John Creasey - The Toff and The Lady

“What did you do about it yesterday?” asked Rollison.

“Nothing. I—we—kept hoping.”

The door opened abruptly, and Gwendoline strode in, closing it behind her. She was tight-lipped and angry.

“You might have had the decency to warn us if you couldn’t leave her behind.”

“Gwen!” reproved Hilda.

“Well, couldn’t he?” demanded Gwen. “But there isn’t time for recriminations, she’ll be down in five minutes if I know anything about her, she won’t want to miss a word! Have you told Rolly about father?”

“Yes, of course,” said Hilda.

Rollison stepped to the fireplace and stood with his back towards it, paying more attention to Gwendoline.

“Will you help us to find David?” she demanded.

“Yes,” said Rollison. “If you will tell me the whole truth.”

“But Rolly” began Hilda, and then her voice trailed off.

“Why did you do nothing yesterday?” demanded Rollison. “You were worried the night before last, you say, but you didn’t tell me and you don’t appear to have told the police.”

Hilda said: “We kept hoping against hope, because we don’t want a scandal. We must give David every chance to— to” Her voice trailed off again.

“To do what?” demanded Rollison.

“To give the lie to those damned hypocrites who are spreading the story that he is in difficulties,” said Gwendoline, in a low-pitched voice. “He isn’t, he can’t be! And I tell you that this woman whom you thought fit to bring along here to-night is responsible. Oh, I can see that she had duped you; I suppose that isn’t difficult if you’re foreign and a little unusual, but she has no more lost her memory than I have!”

She broke off and coloured furiously, for the door had opened and the Lady Lost stood there, so exquisitely gowned and so lovely, with the smile frozen on her lips and a hopeless expression in her eyes.

“Mr. Rollison,” she said, quietly, “please take me away from here.”

“My dear!” cried Hilda, “you are warmly welcome; my daughter is distraught or she would not have said such a thing.” She looked distractedly at Gwen. “Gwen, please, apologize for the hateful thing you said.”

Gwen looked steadily at the woman in the doorway, and spoke in a low-pitched voice, hardly moving her lips.

“Her memory is as good as yours and mine,” she said.

“Gwen!”

“Ask her to deny it,” sneered Gwendoline.

The woman in the doorway turned slowly and walked into the hall, carrying herself proudly and yet giving an impression that she had become deeply despondent and hurt. Hilda hurried after her. Gwendoline took a cigarette from a box on the table, lit it, and returned Rollison’s steady gaze.

“Do you really believe that?” he demanded.

“Yes, and so will you, unless you’re completely under her domination.”

Rollison said: “I see. And under whose influence did you refuse to tell me or the police about David, until to-night, and why are you still anxious not to let the police know that he has disappeared?”

She backed away, the colour now going from her face.

“Answer me,” said Rollison, roughly. “Who persuaded you to let him be away for two days?” When she did not answer, he went on with a hard note in his voice: “You’ve damned his reputation. Until he’s found, if he’s found, there will be a panic in the City, everything in which he has an interest will go to pieces. If you had wanted to ruin him you couldn’t have chosen a better way.” When she still remained silent, he added bitterly: “But perhaps you do want to ruin him.”

“Rolly!”

“You’re behaving as if you do,” said Rollison.

Hilda was still talking outside, and intermingled with her words was the voice of a man. It was Jolly. Jolly would not let Lady Lost go unaccompanied. Rollison stood looking at Gwendoline.

“Well, who was it?” he demanded.

In a low voice, she said: “Pomeroy.”

“The little fat man?”

“Yes.”

“The firm of Pomeroy, Ward & Pomeroy deny all knowledge of him,” said Rollison. “Who told you that the man’s name was Pomeroy, and what gave him the authority to make you keep silent about David for so long?”

She said: “David—brought him here. He seemed to trust him. He—Pomeroy—telephoned us yesterday. David should have kept an appointment with him yesterday evening, but did not. Pomeroy advised us to say nothing; he felt sure that David would come back before long.”

“You trust Pomeroy and yet distrust the woman?” Then, when he saw the hurt in her eyes, Rollison relented and rested a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry too much, Gwen. We’ll find him—but we must know everything, and the police must be told at once.”

“That’s—impossible.”

“You’ve a wrong idea of the police, too,” said Rollison. “Is there anything else?”

“The rumours,” said Gwen.

“They didn’t start by accident,” said Rollison.

He left her and hurried to the hall. Jolly was standing by a table on which was a pile of gramophone records in cardboard containers, as well as a coffee-pot, looking incongruous against the panelled background of the hall. Dressed again in her furs, Lady Lost was standing by Hilda’s side, and Hilda was saying:

“Of course I understand. I am so very sorry. Please do forgive my daughter.”

“Jolly,” said Rollison, going to his side, “have you a taxi waiting?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then take the records, the coffee and Lady Lost back to the flat,” said Rollison. “I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

“Very good, sir,” said Jolly.

The Lady of Lost Memory looked at Rollison and smiled, a shadow of the smile he had seen at the flat. The footman was standing impassively by the door. Jolly picked up the records, which were heavy for him to carry in one load.

“Help him, please.”

“Very good, sir,” said the footman, and Jolly, relieved of half the records, took the coffee-pot from the table and walked sedately to the porch.

Rollison watched them get into the taxi, and looked up and down, still afraid of some unknown thing to which he could not put a name. Slowly and reluctantly he turned back to the house. The footman walked a pace behind him

Both exclaimed aloud!

From the shadows of the garden a man appeared, a short, thin man who was clearly visible against the light from the hall as he ran up the steps and into the house, then darted out of sight. Hilda screamed. Rollison sprinted. He saw the man turn into the drawing-room, heard an exclamation from Gwendoline—and then he reached the room and saw the knife which was hurtling through the air towards the girl. She stood as if petrified. Rollison shouted:

“Move, Gwen!”

He flung himself forward, but he knew that he would be too late. The knife seemed to miss Gwendoline, but before he reached her he saw blood welling from a cut in her neck. The little man who had thrown the knife turned and made for the door, like a rat at bay. He thought that Rollison was concerned only for Gwen, and did not notice him swing round and put out his foot. The man ran into it and pitched headlong. He fell by the feet of Hilda, in the doorway. Then she rushed towards Gwendoline.

She impeded Rollison, who tried to dodge round her, but she went the same way. He saw the little man pick himself up and rush into the hall. The footman was standing like a man struck dumb. He made no effort to stop the attacker, and when Rollison reached the hall the front door slammed.

Rollison glared at the footman, who still stood petrified.

“What is your name?”

“Farrow, sir.”

“Telephone for a doctor at once, Farrow.”

“Er—yes, sir. A doctor, yes, sir. Who?”