John Creasey - The Toff and The Lady

He was getting into bed when the telephone rang.

He had an extension on a bedside table, and settled himself on the pillows before he answered. He saw Jolly’s shadow near the door.

“Hallo,” he said.

“Rolly,” said Grice, and Rollison sat up. “I’m sorry it’s so late,” went on Grice, “but there are one of two things I must know now.”

“Fire away,” said Rollison.

“What do you make of the footman at Barrington House?”

“Precious little, except that I wouldn’t trust him an inch,” said Rollison. “He could have caught the little man with the knife.”

“I see,” said Grice. “It doesn’t much matter about that— we ’ ve caught the little man.”

“ What? ” exclaimed Rollison, and Grice laughed in triumph.

“I thought that would shake you. There was a man answering your description whom we knew lived in London and who has been known to use a knife, so we pulled him in and he talked.”

“This is progress!” exclaimed Rollison. “Has he talked much?”

“He says that he was hired to kill Gwendoline Barrington-Ley, but he can’t or won’t give us the name or description of the man who hired him. The order seems to have passed thorough several channels. You know how these things work.”

“East End channels?” demanded Rollison.

“Yes.”

“Well, well.” said Rollison, “I’ll slip down there in the morning—that’s what you want me to do, isn’t it?”

“It might be helpful.” said Grice. “As for the footman—one of my men thinks he has seen him before. We’ve got his prints and they’re not in the records, so he hasn’t passed through our hands. You haven’t seem him before, have you?”

“No,” said Rollison.

“We’ll have to do what we can,” said Grice, and broke off, making a curious noise into the telephone. “Sorry,” he apologized, “that was a yawn. Have you learned anything from the lady?”

“She is a Serb,” said Rollison. “I thought she was going to regain her memory to-night, but it faded out again.”

“H’m, yes,” said Grice sceptically.

“Now what’s the matter?” demanded Rollison, sharply.

“Has she ever lost it?” asked Grice.

“What makes you think she might be foxing?” demanded Rollison, stretching his hand out for his cigarette case. As he fumbled with it, Jolly came into the room, took out a cigarette, lit it in a holder, and handed it to Rollison.

“Cray doubts very much whether her mind’s as blank as she says it is,” said Grice. “He told the matron to try her out with music, and we had a shot at Yugo-Slav national music as well as other from the Balkans. Reaction, nil. There isn’t much doubt that you’re right, and she’s a Serb—I had an expert have a look at her, quite early, and he said Serb or anyway Slav without any doubt. There are also other indications.”

“Oh,” said Rollison. “What about Renfrew’s opinion?”

Grice chuckled again.

“He’s a very bright young man, most impressionable, and rather like you—if a handsome woman says she’s lost her memory he’s too much of a gentleman to doubt it.”

“I see,” said Rollison, heavily. “One for and one against. Did it ever occur to you to make sure that the test was carried out?”

“Now, come,” said Grice, “that’s a reputable nursing home, and in this case the matron would obviously be so eager to make up for the slip that was made.”

“You’re more trusting than I am,” said Rollison, “but then, you’re a policeman!”

Grice laughed.

“As a matter of fact, Rolly, I’m very pleased with the day’s work. We’ve Shayle, as you know, and this little man with the knife. Also—we know one name under which your lost lady is known.”

Rollison shot a glance at Jolly, and said:

“More guesswork?”

“No,” said Grice. “We had her clothes examined. The dress didn’t help us much, but a leading London furrier said that he was sure that the coat came from Loudens, of New York. Loudens have a kind of trade mark in their work, one which only a few people know. So we radioed a photograph to Loudens and another to the New York police—what’s that?”

“I groaned,” said Rollison, glumly. “All right, she bought the coat in New York. What’s her name?”

“Lila Hollern,” said Grice. “At least, she called herself the Countess Hollern and signed her cheques Lila. She was in America for six months, raising money—she said—for the Yugo-Slav earthquake Relief Fund.”

Rollison interrupted: “Countess Hollern isn’t a Serbian name.”

“She said she was married to an Austrian count,” said Grice, “and that her husband was a political prisoner for some years. He is now supposed to be in Belgrade. Everyone in New York thought her wonderful, she raised nearly half a mill inn dollars —and disappeared with it!”

“Are these facts?” demanded Rollison, sharply.

“The money was in her name at the New York bank,” said Grice, “and was transferred to an account in England a month ago. We haven’t yet tackled the English bank; they’re touchy on inquiries, you know, and I doubt whether I shall be able to get a Court Order for an examination of her account just yet —but I hope to, soon.”

“What about the Relief Fund?” asked Rollison, with sinking heart.

“The London people only knew about her from New York,” said Grice, who was remarkably cheerful, “and she certainly convinced them in New York. I shall have a full report by cable soon. The money disappeared, there’s no doubt about that.”

“So did the countess,” murmured Rollison.

Grice said gently:

“I hate to disillusion you, Rolly, but she did turn up in remarkable circumstances at Mrs. B-L.”s first big effort for a Relief Fund, didn’t she? Had she not been poisoned, she might by now have been an active member of that fund, raking in more money.”

“Oh, yes,” said Rollison, “but it might not have been quite so simple. If you can stand an awkward question—why was she poisoned?”

“Do you have to ask?” demanded Grice. “Obviously because she is one of several people involved in the swindle. The other members did not like to think that she was to be questioned by the police. They much preferred to see her dead. That is a strong enough motive even for you.”

“It’s very ingenious,” murmured Rollison.

“I don’t think there’s much the matter with it,” said Grice, complacently. “Nor will you, when you know that Messrs. Pomeroy, Ward & Pomeroy are handling the accounts of the London Branch of the Relief Fund, as well as Barrington-Ley’s accounts. It all ties up very nicely, doesn’t it?”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

EAST END

ROLLISON agreed that it did appear to tie up very nicely, said good-bye, replaced the receiver, and stared blankly into Jolly’s face. After a while he gave the gist of the conversation, whereupon Jolly’s hopefulness faded and was replaced by his habitual expression of gloom.

“The only bright spot,” said Rollison, “is that he doesn’t propose to make an arrest, yet.”

“Could he arrest the lady, sir?”

“He could detain her for questioning,” said Rollison. “The truth is that he thinks he can get her whenever he wants, and prefers to have an unanswerable case before doing so. He’ll probably get some kind of story from Marcus Shayle. So, Jolly, more cause for gloom! Deep gloom, because Grice has done practically everything we hoped we would be able to do ourselves—my mind hasn’t been working lately, or we would have got this information first.”

“Perhaps so, sir,” said Jolly, unconvinced. “What do you propose to do?”