John Creasey - The Toff In Town

Rollison was trying to do that.

Barbara drew nearer.

He put out a hand, glanced at her and touched his lips, hoping that she wouldn’t ignore him. He heard Allen answer another of Wentworth’s questions, and saw him fumbling with the corner of his script, to turn over.

Barbara crouched down on one knee, beside Rollison.

“ He must do what she told him, ” she whispered in desperate entreaty. “ She ’ ll kil l ——”

Rollison gripped her wrist and held it tightly. Allen turned over the page. Two paragraphs were unaltered. The seconds which had passed so quickly before now seemed to drag; Allen appeared to weigh every word, as if he had difficulty in uttering it. His forehead was beaded with sweat, he kept rubbing his left hand against the seam of his trousers. Barbara was quiet now; she didn’t move but knelt there without trying to free herself. Jolly standing up, looked towards the audience from behind. McMahon, also standing at the side of the studio opposite Rollison, watched everyone lynx-eyed.

Rollison wasn’t looking at Allen now.

“ I ’ d lost count of time, ” said Allen. “I just gave up hoping. ” He didn’t falter, he hadn’t realised that this was the original script. “ Then one day one of the native s ——”

He paused and looked up, sending a terrified glance towards the audience. Rollison saw that only one man, the actor Lundy, was looking at Allen before that pause, but a moment afterwards, everyone was staring at him. Hedley opened his mouth and gaped, Wentworth forced a smile, as if to say: “It’s all right, you’re doing fine,” but the pause lengthened.

Lundy half-rose in his chair, and his hand was pushed against his coat pocket.

Then suddenly Allen began to speak, more quickly than before, but with every confidence, and Hedley relaxed, Wentworth wiped his forehead.

. . . came and talked to me. I ’ d picked up a bit of the lingo by then. Apparently a hostile neighbouring tribe was coming to pay a visit. My little crowd was in a panic. They said the other tribe was armed . . .

Allen went on firmly, with the new script, Pauline’s script! He wasn’t reading; he was repeating something he had learned off by heart!

Lundy sat down again, few seemed to have noticed that he had moved. Wentworth said his little piece leading on to Allen’s final paragraph, the message which Pauline had been so anxious that he should put over; and which was put over.

“I certainly needed it. I shall never forget seeing whit e people again, after so long. I shall never for get their faces either. I hope I shall meet them all again one day, the sooner the better. We ’ ve a lot of memories to share. ”

He finished, and wiped his forehead. Rollison hardly heard Wentworth’s final comment. Barbara was leaning against Rollison’s knee, as if the strain were too great to bear. There was a tense hush—and then the green light came on, Hedley clapped his hands together, and said gaily:

“A minute to spare—couldn’t be much better than that, could it? By jingo, it’s been a good night!” He waved to Rollison. The producer came out of the control room and made a bee-line for Rollison. McMahon looked across at Rollison and shook his head reproachfully—obviously he thought that Rolli-son had deliberately fooled him. The Italians were shaking hands with everyone, the Lundys and their friends were laughing and talking. Allen sat where he was, as if he could not find the strength to get up. One of the girls took him a glass of water.

The producer reached Rollison, glanced down at Barbara and frowned, then gave a pleasant laugh, and said:

“I hope I wasn’t too short with you just now; it’s a trying time, you know—always the same just before we go on the air.”

“You were patience itself, said Rollison, “I ought to be shot. Found it a bit of a strain myself,” he added, and then glanced down at Barbara. The producer took the hint and went to speak to someone else. Jolly hovered near. Rollison helped

Barbara to her feet. Her face was pasty-white and her eyes were filled with a horror which, a few minutes before, he wouldn’t have been able to understand. But he did now, he knew the whole truth. Jolly could not restrain himself, and leaned forward so that only Rollison and Barbara heard what he said:

“So he knew it off by heart, sir. We’ve failed.”

Barbara said weakly: “I must sit down.”

“No, we haven’t failed,” said Rollison. “I can see the whole story now, Jolly.”

“ What ’ s all this?” demanded McMahon, pushing forward and standing squarely in front of the little group. “What can you see, Roily? If you haven’t a pretty good line in apologies, I’ll never do you a good turn again.” When Rollison just looked at him, as if commanding silence, McMahon paused and frowned. Allen moved towards the door—he was walking with his head bowed. Hedley was by his side, commiserating, unable to understand why it should have affected him like this.

“You kno w ——” began Jolly.

“Oh yes,” said Rollison. “Don’t let Allen leave, Jolly.”

“He must leave! You mustn’t stop him!” cried Barbara, in a voice so loud that it sounded high above every other sound and made everyone swing round and stare. Even Allen turned from the door and looked at her. When she stopped the silence was profound.

Lundy broke away from his friends, and went to the door as if to leave hurriedly. He pushed Allen by the shoulder and opened the door with his free hand.

Rollison moved forward.

“Let him go !” cried Barbara, and flung her arms round Rollison and held him tightly, “Let him go,” she sobbed. “Let him go!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

WHAT HAPPENED IN BURMA

ALLEN went out, Lundy followed him, the door closed behind them. Barbara still clung to Rollison, but Jolly had hurried across the room only to be impeded by the Italian troupe. Hedley looked puzzled, but stood back discreetly. Rollison put Barbara gently aside and went in Jolly’s wake, but she wouldn’t let him go alone, she clung to his arm and followed him. No one spoke to them, although someone called out: “ Shame! ” By then Jolly had opened the door and Rollison hurried out, dragging the girl with him. She kept saying the same thing over and over again:

“ Let him go, let him go, let him go. ”

Rollison said: “Barbara, you’ve got to see this thing through. It’ll be for the best in the long run.” He stepped along the hall, past a startled commissionaire. It was dull outside and a drizzle was falling. Jolly reached the kerb and Perky Lowe pulled up in front of him.

“As ordered?” he demanded.

“Yes,” said Rollison.

“Follow that cab, Lowe,” said Jolly, pointing to a cab which had just moved off, and then realised that the instructions were superfluous.

“Get in,” said Rollison. He helped Barbara into the taxi. Jolly followed and was about to close the door, when McMahon came running and swung into the cab as it moved off. A little further along New Bond Street the other cab was gathering speed. There was no sign of Lundy or Allen.

“Two of ‘em got in,” said Perky cheerfully, shouting through the partition.

“All right, Perky—you just get a move on,” said Rollison. He sat back and took out cigarettes. “It’s all right Jolly,” he said “that cab in front belongs to a friend of Perky’s, I arranged for him to be at hand to pick up Allen.”