John Creasey - Stars For The Toff

“Richard, you are a cunning so-and-so.”

“No doubt.”

“I make no promises.”

“Tell me one thing.”

“If it’s not divulging private and confidential information, I will.”

“Have the police asked to see Mona Lister’s account?”

“No. They haven’t asked me not to answer any questions about her, either.”

“Bill, you’re a devious fellow indeed.”

“How like like to recognise like, Rolly! I’ll be in touch.”

“Soon, please. Just as soon as you can. I’ll be very grateful.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Almost The End

For two weeks Rollison waited.

He was not inactive. Letters still came in by the sackful, some enclosing a shilling or two, one a cheque for a hundred guineas, and the total of contributions rose by startling amounts daily. Every newspaper ran the story, and Rollison and Jolly were under almost constant siege.

“ How much more for Madam M.? ” asked the Daily Globe. “Already over thirty-one thousand pounds have been subscribed, an unsolicited tribute to the great faith that so many have in Madam Melinska and the mysteries of the influence of the stars.”

“How great a folly!” demanded the solemn Guard. “It is almost unbelievable that in this day and age, some twenty thousand people should contribute to the defence of such a woman.”

“ Can the Toff save Madam M.? ” cried the Daily Record.

And so the headlines ran, from day to day.

The Webbs, both charged with kidnapping, were remanded in custody. Rollison went to see them twice, but they did not change a word of their story.

Michael Fraser and Ted Jackson, of Space Age Publishing, sent Rollison the reports for which he had asked, but neither contained any information other than that which they had already given him.

Any faint hope of saving the company had now vanished. “The money just isn’t there,” said Michael Fraser.

A letter reached Rollison two days late because of the diversion of his post to The Day.

It was from Bill Ebbutt.

“There’s no more hard feelings down this way, Mr R., but if you ask me, it would be better if you stayed away until this fortune-telling case is over. About two to one against Madam M. in these parts, I’d say.”

Despite the many thousands of letters Rollison had received, this was probably representative of a good cross-section of the public.

“Oh, they’re crazy ,” Olivia Cordman said. “You don’t want any more proof that the woman’s genuine, surely.” She was working all day and most of the night making sure that every letter was answered individually.

“Rolly,” said Roger over the telephone, “if you want counsel to appear for Madam Melinska at the Magistrates Court, he’ll need briefing today. Normally counsel wouldn’t appear at this stage, but Sir David Bartolph is interested—very interested. He’s a bit of a clairvoyant himself, you know. A lot of queer rumours circulate about him. Madam Melinska couldn’t do better and she could do a lot worse if she lets him go.”

* * *

“If you really believe I should, Mr Rollison, I will certainly see this legal gentleman,” said Madam Melinska.

* * *

At the time Rollison was telephoning Roger Kemp to tell him that Madam Melinska had agreed to see Sir David Bartolph, Chief Inspector Clay was in the small hospital ward where Lucifer Stride had just been taken off the danger list. Stride’s face and hands were white as chalk, and he looked a sick man. Clay sat by his side, like a watching bulldog.

“Someone nearly killed you, Stride. This is their second attempt, isn’t it? And if you let them get away with it, there may be a third. Third time lucky, so they say.”

Stride moistened his lips, but said nothing.

“Who was it?” demanded Clay. “You won’t help yourself by keeping quiet, you know.” After a pause he went on: “Tell us the truth, there’s a good chap, and we’ll see that there isn ’ t a third attempt—but it’s got to be the whole truth,” he added warningly.

Stride’s eyes flickered towards him.

“Will you help Mona?” he whispered hoarsely. “It’s not her fault, I—I made her do it. I wish to God I hadn’t.”

“We’ll help her all we can,” said Clay reassuringly. “Now, who attacked you?—and why?”

Slowly, hesitatingly, Lucifer Stride began to talk. And the more he talked, the happier Clay looked.

* * *

Sir David Bartolph was a tall, distinguished-looking man, solid rather than fat, with iron-grey hair brushed straight back from his forehead, powerful shoulders, and a deep, pleasing voice. Rollison had seen him in Court, where he could be terrifying, but had never actually met him. He shook hands, but was obviously much more interested in Madam Melinska. Roger Kemp, short, alert, immaculately dressed, watched her fascinatedly.

They sat in a semicircle in front of Bartolph’s desk.

“Madam Melinska, let me say at once that I have read all the information available, including a most lucid statement from Mr Rollison—” he glanced approvingly at Rollison. “There is, of course, one somewhat damning factor—your own reluctance to admit that you recall what happened on any of these occasions.”

Madam Melinska, wearing a wine-red gown, a purple and gold scarf hiding her black hair, sat in an easy chair. Now and again she moved a sandal-clad foot; apart from that she appeared to make no movement at all.

“Do you understand me?” Bartolph asked.

“Perfectly, Sir David, although I do not agree.”

This man was a leading Queen’s Counsel.

“Indeed?”

“I am not at all reluctant to admit anything—I simply have no recollection of what I say during these readings.”

“You still persist in that contention.”

“I always persist in the truth, Sir David.”

Bartolph stared at her fixedly.

“Then can you give me your solemn assurance that your readings are genuine? Can you give me your solemn assurance that your knowledge of your clients, their lives, their families, knowledge which they take to be an example of your powers of clairvoyance, second sight, call it what you will—” Bartolph waved an impatient hand— “and by which they are so impressed that they are subsequently prepared to follow your advice regarding the disposal of, in some instances, very large sums of money—” Bartolph paused, as if to add weight to his words— “Madam Melinska, I repeat, can you give me your solemn assurance that this knowledge is the result of your powers of clairvoyance and that it has not been previously acquired with a view to winning the confidence of your clients?”

Madam Melinska met his gaze unflinchingly. “You have my solemn assurance, Sir David.”

Bartolph looked unblinkingly into the dark, gypsy-like face of the woman sitting before him, noting, with dispassionate appraisal, the beautiful bones, the proud carriage.

“Madam Melinska,” he said at last, “I have an important decision to make in the near future. It is a personal decision, and nothing to do with investing money or any problem arising from my profession. I would be grateful for any guidance you can give me.”

Roger Kemp pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. Rollison stirred.

“I will gladly help if I can.”

“May I know your fee in advance?”

“I charge no fee, Sir David. I do not believe it right to charge for an ability for which I am not responsible.”

“That is very unusual, Madam Melinska. One usually exploits one’s abilities to make a living.”

“It is not my way,” said Madam Melinska.