Introducing The Toff Page 4

  As Harry the Pug had learned, by that mysterious telepathy which is the copyright of the underworld, Garrotty the Yank was enjoying the hospitality of Blind Sletter.

  Garrotty was just a gangster, without any frills. America had grown too hot for him, and he had managed to slide into England, taking refuge at Sletter’s because he could afford to pay big money for his security. But Garrotty, essentially a man of action, had grown tired of mooning around, and when Dragoli had made his offer he had been very pleased to accept.

  Sletter raised no objections to the presence of the crook. If he had heard of Goldman’s murder he did not say so. In any case, he had heard of the Black Circle, and he was a wise man, knowing what he could tackle and what was best left alone. Dragoli was not a man to brook interference.

  But there was a visitor who was called a guest, and of her Blind Sletter was not so happy in his mind.

  He had been in the same room as the girl on several occasions, and he knew that she was young, and that her voice was pleasant. He knew, too, that she was afraid of Garrotty, and that her presence at the ‘Steam Packet’ was not voluntary. But Garrotty and Dragoli assured the blind man that there was no danger of the girl being traced to the so respectable ‘Steam Packet’; and, perforce, Sletter let her stay.

  If she had put Sletter’s reckoning out, she had done the same for the two crooks. Dragoli was in two minds about her, for she had been with Goldman on the night of the murder, and for some days before. But Dragoli kept her alive because he believed that she knew the secret which Goldman had taken with him to the grave.

  Dragoli had to learn that secret. Sometimes Goldman’s voice taunted him even now, for Goldman had died bravely, with mockery on his lips.

  ‘You can kill me, Dragoli. You will, anyhow. But you’re on the spot yourself, and they’ll get you.’

  Dragoli had stared wickedly into those mocking eyes. Goldman had talked just for the sake of talking.

  Ten yards away Garrotty had been chasing after the girl, who made a sudden dash for freedom. The moon had shimmered down on the grim drama.

  Then Dragoli had snarled: ‘You fool! What you know dies with you!’

  And his gun had spoken; a bullet swept into Goldman’s chest.

  Goldman had died – but before his passing, still the devilish grin hovering about his lips, he had gasped: ‘Dies with me, does it? Don’t you – believe it – Dragoli. It’s on paper! In – black and – white!’

  Then Goldman had coughed – a dreadful, racking cough. And Dragoli’s gun barked again; Goldman’s forehead took the bullet dead in the middle. But the seed of doubt was planted in the Egyptian’s mind. Goldman had put his knowledge on paper – knowledge which could betray the vital secrets of the Black Circle.

  Because of which the girl lived.

  The new waiter at the ‘Steam Packet’ was a very tall, lean man, with a vacant expression, a hang-dog air, and a professed anxiety concerning the welfare of his wife and children. Castillo, who knew that the surest way to make a man hold his tongue and close his eyes when necessary was to endanger domestic ties of this nature, overlooked certain difficulties of references and engaged the man.

  For three nights the waited proved a model. So much so that Castillo allowed him to take over part of his duties, which he did without complaint. On the fourth day those duties were so onerous that the waiter found it necessary to present himself at the ‘Steam Packet’ shortly after two o’clock instead of five. None of the kitchen staff objected, and it so happened that Sletter had gone out on one of his rare but lengthy journeys into the West End, and Castillo had taken the opportunity to indulge in frivolous entertainment in his own room.

  Just after three o’clock the new man disappeared from the kitchen; no one saw him go. Nor did they see him move along the passages to Sletter’s private room, nor see him fiddle with the lock, unfasten it with a skeleton key, and slip inside.

  Once in the room there was a remarkable transformation in the appearance of the waiter. His hang-dog air disappeared. His lean body straightened, and his grey eyes were very hard. Apart from his loose-fitting waiter’s clothes, he looked who he was – the Toff.

  And the Toff knew that he had to work quickly, for Sletter would not be away much longer, and Castillo might get curious.

  Swiftly but thoroughly he went through the small, barely furnished room. Soon he fastened his attentions to the desk, and the padded chair in which Blind Sletter sat when he conducted matters of business.

  So far, the Toff had only the slightest acquaintance with Sletter, but he had heard rumours which had not even reached the ears of the police, and his talk with Harry the Pug had riveted his attention on the ‘Steam Packet’.

  The ‘accident’ which had befallen the writer of the maudlin letter had had its origin in the Toff’s ingenious mind. The ‘injured’ waiter was already on his way to Spain, land of oranges and his birth, with his passage paid for by the Toff and enough money in his pockets to live idly for six months. The Toff believed in closing all gaps which might spring a leak.

  For a full minute the Toff perched himself on the edge of the desk and stared at the padded chair. Unquestionably the secret rooms had ingress from Sletter’s private parlour; he had seen Castillo, heavily laden, go into the room, to return empty-handed a quarter of an hour later.

  But where did the hidden door lay?

  The Toff leaned forward and pushed against Sletter’s chair. The control button, if there was one, would have to be handy for Blind Sletter while he was sitting at the desk, and the chair was a likely spot.

  It did not move when he pushed it. He exerted more force, with the same result. The chair was fast to the floor.

  Then he slipped off the table, with his lips twisted wryly.

  ‘Promising,’ he told himself, and ran his fingers quickly about the legs and arms of the chair. Nothing happened. Then he transferred his attentions to the desk. And, as he had expected, his finger rubbed over a slight protuberance.

  ‘More promising,’ he told himself.

  Very carefully he pressed the knob – and in front of his eyes, so suddenly that he opened his lips in a mutter of surprise, two square yards of floor moved downwards, with Sletter’s chair in the centre of it.

  The Toff released the button and pressed again, and the patch slid upwards, joining the floor perfectly and noiselessly. No one could have guessed that it was a lift leading from Sletter’s den to the secret rooms.

  The Toff hesitated for a fraction of a second.

  There were a hundred reasons why he should call it a day. He had discovered what he had set out to find. If he went on, chancing Sletter’s return or Castillo’s curiosity, there was a likelihood of a very sticky end.

  Unquestionably the Toff should have waited. Instead, he felt the little bulge in his waist-band, which covered the life-preserver, and fingered the cold steel of the gun in his coat pocket. Then, with a twisted smile on his lips, he sat in the chair and pressed the button,

  Slowly the lift went down. For thirty seconds four blank walls slipped past him. Then the lift stopped, smooth and silent. In front of his eyes was a polished door.

  The Toff took two short steps across the lift and tried the handle. It turned easily in his fingers, which was what he had hoped. Then he went back, looking about him for the counterpart of the button which had controlled the upward movement of the lift. He found it embedded in the framework of the door.

  He grinned to himself.

  ‘We know how it works,’ he muttered. ‘Now we’ll see what else we can find.’

  He pushed his right hand in his coat pocket, gripping his gun. Then he opened the door.

  Had he been of a demonstrative nature he would have gasped at the sight in front of him. He saw a spacious lounge, which would have done justice to a West End hotel. As he stepped forward his feet sank deep in thick pile carpet; looking round, he saw luxurious armchairs, shaded by palms, and in the far corner was a cocktail bar which made him lick his
lips hopefully. The lounge was illuminated by wall lamps which sent a delicate blue light on the rich furnishings, soft, enchanting.

  ‘Sletter can’t see,’ thought the Toff, ‘but, by Hades, he knows what’s what!’

  He went farther into the lounge, nearly closing the door behind him. No one was there, but a second door, opposite the first, was partly open, and through it came the murmur of voices. One of them sent the Toff’s lips very close together, and his eyes were like steel.

  Certainly he had not been misinformed by Harry the Pug!

  ‘So she will not talk, Garrotty!’ The voice was soft, yet evil, swaying with the strange cadence of the East. ‘But there are ways in which we can make her talk.’

  The Toff should have been surprised by the ‘her’; but he was not. For he had expected developments when he had sat in Sletter’s chair and slid downwards into the unknown; and that ‘her’ was the logical sequel to the shoe which he had found.

  He had located the Lady of the Shoe, and he felt pleased.

  His eyes were very hard as he heard Dragoli’s companion.

  ‘You ain’t gotta thing on makin’ ‘em talk, Dragoli. I got her so bad that she fainted right out. But she stayed dumb.’ There was a reluctant admiration in the nasal twang of Mr. Garrotty from Chicago. ‘She’s some moll, I’ll say!’

  Garrotty was facing the door as he spoke, with Dragoli sitting in an easy chair opposite him. His face was of the basher type at the best of times. A livid scar ran across his right cheek from mouth to ear, and his little eyes were screwed up evilly.

  But they opened to their widest when he saw the door on the other side of the room open slowly and the Toff slide through.

  Garrotty cursed.

  ‘What the heck –’

  ‘So sorry to interrupt,’ murmured the Toff, his voice honey-sweet. ‘Carry on, Garrotty.’

  But Garrotty didn’t carry on. His thick lips twisted in a snarl as his right hand went towards his pocket for a gun. But it stopped outside, for the Toff’s coat bulged suggestively.

  ‘I shouldn’t pull your gat,’ he advised, walking easily into the room and pushing the door behind him. ‘I’ve got one myself.’ He smiled at Dragoli, but his voice was like a lash. ‘Good evening, Doctor. Quite a gathering of patients, isn’t it? Not to say a meeting of friends.’

  The Toff, ever honest with himself, admitted that there were points about Dragoli. The man did not turn a hair. As he leaned back, surveying the Toff, his sensuous lips parted.

  ‘Keep quiet, Garrotty,’ he said. ‘This is a friend of ours.’ And to the Toff: ‘I hardly recognized you in your – uniform, Mr. Rollison.’

  The Toff laughed.

  ‘You’ve only seen me once, Achmed, so I won’t blame you. That was when you potted my tyre – or Garrotty did – and’ – he drawled the words irritatingly –’I found a shoe – a lady’s shoe – so I came for the lady.’

  ‘You know a lot of things,’ said the Egyptian.

  ‘You’ve just told me about her,’ said the Toff gently. ‘To borrow a phrase from Garrotty, where do you park the dame, Achmed? Upstairs, downstairs, or in my lady’s chamber?’

  He stopped, beaming about him.

  Perhaps the Egyptian would never have answered the question. Perhaps Garrotty would have tried that bull rush for the Toff which he was planning in his crafty mind. Perhaps the Toff would have made his last bow, which was always possible in his little games.

  But the question was answered in a manner which made the Toff’s eyes soften for a moment, for all the fact that his lips tightened.

  From a door on the right, half-way between the Toff and his enemies, came the girl.

  Her body, usually slim and straight, was bent and drooping. Her eyes, a deep blue, were lacking lustre as she leaned against the door-post for support and stared.

  And the Toff knew, as he saw her, that in the last few days she had been through hell. Thus it was not ignorance that made him say, before Dragoli spoke and before Garrotty cursed: ‘Hallo, sweetheart! Walk right in and join the party. We’re all friends together here, aren’t we, Achmed?’

  Anne Farraway moved towards him, sudden hope in her eyes.

  5: QUICK SHOOTING

  It was a tricky situation. The Toff knew, as he looked at the two crooks with that mocking glint in his eyes, that they were wishing him dead, and in their own minds they were sure that he would never get out of the ‘Steam Packet’ alive. But they didn’t know the Toff, who was as confident as ever of putting it across Dragoli. To the Toff, it was not so much a question of whether he would get away, but when he would. There were many things that he wanted to learn, not a few of which he might find by bluffing the men who were facing him. Providing he had time.

  None the less, the Toff knew that Garrotty had not come from the States unaccompanied; certain gentlemen with guns were probably within call. And there was the chance of interruption from Sletter or Castillo. Unquestionably it was a jam and – the Toff called himself a fool when he admitted it – he was feeling a bit worried about getting out of the place with the girl, for her presence made it awkward. On the other hand, he imagined that he would be half-way to the solution of the mystery when he talked with her alone.

  Besides which, the Toff had Garrotty’s word that she was some moll – certainly she was worthy of better company.

  Garrotty’s third degree was not long past; but her chin went up as she realized just a little of what the Toff might mean, and felt the stimulating effect of his presence.

  So, as the Toff called her, she moved towards him.

  It was too much for Garrotty. He swung round on Dragoli, his eyes blazing.

  ‘Why the blazes don’t you put him where he belongs, Dragoli? And make that dame keep still....’

  The Toff smiled darkly.

  ‘Steady,’ he cautioned. ‘There are two sides to this question now, Ugly one.’

  Garrotty glared at him. The Yank was no fool, and he knew that the little bump in the Toff’s coat meant a gun; but he also knew that the gentlemen from Chicago were within call.

  ‘Feeling better?’ asked the Toff affably.

  ‘You kin start sayin’ your prayers,’ snarled Garrotty. And he called the girl by a foul name. ‘Keep where you are, you –’

  The Toff clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he looked at Dragoli.

  ‘Achmed, your American colleague doesn’t seem to understand. He may have a gun, but he can’t reach it without losing an appreciable part of his fingers. Because I’m something of a marksman, though I say it as shouldn’t. Tell him to calm down before I puncture his ribs. Then we can have the little chat I’ve been wanting.’

  ‘You take the very words from my mouth,’ said Dragoli suavely. His face was creased in a smile which had all the cunning of the East in it, and it did not deceive the Toff in the slightest. But it gave him time to think.

  ‘Garrotty,’ went on the Egyptian, with a peremptory motion of his hand, ‘won’t offend again, my friend. And now, if I am not asking too much, what do you want?’

  ‘The girl,’ said the Toff succinctly. ‘I hated to think of her at your tender mercy, Achmed, so I came to take her away.’

  It was bluff, of course, but Dragoli could not know how much truth there was in it. It was the beginning of what the Toff called psychological terrorism.

  Dragoli stood it well. His face was expressionless.

  ‘And nothing else?’ he asked.

  ‘Lots of other things,’ the Toff assured him calmly. ‘You – and Garrotty – and...’

  That ‘and’ was a masterpiece. It flowed from the Toff’s lips and hung quivering in the air until the complacency of the Egyptian began to sag; which was what the Toff intended.

  ‘And,’ he repeated, as though once was not enough, ‘those pals of yours with the music-hall name, Achmed. The Black Circle, don’t they call themselves?’

  The atmosphere seemed suddenly frigid.

  Dragoli hardly seemed to br
eathe. His yellowish eyes blazed with a fury which consumed him. His body was actually quivering.

  From his silence the Toff learned what he wanted.

  Dragoli was definitely an agent of the Black Circle. And the last thing in the world he had expected was to be taunted with it. It stupefied him; it even made the sullen Garrotty uneasy.

  The Toff saw the blazing eyes of the Egyptian, the thick lips of the gangster parted over broken teeth – and the girl, who was very near him now, staring at him in bewilderment. For the sensation which had been created’ was more like the consequences of an approaching earthquake than the slow voice of the Toff,

  The Toff grinned at her, deciding that it was time to break the spell.

  ‘It looks,’ he drawled irritatingly, ‘as though I’ve spilled the salt in the gravy. ‘What’s the trouble, Achmed?’

  He wondered for a moment whether the Egyptian could keep back his rage, and he moved the bulge in his pocket suggestively. It had a steadying effect.

  ‘So you know that, do you?’ breathed the Egyptian.

  The Toff smiled cheerfully.

  ‘Say, but you’re smart. Not many men would have guessed it already.’ He winked at the girl. ‘Great minds are about us, Annabelle.’

  And he said other things flippantly. Dragoli had confirmed what he had wanted to confirm – the complicity of the sinister Black Circle in the murder of Paul Goldman.

  Dragoli spoke again, harping on the same chord.

  ‘So – you know about the Black Circle, do you, Rollison. And you find it amusing?’

  ‘Excruciatingly funny,’ agreed the Toff.

  The Egyptian’s eyes flashed.

  ‘Goldman knew about it too,’ he said slowly. ‘In fact, Goldman belonged to it. And he was going to betray it, so he died.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ drawled the Toff, unimpressed. But if Dragoli’s words left him cold, they had a different effect on the girl. The Toff looked at her for a moment, and saw the horror in her eyes. He thought she would collapse.