on to the bottom platform of the iron fire escape. They were not tradesmen; they were tough-looking; and they wore workmen’s clothes. Leaving the open window, Rollison moved swiftly into the living-room. Here he could see the road.

A battered-looking car had just pulled up. Two men got out, waited for a milk-float to pass, then crossed towards Rollison’s house and disappeared. Almost at the same time, a motor-cyclist pulled up, fifty yards along; he did not get off his machine but straddled it, as if he were on the lookout.

Jolly appeared, at the dining-alcove.

“Would you—is there anything the matter, sir?”

“Yes,” said Rollison. “Call Grice at once, tell him I think we’re going to be attacked.”

“Attacked—” Jolly began, and then darted towards the telephone. Rollison went as swiftly to the front door. It had been unbolted,, but he shot the bolts and put the chain up; and the door was reinforced and almost impossible to break down.

He spun round.

“The telephone is dead, sir,” Jolly stated in an even voice.

Rollison stared—and then hurried towards the back door. He thought he heard footsteps just outside as he rammed the bolts home, then stretched up and put shutters up at the small windows alongside the door. There had been a time when raids on this flat were commonplace, and everything had been reinforced.

There was a heavy knock at the back door.

“It looks as if someone has tumbled to the fact that Angela and I might know too much for their safety,” Rollison said. “They’re pretty slow—and I had the bodyguards sent to the wrong place. If this crowd really means business—and I’ve seen four who look as if they do—we’re really in trouble. They could have that door down in ten seconds flat with a single charge of dynamite. And they’ve used dynamite at least once before.”

As he finished there was another knock at the back door, and a long, loud ring at the front.

Angela appeared, fully dressed, fresh and pink-cheeked.

“Who on earth is that?” she asked in a voice not far from scared.

“The knell of doom,” said Rollison, knowing that she would want no punches pulled. He went to his desk and unlocked the master drawer at the top, took out a small, grey pistol which did not look large enough to cause injury. “I think whoever is behind this knows that you heard the name Bensoni, and might have passed word on to me. They know I’m supposed always to be a lone wolf, and they’ll expect me to try to handle this on my own. So they’ve come to make sure I can’t—and to make sure you can’t pass word on to the police.”

A thunderous knocking drowned the last words, and then clearly from the letter box in the front door, a man called out in a rough, uneducated voice :

“We know you’re in there, Rollison. Open the door or we’ll blow it down.”

CHAPTER 20

Big Blast

“I SEE what you mean,” said Angela in a small voice. “Rollison!” roared the man outside.

“Coming!” called the Toff, as if he hadn’t a worry in the world. He whispered to Angela : “This is tear-gas. Go and help Jolly.” Jolly, with some cigarettes in his hand, also taken from the drawer, was heading for the kitchen.

Angela cast a longing look at Rollison, then went after Jolly.

Rollison reached the front door. The men outside were silent now, quite unaware that they could be seen. Above the front door was a kind of periscope mirror, and glancing up Rollison saw the two who had come from the car standing outside—and two others halfway down the stairs. One of them was laying a trail of gunpowder.

The man nearest to the door bent down, and poked a finger at the letter box.

“Rollison!” he roared. “This is your last chance. Open the door!”

“Just about to,” answered Rollison. He poked the muzzle of the gas pistol through the letter box, squeezed the trigger, and heard the hiss and a cry of alarm, then a thud as the man at the box fell. He fired two more capsules of the tear gas, felt a blow-back of it bite at his nose and eyes—and he heard another man cry out :