John Creasey - Stars For The Toff

Outside, he bought a newspaper.

His own face, Madam Melinska’s and Mona’s stared up at him; and there were front page headlines.

TOFF TO THE RESCUE

£100 BAIL FOR MADAM MELINSKA

GALLANTRY IN COURT

The story, as a story, was factual enough; what Rollison hadn’t expected was the space and prominence the evening papers gave to it.

There was a long queue for taxis, so he walked down Villiers Street, and through the Embankment Gardens to his car. A ticket was wedged under his windscreen-wiper and he realised that he had only put two six-pences into the parking meter. He drove off very thoughtfully, half wishing he had looked in the brief-case.

Half an hour later he turned off Piccadilly and was in sight of Gresham Terrace. The first thing to startle him was the sight of the policemen, three of them; the second, the stream of people; the third, the fact that the police were sending cars straight past the end of Gresham Terrace. His heart thumped. Had there been an accident, or—

A policeman came up to him.

“The street’s barred for the next hour or so, sir. You can only get into Gresham Terrace on foot. I—” the man broke off. “Aren’t you Mr Rollison?”

“Yes. I’ll get rid of the car and come back.”

“One of our men will look after the car for you, sir. Chief Inspector Clay would like to see you as soon as possible. He’s waiting at your place.”

Rollison looked along Gresham Terrace.

It was a seething mass of people, mostly women. At this end of the street they were fairly thinly spread but farther along they were packed so solidly that no one could pass. Two or three cars were completely hemmed in; until the crowd was cleared there would be no chance for them to move.

“That’s a welcome if you like,” the policeman said with reluctant admiration. “They’re waiting for you, sir. Lot of half-wits!”

Rollison chuckled and then said: “I don’t want to run that gauntlet, I’d better go the back way.” He opened the far door of the car and stepped out, but as he did so a middle-aged woman coming along the street cried:

“There he is!”

Someone else shouted: “There’s the Toff!”

“You haven’t a hope,” said the policeman, sotto voce.

Rollison stood by the side of the car and watched the crowd bear down on him. Suddenly he was surrounded, engulfed, enmeshed in hundreds of seemingly bodiless hands stretched frantically to clutch his own.

Rollison thought with alarm: “They’ll mob me.”

Then he thought: “They’re here to help.”

“ You will get help from many unexpected sources. ”

“Sir!” hissed the policeman, “Chief Inspector—”

“God bless you, sir.”

“ She didn’t cheat anyone! She couldn’t do it.”

“She’s an angel, that woman is.”

“Don’t let them put her in prison, Mr Rollison.”

“ Sir , Chief Inspector Clay wants—” The policeman tried again.

Rollison stood perfectly still by the side of the car, with the crowd pressing nearer and harder; it would need only a sudden surge from behind to crush him and those nearest to him against the Bentley, and once that happened disaster could follow.

Very clearly, Rollison cried: “What I would like to do is to talk to you all from my window—if I could just get through to my flat . . .”

“The Toff wants to get through.”

“. . . a speech.”

“Make room.”

“Clear a path.”

“The Toff’s going to talk to us!”

“Stand aside, there,” the policeman said, as if he did not believe he would have the slightest effect.

“Stand back!” a little woman shouted shrilly.

Another began to push.

“Make a path.”

“A path!”

“Get back!”

“Link arms—make a chain . . . chain . . . chain . . .”

And as if by magic a path appeared among the crowd, as those standing nearest to Rollison linked arms in time-honoured policeman fashion and pressed back on those behind. There were outbursts of cheering, and two men started to sing “For he’s a jolly good fellow.” Immediately the refrain was taken up by the crowd, louder and louder, until the whole street was singing.

* * *

At the window of the big living-room at Rollison’s flat, Chief Inspector Clay stared down, watching the seething, excited people, seeing the way they moved aside for Rollison, noting the respect, the affection, almost the love they had for him. After a few minutes he turned round and bumped against Jolly, who had also been staring down, his eyes quite moist.

“Nothing like this can ever have happened before,” muttered Clay. “It’s crazy.”

“It’s happened at least three times to my knowledge, sir,” Jolly said. “I remember—” He broke off, for Clay was at the telephone, and turned back to watch the scene below. Rollison was now almost directly beneath the window. The singing rose to a crescendo as he reached the steps leading up to the front door downstairs.

Jolly moved to open the door of the flat. Two of Clay’s men were in the hall, looking ill-at-ease. Jolly opened the door and went to the head of the stairs. The noise was fainter here, and sounds from the downstairs hall were sharp and clear; a key in the lock, footsteps, the closing of the door, then Rollison’s footsteps on the stairs.

Then a man said clearly:

“Stay there, Rollison.”

Rollison, out of sight, seemed to catch his breath.

Jolly, startled and alarmed, stepped forward. “Who are you?” he heard Rollison ask.

“Never mind who I am. What did you find at Mrs Abbott’s flat?”

Jolly began to creep very slowly down the stairs.

“Mrs Abbott—dead.”

“If you try to be funny you ’ ll be dead.”

“Put that gun away and stop talking like a fool.” Jolly, nearer now, detected a steely note in Rollison’s voice.

“Don’t call me a fool. All those screaming half-wits out there— they ’ re the fools. And they’re wrong, that damned fortune-teller has fooled them. However, that’s their funeral— but it will be yours too if you don’t tell me what you found at Mrs Abbott’s.”

Jolly held his breath as he peered down the well of the staircase.

He saw his master and a tall, dark-haired young man; and he saw the gun in the young man’s hand. If he touched the trigger, there wouldn’t be a chance for Rollison.

Quite calmly, Jolly called:

“Excuse me, sir.”

On the instant the young man looked up, and Rollison drove his fist into the unprotected stomach. As the gun clattered to the floor, Rollison stopped the other from falling, and glanced up with a smile which Jolly would treasure for a very long time.

“Are you all right, sir?”

“Yes. Come and look after this chap, will you? Give me ten minutes or so, and then bring him up to the flat.”

“Certainly, sir.” Jolly hurried down the stairs and picked up the gun, and Rollison turned to his assailant. “Go upstairs with Jolly, and let the police think you’ve just come to see me. Don’t try any tricks or I’ll throw the book at you.” Bounding past Jolly and the stranger, he ran up the remaining stairs towards his flat.

Clay and two other men were standing in the hall, and Rollison beamed at them as if he hadn’t a trouble in the world.

“Won’t keep you long,” he said, and strode through to the living-room. In a moment he was leaning out of the window. As his head appeared there was another roar of cheering.

At last the crowd fell silent.

At last Rollison was able to make himself heard.

“I promise you that justice will be done to Madam Melinska and to Mona Lister. I promise you—”