John Creasey - Stars For The Toff

“Is twenty minutes all right?”

“Make it half an hour,” pleaded Olivia.

“Half an hour it will be.”

“That’s lovely!” She rang off, giving Rollison the impression of simple delight; and he remembered Jolly’s warning. Smiling, he went out of the kiosk and into the road—and a car, parked without lights, started up with a venomous roar. Suddenly the headlights were switched full on, blinding him. For a split second he could not decide whether to leap forward or back, the glare was mesmerising, terror pounded in his heart. Then he flung himself forward. The brief-case went flying, the roar of the engine was deafening, and Rollison felt a sensation almost of numbness as he fell full length on the hard concrete. As he fell, the powerful lights and a dark shape passed barely an inch behind him, and the roaring died away.

Another car drew up, brakes squealing, and two men leaped out of it. Rollison grunted and groaned as he staggered to his feet. The two men helped to steady him.

“Are you all right?”

“My God, that was a miracle!”

“The crazy fool!”

“Must be drunk.”

“How many were in it?” Rollison asked.

“Just the driver.”

“ Must be drunk.”

“ Are you all right?” the first man repeated.

“Er—yes. Bloodied but in one piece,” Rollison said. “Have you seen my brief-ca—ah!” A woman held it out to him. “Thank you very much. I—ah—must look where I’m going. Sorry to cause such a sensation.”

“If you’re all right—”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Have you a car?”

“Are you all right to drive?”

“Are you sure? I’ll gladly take you—”

“Or you could get a taxi.”

As they talked, still excited and greatly incensed, they moved along the road until they reached the Morris. Bending his back to get inside was excruciatingly painful, and once in, Rollison sat back, sweating. The barrage of questions started again. They were embarrassingly helpful.

Help from many unexpected sources.

“I’m sure I can manage,” Rollison said.

“You ought to report it, you know.”

“Oh, no harm’s done.”

“He must have been mad.”

Or a murderer, thought Rollison.

“Well if you’re quite sure . . .”

They stood and watched as he drove off, handling the controls stiffly at first but gradually improving. He went cautiously to Cheyne Walk, where every parking space seemed full, then found a spot outside Olivia Cordman’s front door. Normally he would have slipped in without trouble. Now, turning to look round was like knifing himself in the ribs; it was even worse getting out. He looked about and saw an old-fashioned lamp-post with a bar just beneath the lamp, and eyed it speculatively; swinging was supposed to be good for a strained back. He stretched up gingerly, managed to get a hold, and hoisted himself high.

Soon he was swinging with greater pain at his shoulders than at his back, and when he walked again he was more sore than in pain. He glanced at his watch; it was exactly half an hour since he had telephoned Olivia.

She was on the seventh floor; happily there was a lift.

“Why, come in!” she said. Then she caught her breath. “Your jacket’s torn!” she exclaimed.

“You mean there’s some left?”

“And you’re bleeding!”

“Just a scratch.”

“Well anyway, you ought to have it seen to.” She took his arm firmly and led him along a passage and into the bathroom, sat him down, and studied him in the bright light. Then she poured water, and ministered, talking about nothing in particular, until at last she ushered him into the sitting-room.

“Will you eat first and talk after, or talk first and eat after?”

“Could I drink first?” asked Rollison, sinking into an easy chair.

“Oh, what an ass I am. What’ll you have?”

Rollison settled for a whisky, and soon began to talk. Olivia sat on a pouffe in front of him, peering earnestly up into his eyes. She looked appalled when he described the accident, but when he told her of the Good Samaritans her face lit up.

“So it did come true—Madam Melinska’s help from unexpected sources! You can ’ t doubt her after this.”

“Can’t I?” said Rollison grimly.

Olivia stared at him for several seconds, her expression slowly changing. The gay, almost child-like delight faded, she seemed to grow older, more severe, more authoritative. Her eyes narrowed to give an impression of great severity, and when she began to speak it was as if she were about to make an announcement of supreme importance.

“ You are a Virgo,” she announced.

Rollison said, bewildered: “A what?”

“A Virgo. When were you born?”

“August the twenty-third, but—”

“I knew it,” said Olivia, as if pronouncing a death sentence. “You were born on the cusp, too. Leo gives you your arrogance and Virgo your scepticism. Only a Virgo would doubt Madam Melinska after this. Your East End friends desert you, and immediately you get a seething mob of helpers outside your flat. The police turn against you, and perfect strangers come to your rescue. This is exactly what Madam Melinska prophesied.”

Rollison said mildly: “I see what you mean. How quickly can you read?”

“Very quickly. It’s my profession.”

“If I cook the bacon and eggs will you read this?” Rollison asked. After a short but explicit account of how he had obtained it, he took the file out of the brief-case and handed it to Olivia, stood up, and made his way to the kitchen—small, modern, spick-and-span. In one frying-pan was bacon, in another, four uncracked eggs. On a table were fat, salt and pepper. Rollison lit two gas-rings, and began to cook as Jolly had taught him years ago. He could move freely now, and went about the task with slow deliberation, going through the whole case in his mind. Once or twice he peeped into the sitting-room.

Olivia Cordman was sitting upright in an armchair, poring over the file. Her spectacles had peach-coloured frames, and gave her a slightly school-mistressy appearance. Her only movement was the occasional wrinkling of her forehead, causing a straight furrow between her eyes.

Rollison took two small trays from a shelf, and soon he was laying a plate of steaming eggs and bacon on each. He checked that he had everything, then carried the trays proudly into the sitting-room. Olivia did not look up. He placed her tray on a small table by her side, his own on the pouffe in front of his easy chair. She did not appear to notice.

He began to eat. “Hm, very good.”

“It’s dreadful.”

“Don’t let it get cold.”

“It’s shameful.”

“It certainly will be, if you let that bacon congeal.” She looked up, glaring.

“This isn ’ t funny.”

“It won’t be, if you—”

She scowled at him, then, suddenly, her face cleared, she put the papers down, gave a little coo of satisfaction, and said:

“You’ve cooked supper—oh, you shouldn’t have. Why, it’s terrible, inviting someone to supper and then letting them cook it. But it looks beautiful.” She sprayed pepper liberally over her eggs and bacon, and began to eat with gusto. “Who taught you to cook?—You ought to do it more often. I’ll bet it was Jolly, he’s out of this world—an anachronism, poor dear. A bit like you ,” she added, her smile robbing the words of any sting. “You’re both links with the past, and sometimes I hate the present.” She ate for a minute or two, and then said with troubled earnestness: “ Can these beastly reports be true?”