John Creasey: The Toff And The Stolen Tresses

“As far as I know, sir.” He was cautious. “Read the newspapers?”

“I have perused them lightly, sir.”

“You mean you’ve read every line under the heading of crime. What strikes you as being odd?”

“Mr. Grice being engaged on the matter of the assault at Middleton Street,” Jolly answered promptly.

“Why is that odd?”

“One would have expected the Divisional police to deal with such a matter, sir, not Scotland Yard, and certainly not a senior Superintendent.”

“You couldn’t be more right,” agreed Rollison, and pushed his chair back and took cigarettes from his dressing gown pocket. “Jolly,” he went on, “I have a confession to make. I have been dreaming beautiful dreams. I am tired of the sordidness of the Big Smoke or the Great Metropolis, whichever you prefer to call it. I long for the freshness of unsullied crimes, where young men do not get bashed over the head and old women are not murdered for a few bob a time, and gangs of hooligans do not set upon a boy and girl, simply because the boy, once one of them, has fallen in love with the girl. I do not think that I am greatly taken by this modern age, Jolly, particularly on a morning like this. Is it my imagination, or is London much, much worse than it was?”

Jolly kept a rigidly straight face except for the movement of his lips.

“It is your imagination, sir.”

Rollison eyed him thoughtfully, and then said: “Oh, is it? For that you may spend today looking out the newspapers of the—what date is it?”

“May the seventeenth, sir.”

“May the seventeenth of each of the last twenty-one years. We’ll have the Globe, the Wire, the Sun-Record and The Times, just to get a balanced view, and we shall count the number of new crimes reported on each day of each year. You may go to the newspaper offices in person.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Jolly. “Would you like more coffee?”

“Please.”

Jolly poured.

“Will you excuse me now, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, sir. May I ask whether you have read this morning’s newspapers?”

This time, Rollison was silently speculative for a long time. So far neither master nor man had allowed himself to smile, each remaining quite poker-faced. Whenever they played a game like this, it was seldom that either relaxed. Rollison studied Jolly, with the sorrowful-looking brown eyes, the rather wrinkled skin, the scragginess under the chin which suggested that he had once been fat but had recently wasted away. Jolly’s lips were sensitive, and although there was a kind of dyspeptic look about him, his was a face that most people liked.

“Yes,” said Rollison at last. “I have perused the newspapers.”

“Did you observe the name of the employer of the man, Jones?”

Slowly and as if painfully, Rollison said: “No.”

“I imagined that had escaped your notice,” said Jolly, magnificently bland. “In the Globe, sir, it states that Jones worked for Jepsons. Possibly only the Globe carried that piece of information, because Jepsons own many shares in the Globe.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Rollison, and did relax and chuckle. “All right, your game, Jolly. The chap works for Jepsons. Where do we go from here?”

“I have no idea, sir.”

“Except that if the Jepsons have a problem they’ll probably bring it to us,” said Rollison, and stubbed out his cigarette. “Do we need to labour for our pieces of gold?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How much in the kitty?”

“Sufficient, sir, but a wise man—”

“Sets some aside for a rainy day. I know. No holiday in distant climes where there’s no time at all for crimes?”

“A short visit to Barbados, sir, might be advantageous.”

“Enough,” said Rollison. “I know we’ve been offered a fabulous fee to go to the West Indies and look for a missing millionaire, and I know you’ve had a lifelong ambition to visit those little islands off the coast of the U.S.A., but no thank you, not at this time of the year. There’s too much sun, too much temperature, too many lovelies and too many distractions. We might have a weekend at Blackpool, or if you feel the need for more rarefied air, at Bournemouth. If Mr. Jepson should come, I’ll see him.”

* * *

Mr. Jepson did not come that day.

The evening newspapers, and the morning and evening newspapers of the next three days all reported the condition of James Matthison Jones. At first, there were hints that he might die, but on the morning of the fourth day he was reported as being out of danger. No arrest was made.

Rollison made a few tentative inquiries, simply out of interest.

On the morning of the fifth day Miss, not Mr. Jepson, came to see him.

* * *

“Rolly, it’s sweet of you to suggest lunch but I really can’t today. I’m a Big Business woman now, and you ought to know it. And Reggie isn’t at the office today.”

Ada Jepson was a little on the small side, beautifully made-up and superbly dressed, and Rollison knew that she had as pleasant a nature as anyone in England. She had a heart-shaped face and a nice smile and dimples, too. Sweet and simple—until one tried to cheat, mislead, misinform or otherwise outrage her sense of justice. She had the most withering tongue of any young woman of Rollison’s acquaintance. “I really came to see you on business,” she went on.

She smiled as she sat dwarfed in his hide armchair, with the trophy wall behind her. Rollison was sitting on the arm of another chair. It was a little after eleven o’clock, and Jolly would soon bring coffee.

“Ah,” said Rollison. “I am a professional, remember. Jolly insists. My services will cost you a fortune.”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter!”

“So now we flaunt our riches,” murmured R ollison.

“If you mean that I believe you’re a fool if you can get what you want by paying for it, but don’t, then I’m flaunting my riches,” agreed Ada. “Not that it matters. No money in the world would buy your services if you didn’t want to give them. I’ll soon talk to Jolly about money, if you’ll say you’ll help. I do hope you will.”

“I might,” conceded Rollison.

“You don’t know what it’s about yet.”

“I could make a guess. The police are helpless and hopeless. That man Grice is utterly impossible, how on earth he even became one of the Big Five at Scotland Yard you can’t imagine. We wouldn’t have him in the packing department at Jepsons. And it’s really such a simple thing, all he has to do is find the men who attacked poor Jimmy Jones. The brutes. If beasts like these men can get away, absolutely nothing’s safe. Women will soon be afraid to open the front doors to strangers!”

Ada listened to all this while slowly clenching her small right fist; then shook it at him in mock anger.

“You’ve been talking to Reggie.”

“Not I.”

“That man Grice, then.”

“Well, we had a chat over a tankard,” admitted Rollison. “Jolly and I half expected you’d want quick results, and didn’t think you’d have much luck.”

“Oh, indeed,” said Ada, and added witheringly. “I’m sorry I’m so late.” She was frowning with exasperation, but her expression soon cleared. She leaned forward, earnest as a woman could be, looking fresh and lovely.

Rollison wondered if her earnestness explained why no one had yet married her. More likely she was trying to make sure that no one married her for her millions.

“Rolly, I know Jimmy Jones quite well,” she said. “He’s one of the best of the younger men at the firm, and we’ve been letting him have an insight into all the departments, although he doesn’t know why yet. Reggie thinks he can become really good, if he recovers.”