John Creasey - Stars For The Toff

“I’ll tell you the truth as soon as I know it,” he said. “Meanwhile, you tell me something. You wouldn’t be so anxious to get the Melinska story unless it would help your magazine’s circulation. Why should it make new readers for The Day?

“My dear,” Olivia said, “where have you been?”

“There’s no need to be so cryptic.”

“In the past year or so, Rolly my love, public interest in fortune-telling has multiplied ten times over. When I first became Features Editor of The Day the Board wouldn’t have a breath of such fantasy. When I suggested it, I was pooh-poohed. Superstitious, sentimental nonsense, the wise men said, not fit for nor wanted by the sturdy housewives of the middle income group who read The Day. Whereas now we run a two-page spread every fortnight—we’re fortnightly now, in case you don’t know.”

“I do know,” Rollison said, and asked casually: “Think there’s something in it?”

Olivia stared at him for a moment, open-mouthed. “Something in it! Something in it! My dear Rolly, of course there’s something in it. Madam Melinska’s one of the most gifted seers—” She paused, as if at a loss for words.

Rollison chuckled. “Okay, so you believe in it. But that—”

Olivia interrupted him. “There aren ’ t any “buts”. I certainly do believe in it, and I believe in Madam Melinska, and so do three-quarters of our readers. And if Madam Melinska would sell us her story it would add twenty thousand to our circulation. Can you help us to get it, Rolly?”

Thoughtfully, Rollison said:

“I doubt if anyone will ever make her do anything she doesn’t want to do, but if she decides to sell, and if you’ll meet the competition, I’ll put in a word for you.” He swerved to avoid an oncoming car. “What do you know about Mona Lister?”

“Only that she’s been working with Madam Melinska—and that she’s a natural born clairvoyante. Why, you saw for yourself how she “saw” what was going to happen to Lucifer Stride.”

“So I did, so I did,” murmured Rollison. “Just one more question. What do you know about Space Age Publishing?”

Olivia looked indignant. “I just can’t believe that Madam Melinska was involved in anything dishonest,” she said flatly. “And if she really did advise people to buy shares—well, it must have been advice given in good faith. As for Space Age, all I know is that the company changed hands recently and seemed to be doing well. They were planning a very big advertising campaign—money no object— then, suddenly: Phut!”—Olivia snapped her fingers— “they were broke. We were doing some of the advertising for them, and I met the senior partner—Michael Fraser, I think his name was. He had an office in Fleet Street, why don’t you go and see him—if he’s still there,” she added.

Rollison looked thoughtful. “Do you know, Olivia, I think I will.” He pressed his foot down on the accelerator, and the big car sped past the Tate Gallery and soon approached the Gothic magnificence of the Houses of Parliament, superb in the early evening sun. Rollison rounded Parliament Square, then went along the Embankment; spotting a parking space near Waterloo Bridge, he pulled in. As he was putting sixpences into the meter, Olivia was flagging down a taxi.

“This time I’ll drop you,” she said.

The Space Age Publishing offices were in a large new office block within a stone’s throw of the Church of St Clements; Olivia dropped Rollison outside, giving him a searching look from her bright eyes as she waved a nonchalant hand. It was nearly six o’clock and Rollison wondered whether anyone would be in the office. The lift attendant said dolefully:

“Usually go by five-thirty sharp, sir.”

As he walked along a bright new passage in the bright new building, a door ahead of him opened and a girl came out. At first, she simply glanced at him—but suddenly, ten feet or so away, her eyes widened, she stared and missed a step. Then she spun around, ran back along the passage, and rushed into the doorway from which she had just come. The door slammed.

Rollison reached the door. On it, in gilt letters, were the words: Space Age Publishing, Ltd. Mr Michael Fraser. Inside the room the girl was talking in a low-pitched voice, conveying the same sense of urgency that her manner had done. Rollison turned the handle and pushed. As the door opened, the girl was saying:

“It can ’ t be a coincidence, I’m sure it’s him!”

Rollison pushed the door wider open. The girl, standing by another open door at the far side of the room, jumped wildly. A man standing in that doorway stared at Rollison in mingled surprise and alarm. He was not Lucifer Stride, but he was remarkably like him, except that his fair hair was short and he was dressed in a well-cut, conventional dark grey suit.

“Good evening,” said Rollison. “I gather you’re expecting me.”

The man drew a deep breath.

“Sooner or later, I suppose we were,” he admitted.

“It’s all right, Jane, you worry too much.” He gave Rollison a rather subdued smile. “I suppose you want to know all we can tell you about Space Age Publishing.”

“That’s exactly what I do want,” Rollison agreed.

“You’d better come in,” said the man. His likeness to Lucifer Stride was quite remarkable, thought Rollison. “And you’d better come and take some notes, Jane—or better still, fix the tape-recorder so that we’ve a record of the conversation.” He pushed the door behind him wider and stood aside for Rollison to pass.

There was just one thing wrong: the girl’s manner.

The man was completely convincing, smooth, pleasant-voiced, but the girl was still agitated. Rollison went forward as if with no suspicions, but at the last moment gripped the man’s shoulders, spun him round, and thrust him into the inner room. As he did so, he saw a raised hand flash down from the other side of the door—a hand holding some kind of weapon.

There was a dull, heavy thud.

The man went down like a sack as Rollison, using all his strength, banged the door back against his would-be assailant, pulled it away, then banged it back again. There was a gasp, a groan, the weapon dropped and slithered along the carpet, and the man whom Rollison had squeezed between the door and wall joined his companion on the floor. Behind Rollison the girl stood, terrified. Rollison turned and passed her, scarcely out of breath, and twisted the key in the lock of the passage door.

CHAPTER TEN

Big Deal

The girl was slim, delicate-looking, with honey-coloured shoulder-length hair and a fringe. She watched Rollison tensely, following every move he made. When he took her arm, she jumped wildly.

“No need to worry, my dear, just do exactly what I tell you and you’ll come to no harm,” Rollison promised. “But do it quickly. Go into that room, prop the door wide open—we don’t want any more people hiding behind it, do we?—then straighten out the joker who knocked the wrong man over the head.”

He thought she would be too frightened to obey, but she freed herself and went into the inner room, while Rollison glanced around the outer one. The furniture was plain and spindly; on the walls were drawings, obviously the original artwork for advertisements in newspapers on such magazines as The Day. There were two shelves full of books and two filing cabinets as well as three desks, two typewriters, a very small telephone exchange and four telephones.

Jane was blocking the door open with a chair.

The man who had welcomed Rollison so pleasantly was beginning to stir. Rollison crossed to him, bent down, gripped his coat lapels and heaved him to his feet. Then he half pushed, half lifted him across the inner office. This was a larger room than the other, but furnished in much the same way. Behind a big flat desk, black-topped on auburn-coloured wood, was a swivel desk chair. Rollison moved this with his foot and dumped the man in a sitting position on the floor behind it, his back against the wall. “Don’t move,” he said shortly, “or I’ll call for the police.”