John Creasey - The Toff and The Lady

“They won’t get away with that,” interrupted Grice. “They’ve gone too far in their admissions.”

“Don’t forget that unless they killed the matron, which doesn’t seem likely, there’s no murder charge against them,” said Rollison. “They’re safe enough on that. They’re putting the blame on to Barrington-Ley, standing together to negate his evidence. Now you’ve got them, it’s their only wise course. But never mind, you’ve got your case, short of the matron’s murder. Let’s leave the sore subject of who killed her. When will you be able to examine the accounts?”

“This evening, I expect.”

“You can falsify accounts two ways,” said Rollison. “You can make good ones seem bad, as well as bad ones seem good. Don’t forget that.”

“I’ve never known you quite like this,” said Grice. “It isn’t any use trying to deny the facts.”

“I question their accuracy,” Rollison said. “There are two people in whom I believe—the Countess and Barrington-Ley. They are not, in my view, people who would become involved in such an affair as this of their own free will. That’s the issue, and your answer is different from mine.”

“Very different, apparently,” said Grice.

Rollison said: “And now you want to arrest the Countess for conspiring with Barrington-Ley, I suppose?”

“I must take her along with me,” said Grice, evasively.

“On a charge of conspiring to defraud?”

“I haven’t got as far as that yet.”

“I’m glad that you’re wideawake enough for that,” said Rollison, sitting up and pushing the eiderdown back. “You certainly haven’t got as far, you haven’t a charge of any kind which you can prefer against her. Pretending to having lost her memory? You might construe it into being a public nuisance but if I were you I wouldn’t try. Poisoning herself? Even you don’t believe she tried to commit suicide. And everything else that has happened in England in this affair took place when she was at the nursing home with a sound alibi, an alibi your own men provided, or else here, with one that the maid, Jolly, or I can provide. On the evidence of one letter and some gossip you can assume that she was having an affair with Barrington-Ley, but that’s no crime. Oh, take her along with you, old chap! Go through the motions of charge and arrest, and I’ll be on the doorstep with a complaint of wrongful detention before you can say knife.”

“Now, Rolly”

“Now Rolly be damned!” said Rollison. “Where are my trousers?” He took them from a chair. “I’ve warned you.” He sat down and pulled on his trousers, staring at Grice all the time. “Wrongful detention after you’ve been warned is serious. You haven’t a case, you know as well as I do that if you take her up before the magistrate you’ll get sharp words from the gentleman, unless you’ve a lot more to go on than you’ve told me.”

Grice’s expression told him that he had not.

“And there is another thing,” said Rollison, vehemently. “The police are no fools, but sometimes they have been fooled. You are being properly and completely diddled. On the evidence of a well-known East End crook who hires-out strong men for any beastly job that offers, of Pomeroy, a renegade solicitor-cum-accountant, and Marcus Shayle, himself detained on a charge of attempted murder, you’re assuming that Barrington-Ley is guilty of all manner of heinous crimes. Why? Only because it fits your own theory.”

“He hasn’t said a word in his own defence.”

“I should think not! David’s a good fellow, he would give you a chance of apologizing nicely and withdrawing the charge before he started to point out how completely you’ve been fooled. Where’s my coat?” He finished tying his tie, put on his coat and went on talking rapidly. “I’m serious. Unless you’re keeping something back, or are taking steps to extradite the Countess, you’ll arrest or detain her at your own risk and against all the opposition I can rake up—be it fair or foul!”

Grice said: “If I’d wanted further evidence against Barrington-Ley, I would have it in your story of the love-letter written to him by the Countess.” He was deliberately brutal.

“Bah.”

“Did you or did you not tell me about that letter?”

“I did. Here, I’ll show it to you.” Rollison tossed the letter to Grice, and waited while he read it through, and there was a curious expression in his eyes as he watched. He seemed almost elated.

Grice handed it back, but said:

“I shall probably need that as evidence.”

“That’s fine,” said Rollison, refusing to take it. “Use it as evidence! Try to get any conviction of any kind on the strength of it. Why, you addlepate, David Barrington-Ley’s name isn ’ t even mentioned ! It was in his possession, or rather found behind his dressing-table, but there isn’t any evidence at all he received it or read it. Why shouldn’t my lady write to her beloved? I tell you that if you arrest or detain her, I’ll move heaven and earth to prove you a complete fool.”

“I shall leave the maid with her,” Grice said, after a long pause, “and I shall have her closely followed if she leaves this flat.”

Rollison raised his hands and beamed. He was almost gay, something had put new life into him.

“Threat withdrawn?”

“You know perfectly well that I can’t take her with me if you’re going to act like that,” said Grice. “I don’t think much of it, Rolly. You’re taking advantage of the fact that I told you what I was going to do.”

Rollison said: “Now be reasonable! I gave you good warning. I don’t want you to make a fool of yourself and the police force, and when this affair really breaks you’ll agree that it was a good thing. Er—seriously, now.”

“Well?” said Grice.

“What happened at the nursing home?”

Grice said, grudgingly. “Phyllis Armitage went to see the matron, at the matron’s request, and she found the matron dead.”

“By poisoning?”

“Yes.”

“Is Phyllis under suspicion?”

“No. The poison must have been taken an hour before she arrived. Barrington-Ley is under suspicion. He was there.”

“Poor David!” said Rollison. “Well, old chap, I don’t want you to feel that you’re not welcome, but I’ve a call to make. Stay here if you like, of course, I’ll trust you not to worry the Countess.”

“Where are you going?” demanded Grice.

“To see Phyllis Armitage?”

“Why?”

“Because I think they may have wanted to kill her for more reasons than one,” said Rollison, “and because she may know why, without realizing it.”

“I hope you don’t make a mistake,” Grice said. He followed Rollison out of the room, and they went to the front door. Before Rollison opened it, Grice turned and said with unusual seriousness: “Rolly, did you know the Countess before this started?”

“Great Scott, no!”

“Are you sure?” demanded Grice.

“I am quite sure,” said Rollison. “What makes you doubt it? I had her photograph, but I’ve told you about that.”

“I don’t mean her photograph,” said Grice. “I can’t believe that a woman whom you’ve known for such a short time would affect you like this.”

Rollison said: “Odd, isn’t it? I can hardly believe it myself! And that reminds me, I must tell her that I’m going out.”

He felt not only less on edge but possessed by an almost feverish excitement. Nothing seemed quite normal—except the smile with which the Lady of Lost Memory greeted him when he opened the door. She was sitting by the window, reading; the “maid” was opposite her, sewing.

“Are you better, so soon?” she asked.