John Creasey - Stars For The Toff

Rollison lifted his brows quizzically.

“Even if she is guilty?”

“I don’t think Lady Hurst or I consider it a possibility that she is guilty, sir.” After a pause, Jolly asked: “Will you have your tea here, sir, or in your room?”

“In my room,” said Rollison, faintly.

* * *

Rollison woke to an unusual sound at this hour; men’s voices. First Jolly’s then the voices of strangers, one deep and somehow not English, the other native Cockney. Police? wondered Rollison. Ebbutt’s men? Then he heard the man with the deep voice saying:

“I think that’s the lot, sir.”

“I certainly hope so.” Jolly sounded unbelieving. Five sacks, did you say?”

“S’right,” the Cockney said. “Full to blinking overflowing, mate. S’long.”

Heavy footsteps followed, and the front door closed. There was silence. Five sacks? What would come in sacks and astonish Jolly? Rollison got out of bed and pulled on a blue dressing-gown, then went to the door and peered out.

Jolly was saying in a baffled voice: There must be a thousand in each.”

A thousand what?

Rollison reached the door of the living-room and saw five postal sacks dumped near the desk. Letters, thought Rollison, startled. Jolly, in his shirt-sleeves, stood and stared gloomily at the sacks.

“Someone’s written to us,” Rollison remarked.

Jolly started and turned round.

“Good morning, sir. I didn’t hear you. Yes, they have indeed.”

“I wonder if these could be letters of encouragement from strangers rooting for Madam Melinska,” mused Rollison. He untied one of the sacks and took out a handful of letters. “London, W.l—London, S.E.7— Guildford, Surrey—Amersham, Bucks— Isleworth, Middx. You try a few, Jolly.” He sat at his desk and slit open the five letters, then unfolded the first; a cheque fell out, for three guineas. The letter read:

“With very best wishes for your success in defending Madam Melinska—a small contribution to the cost of her defence.”

Rollison opened the next letter; it contained a postal order for five shillings. The attached note read:

“In defence of the truth.”

Jolly said: “A cheque for two pounds, sir, from someone who signs himself “Well-Wisher,” and a money order for thirteen shillings and sixpence, with a long letter on writing-paper inscribed with the signs of the Zodiac.”

“Open a few more,” Rollison told him.

Ten minutes later he picked up a pile of cheques and money orders, and made a rough calculation. Jolly watched him intently.

“Fifty-seven in all, and a total not far short of a hundred pounds,” Rollison announced. “And there are at least five thousand.”

“ Ten thousand, I would say, sir.”

“Say two hundred times our hundred pounds,” Rollison said. “Jolly, it can’t be!”

“If the average remains the same, there are twenty thousand pounds in those sacks.” Jolly drew a hand across his forehead and went on in an unsteady voice: “I think I will go and make your tea, sir.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Only The Beginning

“Why, it’s absolutely marvellous!” cried Olivia, as she stared at the enormous piles of letters on Rollison’s desk. Her eyes were radiant, her cheeks glowing. It was half past ten, and she had just arrived. Except for a dozen telephone calls, two abusive, the others from people promising support, there had been no new developments. Rollison was dressed and had breakfasted, Jolly had regained his composure but was a little subdued. “It’s wonderful!” Olivia went on. “Look at them. How much so far?”

“Three hundred and one letters opened, and a total of five hundred and seventeen pounds, ten shillings and sixpence,” answered Rollison. “We shall soon hear remarks about fools and their money.”

“Not from you, I hope,” Olivia said. “These people aren’t fools, they’re simply—well, believers. But Rolly, you and Jolly can’t possibly deal with all of these.” She motioned to the unopened sacks and then opened one which was still three-quarters full. “And it’s only the beginning.”

“Beginning?” echoed Rollison, startled.

“Of course ! ” Olivia’s eyes danced. “Whenever we have a special competition or a mail-order special, we get a post like this on the first day, but the main post comes in during the next two or three days.”

“Don’t for heaven’s sake tell Jolly,” said Rollison wryly.

“As a matter of fact, sir,” Jolly said, coming from the door, “I wondered whether in these circumstances Mr Ebbutt’s men might have a change of heart. Their—ah—wives might have some sympathy with Madam Melinska.”

“But you can ’ t let a lot of ex-prize-fighters do this kind of work,” protested Olivia. “Rolly—do you know what?”

“What?”

“ The Day is fully equipped to handle this sort of thing. Our record was fifty-three thousand competition entries in one day. We’ve nothing big on at the moment. I’m sure that our Mailing and Receiving Department would be glad to cope.”

“And what a story for The Day ,” said Rollison drily.

“Exactly! It would be a sensation. And we wouldn’t charge for opening and sorting everything.” Olivia added ingenuously.

“Telephone your Mailing and Receiving Department, straight away,” said Rollison.

Before he had finished speaking, the telephone was in her hand. As she waited, there was a ring at the door, and Jolly moved towards it. At the same moment the unlisted telephone rang. Olivia talked, Rollison talked, Jolly and an unseen man talked at the door.

Rollison’s caller was Roger Kemp, his solicitor.

“Rolly, I’ve been through all the papers I’ve got, all the reports I’ve heard, and I’ve been through all my contacts at the Yard, and I’ve talked with counsel. Your Madam Melinska hasn’t a chance in a million.”

On the other telephone, Olivia was beaming with delight.

“Not one in a million,” echoed Rollison, his heart dropping.

“She might get a reduced sentence if we plead that she was in a trance and unaware of what she was saying, but we would have to convince a jury that she really does go into these trances and there are a lot of people who simply wouldn’t buy it.”

“ Wonderful!” Olivia was saying, ecstatically.

“And that’s the best you can do?” asked Rollison lugubriously.

Jolly came in, carrying a thick wad of buff-coloured envelopes. Rollison saw but did not recognise them, thought “More letters,” and heard Roger Kemp say:

“You are sure you want to go on with this aren’t you?”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

“ Yes, send a van ,” cried Olivia. “And I’ll come back on it.”

“Up to you,” the solicitor said, “but she could be fooling you. So far the one argument in her favour is that she appears to be nearly penniless. If that were proved to be untrue, then she would get a very stiff sentence for trading on the gullibility of the public and betraying trust. But you know that.”

“How long?”

“I’d guess seven years.”

“ Seven years? echoed Rollison.

Olivia replaced her receiver and came towards Rollison, but at the sight of his expression, the sound of his “ Seven years? she stood stock still.

“. . . so be absolutely sure of yourself,” the solicitor said. “May I make a suggestion?”

“Go ahead.”

“Let me arrange a meeting between you, Madam Melinska and counsel.”

“I’ll think about it,” Rollison said. “Thanks, Roger.” He rang off, and looked into Olivia’s troubled eyes. “The law doesn’t share anyone’s faith,” he said. “Like Clay said, she could get seven years.”