Accuse the Toff Read online

  That had been at three o’clock in the afternoon when the paper on and about the case had been thoroughly tested for fingerprints; it had yielded several, one set of a woman’s fingers. Another set of prints belonged to a certain Charley Day who had a lengthy police record, always associated with crimes of moderate violence.

  A call had been put out for Charley Day immediately.

  Then other news had come in.

  Grice, a reasonable man in most things, did not want the case opened except in his presence and, when he heard of the murder at Victoria and the message from Rollison, he went to the apartment house himself, leaving instructions for work on the black case to be suspended. At Victoria he found the local police coping with Peveril who was insisting that he had urgent business and must be off at once. His blustering served only to stiffen Grice’s manner and the Superintendent told Peveril acidly that he would be allowed to go only when the police were satisfied that he knew nothing of the murder; meanwhile his flat would be searched.

  Peveril raved and stormed and finally lost his self-control enough to aim a blow at a sergeant. Grice snapped: ‘That’s more than enough. Take him to Cannon Row, sergeant, charged with attempting to impede the police in the course of their duty.’

  The self-styled solicitor was led away, becoming so violent that he was handcuffed before being put into a taxi and taken to the police cells in the station adjoining Scotland Yard. Grice did not set too much store by the show of violence but gave his men instructions to search the two-roomed apartment carefully, even to raising the carpets and examining the floorboards. While that was being done, photographers and fingerprint men were busy in the bathroom and the doors of the other apartments while Grice had a short session with the police-surgeon.

  During those diversions, Grice completely forgot the black case but the nimble-fingered MacAdam, who had it on the bench, kept glancing at the clock and hoping that Old Gricey would not be long; the case presented a challenge which the sergeant was anxious to take up. He even went so far as to finger it once or twice and peer at the tiny slit which appeared to be all that there was for a lock. He put it down when a colleague came in with a watch battered after a case of robbery with violence; the watch had to be taken to pieces and so the case lay untouched.

  Grice was longer at Peveril’s apartment than he expected and did not get away until nearly six o’clock. He went to Gresham Terrace but Rollison had left.

  The only things found in Peveril’s bureau that proved of interest were some photographs with names beneath them: amongst them was an old, nearly bald, thin-faced but handsome man, familiar to many economists and business experts as Lancelot Brett. Another was a partner of Brett in several business enterprises, Sir Gregory Lancaster. A third was of a fair-haired man in uniform, smiling and looking very different from Lancelot Brett, although he was Brett’s son, Lionel. A fourth was of a girl, a personable-looking girl, who was named – on the photograph – ‘Patrushka Tonesco.’ Grice frowned at that and stared hard for Tonesco was a Rumanian name and he had an obsession about aliens: he wondered why the Russian ‘Patrushka’ should be allied to ‘Tonesco’ and then passed on to the next photograph, one of Jacob Ibbetson. He looked plump, smiling, the picture of a good-natured and amiable man of the world. There were other photographs and Grice selected one of them and nodded slowly.

  ‘Found something, sir?’ asked the sergeant with him at the Yard where he was going through Peveril’s effects before interviewing the man.

  ‘Isn’t that the dead man?’ asked Grice and held up a head-and-shoulders photograph of Fred who had died in the bath. The sergeant nodded, frowned and reflected.

  ‘Mr. Rollison said that Peveril was with him all the time, didn’t he?’

  ‘Ye-es,’ said Grice reluctantly.

  ‘Of course, sir, Mr. Rollison has been known to make misleading statements, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Has he?’ asked Grice, non-commitally and passed on to the next and last photograph. A fair-headed, youngish man in lounge clothes, good looking and yet by no means handsome, with a smile which leapt out of the photograph and seemed to make a personal appearance in the Superintendent’s roomy office, peered up silently at Grice.

  ‘Nice-looking boy,’ said the sergeant, breathing heavily down Grice’s neck. ‘Isn’t he, sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ admitted Grice and read aloud from beneath the photograph: ‘Gerald Paterson. H’m. Take these, sergeant, and check them all in Records. Bring me any papers we may have about any of them. Not that I expect a lot.’

  ‘Are you going to see Peveril now, sir?’

  ‘Shortly,’ said Grice. ‘I’ll be in MacAdam’s room if I’m wanted in the next half-hour. Ring the canteen and ask them to send me a cup of tea and some sandwiches there, will you?’

  He went eagerly upstairs to MacAdam’s workshop to find the man, with a watch-glass screwed into his right eye, bending over a jewelled timepiece.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said MacAdam without looking up. Then: ‘Who is it? Oh, sorry, sir.’ He put the watch down hastily and the glass dropped from his eye, to be caught expertly. ‘Come to have another go at the case, sir?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Grice.

  ‘I’ve had a look at her,’ confessed the expert. ‘A beautiful job. I’ve never seen anything quite like it but I’ll have it opened before I’m finished.’ He picked up the black case and some delicate-looking instruments, more befitting a surgeon’s case than a mechanic’s outfit, and began to work. He concentrated for fifteen minutes while Grice had tea and sandwiches; by then it was nearly seven o’clock.

  The telephone rang at seven with a summons from the Assistant Commissioner who wanted to see the Superintendent immediately. Grice scowled and MacAdam looked hopefully at him.

  ‘Shall I carry on with it, sir?’

  ‘No,’ said Grice, slowly and obstinately. ‘I won’t be long. Wait for me, Mac, will you?’ He went out, aware of MacAdam’s darkling thoughts but in no way perturbed by them, and hurried to the AC’s office. There he gave a full report on the Jameson case: even Grice had almost forgotten that Jameson had been in since early in the affair which had started from an attempted mass murder in Chiswick.

  The AC kept him nearly an hour: he was finishing the interview when Rollison was being given hot coffee in the house next door to Mrs. Mee, just before going to the girl. Grice was frowning when he left the AC, who asked for more results and questioned the wisdom of letting Rollison do just what he wanted. Then he turned his footsteps eagerly towards the workroom, anxious to get busy on the box which was defying MacAdam’s efforts so stoutly but which MacAdam would certainly contrive to open sooner or later.

  He was at the door of the workroom when a man called: ‘Mr. Grice—excuse me, sir, there’s some news about the Jameson case.’

  ‘What is it?’ Grice asked swiftly.

  He received a report, none of it very clear, on something of what had happened near Canal Cottage. Rollison’s part was not emphasised, although it was made clear that Rollison had been perilously close to being drowned, together with a girl so far unnamed. Grice played with the idea of going to Wembley at once but decided that he would be wise to interrogate Peveril and to get the case open before seeing or worrying further about the Toff. Nevertheless, he was pre-occupied when he rejoined MacAdam who picked up the case eagerly.

  The sergeant was past wondering why Old Gricey was so anxious to be present when the little case was opened but took it for granted that it would contain something of particular importance.

  MacAdam was a man running to flesh, of medium height, middle-aged and with a small bald patch on a head surrounded by frizzy, grey hair. His round face was almost cherubic and he was deservedly popular at the Yard.

  He began work again intently.

  The case continued to baffle him but he did not lose patience and Grice felt
only slightly exasperated. Neither of them dreamed of what was happening at Wembley, nor of the conversation between Rollison and the girl. None of them knew that as MacAdam eased back from the case and wiped his forehead, the girl was saying:

  ‘I daren’t … if it’s forced it will explode and kill anyone within a dozen yards.’

  ‘Getting any nearer?’ asked Grice quietly.

  ‘It can’t take much longer,’ declared MacAdam. ‘I think I’m pretty well there now, sir.’

  There was a tap on the door and a uniformed sergeant put his head round.

  ‘Is Mr. Grice there … oh, good evening, sir. We’ve just brought in Charley Day, picked him up at Willesden. He’s waiting downstairs, sir. Shall I take him into your office?’

  Grice frowned.

  ‘No, I—what’s he like?’

  ‘I don’t think he’ll take much to crack, sir. He’s heard that one of his pals has been croaked and he’s pretty well ready to talk.’ The sergeant paused and then dared to offer advice: ‘He might close up if he’s left too long, sir; he’s the kind that does. Of course, I don’t mean to suggest that—’

  ‘All right, I’ll come,’ said Grice irritably.

  Mac Adam turned his cherubic face towards the Superintendent, a picture so forlorn that Grice could not resist a smile. In MacAdam’s right hand there was a small tool, in the other he held the little black case.

  ‘May I just finish this try, sir?’

  ‘Oh, get the confounded thing open but don’t touch the contents until I’m back,’ said Grice. ‘Ring me when you’ve had some luck.’

  ‘Right-ho, sir, thanks!’ exclaimed MacAdam gratefully and began again before the door closed.

  Grice went downstairs to his office and waited for Charley Day. He had in front of him the photographs of Ibbetson and Charley, Fred and the other man, whom he did not know was called Mike, when the door opened and Charley was led in.

  It was an ordeal for a man with a guilty conscience to come face to face with Superintendent Grice. On such occasions, Grice’s face was cold and aloof; his taut skin seemed to shine and his eyes appeared to probe beneath the surface of his victim’s mind, making it seem that there was no chance of getting away with a lie or even a half-truth. And Charley Day was in bad shape. His hands and lips were trembling and his clothes were dishevelled for he had tried to evade arrest before being handcuffed by the Willesden Police.

  It was no fault of the Willesden authorities that they did not know that Day had been on the way to The Bargee, near the canal.

  ‘I want to talk to you, Day,’ began Grice coldly. ‘And I mean to have the truth from you. This is a murder case and there’ll be no fooling.’

  ‘Murder,’ muttered Charley, white to the lips. ‘I never did it, I never—’

  He stopped abruptly and Grice and the sergeant with him stared towards the door which rattled against the blast from an explosion not far away. The boom echoed about that wing of the Yard, the sound of breaking glass and falling debris followed and immediately upon it there were hurrying footsteps.

  ‘That—that was a bomb!’ gasped Charley. ‘Where’s the shelter, where’s the shelter? They’ve come again!’

  Grice turned back to the man.

  ‘If there’s any danger we’ll go to a shelter but not before.’

  But he was not allowed to go on for the door burst open and two men entered, one an Inspector, the other a uniformed constable. The Inspector spoke first, staring at Grice and looking both excited and disturbed.

  ‘Did you hear that?’

  ‘It was a bomb—’ began Charley.

  ‘Bomb my foot!’ exclaimed the Inspector. ‘That came from upstairs. I’ve just tried to get on to the next floor. The staircase is choked up with debris and there’s a fire starting. You can’t see anything of Mac’s workshop. What’s he been up to, do you know?’

  Grice said nothing but stared for a moment before abruptly pushing his chair back.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Everything Gone?

  ‘Hallo,’ said Rollison urgently. ‘Hallo, operator, are you there?’ He spoke thus, not because of Yateman scowling a little way along the passage but because he found the waiting intolerable. If Grice were at the Yard he should have reached the phone a long while before but since the operator had promised to ring every line for him there had been no response.

  ‘Hallo!’ exclaimed Rollison again. ‘Are you—?’

  ‘Are you there, sir?’ asked the Yard operator quietly. ‘Mr. Grice is coming, he won’t be a moment.’

  ‘He—oh, thanks,’ said Rollison. He wiped his hand across his damp forehead. ‘He’s all right?’

  ‘He’s all right, sir,’ the man assured him and Rollison missed the emphasis on the pronoun in relief at the knowledge that Grice was unhurt. He waited for at least another minute, then heard the Superintendent’s crisp voice: ‘Well, Rollison, what have you been up to?’

  ‘Never mind that,’ snapped Rollison. ‘Did you get my message? Did the operator tell you to leave the case alone at all costs?’

  ‘I had the message just now,’ Grice said soberly. ‘It was too late.’

  ‘Too late?’ echoed Rollison and drew a deep breath. Nothing in Grice’s tone suggested that there was disaster to relate and he saw a picture of June Lancing, sitting up in bed with the voluminous flannel nightdress about her, telling him that if the case were forced, anyone within a dozen yards would be killed. ‘D’you mean you’ve managed to get it open?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Grice.

  He told the Toff just what had happened; and he named MacAdam, whom the Toff had known well and had liked. The news was a shock despite the fact that, since Grice was safe, it came as something of an anticlimax. Rollison felt subdued, relieved that the girl had at least told the truth but deploring the fact that she had delayed it for so long. He did not find the heart to blame her for that: he should have told her the moment he had seen her that the police were going to open the case.

  ‘Are you there?’ asked Grice, after a pause.

  ‘Yes,’ said the Toff. ‘Yes, I’m terribly sorry. How long ago?’

  ‘Not more than half an hour,’ said Grice. ‘How did you know what would happen?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later,’ said the Toff slowly. ‘You’ve heard about the other bother here, I suppose? And you’re looking for Ibbetson now?’

  ‘Thanks for permitting it,’ said Grice sardonically.

  ‘No, don’t be clever,’ implored the Toff. ‘Neither of us have much to boast about in the show yet. But I’ve cleared up some odds and ends and I’ll pass them on as soon as I can. What about Peveril?’

  ‘He’s at Cannon Row.’

  ‘You haven’t charged him with the murder?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Grice. ‘He’s been violent and we’ve charged him with the usual hocus pocus. We’ll look after Peveril, don’t worry. But it’s time you and I really came to an understanding,’ continued Grice. ‘Can you come here at once?’

  Rollison answered slowly: ‘Not quite at once but I’ll be there as soon as I can. There are bits and pieces I can look after here, first. I won’t be a minute longer than I can help.’

  He replaced the receiver, wiped his forehead again then turned towards the door, his only thought the need for returning to June and telling her what had happened for she had to know. The shock of the news would probably be enough to loosen her tongue and make her talk freely.

  ‘Here!’ ejaculated Yateman loudly. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  He grabbed Rollison’s elbow and pushed an open palm forward; Rollison stared at him, at a loss, then realised that the man was asking for the coppers for the call. He drew a deep breath, sought in the pockets of the borrowed suit and found them empty. He nearly lost his patience with the li
ttle man, who insisted on accompanying him to Mrs. Mee’s, where he borrowed precisely tuppence and dropped the two coppers into Yateman’s outstretched hand.

  ‘And thank you very much for your courtesy,’ he said ironically as Yateman turned and left the hall of his neighbour.

  ‘How would you like to have to live in the same street as ’im?’ breathed Mrs. Mee. She glowered at the door, showing what she thought of Yateman and then lowered her voice and raised her eyebrows, contriving also to point upwards towards the landing. ‘The policeman’s there; is it okay?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rollison. ‘I wanted to make sure that the young lady was all right. She’s been attacked once this evening, you know.’

  ‘Attacked!’ breathed Mrs. Mee. ‘Attacked! What for?’

  The question startled the Toff who had to admit that he did not know the answer. He went upstairs, followed by Mrs. Mee’s avaricious, but wondering, eyes. He nodded to the constable who had so faithfully obeyed him, tapped on the door and entered the girl’s room.

  He thought at first glimpse that she was asleep.

  Then she opened her eyes and stared at him. She was lying down in the bed and her hair was a dark flurry about the pillows; it reminded him of the way it had looked when it had floated on the surface of the canal. Her cheeks were pale, her eyes lack-lustre. As he reached the end of the bed she struggled up to a sitting position.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘What do you expect?’ asked Rollison, finding it hard to speak normally and seeing a picture of MacAdam’s frizzy hair in his mind’s eye. It merged with the girl’s and became a part of it, a disturbing thing.

  ‘Did—did your friends try to open it?’ she asked.

  Rollison sat at the foot of the bed and said deliberately: ‘My friends were the police. They did try to open it. At least one was killed, others may have been. If the truth had been known about that case earlier, this could have been prevented.’

  He needed to shape no words of accusation, the implication was sufficient. June kept quite still, colour gradually suffusing her face and in her eyes appeared a reflection of horror which made Rollison wonder whether the cruelty of his abruptness had been necessary.