Accuse the Toff Read online

  The three items were:

  (a) Why had Brett given the case to June Lancing?

  (b) What was in the case and had Brett expected it to be a source of trouble?

  (c) Who was the man who had stolen the dummy?

  ‘I might add “why do the other folk want it?”’ commented Rollison sotto voce, ‘and then answers to that questionnaire will cover most of the matters arising. I wonder how long Grice’s man will be?’

  He had expected the man from the Yard to arrive earlier but, as it happened, he was there alone when a man in a green baize apron knocked at the front door. Before that, Rollison had seen outside a large van with Harridges painted in tall letters on its side and consequently he had no doubts of the man’s identity.

  The caller was the foreman of a party of four oldish, grey-haired men who had none of the soft-voiced salesman’s sublime tact but commented forcefully on what they saw. Then they stared at Rollison and the foreman exclaimed: ‘Did someone lose something, sir?’

  ‘I did hear talk about a needle,’ replied Rollison amiably. ‘Do what you can to tidy it up for me, will you?’

  ‘Tidy it! Why, yes, sir.’ The foreman eyed a pound note that Rollison took from his pocket and added warmly: ‘We’ll do everything we can to ’elp, sir, but we’ve got to be out by four, the new stuff will be ‘ere by then.’

  ‘That’ll do fine,’ Rollison assured him.

  Watching them at work, he felt an increasing desire to go to Gower Street and see June Lancing.

  Earlier in the day he had convinced himself that he would devote every spare minute to the office; but the attraction diminished and he assured himself that the two girls and Bimbleton would manage very well. He was putting on his coat when he heard footsteps on the stairs, loud because all the doors were open for the easier removal of the damaged furniture.

  The footsteps were heavy but not laboured. The newcomer was in a tearing hurry, shouting before he reached the landing and condemning two men and a large easy chair to perdition. Rollison strolled towards the reception lounge in time to see a big man force himself past the removers and reach the top stair. He wore a heavy, belted tweed coat, tight about his thick figure; his dark eyes were aflame with anger, his dark hair was dishevelled and his clear, jutting eyebrows thrust themselves forward.

  ‘What the devil’s happening here?’ he roared. ‘Who’s moving? This is Rollison’s flat, isn’t it? Why the blazes can’t you take that thing out of my way?’ he shouted at the foreman who was carrying a small fireside chair with its springs gaping. ‘Here, who did that?’

  ‘Ask me,’ said the foreman and went onwards.

  Rollison stood expressionlessly on the threshold, eyeing the storming newcomer whom he had seen once before and whom he judged to be Peveril – the man who had snatched the black case from Ibbetson’s grasp. Peveril saw him and his brows knitted closer together. He thrust his right hand inside his coat and drew out the dummy case with pieces of the gummed sealing paper adhering to the sides.

  ‘Are you Rollison?’ he demanded aggressively.

  Rollison was incisive and cold.

  ‘I am. Is this your usual method of approach?’

  ‘Oh, don’t bandy words with me,’ roared the newcomer. ‘What the devil do you mean by this? It’s not the real case, it’s a fake. I’ll have you know that you can’t get away with it.’ He pitched the case on to a nearby chair and stood squarely in front of the Toff, bellicose and bristling.

  Rollison eyed him up and down and then jabbed him in the stomach, a gentle blow but enough to make him gasp and back away.

  Chapter Eleven

  Showdown With Peveril

  The temptation to take any course which would deflate the man had been too strong for Rollison to resist. He prepared himself for a wild blow in return and was not disappointed. The other uttered a grunt of sheer astonishment then swept his right hand forward in a clumsy swing which missed by inches. Rollison went in close and jabbed more sharply in exactly the same place as before. The other bent forward, presenting a massive chin invitingly. Rollison resisted the further temptation and gripped the man’s right wrist.

  ‘Do we have to brawl?’ he demanded coldly.

  ‘B-brawl! I’d dam’ well like to know who started it!’

  ‘If you must argue, keep your voice down,’ said Rollison. ‘Do you want all these people to hear?’ He indicated the returning Harridges men and led the visitor firmly through the flat to the kitchen. Once inside, he closed the door and leaned against the refrigerator. His companion stared about the small, white-tiled room, swallowed hard and gasped: ‘Where—where do you think you’re taking me?’

  ‘To the only room in the flat not upside-down,’ said Rollison. He proffered cigarettes, knowing that he had the blustering newcomer at a disadvantage and confident that he could retain it. He recalled June Lancing’s comment on the description she had ‘heard’ of Peveril and there was ample justification for thinking that it applied to this man. What amazed Rollison was that he should have the brazen nerve to come after the incident of little more than two hours before when he must have been seen by several neighbours.

  Startled, the other took a cigarette.

  ‘Now what’s this nonsense about the wrong case?’ demanded Rollison, flicking twice at his lighter before getting a flame. ‘And before we go any further, you’re Peveril, aren’t you?’

  The heavy face showed amazement; the cigarette, half-way to his lips, was held in fingers which went rigid. Hoarsely, and after a pause, he demanded: ‘How in the name of Confucius do you know that?’

  ‘We needn’t drag in third parties,’ said Rollison, straight-faced. ‘You’re Peveril and you’ve a lot of explaining to do. A description of you has been circulated throughout England after the shooting outside here this morning. This is the one place in the world that you should have avoided just now.’

  ‘I didn’t shoot anyone,’ snapped Peveril. ‘I—but lookee here, I’m not going to be browbeaten by you; that case was a dummy and I want to know the meaning of it.’ His effort to regain the initiative was accompanied by a ferocious scowl but he glanced covertly at Rollison’s right hand.

  The Toff concealed a smile.

  ‘More to the point is how you knew that it would be exchanged downstairs,’ he said sharply.

  ‘I overheard that fool Ibbetson telling his men,’ answered Peveril. ‘The man hasn’t the sense to keep his mouth shut.’

  The Toff narrowed his eyes and said sardonically: ‘I suppose you’ve got a flat next to his and because the walls have been damaged by bombs you can overhear everything they say?’

  Just as Grice had been completely taken aback by the name “Brett,” so Peveril was stupefied by the supposition. Before he made any comment Rollison knew that it was so, that the girl’s story of a flat next to Ibbetson’s was to be repeated by Peveril. He changed his approach swiftly, making it seem that he knew that Peveril had such a flat and interrupting a flow of ‘how do you knows’ from the big man whose composure, sadly disturbed by the greeting, was completely disintegrated by what seemed a demonstration of uncanny omniscience.

  Without his bombast, Peveril was a more normal and even likeable individual; at first sight Rollison had judged him to be nearer fifty than forty but his manner was that of a pretentious and yet naive schoolboy; a youngster of twenty would have talked with greater maturity.

  Rapidly it dawned upon Rollison that Peveril’s manner, the competition for the case, even the nature of the attacks and the ruthlessness of the Ibbetson company, were alike less intriguing than a single fact which emerged from Peveril’s five-minute discourse, a rambling one which, however, always came back to the point without reminders from Rollison. The single fact might have been of negligible importance to anyone else, although certainly it would have interested Grice.

 
Peveril assumed that Rollison knew all that there was to know about the case.

  To a lesser degree, Ibbetson had worked on the same assumption but then Rollison had assumed that Peveril had given that impression to the plump man. The idea could hardly be self-conceived and nurtured; someone else had undoubtedly planted the seed in Peveril’s mind.

  Rollison’s difficulty grew more formidable. Would he be wiser to admit his ignorance by asking Peveril for information or would it be better to let the other man continue to think that he knew everything, gleaning crumbs of information until he was able to build the whole loaf? He might have decided on the former but for the fact that his supposed knowledge was the main factor in Peveril’s subjugation.

  Peveril said hoarsely: ‘D’you know, Rollison, I’ve heard about you but damn if I ever believed half of it. How do you get to know these things? You weren’t even on the job forty-eight hours ago.’

  ‘This is progress,’ thought Rollison and eyed the other without smiling. His expression was almost contemptuous as he waved his hand, saying aloud: ‘It’s my habit to know all there is to know about a case before I start it.’

  Peveril’s slate grey eyes were genuinely confused.

  ‘But how could you, this time?’ he mumbled. ‘I didn’t think anyone knew it except Brett, Lancaster and me. Damn it, the whole thing was an absolute secret; it couldn’t have leaked out!’

  ‘Ibbetson seems to have learned a little,’ said Rollison drily and a moment later knew that he had come close to tumbling his own house of cards.

  ‘Don’t be an ass,’ said Peveril sharply. ‘Ibbetson is with Lancaster. When those two had a swearing match and Brett did a double-cross, Lancaster nearly went mad. By Mahomet, I’ve never seen a man go purple before! Brett’s a bit of a fool, really; he ought to know that he’s no match for Lancaster but you know what these big business men are. They don’t believe anyone living can teach them anything.’

  Peveril paused, eyeing Rollison steadily, giving a hint that just then he was not so ingenuous as he had been a few minutes before. Rollison shifted his position and made a shot in the dark.

  ‘Brett was playing pretty safe. He knew that he was going overseas.’

  ‘Eh?’ ejaculated Peveril. ‘Overseas?’ His eyes narrowed, and he backed a pace, knocking against the wall. Rollison saw his eyebrows knit together and his own heart began to hammer. Obviously he had made a serious blunder but he could not imagine how. Peveril swallowed hard and then recovered. ‘Er—oh, yes, of course. D’you know, I didn’t think of that.’ He uttered a low-pitched and insincere laugh and stubbed out his cigarette in a waste-dish in the sink. ‘By Confucius, that’s a fact! Poor old Lancaster! Try one of these,’ he added and took out his cigarette-case, holding it towards Rollison and at the same time pushing one cigarette closer to the other man.

  Rollison took the cigarette, disturbed by the change in the other’s manner but not failing to see the manoeuvre with the case. It might be the gesture of a man making it more convenient for another to take a cigarette but it could mean that Peveril was deliberately ensuring that Rollison took a particular one.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Rollison. He extracted and then dropped it. ‘Oh, damn!’ He moved his foot but clumsily trod on the little white cylinder then looked quickly into Peveril’s eyes: the man’s expression conveyed nothing as he said: ‘Don’t worry, plenty here.’

  ‘It’s my turn,’ declared Rollison, taking one of his own cigarettes but accepting a light before plunging on with a statement of fact which might serve to confuse the other. ‘There are things I don’t know and—’

  ‘What, even you?’ demanded Peveril sardonically. He laughed again, on the same note of insincerity. ‘I don’t believe it! Anyhow, a joke’s a joke and perhaps you were right to give Ibbetson the wrong case, but where’s the real one?’

  ‘Do I look as simple as that?’ demanded Rollison.

  ‘Simple?’ echoed Peveril, frowning. ‘You know darned well that I’ve as much right as anybody to the case. What’s worrying you? It can’t make any difference to Brett or Lancaster if I get it. I’ve taken some chances on this business and I don’t mean to lose out. It’s worth a cool five thousand to me and five thousand pounds is a lot of money. Hand it over and don’t be bloody-minded.’

  Rollison drew on his cigarette slowly and then shook his head.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Too much hangs on it for it to be as simple as that.’

  ‘It’s no business of yours!’

  ‘If you’re going to get bellicose again you may as well go home,’ said Rollison. ‘I’m not handing the case over to you until I know a lot more about it.’ He was burning to ask how Peveril knew that he had had the case and why the man was so sure that he would be ready to hand it over. ‘In fact, I’m not letting anyone else have it until the affair is over and Ibbetson and his brood are put where they can do no more harm. That isn’t a specious hope but a statement of firm intent,’ he added. ‘The point at issue is whether you’re going to continue playing a solo hand or whether you’re coming in with me.’

  Peveril kept quite still.

  He was a striking figure, thought Rollison dispassionately, with his dark eyebrows jutting so fiercely and very red lips pushed slightly forward; with a pointed beard he would belong to Drake and Raleigh’s generation; he needed only the correct habiliment to look the image of a lusty buccaneer; about him there was a tang of the sea, his manner that of a man who rejected compromise, discipline and the ordinary things. It was a fleeting thought and passed while Peveril tightened his lips and clenched his hands; his cigarette jutted from one corner of his mouth aggressively.

  ‘So that’s your game,’ he said softly. ‘You want a cut in this.’

  ‘It depends what you mean by a cut,’ retorted Rollison promptly. ‘The stakes are high.’

  ‘That five thousand is coming to me,’ snapped Peveril, ‘and no-one else.’ A little pulse in his neck was beating fast and he looked likely to develop a fit of tearing rage, so the Toff tensed himself to repel attack. Instead, Peveril went on more reasonably, although his voice was harsh. ‘All right, all right, if that’s your game I’ll see you but I know my way about. I’m a practising solicitor and don’t forget it. All you’ve done is to hold the case for a few hours. I’ll give you a hundred, after I’ve collected the prize money.’

  Gently the Toff shook his head.

  ‘No can do,’ he said. ‘Not even for a peculiar lawyer like you. Just glance about the flat and ask how far a hundred will go in putting that right. And I’ve been assaulted,’ he added with well-feigned indignation, ‘both beaten about the head and bent about the elbows. A hundred be damned, this isn’t a bridge party.’

  ‘Two hundred,’ said Peveril between his teeth. ‘Not a penny more. Come on, take it or leave it.’

  ‘No,’ said Rollison quietly. ‘There’s no deal until the Ibbetson family are where they belong and the other things are cleared up, Peveril. You forget that money isn’t everything, even in this material world. I will hold the box.’

  ‘You damned well won’t!’

  The Toff waved a hand about the kitchen and said: ‘All right, go and get it.’

  ‘Now listen to me, you barefaced twister, I’ll break every bone in your perishing body if you don’t come across.’ Peveril leaned forward, large enough to tower above the Toff who remained leaning negligently against the refrigerator and maintained an aggravating smile. The other’s voice rose and grew in volume. ‘I know just how to deal with your marrow-muscled type, blast you, and I’m not leaving here without the case! Two hundred and fifty, that’s my absolute limit, and if you don’t accept I’ll—’

  Rollison slipped past him and opened the kitchen door. He was not surprised to see the foreman and one of the men standing in the outer room and staring indeterminately at the door; neither moved as the Toff appeared
but the foreman said hesitantly: ‘You needing any ’elp, sir?’

  ‘I might do soon,’ admitted Rollison amiably, ‘but I think you’ll be sufficient as a moral support. Peveril, we aren’t having a boxing match, we’re being reasonable. I’ve told you when the box or case will be available and that will be only if you’re good. If you’ve a line of patter other than threats I’ll listen. If you haven’t, clear out. I’ve a lot to do.’

  ‘You can’t do this to me,’ breathed Peveril.

  ‘I am doing it to you, ‘ returned the Toff blandly. ‘And even with pleasure.’ He watched the changing emotions on the man’s face, imagined that Peveril was trying to find a way of climbing down without it developing into a rout.

  Shrugging, Peveril passed him.

  The Toff followed him to the landing as two of the removal men arrived at the head of the stairs; the flat was practically empty of damaged goods and was looking tidy, if denuded. Peveril’s heavy breathing made the most sound until Rollison caught his elbow as he started for the stairs.

  ‘Just one thing,’ he said. ‘How did you know I had the case, Peveril? Telepathy, or secret information?’

  ‘Bah!’ ejaculated Peveril, ‘you make me sick!’

  He hurried down the stairs as forcefully as he had climbed them. The Toff watched him disappearing and then called over his shoulder to the foreman: ‘Stay here until I come back, will you, or until a man comes with a pass from Scotland Yard?’

  ‘Strewth!’ he heard. ‘Er—okay, sir, we’ll ‘ang around.’