The Toff and the Runaway Bride Read online

  It opened.

  The moaning sound, although not really loud, was much more distinct now.

  Fear that it was Barbara was deep within him.

  He stepped into a narrow passage, with tall doors on three sides; only one of them was ajar. He went towards this, and seemed to hear rustling sounds all about him. Twice he had done this, twice he had stepped into death, twice some man had been lurking in wait for him, once to strike him down, once to strike at Jolly.

  The moaning was coming from the room with the open door.

  Rollison flung the door back, so that it would smack against any man hiding behind it, but it banged against the wall. He stepped into a tall, spacious room, a drawing-room. A man lay on the floor beside the ornate fireplace, and at the foot of an old-fashioned, shabby brocaded chair.

  It was almost an anti-climax, for this was the chauffeur who had been waiting for Lorne.

  Rollison saw him twisting his head from side to side.

  He stepped out of this room and approached each of the others, even more fearful of what he might find; but he found nothing. There were five rooms in the appartement, a bathroom which looked as if it was the first ever known in Paris, and a kitchen. There was a lived-in look about every room, and one big double bed was not made from the previous morning; but no one else was here.

  Rollison went back to the little passagelike hallway, and the front door.

  Why attack Lorne’s chauffeur?

  Why leave him here?

  He heard a creak of sound, and a faint moaning again, from the drawing-room; and it was the combination of noises which thrust himself into a realisation of the trap which he had nearly walked into once again. He passed the open door of the drawing-room, glancing in as he did so. The chauffeur lay in almost the same position, but had moved his legs. Rollison turned round, and went in. He saw the man’s eyes flicker, and felt quite sure what was going to happen. He bent down, and put out a hand as if for the other’s wrist and pulse, and with a swift, convulsive heave the man lunged at him, snatching at his arm, intending to bring him crashing down; but for that moment of understanding, he would have succeeded.

  Rollison swayed to one side, shot out his right hand, gripped the other’s wrist and twisted so savagely that he brought a gasp of genuine pain.

  Then the man pulled himself free.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Search

  The chauffeur was big and powerful, and had recovered from the moment of surprise. Rollison’s left hand was almost useless, and the stiffness at his neck prevented him from moving freely. If this developed into a fight he would have no chance at all; he had to end it swiftly. He grabbed the other’s right wrist again, before the man could straighten up, twisted and thrust it upwards. This hold was so tight that if the man struggled, he would break his arm.

  Did he realise that?

  Rollison felt the powerful resistance of the muscular body. He sensed that the man was trying to bring his left arm into action, and could not secure that with his own good hand; this was the moment of decision.

  He said in French, “If you don’t stop, I’ll break your arm.”

  The man seemed as if he would take the chance, then suddenly relaxed, as if submitting. Rollison did not trust him any more than he would have trusted Lorne, and kept his hold very tight.

  “I can still break it,” he said, still in French.

  “I know.” That came in English which had a Cockney twang. There was sweat on the chauffeur’s forehead and on his upper lip; now he was really in pain.

  “Then don’t tempt me,” Rollison warned. He chose his moment, and thrust a little harder until it was obvious to the other that his bone was going to snap; then Rollison let go, backed away and, as he went, slipped his automatic from his pocket. He went to a chair just behind him, felt it with the back of his knees and sat down. “And don’t make any mistake, I’ll gladly use this. Where is Lorne?”

  The answer came pat.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’d better remember.”

  “I don’t know,” the chauffeur repeated roughly. “I can’t tell you a thing.”

  “Who was here when you arrived?”

  “Miss Barbara.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  “Mr. Lorne took her away.”

  “The last time I saw her she wasn’t in a mood to be taken away by anyone.”

  “You don’t know the man,” the chauffeur said. “When he wants a thing he gets it. He had a hypodermic syringe all ready, with knock-out drops in it. She was asleep on her feet within minutes.”

  “Where did he take her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If she was unconscious she had to be carried, and he couldn’t carry her far.”

  “I carried her down to the car,” the chauffeur said.

  He wasn’t scared in the sense that many people would be; possibly he did not think that the threat from the automatic was very real. He sat on the floor, staring with a kind of impertinence which was not far removed from insolence, and he seemed to say, “Maybe I’m lying, but what can you do about it?”

  “Where did you take her?”

  “I put her in the back seat of the Chrysler. Lorne said he was going to drive her away.”

  “Where to?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Has he an appartement in Paris?”

  “For all I know, he has dozens.”

  “Don’t you work for him?”

  “I’m from a hire agency, and he paid me in hard cash to fix you.”

  That might be true.

  Rollison felt as he had felt often in this affair: a sense of frustration and almost of anti-climax. If Lorne had called a man from a hire agency, then obviously the man was not likely to know where he could be found. Short of using physical torture, there was no way to make sure that the chauffeur was telling the truth; but Rollison had a feeling that he was.

  Rollison said, “Take out your wallet, and toss it across to me. Don’t try to be clever.”

  The chauffeur put his hand to his pocket, took out his wallet and slid it across the floor; it stopped a yard in front of Rollison, as undoubtedly the man had intended. Rollison stood up, kept the other covered, bent down and retrieved it; the odd thing was that he did not really think that the chauffeur was going to attack him. He shook the contents of the wallet out, and among them were half a dozen cards, all saying the same thing:

  Anglo-American Car Rentals

  English and American Chauffeur-Guides.

  Offices throughout Paris.

  The man was grinning.

  “Satisfied?”

  “What did Lorne tell you to do with me?”

  “He said I was to knock the daylight out of you, and then lock you in one of these cupboards. He said you’d been more nuisance than you were worth, and he had to get you out of the way.”

  “Ah,” said Rollison. “His trouble was the poor quality of his helpers. How much did he pay you?”

  “A hundred thousand francs.”

  Nearly a hundred pounds, thought Rollison; and that added up. Lorne had turned right against him, whatever the reason, and when that reason was known, Rollison believed that he would understand a great deal more of what had happened.

  He could keep asking questions, but did not think this man knew a great deal. He stood up, and the other began to get to his feet at the same time, grinning, as if he now believed that Rollison had thrown his chance away.

  “You wouldn’t use that gun in a thousand years,” he said, “you might as well put it in your pocket.”

  He strode forward.

  Rollison pressed the trigger, with the gun pointing into the man�
��s face. He saw the moment of dread which showed in the dark-blue eyes. A cloud of vapour billowed out, and as it came, relief replaced the dread; but the chauffeur could do nothing to help himself. He began to back away, hands at his face, tears already streaming down his cheeks. He was quite helpless as Rollison took his right arm, held it behind him in a hammer lock and hustled him towards one of the big cupboards; there were a few coats and oddments hanging up, but there was plenty of room for the chauffeur.

  Rollison pushed him in, and locked the door; that lock would take a lot of forcing. He pushed a sofa towards the cupboard, and lodged it against the double doors. Then he moved away, sweating a little, but satisfied that he had won both time and a chance.

  He began to search the apartment.

  Obviously, two people lived here; there were a man’s clothes, a tall man’s, almost certainly Carruthers’. A few garments were French, but most were British made. The woman’s clothes seemed likely to fit the dead woman of the mews flat, but that was guesswork.

  He found letters addressed to Carruthers but none to Lessing.

  He found a letter from Lessing, asking if the cottage at Bane was likely to be free – and the period mentioned was this very week; this was the letter which Lessing had sent to ask for the cottage honeymoon. There was a small room overlooking the courtyard at one end of a long passage, a dressing-room, with a wardrobe and dressing-table. Rollison opened a drawer almost perfunctorily, and saw a box of grease-paint, and several plastic bags.

  “Well, well,” he breathed, and opened a bag and shook out the contents: a beard and moustache, beautifully made, and very like Holy Joe’s.

  Holy Joe’s beard could have been false, there was no doubt of that. Was he Carruthers in a different guise?

  Rollison left his discovery, and finished searching writing-cabinets, drawers, cupboards, every place where papers might be hidden, but discovered nothing else at all. Judging from what he saw here, this was Carruthers’ flat, he lived a normal life here, presumably with his wife, perhaps with a mistress; and certainly with the make-up.

  Rollison spent an hour going from room to room, looking everywhere, listening now and again in case anyone was approaching, but he found and heard nothing until, towards the end of the abortive search, the chauffeur began to bang on the door. Rollison ignored him.

  He could wait here for Carruthers, if Carruthers was coming back, but could not expect to find Barbara. Lessing might .come here, but there was nothing to indicate that he had been yet. Every lead seemed to take Rollison away from the main problem, it was as if he was the centre of a fantastic hoax, but – those two dead women hadn’t been part of a hoax.

  He went to the telephone, in the passageway, and ran his finger down the L’s. There was no telephone number under the L’s. There was no telephone number under the name of Lorne.

  Then he heard footsteps on the stairs; of a man, hurrying.

  This was a big man who came with firm tread; an athletic type. He might not be coming to this appartement; but as he reached the landing, he slowed down. Next moment there was a scraping sound, as of a key in the lock of the door. Rollison stepped into the drawing-room. The chauffeur had given up banging for the time being.

  The front door opened.

  Rollison, staring between the crack between this door and the frame, saw Major Ralph Carruthers come in. Carruthers certainly had that superficial likeness to Lessing, but that was all; no one who knew Lessing could mistake this man for him. He was of a height with Holy Joe, but Rollison couldn’t be sure that it was the same man; he hadn’t seen Holy Joe often or clearly enough.

  Carruthers was not smiling, but looked quite relaxed; he was whistling softly, a little old-fashioned tune. Rollison thought that he was coming into this room, but he changed his mind and went into one of the others: the bedroom.

  His whistling was louder.

  Then the telephone bell rang.

  It startled Rollison, who moved into a corner, so that there was no chance of being seen. Carruthers came striding out, a man who was obviously physically fit, and at that moment gave an impression of energy held on a leash; in other words a typical Guards officer.

  “’Alio?” On the telephone he sounded like any Frenchman; but next moment there was a change in his manner, a kind of stiffening, and he spoke in English. “Hallo, Guy,” he said, “what are you doing over here?”

  There was a long pause. Then: “No, I haven’t seen an English newspaper for weeks, you get out of the habit.

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Well, yes, of course, you’re always welcome here, but I don’t want serious trouble, old chap, you know how the French authorities are about foreigners. We’re allowed plenty of rope provided we live peacefully and lawfully, but once they think we’re a bit risky, they shoot us back home. I don’t want to come home.”

  There was a longer pause.

  “No, Guy, I’m not being unhelpful, but I’m just telling you the simple truth. I don’t want to get myself involved in anything which concerns the police, and you sound as if you really are in trouble with them.”

  This time, he paused only for a moment.

  “I tell you what,” he said. “Let’s meet outside for a Pernod, the cafes are empty at this time of day, and we can talk quite freely. Then you can tell me what it’s all about … Where are you now? … Well, allow half an hour to get to St. Germain de Pres, and let’s say the Brasserie Lippe. If it is more crowded than I expect, we can go somewhere else.”

  “Of course I want to help, Guy.”

  He rang off.

  For some time, it seemed an age to Rollison, Carruthers stood very still by the telephone. Then he turned away and went back to the room he had come from. He was no longer whistling. Rollison could not hear him – nor could he hear the man in the cupboard. He wheeled the upturned sofa away and unlocked the door. The chauffeur was leaning back against the wall – just coming round. Rollison gave him another whiff of the gas, closed and locked the cupboard door and then went to the passage-way.

  Carruthers was making no sound.

  Rollison opened the front door, stepped on to the landing and closed the door very quietly; yet there was a slight click, which Carruthers might hear. He pressed the bell, and it rang very loudly. He smoothed down his hair as he waited, and shrugged his coat into position.

  Carruthers opened the door.

  “Good afternoon,” he said, and then thrust his face forward, recognised Rollison and went on, “Good lord, it’s Rollison! Come in.” He stood aside, and then pushed open the door of the drawing-room. “What on earth brings you here? I suppose I really needn’t ask,” he went on, before Rollison could answer. “Guy Lessing’s just been on the telephone to say that he’s in a spot of bother, and I gather he’s on the run from the police at home. That why you’re here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Guy always was lucky in his friends,” said Carruthers, but there was a touch of bitterness in his voice. “Well, take a pew. Anything I can get you in the way of a drink, or is it too early for you confirmed Englishmen? … I thought so. Well, have a cigarette, if you can stand these French gaspers. If you’ve come to hear how inevitable it was that Guy should run into trouble, you’ve come to the right man.”

  Chapter Twenty

  About Guy Lessing …

  “I must have known Guy as long as you have,” Carruthers went on, very slowly. “We lived near each other as boys, the families were friends. True I didn’t go to school with him, like you did, and he went to Oxford, but we were in the Army together. Fourteen years. You get to know a man in the Army.”

  “Yes,” Rollison agreed.

  “There never was a braver man than Guy, and he was a damned good soldier,” said Carruthers. “At times I almost envied him.” He grinned unexpectedly. “If you know what I mean! He got instant obed
ience all the time, you could sense that the men idolised him, but they thought that I was just another b.f. who didn’t know half as much about soldiering as they did. You can always tell. The life suited me, though, although it got pretty sticky towards the end, and I wasn’t sorry when I was axed. I think Guy was—he would have liked to have died on his feet, even after being wounded.”

  Carruthers paused.

  He was a better-looking man than Lessing, his eyes were vivid blue – Holy Joe’s had been, too – and he had fuller lips; it was a strong, handsome face, and there was something very human about it; people would like Carruthers just as they would be inclined to be wary of Lessing. Carruthers lacked Lessing’s aloofness, and had a natural ease of manner. Yet to the men serving under them, it had been the other way round.

  Carruthers was sitting back in an old-fashioned armchair, holding a cigarette but not smoking it. He looked very alert, and very thoughtful.

  “I’m telling you this because I know you’re a close friend of Guy’s,” he went on. “Wild horses wouldn’t drag it out of me otherwise. The thing is to try to help him. And the devil of it is, everything began after he was discharged from hospital. He was there for six months, remember.”

  “I remember,” Rollison said.

  “He seemed fine at first, and I didn’t notice anything different,” Carruthers went on. “Then he began to do odd things. The first I noticed was when he went off with my current girl.” Carruthers gave a queer, twisted grin. “Fair comp-petition and all that, but in general friend doesn’t poach on friend. We were in Paris. I needn’t go into details, but there was a little charmer who really knew her way about town, and I think I might have married her. Guy swept her off her feet. That’s the odd thing about Guy: he could always sweep a girl off her feet, although a lot of men think him a cold fish. I took it a bit hard, until he turned up a couple of weeks later, and—believe it or not—didn’t know a thing about it. At first I thought he was just being smart. I wanted to row with him, but he wouldn’t, just insisted that he didn’t know what I was talking about. And I’m sure he didn’t.”