John Creasey: The Toff and the Fallen Angels

“Hallo, Mr. Rollison.” He spoke in a rough voice, with a twang of Cockney.

“How are you, Inspector?”

“I was having a quiet night! Where do you say we should go?”

“In here.” Rollison opened the front door, seeing the door opposite open a few inches. So Toddy, or his wife, was curious. Rollison led the way into the hall, and as the other followed, Lumley sniffed and the tall man said:

“Strewth! Not a new one, then?”

“Will you wait here for a few minutes?” Lumley asked Rollison. “The rest of the team will be arriving soon.”

“Of course. I’ll be here as long as you want me.”

There was a constant to-ing and fro-ing of men—photographers, a doctor, ambulance men, more detectives, some from the Yard and some from the Divisional Headquarters. After a short while there was a strong odour of an air-freshener, which somehow made Rollison more aware of nausea than he had been before. No one took any special notice of him although several recognised him and nodded or spoke. Outside the door was a uniformed policeman, and doubtless others were stationed down below. The police would soon hear if they hadn’t learned already. Rollison, preoccupied with his own worry about Angela, did not find the time hang.

Perhaps an hour after he had first arrived, Lumley came out of the room where the dead man lay.

“Sorry to be so long,” he said. “Mr. Grice will be here in a few minutes.”

Rollison said : The police never admit to being longer than that.”

“Well yes. But it’s sometimes true. Will you tell me what you can—we’ll go into the bedroom, they’ve finished in there. Soon have the body removed, too.” He led the way. “I understand the dead man is Professor Webberson, of London University.”

“And an old friend of mine.”

“Sorry about that, sir.” Lumley’s hard voice contrasted strangely with his almost soothing manner. “How did you get in?”

“I broke in,” answered Rollison simply.

Lumley looked startled. “You broke—” he grinned, his face suddenly attractive. “Just like you to admit it, sir! Why?”

“I couldn’t understand why he didn’t answer the telephone, why he wasn’t taking his lectures and doing his usual work. On the other hand I didn’t want to start a fuss if there was a simple explanation. So I forced the lock.”

“What time was this?”

“As nearly as I can tell you, nine-forty-five.”

“Were you alone?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you telephone from?”

“The flat opposite.”

“Then that’ll be how the Press heard of it so quickly,” remarked Lumley. “They’re getting very impatient down below. Do you want them to know you found the body?”

Rollison smiled easily. “You’re being most considerate. I think on the whole, I do.”

“Then when Mr. Grice has been you can make your statement here and repeat it for the Press,” said Lumley. “I—” there was a tap at the door. “This is probably Mr. Grice.” Aloud, he called : “Come in!” The door opened and another, younger man appeared.

“Mr. Grice is on his way up, sir.”

“Thank you,” said Lumley. “Do sit down, Mr. Raison.”

Rollison moved to the only armchair in the room, sat down and crossed his legs. The police were being almost too well-disposed; this might be because Lumley was naturally a pleasant man, or because he’d had instructions from Grice, or—and perhaps the most likely explanation—because Lumley wanted to lull him into a sense of security which Grice would shatter.

It was very unlikely that they would not at least consider the possibility that he knew much more than he had yet said.

The door opened, and Grice entered.

Now a senior Chief Superintendent at the Yard, Grice was a tall broad, spare-built man. His once brown hair, brushed flat and straight from his forehead, was greying, but his eyes were a clear hazel brown. The skin, stretched over his high-bridged nose, looked pale, almost translucent. On one side of his face was a scar from a booby-trap explosion which had been intended to blind the Toff. That had cemented a bond between them and they had ever since been good friends. But there were times when Grice, the policeman, came into direct conflict with Rollison, the ‘amateur’.

Now, Rollison had a sense of impending conflict. It was in the brisk way in which Grice spoke, the quiet handshake, the intent scrutiny.

“Well, Rolly, what have you been up to?”

“Breaking and entering and finding the body of an old friend,” answered Rollison.

“What made you break in?”

“I was puzzled.”

“Roily,” said Grice, very firmly, “this is murder, it looks like a particularly violent murder, and there is no time at all for half-truths. Why did you break in? What made you suspicious?”

“Bill,” said Rollison. “I had no reason at all to suspect that Keith Webberson was in danger. I was simply puzzled, and—”

“I don’t believe you,” interrupted Grice. “You didn’t come here simply to find out if Webberson was all right. You had a stronger motive. What was it? What puzzled you?”

Here was the moment to tell the whole truth . . . and Rollison still had not made up his mind. But he knew that if he held anything back at this stage, then for the rest of the investigation he would be in conflict with the police, and it was the last thing he wanted.

“I can tell you why I was puzzled,” he said. “The very simple truth. I’d been asked by a Mrs. Naomi Smith, who runs a hostel in Bloomsbury, if I would help her find out what was happening there. She told me that Webberson had suggested that she should get in touch with me. That was a week ago. For a week I’ve been trying in vain to get in touch with him. Then I learned that he hadn’t turned up to give his usual lectures. As an old friend, perhaps his oldest friend, I felt justified in breaking in.”

He saw the quick exchange of glances between Grice and Lumley, as he talked, and felt an increasing disquiet eased only by the certainty that he had been right to tell his story.

“I’m very glad you broke in,” Grice said in a more relaxed voice. “And I didn’t suppose we can blame you for not telling us about the hostel problem. Did you know that two of the residents were missing?”

Slowly, Rollison answered : “Not missing. I knew they’d left.”

“They are missing,” Grice stated flatly. “And we’ve reason to believe that one of them is dead.”

CHAPTER 6

Missing—Or Dead?

ROLLISON placed his hand on the arms of his chair and levered himself to his feet. He had another mental image of Angela, and he felt sick. Seeing his expression, Lumley and Grice exchanged glances again, and Grice spoke in an almost long-suffering way.

“What have you been up to? What haven’t you told us, yet?”

“Didn’t you once meet my niece—Angela Pax-Elliott?” asked Rollison.

“The pretty, roly-poly girl?”

“You’ve met her,” said Rollison.

“She plagued me for an hour, asking if there were any short cuts to becoming a woman member of the C.I.D.,” said Grice. “What—my God! Is she a resident there?” Grice was filled with great alarm, and with surprise if not astonishment. After a brief pause, he went on : “And if she was in trouble, why didn’t she go to Lady Gloria at the Marigold Club?”

“In your cynical sense, she is not in trouble,” Rollison replied. “She is satisfying her craving to play detective.”

“Well I’m damned!” exclaimed Lumley.

“Your idea?” Grice asked Rollison, grimly.

“Yes,” admitted Rollison. He moved to the window and looked down into the open space where the cars were parked—and he saw an ambulance move off. This was the one carrying the body, of course: what an end for a man like Webberson. “Yes’ he repeated, “it was my idea, and at the time it seemed a good one. At least I arranged for Angela to telephone me once a day, and immediately if there is any sign of emergency.”