Here Comes the Toff Read online

The tea was made when he had changed.

  Mrs. Higgins, like most of her kind, asked no questions and wanted no information. But as he drank the thick, black brew she had made, she voiced the hope that he was not going to run his head into a noose.

  “The noose is for someone else,” said the Toff with a smile. “Don’t worry about me, Ma. I’ll bring the clothes back or send them in a day or two. All right?”

  “Bless me ’eart, yer don’t ’ave to worry abaht them, Mister. Ar. Take ’em ’an welcome.”

  “They’ll come back,” said the Toff; “we can’t have Higgins running about naked.”

  This made her ample bosom shake with hearty laughter, and while it was shaking the Toff lifted a hand in farewell, and went out. It was pleasant to be in the cool, clean air of the street again, but he had spent more time there than he wanted, and he hurried again towards Minnie’s flat.

  It was possible that she had gone out before him.

  He could not be sure, but when he glanced up the road he thought he saw Benson, still lounging and talking to two idlers, cigarettes dangling from their lips.

  Rollison had touched up his face, using coal-dust, and he looked very unlike the Toff as he passed the end of the street. Then he waited at a corner where he could see Minnie’s flat, spending some of the time wishing that he had taken that telephone call, yet wondering whether it would have made much difference.

  Minnie had.

  She had been well aware that her husband was working with Benson, and had been informed by a message that had been delivered promptly – although unknown to the police – that if she kept quiet about that association, she would be richer by five hundred pounds.

  Five hundred pounds in the hand was worth a lot more to Minnie than a murderer on the trap, and she had accepted the bribe, which had been delivered to her in the same way as the offer. In point of fact, through the charwoman who called ever morning for the ‘heavy work’ at the flat. Benson knew a thing or two about getting past the police.

  He and others were anxious, she had known, to talk to her, but until that morning the detective outside had prevented her from going out to see them. In any case, it was too dangerous for him to call on her. That morning she had felt safe until the Toff’s visit. After it, she went to a great deal of trouble to make sure she was not being watched by the police or Rollison. As she knew many of the plain-clothes men in the Force, and boasted she could tell one a mile off, she had good reason for feeling that she was safe from them, if not from Rollison.

  She did not see the Toff, shabbily dressed in Higgins’s clothes, as he lounged at the corner. The Toff was carrying his three caps – a brown, a black, and a brilliant check. By changing them occasionally and altering their angle he contrived to make sure he was not suspected; for, apart from his caps, he looked absolutely nondescript, and the caps ‘proved’ him to be three separate people.

  By a roundabout route Minnie reached the Blue Dog.

  The Toff’s eyes gleamed, and he would have given a great deal to have gone inside. But he was glad that he had not, for within five minutes Minnie reappeared, this time accompanied by a stranger to the Toff.

  He was a short man, broad of shoulder, and with a handsome, if Hebraic, face – the kind of face that would have aroused comment in most places. He was smiling, perhaps too freely. His clothes, the Toff admitted, were well-cut, although the check of his suit was too loud for Rollison’s taste, and might be called flashy.

  The situation was becoming more complicated as the Toff slouched behind the man and woman, keeping on the other side of the road. He hoped the chase would not last long, and his hope was fulfilled when the couple turned into a coffee-shop near the docks – none other than Sammy’s, where Anthea had been – and the Toff slipped in behind them.

  He could not see the couple behind the high-backed seats, but Minnie’s voice, high-pitched and shrill, told him where they were. He frowned as he slipped into the seat nearest them but out of sight. Why should she meet the man at all, and why should he come to this place with its good reputation? More – why should they order two large Bovrils?

  A thin wooden partition separated them from the Toff, and he could hear every word of their conversation. It was not a particularly informative one, and the only thing of interest the Toff learned was that the man’s name was Ritzy.

  He had found Martin!

  And then Minnie lowered her voice, and the Toff only just caught the words.

  “When’s Mr. Ruddy Benson coming, Ritzy? I don’t trust that feller, an’ I ain’t even likely to.”

  Ritzy laughed; his voice was pleasant and low-pitched as ever, and as confidential.

  “Don’t worry about him, Minnie. He’ll turn up, and he won’t double-cross you. Listen, don’t you want salt in that?”

  At the moment the words struck the Toff as being as banal as any could be, and but for the mention of Benson’s name he would have told himself that his errand was abortive – but for Ritzy. But he was bored by Ritzy and Minnie – who were by then flirting – even if he was puzzled by Ritzy’s obvious interest in the woman. He was what even the Toff would have called a different type from Minnie; there was a false note somewhere which he could not find.

  Benson was a long time coming. Minnie said so a little louder than before, and in some annoyance, and Ritzy laughed again. That was the last sound for perhaps five minutes, before Ritzy stood up and said he would be seeing her soon.

  Minnie did not answer.

  The Toff scowled as Ritzy squeezed out of his seat and left the coffee-shop, tempted to follow the man, and yet more directly concerned with Minnie. She would crack, he believed, before long, particularly if the Toff talked to her with Benson there. Another ten minutes passed, and with it the Toff’s second cup of coffee. He stood up at last and slouched past the next cubicle.

  And he saw Minnie Sidey bent over the table with her head buried in her arms. There was something strange about her stillness, and there was a sharp fear in the Toff’s mind as he stepped forward then gripped her wrist.

  Her pulse was not beating; Minnie Sidey was as dead as her husband.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Police at Work

  The Toff had reached that possibility when he had first seen Minnie lying there with her head buried in her arms, her body so obviously taut. When he eased her head upwards, and he knew that she had died in pain, and yet had contrived to make no sound.

  Or had been prevented by a drug from creating a disturbance?

  Whichever way it was, the Toff felt a fierce hatred of the man who had done this thing. The events had moved with a startling suddenness, and he was beginning to understand something of Kohn’s faith in himself, beginning to know that he was fighting a man whose methods were ruthless and effective, who struck without the slightest warning and at the least suspected place.

  Should he have expected the murder?

  In one way, yes; he had even warned Minnie of its possibility, and he wished now that he had not. On the other hand, Sam’s café was the last place in the world to expect murder: it had a reputation second to none, and Sam himself, with his moon-face and dark moustache, was as stout a custodian of the law as any policeman.

  The Toff’s chief regret was that he had stayed with Minnie and let Martin go.

  But there was some satisfaction in this direct connection between Martin and the Kohn affair. He was getting a Une on Martin as damning as he had already obtained on Benson, and could testify against them well enough to make reasonably sure that they reached the gallows. If for a moment he wondered whether he should have given the police more information, he decided quickly that so far there was not a sufficiently direct connection between Kohn and Irma.

  He had to get one.

  He also felt, as he straightened up, that he had to avenge the death of Minnie Sidey. It
was odd how it affected him, perhaps because he had seen the fear in her eyes when she had left the telephone. A fear great enough to outweigh that of the Toff. Who could have inflicted it?

  The police had to know quickly, and there must be a call put out for Martin – the man had been at large too long. But to call for him over this murder would be playing his cards too soon, and as the Toff went towards the kitchen – where Sam and Gert were eating their dinner – he had decided on his course of action.

  He took off his cap, and Sam stared up uncertainly.

  “Sam,” said the Toff, “a word in your ear.”

  “Gor’ bless my soul!” said Sam, and he pushed his chair back, wiping his hands on the inside of his apron as he had done when he had been introduced to Anthea. “It’s Mister A! I thought I reckernized yer, but in that git-up – blimey, you know a thing or two, you do!”

  There was a quality of astuteness about Sam, for he had not mentioned Rollison by name. That, of course, was for the benefit of the two draymen who were eating at the cubicle nearest the door. Rollison took a couple of steps up the gangway leading to Minnie, and then said quietly:

  “There’s trouble, Sam. I’m sorry, but it couldn’t be avoided.”

  Sam stared.

  “Trouble ’ere?”

  “Right here,” said the Toff, “and you’ll have to close up. Are you on the telephone?”

  “Y-yus, but …”

  “Easy does it,” said the Toff. “One of your visitors has been throwing poison about, Sam, and this woman’s dead.”

  He did not need to put the news any less abruptly, for with Cockney’s sang-froid Sam took it all in his stride. He glanced at the girl, clicked his lips, and then nodded: “I’ll wait, you phone, Mister R. Gert, let the gennulman come through to the phone.”

  Gert, as dirty and untidy as when she had served Anthea, made way sullenly. The telephone was fixed to the wall near the sink, the sides of which were spotlessly clean where they might have been expected to be dirty. The girl slipped into the shop itself while the Toff lifted the receiver and called McNab.

  McNab was a remarkable officer in so far as he was always in – or nearly always – when the Toff wanted him. His voice was muffled, suggesting that he was having a sandwich in the warmth of his office.

  “Mac,” said the Toff soberly, “you want some men from C3 Division quickly. Sam’s coffee-shop; they’ll know the place. Finger-prints, cameras and whatnot – here’s your chance for getting on to a job while it’s hot.”

  “Rollison, what …?” began McNab.

  There was momentary silence, and then a sound which seemed suspiciously like a choke. McNab, in fact, had swallowed too quickly, but he recovered to go on: “What is it?”

  “Minnie Sidey,” said the Toff.

  “She’s dead?”

  “Very dead. Poison.”

  “Be God!” said McNab, which was not like him. “I’ll be over myself, Rollison. You stay there.”

  Rollison promised that he would, and went back to Sam, who was on guard over the body, which had not been seen by the two draymen. Gert was outside, chalking a notice on the Bill of Fare board to say that the shop was closed. Three or four times in the next five minutes footsteps sounded outside, and loud voices demanded admission. Sam went to the door and shooed the callers away, while the Toff picked up the salt-pot on the table where Minnie was lying.

  He remembered the incongruity of the remark about salt.

  He tasted the “salt” on the edges of the small pourer-holes, grimaced, and removed the stuff with his handkerchief. There was little or no doubt where the poison came from, little question but that when Ritzy had helped her to salt he had sent her to her death.

  A pleasant-voiced, smiling man – and a killer, this Ritzy Martin.

  The police arrived at last, first from C3 Division with cameras and finger-print equipment, with an Inspector who knew the Toff by sight and was not affable. McNab was along in a remarkably short space of time and the Toff gave his story – saying only that he had recognized the man who had been with Minnie but could not place him.

  “You can describe him,” said McNab quickly.

  “Of course, Mac …”

  The Toff described him so well that McNab had a call put through to the Yard, and a summons issued for the detention of the man who answered that description, which was as detailed as the Toff could make it. It had to be, for Sam and Gert, not to mention the draymen, would also give descriptions and any anomalies would quickly be checked up.

  “How did you know she was here?” McNab said.

  “I was heeding your request,” said Rollison amiably. “You’ve got all the description you need of the man, Mac, and I’ll testify when you get him. It would be an idea,” he added, lifting the salt-pot carefully, “to test this for prints.”

  McNab had this done, but there was none on it.

  There was evidence enough, however, that poison had been mixed with the salt, and the Toff imagined that it was one of the quick-acting hypnotics. He knew of nothing else which would have done the job so quickly, and with such little fuss. The pot, with everything else on the table, was sent to the Yard for examination, while McNab and the Toff, with two cameramen and a finger-print officer, went to the Sidey’s flat.

  It was just as Minnie had left it.

  On the floor of the bathroom was the towel which she had draped round her when the Toff had called: he knew that it was the same one because of the safety-pin still sticking in it. There was the telephone, and there was a pair of old house-shoes which she had been wearing, one by the door, the other beneath the table. She had been a slattern about the house, proof of which was in the accumulated dirty crockery in the scullery, the unmade bed, the fluff and dust everywhere.

  But she had been human and alive – and she was dead.

  There was one thing that he had not told McNab, and that was of the visit to the Blue Dog before her meeting with Ritzy that, and, of course, his guess at the man’s name. When all was said and done, the nickname ‘Ritzy’ could apply to someone else, and the fact that he believed it to be Martin was not proof.

  His chief anxiety was to prevent that precipitate action.

  But he was playing with fire, and he had never been more aware of it as he and McNab went through the flat, discovering very little – and nothing at all which could connect Minnie with the murder of her husband, or with any knowledge of it.

  There was an envelope, plain but torn open, lying in one corner of the bedroom. There were, in fact, several envelopes and several letters, all from friends of Minnie’s and all meaning nothing to McNab and the Toff. The plain envelope might have been thrown away, for it was empty, but the Toff took it from McNab.

  “A stout one, Mac.”

  “What of it?”

  “I’ve known banks use them, for registration,” said the Toff. “I wonder if … Mac, we’ve found something.”

  He spoke almost with excitement as he peered at the flap of the envelope. On it were several pencilled figures, some of them partly destroyed when the envelope had been opened. But by diligence and perseverance, they deciphered:

  250 – 10’s

  250 – 5’s

  “Recognize it?” asked the Toff.

  “Aye,” said McNab, and then abruptly: “Do you?”

  “To me,” said Rollison, “it looks like the pencilled notes of a bank cashier. Two-fifty pounds in tens, two-fifty in fives. Tenners and fivers, Mac.”

  “Aye. I’ll have it checked.”

  “Your discovery, of course,” said the Toff.

  He said it without bitterness, and he was glad that there was something into which McNab could get his teeth. It was obvious to the Toff that McNab was not having a good time from his superiors, and some results were badly needed in order to
restore a prestige which – at the Yard – could be easily damaged.

  At least, thought Rollison, McNab could learn of Benson within twenty-four hours, and that would give him a fillip.

  Twenty-four hours …

  In that time the Toff had to get the proof he wanted against Kohn. It was madness to leave it longer, madness to keep all he knew from the police for more than that time.

  Could he get to the end within twenty-four hours?

  He could at least hope so, and he left Minnie’s flat with McNab, but did not go to Scotland Yard. From a convenient telephone kiosk he telephoned Jolly.

  “Come to the Blue Dog,” said the Toff, “and look tough. You’re to hold a watching brief.”

  “Very good, sir. In half an hour I will be there.”

  “Don’t make it longer. I’m hungry. Anything to report?”

  “Lady Anthea has been on the telephone several times, sir.”

  “Telephone her and say I’ll call within two hours,” said Rollison. “Get a move on, Jolly; things aren’t going to stay quiet much longer.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, sir.”

  There was a good reason for the tone of Jolly’s voice, which suggested that he felt things had gone far too badly. Jolly often had ideas which were in line with the Toff’s, feeling frustrated when the Toff was not getting ahead as he wanted to, or on top of the world when the Toff knew that it was a matter of hours before the game turned out as he wanted it.

  There was no justification for such optimism now, and while the Toff waited in a place of obscurity and within sight of the Blue Dog, he thought of Leopold Kohn.

  Kohn was becoming an obsession.

  “I think,” Rollison mused, “that I’ll call and see the gentleman. It should be interesting, and it might make him crack.”

  That he might not, was his chief worry. There was no sign of Kohn cracking, and, so far, he had countered each of the Toff’s moves with one equally astute. He was, in fact, on the attack all the time; he had not been forced on to the defensive as the Toff wanted.