John Creasey - Stars For The Toff

The man looked up at him from dazed eyes—but he might not be so dazed as he pretended, reflected Rollison, keeping a careful eye on both him and his assailant, who, with the girl’s help was now sitting up. Rollison waited until he was on his feet, and then said:

“And after telephoning the police I’ll break your neck. Go and sit next to your friend. On the floor.”

The man’s hair was ruffled, and his tie askew. He was broad-shouldered, solid-looking, and appeared to be in his middle thirties. He began to speak, then changed his mind and did what he was told.

“You, too,” Rollison told the girl.

“But—”

“Do I have to make you?”

Meekly, she went to the wall and sat down beside the two men, while Rollison tried to decide the best way to handle the situation. An appearance of omniscience might make the men crack earlier than they would otherwise, but he wasn’t sure. Despite what had just happened, neither looked the type to use violence.

Or to do murder.

On the desk was a sheaf of papers protruding from a manilla folder which was tied around with a piece of pink tape. Until then, Rollison had shown no interest in it; now he moved towards it. The man like Lucifer Stride drew in a sharp, hissing breath. Rollison glanced at the folder and read a name, upside down: Abbott. H. J. His heart began to beat faster. These papers might have been taken from Mrs Abbott’s flat; if they had, then these men were obviously suspects for the murder. He turned the folder round and pulled the tape; the bow which secured it undid easily.

“Who killed Mrs Abbott?” he asked casually.

The man like Lucifer Stride gasped.

“ Killedr Jane echoed hoarsely.

“Oh, no!” Jane gasped. “Oh, no! ”

The broad-shouldered man said breathlessly: “But I never saw her. The flat was empty. She wasn’t there.”

“My God,” said the other man, turning towards him, “if you killed her—”

“I swear I didn’t!”

“She can’t be dead! ” cried Jane.

“The police are looking for her murderer,” Rollison said. “Or her murderers. And when they discover that you stole these papers from her bureau they’ll put two and two together, won’t they?” He spread the papers out. There were statements of accounts, share certificates, bank statements, some snapshots of the man whose photograph had been at the flat, one of Mrs Abbott, one of Mona Lister. Rollison moved back a pace, seeing that the broad-shouldered man was bracing himself, possibly in an attempt to spring up at him. But he appeared to notice nothing.

“Where are they?” he demanded.

“Where—where’s what?” That was the man who resembled Lucifer Stride. This must be Michael Fraser, reflected Rollison.

“I don’t know what you know about me, Fraser,” he said, “but it doesn’t seem enough. You are all three involved in a theft at Mrs Abbott’s flat and you could be charged with murder. And I’m impatient.” After a pause, he went on harshly: “I’m not here to find out who killed Mrs Abbott. That’s a job for the police. I am here to get the papers which were in this file and which you’ve taken out. Where are they?” A shot in the dark, he reflected to himself, but one which might well find its mark.

It did.

Michael Fraser swallowed. “If we give them to you, will—”

“Shut up!” rasped the other man.

Rollison stretched a hand towards the telephone. At this stage he had no intention of dialling Scotland Yard, but there was no way his prisoners could be sure of that. He actually put the instrument to his ear and dialled 2 before Jane cried out:

“Don’t let him!”

Fraser said chokily: “They’re in my brief-case.”

“You damned fool,” muttered the other. “He wouldn’t call the police. He’s bluffing.”

Rollison looked at him with raised eyebrows. “I can assure you, my friend, that I’m not.” He picked up the brief-case, which was black and very heavy. He hadn’t the faintest idea what papers it contained, other than that they had been taken from Mrs Abbott’s folder, but did not mean to find out while he was here. “One more thing: why did you suddenly stop your advertising campaign for Space Age Publishing?”

Fraser muttered: “We couldn’t pay for it.”

“We spent far more than we could afford on layout and artwork,” the other man said. “It was a gamble, but we hoped it would pay off. Then that infernal fortune-teller decided to use our name to swindle money out of her fool clients. We didn’t know anything about it, but mud sticks, and the public will never believe we didn’t. Oh well—” he shrugged— “I guess we’ll be lucky if we can hold out for another month—that’s what that damned fortune-teller did to us.”

“Mr Rollison,” Fraser said, “what’s your interest in defending this woman?”

“Her reputation,” answered Rollison.

“ That bitch! You don’t give a damn for her reputation!”

“As a matter of fact I do ,” Rollison said, “and in the course of my trying to protect it, two people have been killed and attempts have been made on the life of another. So I’ve an added interest. What did you call her?”

“She’s a bitch and you’ll soon find out,” Fraser rasped. “Underneath that sweet and gentle manner of hers she’s a devil. Don’t make any mistake, she’s taking you for a ride.” Fraser was pale with rage, his voice quivering with repressed fury. “You can’t save her reputation, she hasn’t got one. She’s a phoney. All she wants is money. She’ll use anyone to help her— even you’ve fallen for it. That woman is a hell-cat. She ruins anyone she touches, anyone who’s influenced her. She’ll ruin Mona Lister, she’ll ruin you:

Anger still rasped in the man’s voice but it was a righteous anger. There was no doubt, thought Rollison, that Michael Fraser believed what he was saying.

“All right, I’m duly warned,” he said drily.

“Now tell me how you know all this, and what proof you have against her.”

“There’s your proof!” Fraser declared, and he pointed a quivering finger at the brief-case.

“He didn ’ t know,” the other man said in a strangled voice. “He was bluffing. And that’s the only real evidence we have. He’ll suppress it, destroy it; have you forgotten that he’s defending the woman?”

Making a tremendous effort, he sprang to his feet and launched himself at Rollison, roaring as he sprang:

“Hit him!”

He was roaring at Jane—and Jane snatched up the telephone to use it as a weapon. Rollison knocked it out of her hand, then, instead of dodging or ducking, met the other broadside on. His left shoulder thudded against his assailant’s chest. The man groaned and collapsed across a chair. Rollison spun round to meet an attack from Fraser, but Fraser was still sitting on the floor, looking up at Rollison with a strange expression in his eyes.

“Do something!” screamed Jane.

Fraser ignored her.

The man lying across the chair was groaning.

“Ted, he’s hurt you. Ted? She leaned over the stricken man, “Ted, don’t. You’ll be all right. Ted?” There was despair in her voice.

Still watching Fraser, Rollison said: “He’s winded, that’s all. Straighten him up.”

“Rollison,” said Fraser, “what would you do if you were convinced that Madam Melinska was a charlatan—no, by God, more than a charlatan—a criminal?”

“Make sure she couldn’t fool anybody else,” answered Rollison.

“If the charge against her is proved she’ll go to prison, won’t she?”