John Creasey - The Toff In Town

Miss Myall and Hedley fell obediently silent.

Rollison said slowly: “I don’t know. I see how you get the people, how you prepare the script—what time do they arrive here for the broadcast? Half-past five?”

“Great Scott, no!” exclaimed Hedley. “People who haven’t been on the air lose their voice the first time they sit in front of a mike, or else squeak or whisper. But as soon as they’ve tried it out once or twice, most of them are all right. So we have them here any time after 2.30, the earlier the better, for rehearsals. That has to be done, because they’re all allowed a limited time. One man might take five minutes to read a script which another would read in three, or even less. Sometimes cuts have to be made or bits added on, you can’t really tell until you’ve rehearsed. It’s all right with stage and screen people, but put an ordinary man in front of a mike with a script perched up in front of him, and he dithers.”

“I can well believe it,” said Rollison. I suppose some are really shy. This man from Burma, for instance—does he really want to talk about it, or have you used a lot of persuasion?”

“He was all right,” said Hedley. “Bit worked up. We did the script yesterday afternoon, and I think it will be good. You’ve got it, Rose, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” said Miss Myall, and produced several sheets of foolscap.

“I suppose there isn’t a spare,” inquired Rollison. “If I’m to think about it, I’d like to——”

“Take one,” said Miss Myall, and thrust a copy of Allen’s script into his hand.

“Thanks,” said Rollison. “And thanks for everything else. Now, what about having a drink with me?”

No one said “no”.

Perky Lowe took them to the Chester Arms, in a side street near Gresham Terrace, and they sipped their drinks—except Wardle, who took his whisky-and-soda in two gulps—and chatted, crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s of the discussion. Miss Myall was the first to leave. Hedley followed soon afterwards, and Wardle, who had a remarkable capacity for whisky-and-soda after office hours, gulped down half his fourth, lit a cigarette and eyed Rollison fixedly.

“What is all this about?” he demanded.

“I’ll tell you later on,” promised Rollison. “Very hush-hush, for the time being. Thanks, Freddie!”

They left the Chester Arms together. Perky came out of the public bar, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and took the wheel of the cab. Rollison went out of his way to drop Wardle at Charing Cross, and then was driven back to Gresham Terrace.

“Anything more to-night, Mr. Ar?” Perky Lowe asked.

“Anywhere special to go?” asked Rollison.

“No, Mr. Ar, I’m at your service, same as always. Shall I stick around?”

“I think you’d better,” said Rollison.

“Oke.” Perky pulled up outside the flat, jumped down and, as Rollison climbed to the pavement, held out a folded sheet of paper. “My report,” he said proudly. That Chrysler made three calls—juicy bit, ain’t she?”

“The Chrysler?” asked Rollison, blankly.

Perky threw back his head and bellowed with laughter.

“Cor, you are a one,” he gasped. “The Chrysler cor! She’s a beauty all right, though, wouldn’t like to try followin’ ‘er in my cab on the open road.” He finished laughing, and then added hopefully: “Let’s know when it is, Mr. Ar, won’t you?”

“When what is?” asked Rollison, taken unawares.

“Nark it! The broadcast. You’re goin’ to broadcast, ain’t you?”

“There’s been some talk about it,” said Rollison, chuckling. “I’ll certainly let you know if it comes off.”

He went upstairs slowly. There was a smell of burning—or of something which had been burnt recently. The lower flight of stairs and the landings had been cleaned up, but on the flight leading to his flat the damage was all too apparent. A small hole had been made in the wall. The banisters were gone, except two rails which stuck up like the stumps of trees—and the tops of them were blackened, they had caught fire. Part of the steps had been blown away, and a biggish area was badly scorched.

He opened the front door, noticing that there were several dents in it which had not been there before. The full force of the explosion and the debris had been blown over his head; nothing else could have saved him.

He stepped into the flat.

There was a light in the study but nowhere else in the flat, and he heard the murmur of voices. Jolly was in there and possibly Snub had decided not to go, in view of the explosion. He hoped Snub hadn’t stayed here all the time—the movements of Merino and Pauline were well worth following.

He opened the study door.

Jolly turned round with a start of surprise, and from the depths of an easy chair Superintendent William Grice of Scotland Yard looked up with an accusing stare.

CHAPTER TWELVE

POLICE

GRICE was a brown-faced, brown-haired, brown-clad man; and perhaps the most formidable detective in the country. He and Rollison were old friends, but whether their friendship would weather this storm Rollison did not care to guess. He looked down at Grice with a faint smile. Grice’s skin was smooth and his complexion almost perfect—only marred, in fact by a large scar on one side of his face and head. That was from an explosion in which he had suffered so badly that for several days his friends had despaired of his life—and it had happened in an affair in which Rollison had been playing a part. His high-bridged nose was white at the bridge, where the skin seemed to stretch across it. He had large brown eyes.

“Well, Mr. Rollison, he said heavily.

“So we’re formal, are we?” asked Rollison. “Get the Superintendent a drink, Jolly.”

“Mr. Grice has declined one, sir,” said Jolly.

Then give him a lemonade,” said Rollison. He took the other easy chair, sat down and stretched his legs. “Well, Bill? Detecting? Jolly, get me those oddments you were handling, will you?”

“Yes, sir.” Jolly went out, and Grice clasped his hands together in front of his chest and spoke without raising his voice.

“I always thought you were a bit mad, Roily; now I know you are. Time and time again I’ve asked you not to try to tackle any kind of investigation when you know it’s a police matter. Time and time again I’ve spoken for you, and you’ve been able to do a great deal more than any other private individual. You know very well that if the A.C. or the Home Office got nasty, you wouldn’t be able to get anywhere near a job again. Yet you let a thing like this happen.”

“Bad man comes, tries to blow me to perdition—and that’s all the sympathy I get,” murmured Rollison.

“You won’t get any sympathy. A thing like this didn’t happen out of the blue, something led up to it. Here are some of the things. Several of Bill Ebbutt’s toughest has-beens are holding a watching brief for you at a flat in St. John’s Wood. A taxi-driver named Lowe, once one of Ebbutt’s hopes, is driving you about. Jolly is nervous, and refuses to talk—which means that he’s hiding something. Even if you don’t mind having your own head blown off, think of Jolly sometimes.”

“As a matter of fact I’ve thought quite a lot about Jolly lately. He wanted to tell you about this before.”

“Oh, Jolly ’ s got some sense,” said Grice. “Well, what is it?”

“Mystery.”

“Now look here,” Grice began in exasperation, but Jolly came in carrying a large silver tray. On one end was a glass of lemonade for Grice was almost a teetotaller, at the other, a variety of “oddments”. Jolly placed the tray on the desk and handed Grice the glass, then drew attention to the other things.