John Creasey: The Toff and the Fallen Angels

None of the questions made him hesitate.

As he worked, manipulating the blade with infinite patience, he listened intently. The silence was broken by a loud clang as the trelliswork inner gate of the lift closed. Almost at once there was a whirring sound, of the lift ascending. The odds against it coming to this floor were eight to one, but there was no way of being sure.

The lock clicked, and Webberson’s door sprang open an inch.

The lift seemed to be coming very fast.

Rollison stepped inside the door and closed it, holding it tight with his left hand, for it would not close properly until the lock was repaired. Was this Webberson, by some strange freak of chance?

The lift stopped on the floor below.

Half jeering at himself but intensely relieved, Rollison put on a light, for the hall had no windows. A chair stood by a table against the wall and he placed the chair at the door; no one passing would now notice that it was open. There were four doors—one right, one left, two facing the front door. The parquet flooring was dull and looked dusty, as empty places will. A persian rug covered half the floor.

He opened the door on the left: it was the bathroom.

A towel lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, shaving gear was on a glass-topped table, and a safety razor and a shaving brush stood as if they had just been used. He looked at the brush, noticing the dried-up lather, matting the badger bristles—so it had not been washed after the shave. He opened the door opposite, into a kitchen, where a window overlooked an inner courtyard.

It was very modern and at first glance, clean. But there were cups and saucers and knives and forks, piled unwashed into the sink. A jar of ground coffee beans stood with the lid off, and a carton of cream, the lid partly on, was near it. Rollison poked at the lid, gingerly, using his finger nail. It was solid, with a minute line of mould growing at the edges where it had dried and drawn away from the side of the carton.

Rollison’s breath was coming tensely.

He went to the right hand door facing the hall, which was ajar. He opened it wider with his elbow, and peered into a bedroom. This had the big windows overlooking lawns and parking places; a pair of trousers, carelessly folded, lay at the foot of the bed, a clean shirt was draped over a chair, clean socks were poked into shoes placed near. It was as if Webberson had put everything out so as to nip into the bedroom from the bathroom, and change. Some silver change and a wallet, keys, cigarettes and book-matches lay on a dressing-table which stood slantwise, catching the light.

Rollison’s heart began to thump, as he turned into the hall and the other room, the door of which was closed.

Webberson, lying in a crumpled heap by the telephone, was almost an anti-climax—not only after what Rollison had seen, but from the effluvium of decomposing flesh which met him as he opened the door.

Rollison stood in the bedroom for some time, re-covering. He was accustomed to the sight of death, and normally unaffected, but this was the death of an old friend—and death by violence, for the back of Webber-son’s head had been smashed in.

Now, he had to decide what to do.

He saw the photograph of an attractive girl on a bookcase, signed : With love, Winifred. There was also a picture of an elderly couple, Keith’s long-dead parents. There was nothing else of interest.

As he searched, he pondered deeply. He could call the police from here and wait for them—and admit that he had broken in; or he could leave, and call anonymously, and show a lively interest when the story broke in the papers. There wasn’t much doubt of the better course, although he had to overcome strong prejudices. This was too much of a coincidence : it must be connected with the trouble at Smith Hall. If he were associated with it from the beginning, he would have staked a claim in the investigation. No one else need know, yet, what was happening at the Hall.

He decided to knock at a neighbour’s, for the pos-sibility of picking up a vital clue would offset the obvious disadvantage. As he stepped out of the flat he had a vivid mental picture of Angela’s eager face.

What had he thrust her into?

Was she in danger even at this moment?

He rang a bell across the landing, and a middle-aged man answered, hovering near as Rollison used the telephone in the hall which was identical with Webberson’s.

“Scotland Yard ..” Rollison began. “Mr. Grice, please . . . Yes, Superintendent Grice . . . What time did he go? . . . Will you call him at his home and tell him that Richard Rollison . . . R-O-L-L-I-S-O-N is at 901 Pack-ham House, St. John’s Wood and would very much like to see him here . . . Yes, I am an old friend . . . And will you also tell him that a murder squad is needed at the same address.”

“Hold on!” cried an operator, until that moment almost cynically uninterested. “I’ll put you through to Information.”

Rollison rang off, looking into the pale face of the neighbour, who was obviously badly shocked by what he had heard Rollison say.

It was hard to believe that Keith Webberson was actually dead; it almost numbed him.

“Did you say—say murder?” the neighbour asked.

“I did, I’m afraid,” confirmed Rollison.

“Who—” The man’s voice was unsteady.

“Professor Webberson.”

“But—but he lives opposite !”

“He used to,” Rollison said quietly.

“Are you—sure?”

“Beyond all shadow of doubt,” said Rollison. “Perhaps you will be able to help the police when—”

“Oh, I know nothing about it.” The man’s voice shrilled.

“I’m sure you don’t, but the police will want—”

“Toddy,” a woman said, opening the door of a room which was identical with the one where Keith Webber-son lay dead, “did I hear this gentleman say ‘police’?” She was middle-aged, fat as Angela would one day grow fat, blue-eyed, with pebble-lensed glasses. “I—oh. Good gracious me. You’re the Toff.” She drew a shuddering breath. “Toddy, why on earth didn’t you tell me? It’s the Toff—Mr Rollison. So—I did hear police. Oh, my goodness, what’s happened. Is it the Professor? I said all along there was something funny about his going off without letting us know beforehand. I thought he’d gone off with that girl who’s always there.” She peered up at Rollison as at an exhibit. “Normally when he goes away he lets me know in time to arrange for the milk and bread and papers, it’s most unusual—it’s never happened before—for him to make his own arrangements. I was quite shocked when I saw the note pinned on the door. In fact I was quite put out—wasn’t I, Toddy? I—”

There was the wail of a police siren, in the distance.

“Maud, the police will ask enough questions without you talking like this, do be quiet,” the husband rebuked. “Surely they can’t be here already, it’s only been a few minutes since you telephoned.”

“The police don’t take long, these days,” Rollison remarked. “Thank you for letting me use your telephone.”

“That will be sixpence,” stated the pale-faced Toddy, primly.

Rollison looked blank, and then realised what was meant. “Oh, for the telephone call.” He dug into his pocket for the coin, placed it on the table, and went out. The lift was whining, and he waited at the doorway of Webberson’s flat until it arrived. Three men, two very large and one tall and shin, stepped out. Rollison recognised one of the large men as Chief Inspector Lumley, of the Yard’s murder squad, a man with a big, bovine face and dark brown eyes. He looked a bully and a fool, but was, in fact, one of the kindest and most intelligent men of Rollison’s acquaintance.