John Creasey - The Toff and The Lady

“Okay,” said the driver.

There was no delay when Rollison telephoned Jolly.

“Is there anything to report there?”

“No, sir. Our guest went for a short walk with her maid and they are now both back at the flat.”

“Good. Jolly, go to the Lawley Nursing Home quickly. Don’t let the police know that I sent you, if you should be seen by them—say you were curious about the matron, or something like that. Miss Phyllis Armitage is there—presumably in the matron’s office. She has had instructions to keep everyone out, so go to the window and try to talk to her. Get her story if it’s possible, and then report to the flat. If I’m not there, telephone Barrington House.”

“Very good, sir,” said Jolly.

“Get a move on, Jolly!” Rollison rang off and hurried to the taxi. There was no sign of Grice’s car as he passed the Yard. He sat back, lighting a cigarette. There was surely no further doubt that the matron had played a part in what had happened earlier. The trouble was to find out how Shayle, Pomeroy or Malloy had known that the Lady of Lost Memory would be put under her charge.

“Wait, will you?” he asked the taxi driver when they drew up outside Barrington House. “I may be half an hour.” He was already walking towards the front door as he finished speaking, and noticed with some surprise that the front gates were closed, preventing the taxi from going right in.

The footman, Farrow, opened the door.

“Good-afternoon, sir.”

“Good-afternoon,” said Rollison. “Is Miss Gwendoline in?”

“No, sir, she is not at home.” Farrow looked as if he were glad to say so.

“Mrs. Barrington-Ley?” asked Rollison.

“I am sorry, sir, but Madam is unwell, and unable to receive anyone.”

“Take her my card,” Rollison said, taking one from his pocket.

“I am sorry, sir,” said the footman, firmly. “The doctor was most emphatic—Madam is not to be disturbed. Madam was taken ill early this morning.”

Is she unconscious?” demanded Rollison.

“I have no information, sir, beyond my instructions.”

“When did Miss Gwendoline go out?”

“I have no idea, sir.”

As he spoke the door of a room off the hall opened and a maid appeared. Before the door closed Rollison heard Gwendoline’s voice:

“Tell him that he must come within an hour.”

“Very good, Miss,” said the maid.

Rollison strode past the footman, smiled at the maid, and reached the door. Farrow came after him, and when Rollison turned suddenly, he saw the man’s face set in alarm. The man actually stretched out an arm to stop him, but drew back when Rollison said sharply:

“Don’t ask for trouble!”

He was uneasily aware of the man’s tense gaze when he went into the room. But for the urgency of seeing Gwendoline, he would have paid Farrow more attention, for he had an impression that the man wanted to speak.

The morning-room was bright and sunny, with books in the corners and a small writing-desk, small easy chairs dotted about, and a low-sprung settee on which Gwendoline was sitting. She sat up abruptly when she saw him, and showed no sign of pleasure.

“I told Farrow that I was not at home.”

“And Farrow told me,” said Rollison. He closed the door, walked across and stared at Gwendoline. She looked as if die had had no sleep the previous night. Her eyes were bright and glassy, and her face was pale, the cheeks puffy beneath her eyes—obviously she had been crying. Her neck was heavily bandaged. Her hair was in disarray, and her tweed suit was crumpled. Cigarette ash covered the lapels and her skirt, and she looted almost disreputable.

“What is it now?” asked Rollison. “And why aren’t you in bed?”

“It was only a scratch,” she said. “My neck is stiff, that’s all. I don’t want to see you—I don’t want to see anyone.” Her voice was shrill with emotion.

“Have you been out this morning?” Rollison asked.

“No, I’ve been here all day.”

“Can you prove that?”

He stirred her to interest. She frowned, and then stretched out for a cigarette in a box by her side. Her fingers were stained brown with nicotine.

“If necessary, yes.”

“Has your mother been out?”

“No, she” She stood up quickly, wincing when she moved her head carelessly. “She had a heart attack this morning. I thought she was going to die. I think Andrew saved her life.” She looked a picture of despair as she stood there with the unlighted cigarette dangling from her lips, and her complexion rather muddy—never had Rollison seen Gwen Barrington-Ley looking so unattractive.

He said, quietly: “What brought the attack on?”

“I don’t know,” said Gwendoline, and then she flared up. “Why do you stand there asking questions? We asked you to help us, and all you did was to tell the police and let yourself be fooled by that damned woman! I thought you were a friend! ”

“You make it very difficult for your friends to help you,” said Rollison, gently. “That doesn’t mean that they don’t want to. Gwen, were you speaking the truth when you told me that you had seen the woman at your father’s office?”

“Yes!”

“Did you see them together?”

“No,” she said, “she was waiting for him.”

“So other members of the staff must have seen her.”

“I thought you were a detective,” she said, sneering; that was not like Gwen. “It was his private office—there is an entrance from the street, leading to a small waiting-room, and anyone with a key can get in— anyone with a key. She had that key, do you understand? She had a key which I have never been allowed to use, even mother had never had one. That whore”

“Steady, Gwen.”

She flared up. “Steady, steady, steady! I tell you she’s a high-class tart, there isn’t anything to be said in her favour; I wouldn’t be surprised if she is behind all this!”

“All what?” asked Rollison.

“This dreadful violence! David’s disappearance. The attack

on me, and the at” She broke off, putting a hand to her

lips, and then added in a quieter voice— “and everything.”

“And the attack on your mother,” murmured Rollison.

She tried to stare him out, and failed. She tried to speak, but the words would not come. She was afraid.

“So Hilda was attacked,” he said. “Were you sending for Renfrew just now?”

She did not speak.

“You’ll have to speak sooner or later,” said Rollison, “you can’t keep it secret for ever. Gwen, what has made you behave like this? What has made a man like Renfrew stake his reputation on concealing from the police an attempt on your mother’s life? That is what happened, isn’t it?”

She said: “Damn you, yes!”

Rollison turned away and looked out of the window, where the grass was fresh and bright and a rose walk was ablaze with colour. It was a pleasant, peaceful scene, and the hum of traffic from Park Lane seemed remote from this seclusion!

“Gwen,” said Rollison, “if this comes out, and it probably will, Renfrew will almost certainly have his name removed from the register. He may never be able to practise again. I’m told that he’s a brilliant doctor, and I’m also told that he’s in love with you.”

You shouldn’t believe all you hear,” Gwendoline said in a muffled voice. “Talking won’t help, you can’t help, you lost your chance. Please go away.”

“There is too much at stake,” said Rollison.

“All you can think about is that woman!”

“And you and your mother, David, and several other people dragged into the affair, into danger and perhaps to disaster, through no fault of their own,” said Rollison. “Renfrew is one of them.” He hammered at that.