The Toff and the Fallen Angels t-53 Read online

  “So you’ve discussed this with them?”

  “Of course,” answered Naomi.

  “Who are they, apart from Professor Nimmo?”

  “There are four others,” she said, looking about her. “Did you notice where I put my handbag? Ah, there—” she moved to get up, seeing the bag on the table by her chair in the big room, but Rollison, moving with almost startling speed, fetched it for her. “Thank you.” She opened it, and took out a small, printed brochure. “All the details are in there. We use that to show the girls whom we think could benefit.” She watched him glance down the list. “Do you recognise any of. them?”

  He read :

  Professor George Brown — Chair of Philosophy.

  Dr. William C. Carfax — Chair of English Literature.

  Professor Keith Webberson — Chair of European Languages.

  Dr. O. J. Offenberger — Chair of Advanced Mathematics.

  “I know Keith Webberson,” Rollison remarked, and reflected that he could get a completely objective report from a man with whom he had been both at school and at Oxford. “And I’ve heard of Brown and Carfax by reputation—Offenberger is a new one on me. And these all give tuition free?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do any others?”

  “There is a consultant staff of twenty-one.”

  “Good lord!” exclaimed Rollison. “You really go for it in a big way. And do all of these know all you’ve told me?”

  “Oh, yes,” answered Naomi Smith. “And much more—I’ve confided with them as the trouble has developed. And I know you know Keith Webberson—he suggested that I should get in touch with you. In fact he offered to approach you himself but I thought you might help for his sake and I wanted you to decide on—on the merits of the case as far as I could present them to you. And you really will help?” She seemed only half-convinced.

  “I’ve no second thoughts,” Rollison said. “I gather you’ve room for one or two more angels.”

  They both smiled.

  “Three, in fact—one of them left to get married last week, as well as the two I have mentioned.”

  “If I happen to know of a young woman—”

  “Oh, no!” cried Naomi Smith. “You haven’t—” Rollison, pouring coffee, found himself spilling it as he spluttered with laughter.

  “No, I haven’t qualified a young woman to enter Smith Hall!” he said. “But I have in mind one who is an angel aloft, as it were, and who is pretty bright at Social Science and has a good inquiring mind. By freak of chance, her name is Angela, and if I know Angela, she’ll jump at the chance of joining you. As one of the girls themselves, she might win their confidence.”

  “A new girl might, I suppose,” conceded Naomi. “Of course—it’s an excellent idea—my goodness! You believe in acting quickly.”

  “But not fast enough,” said Rollison.

  “I don’t understand you.”

  He covered her hand with his.

  “The thought of waiting for another angel to come and settle in and then start investigating casts you down,” he said. “You’re so deeply worried about it that you can’t wait to start. Isn’t that how you feel?”

  After another of her pauses, she said slowly : “You really are a man of remarkable perception, Mr. Rollison.”

  “Or Richard. Or Rolly—as you prefer. Angela apart, I won’t be idle.”

  “You mean you’ve other ideas already?”

  “No ideas, but some experience,” answered Rollison. “Have you a list of the names of the residents, their home and backgrounds and history?”

  “Yes,” she said at once. “It’s wholly confidential, of course.” She opened her bag again. “I can rely on you keeping it to yourself, can’t I?”

  “Yes,” said Rollison. “Unless it reveals crimes which the police have to know about. If it does, I’ll tell you first.”

  This time, the envelope she handed to him was much bigger and bulkier. Inside were sheets of thin but glossy surfaced paper, and he drew them out. On the top left hand corner of the first was a photograph of a girl with a wide smile—a brunette with shortish hair and particularly big and attractive eyes. The sheet itself was a copy made from an original typewritten document. There were entries under a variety of headings.

  NAME : Elspeth Jones

  AGE: 22

  SUBJECT: Languages

  NEXT OF KIN: Father (Estranged)

  NEXT OF KIN

  ADDRESS : 41 Senneker Street, Birmingham, 15.

  OTHER RELATIONS: See list attached. MARRIED OR

  SINGLE: Single—(1 child)—father unknown,

  Elspeth will not name him.

  INCOME : Nil.

  There followed a brief case history of Elspeth Jones, who had been disowned by her widowed father when he had been told that she was pregnant. Rollison did not read it all , but skipped to the bottom paragraph, under the heading:

  PERSONALITY AND TALENTS A very pleasant and straightforward person with exceptional sense of loyalty. Without bitterness either towards lover or father. Lively, a good sense of fun, a good sense of colour and decor. Wholly trustworthy and likeable with a well developed sense of integrity.

  Rollison looked up.

  “Do you ever take in young women without being sure they are trustworthy and likeable?” he asked.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Naomi said : “Yes, of course. Smith Hall is not a place where people are prejudged. Some very unusual individuals are quite brilliant —all we do is create the conditions for them to study in their own specialised field. You would hardly complain if a man with a most unpleasant personality helped to find a cure for cancer would you? We have had some very off-putting girls, but as I said, until two months ago they all got along very well. Newcomers sometimes take some time to settle in, and are not always accepted quickly—that is one reason why I had momentary doubts about your Angela. Do you really think she will be prepared to help?”

  “I’ll know before the day’s out,” said Rollison. “And as soon as I know, I’ll telephone you. That’s a promise.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Angela

  ANGELA’S rosy cheeks were glowing, her blue eyes were bright, her plump and bouncy body seemed to quiver with excitement. She was short, only just five feet, but no one ever thought her small. Some called her a roly-poly and that, though old-fashioned, was very much on the ball. She wore a mini-skirt which rode high above her stalwart calves and trim ankles, and a loose-fitting scarlet jumper with a polo neck. Her hair, golden in colour, had a silken lustre.

  “Gorgeous!” she gurgled. “Absolutely gorgeous, Rolly. Bless you for thinking of me.”

  “Knowing you, could I have thought of anyone else?” asked Rollison.

  “I’d have hated you for life if you had. I’ve always wondered how it would feel to live branded by one’s own indiscretions. The incredible thing is that it happens so much today. Anyone would think that reasonably educated angels would know this was the Pill Age.”

  The Toff evaded that challenge neatly.

  “So you’ll do it,” he remarked.

  “Rolly, darling, when can I start?”

  “Very soon, I imagine. Tomorrow say?”

  “Tomorrow is the day! Rolly, bless you! At long last I’m going to see how the other half lives.” She bounced out of her chair, opposite his in the Gresham Terrace flat, and kissed him on either cheek. “Does Old Glory know about this?”

  “Not yet,” said Rollison.

  “I daresay that’s wise.” Angela, suddenly even more ecstatic, sat on his knee and flung an arm round his neck. He needed no reminding that she was a very feminine young woman and fleetingly thought of his morning talk with Jolly. Angela simply regarded him as an uncle; masculine certainly, but hardly male in the exciting sense. She hugged him. “You’re the absolute pet,” she told him. “Now I can have two of my life-long dreams fulfilled—to see the seamy side of life, and to play detective.”

  “Angela,” said Rollison, regardin
g her severely, “This is not a game.”

  “Roily, don’t be silly, I know it’s not.” She stiffened theatrically, holding him at arm’s length. “Richard,” she said in the tone all the family used when about to disapprove of him. “Don’t tell me you think I’m incapable of being serious !”

  “You’re quite capable,” Rollison assured her. “The point is, that this is one of those occasions to use that capability, and not indulge in the light-hearted frivolity you semi-intellectual young people find so necessary.”

  “Of course, I gather that, and the fact that the wrong timing is the very snag over which your semi-intellectual angels have fallen.”

  Rollison chuckled.

  “Your point,” he conceded. “Will you have another drink?”

  “You mean, won’t I get off your knee and allow you to breathe more freely.” She kissed him on the forehead. “No, I won’t have another drink and I won’t play the fool any more. I’m absolutely thrilled at the chance, and truly grateful. And—” she hesitated for a studied effect, then went on : “I won’t let you down.” She was suddenly all movement again, as she sprang off his knee like an indiarubber ball. She neither looked nor behaved like her twenty-four years. “There’s just one thing. What will happen when the others find that I’m not really qualified?”

  Rollison looked at her solemnly,

  “With a turn like that, no one would suspect you were cheating.” Before she recovered, he moved towards the telephone. It was five minutes to seven, and he was alone but for Angela, this being Jolly’s evening off. He dialled the number of Smith Hall, and Naomi Smith answered in that unmistakable voice which attracted Rollison in a way he had seldom been attracted before.

  “This is Smith Hall.”

  “This is Richard Rollison, to tell you that Angela is prepared to fall.”

  “Oh, I’m so relieved,” said Naomi in a tone which was evident proof of her words. “The more I think of it the more I like this idea. How soon can she come?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  There was a long pause, before Naomi said in a huskier voice :

  “I don’t really believe in you, Richard. You’re like something spirited out of Aladdin’s lamp.”

  Angela, close to Rollison, was mouthing and touching her lips and her right ear, in imitation telephoning. Rollison held on for a moment, relishing what Naomi had said, and then asked :

  “Would you like to speak to Angela now?”

  “Is she with you . . . I’d love to.”

  “Hold on,” Rollison said. He held the instrument out to Angela, then went out of the room. He did not want Angela to think he did not trust her to say what was wise, for beneath her high spirits he had sensed a moment almost of resentment when he had warned her that this was not a game. He could have listened-in on the kitchen extension or the one in his room or in Jolly’s bedroom, but did not. Now that he was alone he was contrasting Naomi and Angela, and at the same time wondering what he had let himself in for. He could not even begin to think of a motive for what was going on. It could of course, he decided, be merely a matter of temperamental conflicts within the hostel. Each of the residents obviously had acute personal and probably emotional problems, and with high I.Q. was likely to suffer more from tension than folk who had a less highly tuned intelligence.

  But Keith Webberson had sent Naomi to him, and Keith was no scaremonger, he must have some reason for anxiety. It was at least possible that Naomi Smith had not yet told him everything, wanting to make sure that he would help before unburdening herself of the whole truth.

  He heard a faint click at the bedroom extension; Angela had rung off, he went to join her, and found her very much more sober, hardly smiling at all.

  “Hallo,” he said. “Problems?”

  “No,” answered Angela. “Not exactly problems, but Mrs. Smith made it clear that she is really worried. I’m going to see her right away, Rolly—she’s waiting supper for me. Apparently that’s how she interviews all her prospective angels.” A flash of humour brightened Angela’s eyes. “An angel who is about to fall salutes you!”

  “I’ll be around to pick you up,” promised Rollison.

  Five minutes later, wearing a knitted cloak drawn tight around the neck, Angela was about to leave. As Rollison saw her to the door, he remembered how upset Naomi Smith had been that morning at that very spot. He held the door ajar.

  “You’re quite sure you want to go ahead?” he asked. “Absolutely positive, no shadow of doubt about it,” answered Angela.

  “You could run into a lot of troubles you don’t expect,” he reminded her. “Promise me one thing.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Tell me everything you find out, at least once a day, and if you’ve the slightest cause for alarm, let me know at once.”

  “I will,” Angela assured him, earnestly. “It’s a chance in a million, and I’ll make the most of it.”

  He saw her down to the street door, and watched as she drove off in a shabby and battered Morris 1000, scarred from ten years of heavy usage. Yet the engine purred. She waved, tooted and was gone. He returned to the flat, in a curious state of uneasiness. Ought he to have encouraged Angela to go? Should he have made more inquiries first? What was the simple truth about his own view of the matter? That he was in fact inclined to think that this was not a criminal but an emotional affair?

  He closed his front door, walked into the big room, and telephoned Keith Webberson, who had a flat in St. John’s Wood. Webberson was a widower, a wealthy man whose life was dedicated to the spreading of knowledge and understanding throughout the world. He did this through his work, and he had devised methods of teaching English to illiterate people which were practised in much of the Commonwealth. And he did it also through voluntary organisations, serving on a dozen committees, including several attached to UNO.

  The ringing sound went on and on. It was hardly surprising, Webberson was often out, but for a reason which he could not wholly understand, Rollison grew even more uneasy. He contemplated calling one of the other members of Naomi’s group, but decided against it.

  He tried to push the uneasiness away but it remained through supper, an indifferent Western and a bad documentary programme; even until Jolly came in, a little after eleven o’clock. He told Jolly what Angela had decided, was not wholly sure that Jolly approved. At twelve, he started to get ready for bed, and at twenty-minutes past the telephone rang. He lifted the receiver by his bedside.

  “Rollison.”

  “I’ve seen her, and I think she’s absolutely remark-able,” said Angela. “If it were only to help her, I’d go to Angel Hall.” She said that quite naturally, not as a joke. “I’m moving in tomorrow. Aren’t you pleased with your third-from-favourite niece?”

  “I’m very proud of her,” replied Rollison.

  “What a nice thing to say, even though its been wrung out of you. Bless you, Rolly!”

  She rang off; and Rollison realised that she was now wholly committed. Slowly he finished getting ready for bed, but he did not get to sleep easily; he was more worried than he had been for a long time.

  * * *

  Angela telephoned about half-past six next evening; the Friday of that week.

  “All’s quite quiet, Rolly. I’m settling in.”

  Keith Webberson did not answer the telephone that evening, either.

  Angela telephoned on Saturday.

  “It’s a wonderful place, Rolly—perfect for what goes on here—but there is something wrong. I’ll try to put my finger on it as soon as I can.”

  “What kind of wrong?” he wanted to know.

  “As soon as I know, I’ll tell you,” said Angela.

  Keith Webberson did not answer his telephone all that day.

  He must be away, mused Rollison. “And there’s no reason on earth why he shouldn’t be.”

  But was that really true, in mid-term? he wondered.

  Angela telephoned on Sunday and on Monday and Tuesday.


  “I think I’m being accepted,” she said on Tuesday. “There’s one girl I particularly like—an Elspeth Jones, and I think she’s bursting to talk to someone. I may have something more to report tomorrow.”

  “How are you really finding things?” asked Rollison, before she could ring off. “You’ve said very little, so far.”

  “There isn’t very much to say,” said Angela, obviously prepared. “Nearly all of the others are suspicious of one another and of Naomi Smith. They seem to have a love–hate relationship. I can tell you one thing, Roily.”

  “What’s that?”

  “They may all be fallen angels but they all want to pick themselves up. At dinner time tonight they talked more freely than I’ve known them, it’s almost as if they’re beginning to forget that I’m new.”

  “That’s good,” said Rollison. “Angela—”

  “I really ought to go,” Angela interrupted. “If anything happens worth reporting, I’ll tell you afterwards. Bye for now!”

  Rollison rang off, thinking almost ruefully that she had virtually dismissed him. Did that mean that someone had been—or might be—listening in? Or had she simply been afraid that someone would interrupt?

  Angela telephoned again on Wednesday, and for the first time sounded almost excited.

  “They are absolutely accepting me,” she cried. “Two of them confided in me last night about their own problems, and wanted to hear about mine. It seems to be far more difficult to invent a purple patch than a white one. I finally planked for a kind of grey. I can tell you another thing, Rolly.”

  “What’s that?” asked Raison patiently.

  “They’re puzzled because they haven’t seen Professor Webberson for a week—he usually takes one afternoon and one evening class at Smith Hall.”

  “Isn’t he away?” asked Rollison.