Poison For the Toff Page 6

  ‘What about Lady Gloria?’

  ‘I think she started off by acting as a fairy godmother, and then found herself in deeper water than she realised,’ said Rollison. ‘I’ve been thinking over what I know of the Katrina-Derek marriage. He came back in January, and it’s obvious that Katrina’s behaviour began worrying him soon after that. It’s reasonable to assume that Old Glory was quickly on the scene. She attempted to heal the breach. Her efforts were looked upon with disfavour by certain gentry, and she received threatening letters telling her to desist forthwith. That seems reasonable, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Grice, ‘but it brings us to the question we’ve already asked ourselves; why didn’t she tell you that there was trouble?’

  Rollison shook his head.

  ‘We haven’t any answer to that one,’ he said solemnly.

  He left soon afterwards, and just before half-past three turned into a narrow street at the back of the Strand. The Gordon Inquiry Bureau was on the fourth floor of a depressingly drab building. The name on the frosted glass door-panel was peeling off, and the ‘q’ in ‘Inquiries’ was missing. Someone was typing, at an indifferent speed. It proved to be a girl, with thin features and straight black hair, who pushed her chair back, when Rollison entered, with a protesting sigh.

  After a certain amount of evasive by-play the head of the firm consented to appear.

  He was a short, plump man, and he shook Rollison’s hand a shade too warmly. It was a great pleasure, he said, to have such a distinguished visitor, he could not dare to assume that Mr Rollison had work for the Agency! He laughed.

  ‘One can never tell,’ said Rollison, gravely. ‘Did you know that Mr Derek Morral was my cousin?’

  ‘Mr Morral!’ gasped Gordon. ‘Well, well! No, I had no idea, Mr Rollison, but I am sure that I did my best for him, I took a personal interest in the case, I did really. I looked into it myself, I thought that Mr Morral was too distinguished a gentleman to leave the inquiries in the hands of my staff. I must admit – I say this with great deference – I must admit that Mr Moral did not give us all the co-operation which we might have expected, no indeed. Of course, I understand the difficulty of the situation, we are very discreet, yes, really very discreet, our reputation is extremely high. I do hope that Mr Morral was satisfied?’

  ‘Oh, perfectly,’ said Rollison.

  ‘Excellent, excellent!’ breathed Gordon with evident relief.

  ‘But I am not,’ said Rollison.

  Gordon gaped. ‘My dear sir!’

  ‘There was a little man with a hooked nose,’ murmured Rollison, ‘a man whom you saw with Mrs Morral, but whose name and address you weren’t able to discover. There was also the address of one other man you forgot to give Mr Morral.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Gordon, dabbing his forehead. ‘I really thought I had made it clear that Mr Morral was not helpful, not helpful at all. When he took the case out of our hands, there was, naturally, nothing more we could do. We did not report everything which we discovered. He lost interest, so what more could you expect?’

  ‘So you do know the addresses,’ said Rollison.

  ‘My dear sir! This is an efficient bureau,’ declared Gordon, gathering the shreds of his importance round him. ‘We cannot always undertake to get all information immediately. But we always get the information eventually.’ He pulled open a drawer, ran through the folders it contained, and at last drew one out. More than a little grubby, it had obviously been used to file other cases besides that of Derek and Katrina Morral.

  ‘Here it is,’ he said, ‘everything, everything that—why, look. Look, Mr Rollison! Look!’

  There were only blank sheets of paper in the file.

  Rollison looked not at the file but at Gordon, whose eyes were blinking nervously, and who was casting quick, sidelong glances towards the door.

  ‘I can’t understand it, I really can’t,’ he gasped, ‘you see what has happened, Mr Rollison, the papers have been stolen. Stolen, yes, from this very office, I—excuse me please, excuse me. That girl!’ he added, disparagingly. ‘Such a difficult job with staff these days.’

  He hurried out, but was back within five minutes. The girl had assured him that no one had been into his private office, the theft must have taken place at night. He was greatly alarmed in case other files had been disturbed. Mr Rollison must believe that this was a great shock to him. It would be disastrous if other papers, too, had been stolen. He shuffled through several files, found them intact, and made a convincing pretence that he was greatly relieved.

  ‘Don’t you remember the names and addresses?’ asked Rollison, abruptly.

  ‘My dear sir! With fifty or sixty cases going through the office at the same time, it is impossible to remember names. But I will try. Please be patient. I will try.’ He sat back in his chair and thrust his chin on one hand and, presumably, concentrated all his energies on the effort of recollection. His lips moved: his eyes were closed. Every five seconds or so he uttered a groan, as of a great intellect in extremis. Then suddenly, explosively, he came to life.

  ‘Lorne! Lorne, that is it! That was the name of one of the men. I recall it now, I saw him myself, a handsome, dashing naval gentleman!’

  ‘Naval?’ asked Rollison sharply. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Well, well,’ said Gordon, ‘he had a beard, I remember that well, many naval gentlemen have beards. Of course, it is not conclusive, but I distinctly remember marking the file to make further inquiries, and then Mr Morral took the case out of our hands.’ He leaned forward, impressively. ‘I am really sorry, Mr Rollison, deeply sorry that I cannot be more helpful. You see how I have tried.’

  ‘I hope you’ll keep on trying,’ said Rollison drily.

  He believed very little of what Gordon had told him. His poor opinion of the man was confirmed, but he did not see what else he himself could usefully do just then. So he took his leave, accompanied to the door by Gordon, who shook hands with the same over-hearty emphasis and retired to his office.

  The door closed.

  There were footsteps on the stairs below. They stopped abruptly, then sounded again, going downwards, instead of coming up. Rollison reached the next landing, looked about him, and saw no one. He was puzzled; it seemed almost as if someone had seen him and turned back, taking refuge in one of the offices. So Rollison made a great show of hurrying down the next flight of steps, but did not go further. He waited, peering upwards, and caught a glimpse of a man crossing the landing above him, and hurrying up the stairs.

  Rollison hesitated, pondering on his next course of action. Gordon’s new visitor did not want to be seen, that was clear. If he returned to the office, he would be able to see the newcomer, and at the same time give him and Gordon a shock.

  He decided to go back, and was halfway there when he heard an urgent whisper below him.

  ‘Mr Rollison – Mr Rollison!’

  He looked down, and saw Jolly standing at the foot of the stairs.

  Chapter Seven

  Tips Springs Surprises

  Already reasonably certain of the identity of the man who had nipped up to Gordon’s office, Rollison joined Jolly.

  ‘Did you see him, sir?’

  ‘No. Who was it?’

  ‘The man who was watching Mr Morral.’

  ‘Why isn’t he watching Morral now?’

  Jolly’s shoulders lifted in a gesture of disparagement.

  ‘Mr Morral left his flat about half-an-hour after you had gone, sir, and made his way towards Piccadilly. There, the man upstairs lost him. I do not think there is very much doubt he is a novice at the job, sir, for Mr Morral made no attempt to avoid him, and in my opinion was quite unaware that he was being followed. However, the man lost him and, as instructed, I followed the man. Have you any further instructions?’

 
‘Wait down here,’ said Rollison, ‘and if he comes out before me, follow him again.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Rollison could discern no sign of delight in Jolly, but he knew it was there. The party had certainly served its purpose, and Jolly did not greatly care who else suffered inconvenience or sickness, provided Rollison was ‘cured’. Rollison left him with a wave of his hand, and returned to Gordon’s office. The typewriter was still tapping its erratic way as before. Rollison opened the door quietly and stepped inside. He was almost in front of the girl before she noticed him. She jumped up with a stifled cry.

  ‘Hush!’ whispered Rollison, and placed a pound note in front of her. With a conspiratorial wink he walked towards the inner office. He could hear Gordon talking, and judging from the tone of the man’s voice, Gordon was not pleased with his agent.

  Rollison flung the door open.

  ‘The last time,’ Gordon was saying, hoarsely, ‘absolutely the last time you work for me, you fool, you utter fool—’

  Then he saw Rollison.

  ‘Hallo,’ said Rollison, amiably, ‘here I am again.’

  He had not had a great deal to do with Gordon in the past, and he rather expected the man to give way completely. He received an unpleasant surprise. Gordon closed his mouth and drew himself up with an odd kind of dignity, then gave a curt order to the shabby man to wait outside.

  He said nothing more until the man had left the room, and then turned a frosty eye on Rollison.

  ‘I must ask you, Mr Rollison, what is the meaning of this intrusion?’

  Rollison said: ‘Gordon, you’re asking for trouble.’

  ‘Asking for trouble!’ gasped Gordon. ‘I! I have a mind, yes, indeed, I have a mind to send for the police! You come here, you enter my office without knocking, without permission! It is outrageous. I received you courteously, I did all that I could for you, and you—’

  ‘You lied to me,’ said Rollison quietly. ‘Those papers were not stolen. You are working for Lorne. You have betrayed Mr Morral’s confidence.’

  If Gordon felt any uneasiness, he hid it well.

  He said sharply: ‘I have betrayed no confidence, Mr Rollison, and in fact I told you only what I believed you already knew. What do you mean by coming here and expecting me to give you confidential information? I must protect my clients, past and present. Mr Morral was a client of mine, and the only person to whom I will give information about his case is – Mr Morral!’

  ‘Or the police,’ said Rollison.

  ‘My records are open to inspection,’ said Gordon, loftily. ’You cannot frighten me, Mr Rollison.’

  ‘I wonder,’ murmured Rollison.

  He admired the little man, in spite of his own annoyance and disappointment. Gordon was not going to give anything away. He was certainly not easily frightened, and would not submit to threats or bluster. Rollison stared at him for some time in complete silence, and had the satisfaction of noting that a nerve near his eye had begun to twitch and his lips were not quite steady.

  ‘Get out!’ screamed Gordon at last. ‘You have no right here, I will not divulge my clients’ secrets. I will not! Go away!’

  ‘Very well,’ said Rollison. He got up and walked to the door, then turned. ‘This is one of your greater mistakes.’

  He walked easily down the stairs, carrying with him a picture of Gordon’s lips, puckered and unsteady.

  Jolly was waiting.

  ‘Let the first man go, and follow Gordon if he leaves,’ said Rollison. ‘Does he know you?’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir,’ said Jolly, ‘but I will try to avoid being seen by him, that will be the best course. Have you any idea where he might go?’

  ‘To see a man he calls a naval gentleman,’ said Rollison.

  He left Jolly outside the building, and walked towards the Strand, feeling very satisfied with himself. Gordon’s fear had obviously been caused by anxiety lest he should lose his licence; that was the guiding fear of all private detectives who took risks. It seemed obvious, now, that someone – probably Lorne – had discovered that Derek had employed Gordon’s Agency to watch Katrina, and had approached Gordon and paid him (a) to give Derek only part of the story, and (b) to have Derek watched.

  Why should he need to have Derek watched?

  It was nearly half-past four, and Rollison took a taxi to the Marigold Club, where Old Glory would give him tea, if she were in, and might perhaps talk more freely than she had yet done. He was disappointed, however, for his aunt had gone out a little after four o’clock. Rollison thought that the middle-aged woman who gave him the information was more aloof than on his earlier visits, and deduced from that, that his reputation was not good at the Marigold Club. He was smiling at the thought as he made his way towards Gresham Terrace, but quickly forgot it when he saw a familiar figure standing in the street.

  It was ‘Tips’.

  Beyond the fact that Mary had brought Tips along the previous night, he knew nothing of him. He had been amused at Tips’ frankness in telling Mary that she had asked for trouble, but he had given him little thought since then. Rollison noticed that he was a little more than medium height, well-dressed and remarkably attractive.

  ‘Hallo,’ he said, as Rollison drew up.

  ‘Hallo,’ said Rollison. ‘Are you waiting for me?’

  ‘Well, yes, I was, actually.’

  ‘Come in,’ said Rollison, ‘and have a cup of tea.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Tips.

  ‘You’d better come into the kitchen,’ Rollison said. ‘Jolly’s out, and I’ll have to make the tea.’

  Tips followed Rollison into the kitchen, and leaned against the draining-board, with one hand in his pocket and the other playing with his tie. He looked dreadfully earnest. Only the young could look so solemn, Rollison thought, as he put the kettle on, and took biscuits and cake from the larder.

  ‘Rollison,’ said Tips, as if he had been screwing up his courage to speak. ‘How well do you know Mary Henderson?’

  ‘Not very well,’ said Rollison.

  ‘Was she invited here last night?’

  Rollison said: ‘I don’t know, I didn’t make the list myself, but I expect so.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded Tips.

  ‘That’s hard to say,’ said Rollison, ‘except that she was once involved in a spot of trouble, and I managed to help her out of it. Actually her brother was in the trouble, and she was little more than a girl at the time.’

  ‘She’s little more than a girl, now,’ said Tips. ‘I see. Was it all right for her to bring me along?’

  ‘Great Scott, yes!’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Tips, gratefully. ‘I felt odd man out. Don’t like putting my nose in where I’m not wanted. Bad form. Fact is – I’m worried.’

  ‘About Mary?’

  ‘Yes. That powder. Arsenic. She took it, you know.’

  He made that remarkable statement without any change of expression. Only a slight embarrassment could be inferred as Rollison stared at him in genuine astonishment.

  ‘Do you know what you’re saying?’ Rollison asked, at last.

  Tips nodded.

  ‘Would have told you last night, but for that policeman. Hoped Mary would admit to it. Tried to make her. She wouldn’t. Left this morning after a flaming row,’ added Tips, and there was the faintest of smiles in his eyes. ‘Look out!’ he added, and as he spoke the kettle boiled over. It splashed Rollison’s hand, and he shook his fingers vigorously. Tips leaned forward and lifted the kettle off the boiling ring. ‘Hurt?’ he asked.

  ‘No, thanks,’ said Rollison. ‘I think I’d better concentrate.’ He said nothing more until they were comfortably ensconced with a tray in the sitting-room. Then, handing Tips a cup of tea he said easily: ‘So you think Mary took the tube of arsenic, and y
ou’ve told her you think so?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Tips.

  ‘Was that wise?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Tips. ‘No knowing where a thing like that will get you. Took it for a joke, of course. I saw her. Then she put it behind a vase of flowers. When I went to get it, it wasn’t there.’

  ‘And you didn’t think any of this was worth telling me last night?’ asked Rollison. ‘You could have called me aside, the police need not have heard.’

  ‘Didn’t know enough about you,’ declared Tips. ‘Been making inquiries. Know you’re reliable, now. Didn’t, last night. Sorry.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right,’ said Rollison, faintly.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Tips. ‘Fact is, I’ve only just got back from South Africa. RAF. Met Mary Henderson out there. Met her again here, at a club. She was WAAF, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I knew,’ said Rollison.

  ‘She had a date,’ said Tips. ‘Very important, but then everything’s important with Mary. Madly keen on this date, then she got your invitation. Cooled off the other and started to get excited about yours. Insisted on bringing me. Told me a lot about you I didn’t believe – then.’

  ‘Who’s your informant?’ asked Rollison.

  ‘Newspaper Johnny, ex-RAF,’ said Tips. ‘Quite reliable. Well, there are the facts. Mary took that stuff, but most emphatically didn’t put it in the ice-cream.’

  ‘Can you be sure of that?’ asked Rollison.

  ‘Quite sure,’ said Tips. ‘Kept my eye on her the whole time. Meant to retrieve the stuff myself, but didn’t have a chance.’

  ‘And you don’t know who took it?’

  ‘Not a clue. Well, thanks for the tea. I must be going.’

  ‘You know that I may have to tell the police about this, don’t you?’ asked Rollison. ‘Several people are ill from the poisoning, and the inquiry will have to be a thorough one.’

  ‘Leave it to you,’ said Tips, generously.

  ‘Mary will know where the story came from,’ said Rollison.

  ‘Can’t be helped,’ said Tips. ‘May do her good. She is too selfish by half. Told her so,’ he added, and again there was the hint of a smile. ‘Between you and me, I haven’t much time for Mary. Nice-looking girl, but possessive.’ He stood up, and smoothed his hair down. ‘If I can help at all, let me know.’