Accuse the Toff Read online

  ‘Hallo,’ said Rollison amiably. ‘Is Mr. Grice in?’

  ‘He came in about half an hour ago, sir.’

  Rollison decided that the Fates were conspiring in his favour. ‘I’ll go and have a chat with him, I think.’ He nodded and passed by, not hearing the question of a youthful-looking constable who approached the man to whom Rollison had talked and asked: ‘Who’s that fellow, Joe?’

  ‘Who, him?’ asked Joe. ‘That’s Mr. Rollison.’

  ‘Never ’eard of him,’ declared the other.

  ‘Never ’eard—heard—of Mr. Rollison?’ Joe, florid and grey in the Yard’s service, stared at the man aghast. ‘Now listen, young feller-me-lad, don’t try jokes on me. And remember yer aitches. If yer want to get on in the Force you’ve got to speak well, see? Don’t take any notice of some of the old-timers who’ve got on even though they drop their aitches; things are different now.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ said the younger man impatiently. ‘I can’t help forgetting now and again. But who is he?’ As he saw Joe’s expression of gathering wrath, he added hastily. ‘Go on, I mean it, I’ve never ’eard of ’im.’

  ‘You’ve never ’eard of the Toff?’ demanded Joe, practice of his preaching going to the winds in sheer surprise. Then witheringly: ‘And you call herself a policeman!’

  The younger man’s eyes widened, his eyes kindled, there was a note of satisfaction in his voice.

  ‘The Toff, is he? Strewth, he’s the bloke who helped old Gricey bottle up the black market.’ He peered towards the doorway which had swallowed Rollison while for some moments Joe was silent. Then, with heavy emphasis, the older man said: ‘That’s who he is. But not so much of the ‘Old Gricey’ when you’re on duty, you never know who’s passing here. Morning, sir,’ he added, as a dapper man passed with a brief nod. Then, sotto voce: ‘Yer see? That’s the Super from X Division, Chiswick; he might have heard and I’ll bet he’s going to see Superintendent Grice now. I wonder what’s up?’ added Joe reminiscently. ‘When the Toff blows in, something nearly always happens. I wouldn’t half like to be at that “chat” he’s having with Gricey.’

  ‘Now, Joe,’ said the younger man reprovingly. ‘You’ll get overheard one of these days, talking disrespectful of the Super. You never know who’s passing by.’

  Joe glowered at him and stepped to the other side of the gate, thinking less of his spell of duty on guard than of the Toff and the stories which had built themselves up about that almost legendary figure.

  Chapter Two

  Little Patches Of Ice

  Superintendent Grice, tall, academic of appearance with a high forehead and large brown eyes, looked up when the door of his room opened and then started to his feet. He was dressed immaculately in brown and his smile of welcome emphasised the peculiar way in which his skin stretched across his nose and his cheeks, giving them an almost transparent look although he was not over-thin.

  ‘Hallo, Rollison,’ he said with warmth and offered a hand. ‘What’s brought you?’

  ‘Idleness, sloth and a delayed mail,’ Rollison answered. ‘I mean I had half an hour to spare. You’re looking well.’

  ‘I’ve never seen you looking better,’ returned Grice and pulled up a chair. ‘Now that the pleasantries are over, what has brought you?’ He regarded the Toff expectantly: his manner said as clearly as Joe’s words that he did not believe that the Toff had come simply for the sake of a visit.

  Rollison chuckled.

  ‘I’ve said my piece.’

  ‘You’re an evasive beggar,’ declared Grice; ‘but I suppose I mustn’t try to alter you.’ He stretched back in his chair and locked his fingers behind his neck. ‘So without any ulterior motive you came in, just for the sake of a talk about old times. You wouldn’t waste my time. You’ve a fair idea of how busy I am.’

  ‘Picture of a policeman hard at work,’ murmured the Toff, regarding the half-recumbent figure with some amusement. ‘Seriously, I—’ he paused and then shrugged. ‘I suppose if the truth were known, I’m intrigued by the Chiswick business.’

  Although the Superintendent did not alter his position or make any comment there was a noticeable alteration in his expression. His eyes narrowed a little and his lips tightened. He was balancing precariously on the back legs of his chair, swaying gently to and fro.

  Then: ‘Intrigued?’ he said heavily.

  ‘Just that.’

  ‘You aren’t natural,’ declared Grice and brought the front legs of his chair down so that in a moment he was sitting upright at the desk. ‘Why on earth should it intrigue you? A man who’s been trained to the limit, living under a considerable strain—you’d assume that, as he’s a Commando—cracks up and goes haywire. It’s happened often enough before. Now and again there’s an unsuspected neurotic amongst the special troops and it comes out when least expected. Why shouldn’t it be just that?’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ murmured the Toff.

  Grice raised one eyebrow above the other. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me to hear that you know damned well that it isn’t,’ he said. ‘Or it mightn’t be,’ Grice corrected slowly. ‘It was a peculiar business and I haven’t sorted it out yet. On the surface everything is the same as it’s been before. The last straw breaking the camel’s back, a wild shooting affray and a mad rush by car. The main difference is that the man got away this time, evading all his followers. We’ve traced most of the eye-witnesses—in fact the only one who was there but hasn’t been found was a young RAF man. He’ll probably keep in the background.’

  ‘So I read,’ said Rollison.

  ‘What did you read into it?’ asked Grice, obviously genuinely interested in the other’s opinions.

  ‘Just a single question,’ Rollison admitted. ‘Here’s a man who goes haywire after a slight jolt from a car, sprays bullets about him and then tears off in the said car. But he doesn’t dash along the main road until he has a crash; he doesn’t do the things that a man suffering from a brainstorm is likely to. He goes down a narrow turning leading to a maze of streets—I’m quoting the Echo—and disappears completely. He could have turned off at several other points but without a maze of streets conveniently handy for losing himself in.’

  He broke off and regarded the Superintendent with some eagerness while Grice nodded.

  ‘I’ve got that far,’ he admitted. ‘Just.’

  ‘Have you found the car yet?’ asked Rollison.

  ‘Yes. Stranded near the Grand Junction Canal, at Wembley,’ Grice told him. ‘We’re having the canal dragged. It’s just possible that he came to, realised what he’d done and drowned himself. But there’s an odd thing,’ added the Superintendent. ‘The canal is patrolled regularly by the Home Guard and a man who passed the spot at six o’clock this morning swears that it wasn’t there then. Another, who passed at eight—on the last round, they only patrol it during darkness-discovered it. The petrol tank,’ he added heavily, ‘was half-full.’

  Rollison’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘The man Ibbetson said it was only a quarter-full when it was stolen. Quoting the Post!’

  ‘You don’t miss much,’ admitted Grice. ‘I haven’t made up my mind whether Ibbetson knew there was more petrol in the tank than there should have been and is covering himself or whether the car was taken somewhere else and refilled. It might have travelled a hundred miles during the night: Ibbetson says he doesn’t remember the mileage showing when it was stolen.’

  He paused and then the telephone rang on his desk. He lifted it and after a moment said: ‘Ask him to come along, will you?’ He replaced the receiver and added: ‘The police-surgeon who treated the victims is coming in with the Chiswick man who’s upstairs with Freeman. Stay, if you’d care to.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ll worry,’ said Rollison, pushing his chair back. ‘There is one other little thing—’

  ‘Let it
come,’ invited Grice.

  ‘Who died?’ asked Rollison. ‘Did they matter? Could they have been picked out?’

  Grice rubbed his long chin.

  ‘One was a customer, the other a member of the staff of a shop in Green Road—a furniture shop. The other members of the staff, three in all, were leaving at the same time, just after six o’clock. They were in a group in the doorway and the staff usually leaves at six o’clock promptly, so that it would have been prearranged. On the other hand, Ibbetson wasn’t concerned with the shop or any of the people there. Nor were others who were wounded. If the shots were intended for the group coming from the shop, several were wasted beforehand. It was too dark for our man to distinguish one from the other. Everything considered, I’d say that the shooting was haphazard but that isn’t conclusive.’

  ‘As far as I can see we’ve reached the same stage,’ said Rollison. ‘It could be a genuine case of dementia or there might be deep things beyond it. I suppose we’ll see,’ he added and smiled lazily as he rose to his feet. ‘On what part of the Grand Junction Canal was the car parked?’

  ‘The stretch of bank between Wembley and Willesden,’ Grice told him. ‘Are you going out there?’

  ‘Do you know,’ said Rollison earnestly, ‘I feel that a breath of fresh air would do me good. But I’ve only a couple of hours to spare and it’s an exercise in curiosity more than anything else. If I should see anything that looks interesting I’ll give you a ring when I’m back.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Grice; and meaningly: ‘Don’t forget.’

  The door opened as Rollison reached it, to admit the dapper man whom Joe had commented upon and another. They exchanged nods and Rollison went out, walking along the high-ceilinged passages of the Yard to the courtyard and thence to Westminster Underground Station. It was obvious that Grice had ideas similar to his own about the shooting affray. Grice was a level-headed and logical man and between the two of them there was both understanding and respect.

  On the way to Wembley, Rollison alternated between moods of pleasure and satisfaction at being involved, even tentatively, in a case that was at least intriguing and depressed at the realisation that the pressure of work at the office was too great for him to devote much time to it. By the time he reached the canal, finding a taxi near Wembley Station which deposited him outside a narrow alleyway leading to the waterway, he decided that this one mission of inquiry should be his last but he also wondered what would be said if he put in an application for a few days’ leave. He had received none for six months, not even a long weekend. Arguing that he had every justification for such a request, he saw the small Ford standing against wooden fencing which divided the canal bank from some allotments. Three policemen were near the car – a grey one – while two small boats were moving along the canal, the end of a long drag-net fastened to each. Three men were in each boat and all seemed intent on their task, although obviously perished by the cold.

  The January sun was bright and clear; white frost still covered the ground where there was shadow and the grass of the paths on the allotments looked wet and fresh. The air was crisp, invigorating as wine. He strolled along thoughtfully while the police on the bank eyed him curiously. One of them recognised him and Rollison heard his name passed on to the others. That saved him the need of explanations and he exchanged greetings with the sergeant in charge then strolled along, watching the boats on their grim task and seeing the wide, earth-surfaced towpath going along in a straight line for half a mile or more. Round a corner in the canal he saw the chimneys of a house, divorced from the roof and showing above a large bill-posting board; wisps of smoke rose from them and were carried straight up, for there was no wind.

  Half-way between the Ford and the chimneys he slipped.

  He had been walking carelessly and had not noticed a small puddle, ice-covered, near the canal. His heel skidded on it and he clawed the air to keep his balance and save himself from falling. Instead he hastened his fall and lurched sideways towards the unruffled surface of the canal. Someone shouted: ‘Look out!’ Rollison’s heart turned over and he leaned his weight towards the towpath but, for a moment, thought a ducking unavoidable. He even prepared to make a deliberate plunge rather than go in accidentally and risk twisting himself but, with a last-minute effort, brought himself to a standstill on the edge of the water. His hat fell from his head as he did so and dropped straight into the canal, splashing water up into his face.

  As he backed from the icy patch one of the policemen hurried up, carrying a small pole. He retrieved the hat and Rollison, profuse with thanks, left it on the bank to dry, congratulating himself on evading a wetting. Then he peered thoughtfully at the puddle and another a yard farther away while the policeman reassured himself that Rollison was all right and went back to the car.

  Rollison looked at the row of puddles, frowned and glanced along the bank. There was an edging of concrete all along it and, at regular intervals, small rings where boats could be tied. Some three yards from the first ice-covered puddle was a coating of ice upon the concrete; it spread for several feet in either direction, narrowing as it encroached farther on the path itself.

  ‘Odd,’ murmured Rollison audibly.

  He walked back a few yards and then turned. The sun shone on the coating of ice and the puddles which stretched for several yards at evenly spaced intervals, growing smaller until they seemed to disappear altogether. He walked along again, stepping more carefully. Watching his feet, he saw that from the first puddle to the second there was the distance of a normal stride – as long as his own, suggesting a tall man – and that the puddles were spaced at similar intervals.

  He looked round to find the sergeant close on his heels again. A thick-set man with a ruddy complexion and a sober expression, the man eyed Rollison without a smile and asked: ‘Have you noticed anything, sir?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ replied Rollison evasively. ‘Have you?’

  ‘I can’t say that I have,’ admitted the sergeant.

  ‘Wait here for a few minutes, will you?’ asked Rollison. ‘I’ll be back.’ He walked on with a faster but still cautious stride, watching the ground. At regular intervals there were the faint traces of ice on the ground. The farther he went the fainter the traces became until they looked little more than patches of white frost.

  Standing by the last, he looked up and saw the small house perhaps twenty yards away. It was a cottage, creeper-clad with an evergreen, looking charming and picturesque, out of place against a background of factory chimneys and large buildings and, farther distant, the red tops of a vast mass of little houses. There was a well-tended garden, a shed, a small coal-house. It was the home of a man who took pride in it and who also took great pains with the outside for there was fresh paint at the windows and the door. The curtains looked clean, suggesting a housewife as proud as her spouse.

  On either side of the narrow gate leading to it were high privet hedges, sheared into round balls and casting shadows over the gate itself. Rollison reached the gate and looked at the top rail; on it was a smear of ice. He put his hand on the smear, finding that his span covered it. Stepping back, he saw an icicle dripping from the bar immediately below the patch; but for those things the gate was quite clear of ice.

  ‘It’s just possible,’ murmured the Toff sotto voce. ‘A man fell, jumped or was pushed into the river, clambered out—accounting for the first ice patch—walked along steadily after standing still for a moment and accounting for the pool and the second ice patch. As he walked the water dripped from his trousers at first and made the other pools but when it stopped dripping there was no water and therefore no ice. But he came here and gripped the gate with his hand; his hand was wet from his clothes. More water, which dripped and froze and became an icicle. The perfect reconstruction!’ He smiled sardonically and rubbed his chin, glancing again towards the house.

  A movement at a window in t
he roof, a little attic window, attracted him. For a moment he glimpsed the face of a man, no more than a youth: he had a vivid impression of staring eyes and drawn lips; then the face disappeared but the white curtains continued to move.

  Rollison half-turned and called to the sergeant: ‘There’s nothing here, I’m afraid,’ saying so deliberately because he did not want the man to approach.

  As he saw the sergeant turn away he heard the front door of the cottage opening and he looked over his shoulder. An old, grey-haired man in shirt-sleeves braved the cold of the day to walk quickly along the path. Rollison turned back and watched him. A lined face, weather-beaten by constant exposure, held bright blue eyes which were both angry and anxious. Rollison thought that the other’s lips were a little unsteady as he asked: ‘Do—do you want anything, sir?’

  Rollison smiled at him charmingly and took out his cigarette-case. He proffered it and the old man said that he did not mind if he did; his fingers were unsteady as he extracted a cigarette. Rollison flicked his lighter into flame.

  ‘I was going to find out whether I could get a cup of tea,’ he admitted. ‘I’ve walked much farther than I intended and—’ he broke off, his smile widening. ‘Then I decided that it wouldn’t be fair with rationing and all that.’ He raised a hand, a resigned gesture.

  ‘It wouldn’t be any trouble,’ said the old man but he had some difficulty in articulating. ‘I don’t know how mother’s fixed for tea, though.’ He stood indeterminate, eyeing the Toff and further convincing the latter that he was anxious although the anger had faded from his eyes. ‘Shall I go and ask her?’