John Creasey - The Toff and The Lady

“Isn’t that mistaken loyalty?” asked Rollison.

She did not answer.

“You’ll have to tell this story to the police,” said Rollison, “and they’ll insist on knowing who it was. If you refuse to tell them they will think the story is a false one; assume that you administered the poison to”

“Poison!” gasped Phyllis. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” said Rollison. “I am quite sure.”

“Poison!” she exclaimed again, and she rose from her chair and looked at him, her eyes rounded with horror, and her breathing quickening. She held her hands up in front of her, as if to fend off an evil thing. “I—didn’t dream” she continued, and then she turned away and stepped to the window, where she stood looking out on the dreary house opposite. “I can’t believe that Marcus would do that!”

“Someone did, this afternoon,” said Rollison.

She said: “I can’t believe that Marcus would do anything like that. He’s cruel sometimes, and—but that has nothing to do with it.” She swung round, suddenly angry. “I believe you’re lying to me! I believe you’re trying to make me say too much, that you want to make me incriminate myself.”

“Now don’t talk nonsense,” said Rollison. He stood up and went to the window by her side. “I would like to help you. I have an interest in the lady in question, too, and I shall have to go on making inquiries, whether you are free or not. If you tell me and then the police the whole truth, you won’t be detained.”

“How—how do you know?”

“They would need more evidence than that would give them,” said Rollison. He put his hands on her shoulders and made her look at him. Her eyes were bright and her face had a freshness and vitality which her fears and terrors then could not wholly hide. She was trembling, but she faced him frankly as he went on: “If there is anything in your story that it wouldn’t be wise to tell the police just now, I’ll tell you so. Seriously—I want to help.”

“I don’t see why you should,” she said.

“But you think I do, don’t you?”

After a pause, she slipped away from him and stepped to the table, where her handbag lay open. She took out a cigarette case and lit a cigarette, without once looking at him. She coughed when the smoke caught at her throat.

“I suppose so,” she said. “Marcus—Marcus Shayle is a friend of mine.”

“Did he give you any other explanation of his anxiety to look at the lady?”

“No, I’ve told you all I know,” she said, “except—oh, I know I shouldn’t have let him go there, I should have refused to have anything to do with it! But there seemed no harm, and Marcus—well, he’s engaged to my sister.”

“I see,” said Rollison.

“Need I tell the police that? I don’t want Janice to be brought into this if I can help it, she’s—she’s younger than l.

it might upset her, and” She paused, miserably, and then

asked: “Can you see what I mean?”

“Yes,” said Rollison. “But they’ll soon find out that he is engaged to sister Janice, you know. The police had better be told everything, but your best attitude is one of repentance. It was an odd request, you knew that you shouldn’t have acceded, but Marcus was a friend and you saw no real harm. Then when you had left the room you realized that if the matron discovered that you weren’t ill it might get you into trouble, so you decided to carry the thing through properly. That isn’t so far from the truth, is it?”

“No,” she said. “But it will make it look as if Marcus gave her the poison.”

“If he didn’t give it to her there is nothing to worry about, and if he did the sooner we know it the better,” said Rollison.

“Is Marcus Shayle a curly-haired man with a round, rather boyish face?”

Yes,” she said. “I suppose you saw him as you came up.”

“I saw him in the street. What did he want here?”

She told him, filling in the gaps of the conversation, although Rollison had heard all that really mattered while listening at the door. At first Marcus had said he much appreciated her help, and promised it would not get her into difficulties at the nursing home. After she had made tea, he had broached the subject of her returning to take up night duty, so as to make a note of everything the woman said.

When she had finished, Rollison asked:

“How long has your sister known Marcus?”

“Not very long,” she said. “Two or three months.”

“Before you went to the nursing home?”

“Yes, but after I had applied for a post there,” said Phyllis. “What has that got to do with it?”

“Nothing, probably,” said Rollison. “How long has he known where you worked?”

“Well—since I started, of course. In fact since I interviewed matron and she offered me the post. That can’t have anything to do with this, can it?”

“I don’t see how,” admitted Rollison.

As he spoke a car drew up outside with a squeal of brakes which startled the girl. Rollison leaned forward, and saw the top of a Wolseley. A moment later Grice and two of his men climbed out of the car. Rollison turned hastily.

“The police are here. Tell them the truth, as we’ve discussed it. If they ask whether I’ve been here, you can tell them, but there’s no need to volunteer the information. And don’t worry too much!” He was walking across the room as he spoke, and he picked up the man’s cigarette case and slipped it into his pocket.

“That belongs to Marcus,” Phyllis said.

“I hoped it did,” said Rollison: “He’ll get it back.” He stepped to the front door. As he opened it he heard footsteps on the stairs. Then a door opposite Flatlet 6a opened, and a man in painter’s overalls appeared. He seemed taken aback at the sight of Rollison, and darted behind the door again. As he did so he slid his right hand into the capacious pocket of his overalls, but he was a shade too late to hide the gun in his hand.

CHAPTER SIX

NO MURDER

THE door slammed. The footsteps of the police reached the first landing. Rollison raised his voice, and there was an urgent note in it.

“Grice! Stop the painter in overalls at the back!”

He put his left shoulder to the door behind which the man had disappeared. He was handicapped because of the glass in his pocket—if he shook it too much the two-shilling piece might move and the liquid would splash up to the handkerchief and be soaked up. The door sagged under his pressure. On the landing below Grice was calling orders to his men. As the door sagged still further, Grice came rushing up the stairs, and the door of Phyllis Armitage’s flat opened.

“Finish this off, will you,” said Rollison to Grice, and stood aside. Grice put his whole weight behind the effort, and the door burst open.

As he staggered inside, Grice muttered: “I hope you’ve good grounds for this.”

“A man with a gun and intent to murder,” said Rollison, and stepped past him towards a room which looked exactly the same as 6a. The window was wide open and a gentle breeze coming through. He looked out in time to see the man in overalls jump from the ladder to die pavement and run towards Queen’s Road. At the same time Grice’s two men reached the street and raced in pursuit.

Grice reached the window in time to see his men disappearing. He drew back as Phyllis came into the room.

Rollison beamed. “Miss Armitage—Superintendent Grice, of New Scotland Yard.”

“How do you do,” said Phyllis, calmly enough.

“Er—good-evening.”

“May I inquire what is happening?” asked Phyllis, and her turned-up nose helped to give her just the right expression of ingenuous bewilderment. “There’s no one in this flat—the