John Creasey: Stars For The Toff

“Ever see the like, sir?”

“No, Sergeant, never. No room at the Court, eh?”

“Take my tip, sir, you go down into the cells and on up that way. When his nibs comes in he’ll clear this mob away. Follow his nibs, sir, that’s the safest thing.”

“What it is to have friends,” murmured Rollison appreciatively.

“We owe you a turn or two when we think of the number of prisoners you’ve put in the dock for us, sir.”

Rollison thought: “It’s a rewarding world, after all.”

He went down the flight of steps the sergeant had indicated, and into the quietness of the room below. Here, a few prisoners and a few policemen sat or stood about, amongst them three solicitors of his acquaintance. One nodded. The third came up, a man whose name Rollison could not recall.

“Who’s your client, Rollison?”

“Just a watching brief.”

“Don’t say Madam Melinska fleeced you, too, she’s only been in this country a few months. Must be a quick worker, what?” The man laughed coarsely.

“Prejudgment?” murmured Rollison.

“Personal opinion. She’s a smooth-tongued bitch.”

“You’re not appearing for her, I trust? Nor against her?” Rollison added hastily.

“No,” the other answered.

“What do you know about the girl?”

“A chip off the old bitch.”

“Mr Godley!” a younger man called, and the man with Rollison turned away, with a grunt which may have been “excuse me.” Rollison watched him striding on stumpy legs towards the cells, and echoed in disgust:

“Godley, good God!”

Then an odd realisation came to him. He was angry with Godley for his condemnation of the two women.

As he assimilated this fact, a tall, grey-haired, austere-looking man came in at a side door: Nimmo, the stipendiary magistrate in charge. Ignoring everyone, he strode towards an arched wooden door marked: Magistrate. Private. Rollison watched it close behind him; then, feeling a rising curiosity, glanced round for a newspaper which might help him to understand more about the charge. He was beginning to thirst for knowledge of Madam Melinska and her assistant, Mona Lister.

Nimmo came out, wearing a gown; an M.A. gown.

Almost immediately, Rollison followed him up the steps, past the dock with its shiny brass rail, close to the bench to which Nimmo was climbing. The clerk to the Court had summoned everyone to stand, and a solid mass of people rose. Rollison was close to the dock and expected to be moved on at any moment.

Nimmo sat down; everyone sat down except the mass of people jammed in the doorway. Nimmo glanced across, and said:

“Those who can sit down may stay.”

So he was in a genial mood, thought Rollison.

There was much shoving and pushing and whispering; then surprisingly, a hush: and in the hush Nimmo looked down at the clerk, and said:

“I’ll take the first case.”

“Very good, your honour.” The clerk whispered to an usher, the usher whispered to a policeman, by some magic signal the door at the foot of the steps opened, and a wardress appeared; then a girl; next a dark, gypsylike woman; and finally a second wardress. The clerk was whispering to the magistrate, until quite suddenly formality took over.

“Prisoners in the dock—answer to your names, please. Mona Daphne Lesley Lister.”

The girl nodded. Her reply was almost inaudible.

“Madam Melinska.”

“I am Madam Melinska,” the older woman said.

She had a soft but carrying voice with a faintly foreign inflection; she might be Spanish, Rollison thought, or Italian, or Southern French. She glanced away from the clerk and then saw Rollison—and on that instant Rollison’s whole mood changed, from one of lively interest to one of absolute astonishment.

For she looked at him.

And she smiled.

And her lips formed his name with great, almost loving care.

“Mr Rollison,” she said.

Although Rollison heard no sound from her lips and no one else could possibly have heard, there was hushed silence in the Court, and everyone, from Nimmo down to the humblest usher, was staring at the woman.

CHAPTER THREE

The Charge

It seemed a long time before the silence and the stillness were broken by the magistrate, who shifted back in his carved oak chair and gave a deprecatory, almost apologetic, cough. The clerk to the Court came out of his spell, the men and women jammed tightly in the Press box and the public galleries relaxed and fidgeted. A faint hiss of sound came.

“THAT’S Rollison . . . Rollison . . . the Toff . . .”

A sturdy, youthful, puzzled chief inspector was approaching the witness-box. The clerk was reading out the charge.

“. . . did conspire together to advise certain persons to buy shares in a company known as Space Age Publishing, Limited, and did misappropriate the money so obtained . . .”

Rollison came out of a kind of coma. “She must have seen a photograph,” he muttered aloud. “She’s certainly never seen me.”

“Silence!” called an usher.

“Do the accused plead guilty or not guilty?” inquired Nimmo.

“Not guilty, your honour.”

“Not guilty,” whispered Mona Lister.

“Are they represented?” demanded Nimmo.

“No, your honour. I understand they wish to apply to the Court for legal aid.”

Someone at the back of the Court said clearly: “What a racket! She’s as wealthy as sin!”

“If there are any more interruptions I shall have the Court cleared,” threatened Nimmo. “Is there any evidence of means?” When neither the woman nor the girl spoke, Nimmo glanced towards the detective about to take the stand: “Can the police give us any information?” The man made no comment. “Very well, we shall hear the evidence of arrest and then consider the application for legal aid.”

The inspector took the oath.

“. . . and nothing but the truth, so help me God. On the third day . . . and warned them that anything they said would be taken down and could be used as evidence.”

“Did they reply to your charge?” asked Nimmo.

“Yes, sir.”

“What did they say?”

“The younger of the accused said it was a frame-up.”

“Indeed .” Nimmo’s voice was like ice.

“Yes, sir. The older of the accused said she didn’t understand.”

“Did she say what she didn’t understand, Inspector?”

“No, sir, she appeared to be very puzzled.”

“I see. Well, they have been charged and they have entered a plea of not guilty. Have you the necessary evidence to proceed?”

“No, your honour. We should like to apply for a remand so as to complete our inquiries.”

Nimmo’s eyebrows rose.

“Bail?” he inquired.

“We have no objection, sir.”

“Are there any sureties for the accused in Court?” asked Nimmo. No one replied. There was a sense of tension and of waiting, a look of pleading on the older prisoner’s face, and one of defiance on the girl’s. All at once Nimmo came to a quick, brusque decision.

“I bind both the accused over in sums of one hundred pounds each. Are there sureties?”

The magistrate was leaning forward to the dock.

“Can you find one hundred pounds each?” he asked in a clear whisper; and Nimmo, a stickler for the etiquette of the Court, did no more than look his disapproval.

Rollison said very clearly: “I will go surety in those sums, your honour.”

Nimmo, Madam Melinska, the girl, everyone else in Court, turned swiftly towards him. Then Madam Melinska smiled once again.

After that, it was simply a matter of formalities, answering questions from the Press and arranging for an eager-to-help woman journalist—Olivia Cordman, Features Editor of The Day , to see the two accused women to their home. Rollison suddenly realized that he had no idea where they lived; but doubtless Olivia, who was an old acquaintance, would get in touch with him, if not the women themselves.