The Toff on Fire Read online

  “No,” said Jane, in a quiet, controlled voice, “two or three weeks at the most.” She bent down and picked the baby up, slipping her hand round it protectingly, behaving as if this was the only tiny infant in the whole, wide world.

  Esmeralda seemed to be infected with a gaiety which put a lilt into her voice and added brightness to her eyes.

  “It looks healthy enough, anyhow; look at its fat cheeks.” She did so for what seemed a long time, while Rollison busily contemplated her and the situation, and John Wylie watch him from the doorway. Then, slowly and with great deliberation, Esmeralda turned to look upon Rollison.

  He had seldom undergone such an appraisal.

  She was interested only in his face, and looked so long and lingeringly that it seemed almost as if she was dissecting it, feature by feature. Her eyes were still glistening, but her lips were pursed, as if she was bottling up some kind of merriment which might burst out any moment.

  Then, she gravely shook her head.

  “He isn’t a bit like you,” she announced, and turned back to Jane and the baby.

  Jane was too interested in the child to hear what Esmeralda said; was fussing in a quiet way, unwrapping the grey shawl. But her husband heard, gulped, and said: “Esmeralda, impertinent.”

  Esmeralda was not at all impressed by her uncle, but switched attention to the baby, touching pink cheeks, seeking tiny hands. Rollison stared ruefully at the girl as Wylie moved ponderously towards him, and said: “Take no notice of her.”

  “No notice?” There was a moment’s pause, and then Rollison grinned. “I certainly shall, that girl has a quick mind.”

  “Not offended?”

  “If she means exactly what I think she means, I ought to feel highly complimented.” Rollison said, and was relieved to see Wylie’s stern face pucker into something near a smile. “Sadly, things are not always what they seem. Hold the fort for a few minutes, will you? Don’t let anyone telephone.” He went to the door, opened it, and bent down, studying the lock with great care. Wylie came towards him, interestedly. “Neat job,” Rollison observed, “whoever did that is a craftsman and there aren’t many of them today.”

  “Did what?”

  “Broke in.”

  Rollison said that while getting up and dusting his knees, but Esmeralda spun round, her face ablaze with excitement, the baby quite forgotten.

  “Rolly, is that what happened? Did someone break in here? Why, they might have—”

  “Left a small atom bomb behind,” said Rollison, and then chuckled. “Perhaps they did. Like to come with me, Esmeralda?”

  “Where?”

  “Looking for that stork.”

  “That what?” She was puzzled at first, then threw up her hands in delight. “Oh, I see!” She had never seemed more gay or wide awake, and it was now half-past three in the morning. “Where shall we look?”

  “Downstairs, for a start.” Rollison wasted no more time on her, but opened the bureau drawer and took out a flashlight, then went towards the landing door. Esmeralda was already there. He gripped her arm and squeezed, then said: “Give me half a minute, will you, there’s something I want to do.” He went ahead of her down the stairs, moving so fast that had she wanted to, she could not have caught up with him. He seemed to bound downwards like a spring uncoiling. Half-way down, he took out the pencilled note, and slackened his speed enough to read it; for this was what he wanted to do without Esmeralda’s help.

  It read:

  The Doc’s after the kid’s mother and me.

  If he gets a chance he’ll snatch the kid.

  That was all.

  Rollison put the note back into his pocket as he reached the ground floor. Esmeralda came floating down with a billow of black skirts and white lace and frills, for she was very feminine. She was equally eager. Rollison went to the front door, opened it, and shone his flashlight. Esmeralda bent down beside him.

  “See that?” He pointed to scratches so faint that they were hardly visible. “The marks of his tool. He forced this lock and the one upstairs, left the baby, and—”

  “He did?” Esmeralda’s voice was shrill with doubt.

  “If there’s a woman in the world who could pick a lock like that, I’ll freely admit that I’m the baby’s father,” Rollison said, and so robbed Esmeralda of all future chances of being sly and obscure. “I doubt if there are six men in London who could do it this way, without damaging the lock.” He turned towards the street, where the darkness was greater now because only one other window showed any light, and the street lamps were a long way from Number 22. He shone the torch down on the steps leading to the front door, on to the pavement, on to the kerb. He stooped down, picked up a cigarette end, and took out his won cigarette case and put the end inside.

  “Is that a clue?” breathed Esmeralda.

  “Could be.” Rollison behaved as if he had forgotten that she was there, and sprayed the kerb and the roadway with light. There was a damp dust in the gutter, and, just behind the Rolls-Bentley, tyre marks which no one could fail to see. He bent down closer, saying as if to himself:

  “Very small tyre, either an old baby car or a motorcycle, more likely motor-cycle. Pity Jolly isn’t here, he could get a cast. Wonder if a flashlight photograph would show anything.” He straightened up, fully aware of Esmeralda’s closeness and her quick breathing. He was also aware of something else; a man turning into the street; but Esmeralda seemed to be unaware of that.

  “Do you really think a flashlight photo—”

  “Shhhhh,” hissed Rollison, and gave her full value for her night out. “Someone’s coming.”

  Esmeralda stood still and silent as a mouse, and did not even look away from Rollison. It would take a lot to make her jumpy; she had the steady nerves of healthy youth. As he glanced towards the corner he found himself thinking, absently, that there were more qualities in Esmeralda than he would have suspected while at the Star Club or on the way here.

  Then: “It’s all right,” he said, “it’s a policeman.

  “A copper!”

  “A policeman,” repeated Rollison firmly. “We are in a mood to be polite. Start looking in front of the car, will you? Switch on the headlamps to give us more light.”

  Esmeralda didn’t ask why, but obeyed. The big car’s powerful lights showed more of the street than had been visible since dusk had fallen. The steady footsteps of the policeman drew nearer, while Rollison joined Esmeralda in the fake search.

  The policeman drew level.

  “Evening, sir.” He looked down at Rollison, and on the instant his manner changed and his voice altered. “Good evening, Mr. Rollison. Looking for something?”

  Rollison straightened up.

  “Hallo, Jim. Yes, I’ve lost a propelling pencil, no great value but sentimental, you know. Afraid it’s not here, though—we’ve looked along the kerb pretty thoroughly.”

  “Perhaps it’s under the car, sir.”

  “Could be,” agreed Rollison, “but I don’t think it’s likely, I had it earlier in the evening. Probably left it at the Star Club. Serve me right if I will visit these dens of iniquity, doesn’t it?”

  “Oh, the Star Club is quite respectable, sir.”

  “It is?” Rollison sounded surprised. “I must have been misinformed.” He waited for the policeman’s chuckle, which wasn’t long in coming, and sensed that Esmeralda was looking at him almost with awe. “Not a lot you don’t know about your beat, Jim, is there?”

  “Well,” said the constable, modestly, “can’t be sure that we keep track of everything, but since that burglary in Gresham Mews we’ve been pretty much on the alert around here.”

  “I can imagine. Jim” – Rollison put a hand on Esmeralda’s shoulder, and gripped firmly; warningly – “this is Miss Esmeralda Gale, and she doesn’t know much about
London by night. Earlier in the evening we were talking about your chaps on the beat, and I told her that there was very little you didn’t notice if it was at all out of the ordinary.”

  “Well, sir, we’re trained observers, you know.”

  “Believe me, I do! There was the time when—but never mind me,” dissimulated Rollison hastily, “be a friend, and give us a demonstration.”

  “Well, sir—”

  “Oh, please,” begged Esmeralda.

  “Well, don’t hold me to everything, will you? I wouldn’t swear to it all in the box, but I don’t think there’s much wrong. Let’s see. I came on duty at eight o’clock, and at eight-twenty-seven there was a minor accident involving a car and a cycle, in which the cyclist received slight scratches and bruises of the right leg. There was a bit of thunder about. At eight-forty-three a high-powered car was heard to be moving very fast, probably considerably in excess of the speed limit, along Millaway Street towards Piccadilly Circus. At nine-ten there was a loud explosive noise coming from the direction of Hill Street, upon investigation this proved to be a window slamming as a result of a broken sash-cord, the breaking glass of which accounted for the explosive sound. We had quite a storm about then. At ten-nineteen a smell of smoke from the direction of …”

  He went on, briskly and confidently, as if he were reporting to his sergeant. Esmeralda watched and listened, fascinated; and the constable, in his early thirties, was not at all bad-looking. Nor was he unaware of Esmeralda’s gaze.

  Rollison gave him full marks but wished that he would hurry; it would not be long before John or Jane Wylie came to investigate.

  “… at one o’clock, approximately, a two-stroke motorcycle was heard to approach the vicinity from Piccadilly, and three or four minutes later the engine was switched off. Later, the motor-cycle was seen turning out of Gresham Ter—out of this street, sir, driven by a man with a female passenger—” the constable paused, grinned, and had second thoughts. “With a girl on the back. I personally checked every street door in the Terrace subsequent to that, sir, and every ground floor window. There was no indication of anything wrong. At two-o-three …”

  Three minutes later, he finished, coughed, and looked mildly self-conscious; obviously he was even more aware of Esmeralda’s glowing eyes.

  “That was wonderful,” breathed Esmeralda, in a quivering voice, “it really was. Thank you very much indeed.”

  “Pleasure’s mine, miss,” the constable said. “Anytime.”

  “From this night on I shall sleep sounder whenever I know you’re on duty, Jim,” Rollison said, and proffered cigarettes. “I know you can’t smoke now, but that’s a large helmet you’re wearing.” The constable scooped, gratefully. “Now we’d better go and tell the others that we can’t find the pencil,” Rollison said to Esmeralda, “or they’ll think we’ve eloped. Good night.” He took Esmeralda’s arm firmly and led her away, and the policeman did not move until the door had closed on them. “Esmeralda,” went on Rollison with deep feeling, “you could be the ruin of that young man’s life.”

  “Rolly darling,” cooed Esmeralda, “I don’t care how many babies there are, I think you’re a genius. No wonder you’re so famous! That couple on the motor-cycle did bring the baby here, didn’t they?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “And the way you wormed it out of the policeman was absolutely gorgeous,” went on Esmeralda, marvelling. By then, they were half-way up the stairs. “Without giving him the faintest idea that anything had happened here, too. Of course I can understand why you mustn’t allow anyone to learn about this,” she continued, becoming earnest and conspiratorial. “You needn’t worry about me. I’ll keep mum, but you might find it difficult with John and Jane. Especially Jane. She has rather a thing about there being one law for the rich and one for the poor, you know, and the fact that it would cause a dreadful scandal and get in all the newspapers if it leaked out, wouldn’t stop her. You’re going to have your work cut out to convince her that the baby isn’t yours,” declared Esmeralda, “that’s about the only way you’ll keep her quiet. Jane’s a wonderful Aunt and I’m very fond of her, but she’s got such an uncomfortable conscience.”

  Rollison looked thoughtfully down upon the golden head.

  “Whereas you just have a mind,” he observed. “I wouldn’t like to be the man who marries you, my Esmeralda. Now let’s go and do battle with Aunt Jane.”

  As they went up, he wondered a little uneasily how right Esmeralda was about her aunt.

  Chapter Four

  Sweet Reason

  Sir john wylie, looking more blackly massive than ever, smoking a pipe and so providing a screen for his red-rimmed, tired eyes, was by himself in the living-room-cum-study. There was no sign of Jane or the baby. From the direction of the bedroom, which was approached from a passage leading to the kitchen and bathroom, there came the faint sound of crooning; it was the first lullaby that had ever been heard in Rollison’s flat.

  “Hallo,” Rollison greeted, “is your wife playing mother?”

  “That’s about it,” said Wylie, and took out his pipe and pointed it at Esmeralda. “Go and see if you can help her.” No Victorian father could ever have been more emphatic with a daughter whom he wanted out of earshot, and for some reason best known to herself, Esmeralda went off meekly. Wylie put the pipe back between his full lips, and regarded his host through a grey haze of smoke. Then he said: “Hmm.”

  “You could be more explicit,” murmured Rollison.

  “I am trying,” announced Wylie, heavily. “Man of few words y’know. Very ticklish situation. My wife” – he pondered, chewing the stem of his pipe, and then he struck oil – “believes right’s right,” he finished.

  “Hear, hear,” approved Rollison.

  “No joking matter,” Wylie said. “She’s outraged.”

  “Not, I trust, literally.”

  “Positively. Very difficult situation for me,” went on Wylie. “Embarrassing. Fact is, Jane—”

  “Let me try to make it a little easier for you,” suggested Rollison kindly, “your wife can’t imagine why anyone should dump a baby on my doorstep—”

  “Couch.”

  “Couch, if we must be literal.”

  “Important difference,” declared Wylie.

  Rollison looked baffled and felt baffled. It was as if he had been fighting against unknown forces from the moment he had agreed to bring this little party here. Had he come alone, had he discovered the sleeping infant himself, it would have been bad enough, and the pencilled note would not have made it any easier; but if the situation wasn’t quickly corrected, it could get out of hand. Wylie’s erratic manner of speech did nothing to help, and whenever Rollison thought of Esmeralda it was a little uneasily, for there was old devil mischief in the child. Child?

  It would be easy for Rollison to lose patience; but not wise.

  “Where is the important difference?” he asked patiently.

  “Doorstep, couch.”

  “I was speaking figuratively.”

  Wylie contemplated him as if he, not Wylie, was being obtuse.

  “My wife is a literal woman,” he announced, at last. “No kinder-hearted woman in the world, but—never mind. Literal, logical and highly intelligent. A baby on the doorstep is one thing. No key required. A baby on the couch in a locked apartment—key required.” Wylie paused as if for breath, and Rollison waited, admiration mingling with apprehension. “Who would have a key?” inquired Wylie, and then made almost desperate circles in the air with his pipe. “No offence meant,” he blurted and as if to protect himself against any further indiscretion, he put the pipe back in his mouth.

  Rollison studied him.

  It was easy to fill in the gaps in Wylie’s dissertation, and obvious that he and Jane had been busily talking for much of the time that Rollison and Esm
eralda had been downstairs. Put bluntly and simply, the Wylies had jumped to the conclusion that no one would present Rollison with a child, without good reason: that probably the child was his.

  The difficulty was to stop his lips from twitching.

  He could soon disabuse the Wylies; the pencilled note would be enough for anyone who was literal-minded. But at this stage, did he want to disabuse them? The note was a plea, and the note had mentioned ‘The Doc’. This was the first time he had heard of the Doc since his return from New York, but he knew that many people, little crooks and honest men alike, were in terror of him.

  Someone unknown had brought the infant, apparently believing with a startling faith that he, Rollison, would protect it.

  And the Doc might snatch, might kidnap the child.

  If the Doc knew where it was, if he suspected that it had been brought to this flat, it would be easy for him to find out where it was being cared for; so a snatch would be possible if not easy.

  The fewer to know where the baby was, the safer.

  For the time being, Rollison decided, the important thing was to keep the Wylies quiet; for the truth might make them talk, or make them insist on bringing in the police, and if the writer of the note had wanted that, he would have gone to the police himself.

  All these things passed through Rollison’s mind as he studied John Wylie’s heavy features. So did Esmeralda’s opinion of Jane Wylie’s character. Esmeralda was probably ignorant of one thing because she was very young. Among people of the Wylies’ generation – which was also Rollison’s – there was a kind of code. A high moral conviction might possess Jane, making her believe that he must ‘do right’ by the mother; but she would give him the chance to do so before trying to exert any pressure – such as threatening to gossip about the new arrival at Gresham Terrace.

  Now Rollison believed that he needed a little straight man-to-man stuff with Wylie.

  “Wylie,” he said slowly, “I don’t mind admitting that all this is a shock. Big one, too. Caught me on the wrong foot, so to speak. I know I can rely on your discretion. Your wife’s too. I need just a little time to—er—make arrangements. I shan’t let anyone down, of course.”