John Creasey: The Toff and the Fallen Angels

But Keith Webberson had sent Naomi to him, and Keith was no scaremonger, he must have some reason for anxiety. It was at least possible that Naomi Smith had not yet told him everything, wanting to make sure that he would help before unburdening herself of the whole truth.

He heard a faint click at the bedroom extension; Angela had rung off, he went to join her, and found her very much more sober, hardly smiling at all.

“Hallo,” he said. “Problems?”

“No,” answered Angela. “Not exactly problems, but Mrs. Smith made it clear that she is really worried. I’m going to see her right away, Rolly—she’s waiting supper for me. Apparently that’s how she interviews all her prospective angels.” A flash of humour brightened Angela’s eyes. “An angel who is about to fall salutes you!”

“I’ll be around to pick you up,” promised Rollison.

Five minutes later, wearing a knitted cloak drawn tight around the neck, Angela was about to leave. As Rollison saw her to the door, he remembered how upset Naomi Smith had been that morning at that very spot. He held the door ajar.

“You’re quite sure you want to go ahead?” he asked. “Absolutely positive, no shadow of doubt about it,” answered Angela.

“You could run into a lot of troubles you don’t expect,” he reminded her. “Promise me one thing.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Tell me everything you find out, at least once a day, and if you’ve the slightest cause for alarm, let me know at once.”

“I will,” Angela assured him, earnestly. “It’s a chance in a million, and I’ll make the most of it.”

He saw her down to the street door, and watched as she drove off in a shabby and battered Morris 1000, scarred from ten years of heavy usage. Yet the engine purred. She waved, tooted and was gone. He returned to the flat, in a curious state of uneasiness. Ought he to have encouraged Angela to go? Should he have made more inquiries first? What was the simple truth about his own view of the matter? That he was in fact inclined to think that this was not a criminal but an emotional affair?

He closed his front door, walked into the big room, and telephoned Keith Webberson, who had a flat in St. John’s Wood. Webberson was a widower, a wealthy man whose life was dedicated to the spreading of knowledge and understanding throughout the world. He did this through his work, and he had devised methods of teaching English to illiterate people which were practised in much of the Commonwealth. And he did it also through voluntary organisations, serving on a dozen committees, including several attached to UNO.

The ringing sound went on and on. It was hardly surprising, Webberson was often out, but for a reason which he could not wholly understand, Rollison grew even more uneasy. He contemplated calling one of the other members of Naomi’s group, but decided against it.

He tried to push the uneasiness away but it remained through supper, an indifferent Western and a bad documentary programme; even until Jolly came in, a little after eleven o’clock. He told Jolly what Angela had decided, was not wholly sure that Jolly approved. At twelve, he started to get ready for bed, and at twenty-minutes past the telephone rang. He lifted the receiver by his bedside.

“Rollison.”

“I’ve seen her, and I think she’s absolutely remark-able,” said Angela. “If it were only to help her, I’d go to Angel Hall.” She said that quite naturally, not as a joke. “I’m moving in tomorrow. Aren’t you pleased with your third-from-favourite niece?”

“I’m very proud of her,” replied Rollison.

“What a nice thing to say, even though its been wrung out of you. Bless you, Rolly!”

She rang off; and Rollison realised that she was now wholly committed. Slowly he finished getting ready for bed, but he did not get to sleep easily; he was more worried than he had been for a long time.

* * *

Angela telephoned about half-past six next evening; the Friday of that week.

“All’s quite quiet, Rolly. I’m settling in.”

Keith Webberson did not answer the telephone that evening, either.

Angela telephoned on Saturday.

“It’s a wonderful place, Rolly—perfect for what goes on here—but there is something wrong. I’ll try to put my finger on it as soon as I can.”

“What kind of wrong?” he wanted to know.

“As soon as I know, I’ll tell you,” said Angela.

Keith Webberson did not answer his telephone all that day.

He must be away, mused Rollison. “And there’s no reason on earth why he shouldn’t be.”

But was that really true, in mid-term? he wondered.

Angela telephoned on Sunday and on Monday and Tuesday.

“I think I’m being accepted,” she said on Tuesday. “There’s one girl I particularly like—an Elspeth Jones, and I think she’s bursting to talk to someone. I may have something more to report tomorrow.”

“How are you really finding things?” asked Rollison, before she could ring off. “You’ve said very little, so far.”

“There isn’t very much to say,” said Angela, obviously prepared. “Nearly all of the others are suspicious of one another and of Naomi Smith. They seem to have a love–hate relationship. I can tell you one thing, Roily.”

“What’s that?”

“They may all be fallen angels but they all want to pick themselves up. At dinner time tonight they talked more freely than I’ve known them, it’s almost as if they’re beginning to forget that I’m new.”

“That’s good,” said Rollison. “Angela—”

“I really ought to go,” Angela interrupted. “If anything happens worth reporting, I’ll tell you afterwards. Bye for now!”

Rollison rang off, thinking almost ruefully that she had virtually dismissed him. Did that mean that someone had been—or might be—listening in? Or had she simply been afraid that someone would interrupt?

Angela telephoned again on Wednesday, and for the first time sounded almost excited.

“They are absolutely accepting me,” she cried. “Two of them confided in me last night about their own problems, and wanted to hear about mine. It seems to be far more difficult to invent a purple patch than a white one. I finally planked for a kind of grey. I can tell you another thing, Rolly.”

“What’s that?” asked Raison patiently.

“They’re puzzled because they haven’t seen Professor Webberson for a week—he usually takes one afternoon and one evening class at Smith Hall.”

“Isn’t he away?” asked Rollison.

“He didn’t say he was going away,” Angela informed him.

Raison rang off, and immediately put in a call to Webberson; as usual there was no answer. On the spur of the moment, he went downstairs and walked to his garage, in a mews nearby, took out his latest car, a grey Allard, and drove to St. John’s Wood. Webberson lived in a top floor flat of a block which towered above its neighbours; from south windows it was possible to see almost all of the ground at Lords.

Raison got out of the lift opposite Number 901— Webberson’s flat. Outide the front door was a printed note : “No tradesmen until I’m back, please,” and it was followed by the initials “K.W.” It was an odd way for an intelligent man to advertise the fact that the fiat was empty, and Rollison studied the note, and then the front door—and on that instant decided to break in.

There was no convincing reason why he should suspect anything was wrong, but the suspicion was very strong in him. He drew on a pair of thin cotton gloves, not wanting to leave prints, then took out a knife with blades of highly flexible steel, and began to work on the lock.

CHAPTER 5

Crime Of Violence

As he pushed the blade between the lock and the door frame, waiting for the moment when the tension on both sides became the same and the lock would click back, Rollison felt a dozen questions tearing through his mind. Was this crazy? Was there really any reason to think anything was wrong? If a neighbour came out of one of the other three doors in sight, how could he explain what he was doing?