John Creasey - The Toff and The Lady

“Have you really told me every reason for suspecting David?” he asked at last.

“Yes,” she said, “except the little indications, the trivial things one can’t put into words. He has behaved strangely in some ways, but in others he’s been as he always is when he’s got a big project in hand. He isn’t exactly absent-minded, but you can always tell that he’s really thinking about something else—do you know what I mean?”

“I know,” said Rollison.

“He isn’t a man to take kindly to blackmail.” said Gwendoline, “and I came to the conclusion that either Pomeroy was blackmailing him, or else everything was being done with his free consent. They’re quite friendly, too—Pom and David to each other. David friendly with a little fat louse like that!”

“Does Hilda know?”

“She does not !” said Gwen, emphatically. “That’s been one of my fears, that she would find out. There isn’t any need to tell her, is there?”

“None yet, at all events,” said Rollison. “I’m not even sure that you’re right.”

“I think you’re just being kind. Do you really think he’s at the nursing home?”

“Yes,” said Rollison. “There isn’t a better hiding-place, you know. Now you’d better see Dr. Andrew, or he’ll come down and accuse me of dallying with your affections.” He smiled. “Fond of Andrew?”

“Desperately.”

“Does he know what you suspect about David?”

“Yes—but no one else does.”

“I’d like a few words with him,” said Rollison.

“Of course,” said Gwendoline. “I’ll get him to come down.”

“I’d like to see him alone,” said Rollison, “before he is told what I know. Do you mind?”

“All right,” said Gwendoline. She moved towards the door, and when she drew level with him she paused and touched his arm. “Rolly,” she said, “I feel better than I have for weeks! It’s hard to say thanks.”

“Don’t even try,” said Rollison.

“I’m sorry about that letter,” she said, and then hurried out. There was more spring in her step.

Rollison sat down in an easy chair and lit a cigarette. The need in this case, as in so many others, was to disentangle the human emotions which played havoc with logic and often made black seem white. In the past he had not needed to worry about his own. Now he was defying logic and perhaps seeing black as white, but even with the letter in his pocket he could not convince himself that he was wrong about the Lady of Lost Memory.

He was sitting with his eyes closed when Renfrew came in.

“Why, hallo,” Rollison greeted, jumping up at once. He smiled at the tall, lithe, dark doctor, who seemed a little anxious. “How is Mrs. Barrington-Ley?”

“She’ll be all right,” said Renfrew.

“Gwen says she had a heart attack.”

“That’s right.”

Rollison looked at him steadily, and although the other met his gaze, he seemed a little nervous. Obviously he expected the diagnosis to be challenged, but Rollison tried another tack.

“Is photography a hobby of yours?” he asked, lightly.

“I do a bit,” said Renfrew.

“And do it well. I fancy,” said Rollison. “When did you take the photograph of Lila, Countess Hollern? And why did you send me a print?”

Renfrew did not move and tried not to show dismay, but he did not wholly succeed, and Rollison smiled, glad now to have his thoughts running more freely, the problem gaining ascendancy in his mind.

“You did send it to me, didn’t you?” he insisted.

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Renfrew, in a strained voice.

“You do,” said Rollison. “Look here, old chap, this business has gone far enough already. I think you sent the photograph to me because you knew that Gwen and Hilda were worried out of their minds. They had sworn you to secrecy, but you were alarmed and wanted someone to look into it, and you thought that the photograph would intrigue me.”

After a long pause, Renfrew tossed back his head, uttered a short laugh, and said:

“I didn’t dream you’d guess!”

“Have I got it right?”

“Yes,” said Renfrew. “Circumstances were hell for them, Hilda was as brittle as glass and Gwen was going to pieces. I knew that they were afraid . . .” He stopped abruptly, as if he realized that he had nearly made a damaging admission, and as he cast about in his mind for a plausible explanation, Rollison said:

“It’s all right, Gwen’s told me the whole story.”

“Everything!” exclaimed Renfrew.

“I think so. Her chief fear is that David is doing something he should not, and that at all costs they wanted to avoid that becoming known.”

“It’s right enough,” said Renfrew. He drew his hand across his forehead, and dropped into a chair. “It’s an enormous relief to hear that you know, Rollison. I tried to persuade Gwen to tell you before, but Pomeroy frightened her as well as Hilda. By George, it’s been a nightmare! Can you” —he was suddenly eager— “can you see any light?”

“A few glims in the distance,” said Rollison, “and I’m certainly not convinced that David is the villain of the piece. If he were being blackmailed, you know, he would do everything he could to prevent Hilda and Gwen from realizing it. That’s a point which you all missed, isn’t it?”

“I suppose we did,” said Renfrew, slowly.

“Two things need immediate attention,” Rollison went on, briskly. “First, what really happened to Hilda? Yes, Gwen confirmed what I had guessed, her heart-attack had unusual causes. You took risks, didn’t you?”

“There wasn’t any danger to her,” said Renfrew, defensively, “and if we were right and David was behind the attack, well— what else could I do?”

“Not much,” said Rollison, “What really happened?”

“Someone gave her a powerful injection of adrenalin,” said Renfrew. “If she weren’t as strong as a horse—constitutionally, I mean—it would have been fatal, but she threw off the effects. Gwen sent for me pretty quickly.”

“An injection,” murmured Rollison.

“She took a strong sleeping draught last night,” said Renfrew, “anyone could have got into her room and pumped the stuff in without waking her. Rollison, I’m pretty sure that footman. Farrow, is up to no good.”

“Did you make up the sleeping draught?”

“Yes.”

“Who else knew about it?”

“Several people,” said Renfrew. “Gwen, of course, Hilda’s maid, the butler—I expect it was common gossip below stairs. There was nothing secret about the fact that there was trouble of some kind in the house, and that Hilda wasn’t sleeping well. I suppose the other thing you want settled,” went on Renfrew with an abrupt change of subject, “is that photograph. That wasn’t difficult”

“It was taken before she arrived at the Bal Masque,” Rollison reminded him.

“Oh, yes, a week before. The woman dining with David at a small restaurant in the West End. I have a small Leica.”

“They saw you, of course?”

“Yes,” said Renfrew.

“Did David seem put out?”

“No—there was no cause for him to be, several other people were in the party. No one I know,” he added, “I’ve tried to think where I’ve seen them before, but I haven’t succeeded.”

“How did you know they would be together?”

“I knew that David was going out to dinner, and knew where,” said Renfrew. “I’d been treating him for gastric trouble, and there was no secret about that. I went with my sister. It was all quite usual. I didn’t tell Gwen or Hilda, of course, I didn’t want them worried unnecessarily. Er—and I’m afraid I sent a note to the Countess in your name,” he added, with a rather nervous laugh. “I got a friend to meet her outside the nursing home and then sent her along to your flat. Er—no resentment, I hope.”