Hunt the Toff Read online

  He reached the third house, and pulled himself up and then lowered himself again, so that this time he lay sideways to the gutter. He peered over. There was a square yard at the back of each house, and the concrete showed pale. He saw a man standing near the wall, three yards or so along.

  He went on, until he was six houses away from Iris’s, then went through the nerve-racking sliding down the roof again. The man was now lost in the gloom, but a distant flash of lightning brought a sudden brilliance, and he saw the watcher clearly.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance.

  Rollison waited for the next flash, and saw the shape of a fire-escape about ten feet below him. He edged himself over as the first spots of rain fell.

  The watching policeman’s natural instinct would be to glance up to the sky.

  Rollison waited for another flash, and as it faded, lowered himself until he was holding on to the guttering, his feet not far from the iron landing; when he dropped he would make a lot of noise. As thunder cracked overhead, he dropped. He kept his balance and flattened against the wall. In the next flash, he saw the watching man standing against another wall, sheltering from the rain. It was coming down harder, splashing against the iron steps, soaking into Rollison’s clothes. He reached the yard between flashes. There were walls between the yards, so he was out of sight and out of immediate danger.

  He turned up the collar of his coat, waited for darkness and thunder, and slipped into another garden. He climbed more walls, until he dropped into a street which ran at right angles to the one in which Iris lived.

  The rain teemed down, splashing up from the roadway.

  Lumley Street was a quarter of an hour’s walk away.

  Rollison found the flat was in a terraced house, between Oxford Street and Grosvenor Square. The street door was open, there was a wall-board, with the names and flat numbers of the tenants. Lights showed beneath several doors as he went upstairs. He reached the flat Jolly had rented for him, opened the door, and slipped into a tiny hall – and saw a light shining from a room beyond.

  His hand dropped to his pocket and about the butt of his gun.

  A chair groaned, someone moved, a shadow appeared – and then a tall, lanky man, lean as a lath, appeared in the doorway. In spite of the heat, he wore a scarlet sweater with a polo collar. His battered face and cauliflower ears were red from the heat. His sparse hair was standing on end where he had been scratching his head. He rubbed his eyes.

  ‘Cor lumme, fought you was never coming,’ he said. ‘Can’t stay ‘ere all night. Crikey, look at you! Raining, is it?’

  ‘Skinner,’ said Rollison reproachfully, ‘you’ve been asleep.’

  ‘Wot if I ‘ave?’ demanded Skinner, from Bill Ebbutt’s gymnasium. ‘Can’t burn the candle at bofe ends, can I? Besides, wot else could I do? Strewth, you aren’t goin’ to start complainin’, are you?’

  ‘Never,’ said Rollison firmly.

  ‘Don’t sound much like it,’ grumbled Skinner. ‘If you arst me, it’s a ruddy big risk I’m takin’. Don’t mind tellin’ yer, I advised Bill not to ‘ave anyfink ter do wiv it. But you know Bill. Said there wasn’t anyone else ‘e could rely on, so I come.’

  ‘You’re a living wonder,’ said Rollison.

  Skinner gave a choky laugh.

  ‘You just wait,’ he said. ‘Come in ‘ere.’

  He flung the door wide open, and pointed.

  A table was laid with a cold collation that would have done justice to a royal buffet. A bottle of wine stood with it, glowing ruby red and bearing a renowned label. Beyond the table, hanging on the picture-rail, was a suit of clothes which might have come fresh from the tailors; next to it a raincoat and a trilby hat.

  ‘Seein’s believin’, ain’t it?’ asked Skinner. ‘Don’t thank me, thank Jolly. Now ‘e is a proper marvel. Know wot ‘e did? Give a pal of ‘is a ticket to go to some cleaners where your clothes was being cleaned while you was away. S’fact. They ‘ad the mac, too. ‘Is pal give it to Bill, and Bill give it to me. I fixed it all, arter that – food as well, Jolly said that brand o’ wine was okay – Burgundy. Suit you?’

  ‘The question is, will it suit us, Skinny?’

  ‘Us. You inviting me to dinner?’

  ‘That’s right. I’ll change first, and then we’ll eat and talk. You’ve plenty more to tell me.’

  ‘Dunno abaht that,’ said Skinner lugubriously, but his eyes were bright. ‘It ain’t so much. But I’ve got a plan and some tools.’ He dived a knuckly hand beneath his jersey and drew out a canvas roll of tools, then dug into his trousers-pocket and drew out a fold of paper. ‘Wiv Jolly’s compliments, ‘e says. That’s a plan o’ the roof of the ‘ouse in Hilton Street, and those next door. The top flat’s empty – people ‘ave gawn aht. An’ Bill’s fixed a ladder, winder-cleaner’s, it’ll be easy as fallin’ orf a roof.’ Skinner raised his hands and drew back, mouth widening. ‘Strike me, easy as falling orf a roof – nar wot do yer fink o’ that, Mr. Ar? Talk abaht a joke …’

  He roared with laughter.

  ‘Mind yer, I’m not expectin’ yer’ll fall, seriously. Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Ar. But it was funny, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Skinny, you ought to be on the stage.’

  ‘Funny fing,’ said Skinner, immediately solemn again, ‘I was only saying that to the missus, coupla days ago. The way I tells a story puts ’em in fits, it does. Well, wot are you waitin’ for? I’m hungry. Oh, I forgot. There’s a car for you rahnd the corner in Billing Street, a Riley – ‘ere’s the keys.’

  Skinner repeated the story of the missing collection, the police theory, everything that had been written on the newspaper. He added that Jolly had arranged to have someone at Lumley Street by day and night, and a car handy. There was a telephone. Rollison memorised the number.

  At half past ten the last vestige of the storm had gone; the stars were out, but there was no moon. The air was much clearer. Rollison kept the raincoat on, with his hat pulled well over his eyes, as he walked from Lumley Street. Five minutes later he sat at the wheel of a Riley.

  Danger waited, at Hilton Street and beyond.

  He knew much more than he had known in Devon, but still not enough. Those fingerprints on the handle of the spanner explained why Grice was so sure of himself. No framing could have been done more smoothly; on the evidence, Marion-Liz hadn’t a chance.

  He couldn’t blame Grice or anyone for the line they were taking. There was one way to take the weight of suspicion off Marion-Liz – to find out who had killed Keller and who was framing her.

  She was more likely to know than anyone else.

  He’d studied the plan, knew where to find the ladder, had little doubt that he could get into her flat. The great danger would come if the police decided to raid it at the time he broke in. If he left the roof way of retreat open, he would still have a chance.

  He drew up near Hilton Street, parked the car with the side lights on, and walked towards the back of the houses and the windowcleaner’s ladder.

  He couldn’t see the police, but was sure that they were there.

  XI

  WARM WELCOME

  Grice pushed back his chair from the desk in his office, yawned, looked at his watch, and grimaced. It was half past eleven. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, stood up, and stretched. The windows, overlooking the Embankment and the Thames, were wide open, and a fresh breeze came in, making it almost cold; and welcome. He stood looking out at the twinkling lights reflected on the river, the lights of the traffic passing to and fro, heard the rumble from Whitehall and Parliament Street.

  The door opened.

  Tall, dark, and thickset, Sergeant Middleton entered briskly.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, sir.’

  ‘That’s all right. How’s it going?’

  ‘I’ve been round and checked everywhere myself,’ said Middleton, and sat down when Grice waved to a chair. ‘Mind if I smoke?’ Grice shook his head. ‘Thanks. The Cartwright girl’s place is in darkness, she’s
been out for several hours. She spends a lot of time with an arty set in Bloomsbury. Our men went up, back and front, after she’d gone, and made sure there isn’t any light on. We’ve seen a plan of the flats, and there’s no room which wouldn’t show some light at one window or other, you can take it that the flat’s empty.’

  Grice nodded.

  ‘Lady Gloria has been to an enquiry agent – she wants to know a lot about the Lane girl’s friends. Normal enough, I suppose, and Jolly would put her up to that. Jolly hasn’t left the Gresham Terrace flat. Ebbutt’s been at the gymnasium all the evening. One of his cronies, Skinner, has been out most of the afternoon and evening, but looked in at the gymnasium at about nine, and went off again. Nothing unusual about that.’

  ‘Do you know where Skinner’s been?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Could have been up to something, but of Ebbutt’s bunch he’s less fond of Rollison than any of them. That might make Ebbutt use him, they all do what Ebbutt says. Still, it’s too vague. What about Hilton Street?’

  ‘No change.’

  ‘You mean the Lane girl hasn’t had a caller of any kind?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Middleton. ‘This flat belongs to a friend who’s away – she let herself in with a key, obviously, and hasn’t stirred. As far as the neighbours know, the place is empty. The people in the top flat are out at the moment. If she uses lights at night, she makes sure they can’t be seen from the outside. There’s a room there where the light could be blocked. She certainly went in, and as certainly she hasn’t come out.’

  Grice said, ‘You’re not happy about that, are you?’

  ‘I can’t say I am.’ Middleton leaned forward for an ashtray. ‘We’ve had tabs on that young woman for some time. I’ve questioned several of the people who’ve strung along with her – the Keller type and some better class. Two or three of them say the same thing – that she always swore she’d never be caught by us, she’d rather kill herself.’

  Grice didn’t speak.

  Middleton stirred restlessly.

  ‘It may have been idle talk, and probably was, but she’s been in that place for over a day, now, and hasn’t shown her nose. She might have realised that she hasn’t a chance of getting away. I don’t think she could have seen our men watching, they’re well concealed, but she knows that we’re on to her. I shouldn’t like to force my way in there and find her dead. Wouldn’t do us any good. Wouldn’t do anyone any good.’

  Grice didn’t speak.

  Middleton said, ‘What do you think on balance, Chief?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t see her killing herself if she thinks she’s fooled us. I still think someone will go and see her, and I’d like to pick them up. I shouldn’t be surprised if Rollison gets there. So we stand to pick him up, as well as the other people behind this business. It’s worth a risk.’

  ‘Even if she kills herself?’

  Grice said, ‘How serious did she seem?’

  ‘You’ve seen the reports,’ said Middleton. ‘She’s always done what she said she would do. She started to go wrong after her father was jugged, as far as we can find out. She’s boasted that she’ll make fools of us, and that we’ll never catch her. As far as I can judge, she and Keller got away with quite a lot – we picked up some interesting stuff at his flat, remember.’

  ‘Nothing which incriminated her.’

  ‘She was known to be working with Keller, and he was known to use a good-looking woman,’ said Middleton, almost impatiently. ‘She’s hard as nails and has plenty of guts.’

  Grice drummed his fingers on the desk. Middleton lit another cigarette. Except for the sounds outside, there was quiet – and nothing stirred in the office. Grice stood up abruptly, and walked to the window, stood looking out. Middleton scratched his head.

  Grice turned round abruptly.

  ‘Double the watch there tonight. We’ll give her until the morning, and if nothing’s happened by then, we’ll pull her in. I don’t think she’ll do away with herself until she knows she hasn’t a ghost of a chance. While she’s hiding there, she probably feels that she’s putting one across us and having a nice laugh. If anyone goes near the place, hold them for questioning.’

  ‘Right.’

  Middleton stood up.

  Grice said, ‘I wish to blazes I knew where Rollison is. He’s getting under my skin.’

  ‘I think I know the feeling,’ said Middleton. ‘It’s hard to believe that he would burn his fingers for the sake of it. Putting himself in a jam like this doesn’t add up, but – don’t forget those fingerprints. If he was with the Lane girl all that time, then he was with her when she killed Keller. We can’t get away from that.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Sorry, Chief, but it’s certain,’ said Middleton. ‘I don’t get it, any more than you do, but there it is. Even if he retracted now, he’d be in a jam, and we’d have to hold him. There’s one thing …’

  He broke off.

  Grice sat down, rubbed his nose again, and looked up into the sergeant’s sombre face. ‘Well, what is it?’ Grice asked.

  ‘I’ve been looking up some of the Toff ’s cases,’ said Middleton, ‘and one thing sticks out a mile. Every now and again he falls for some woman. It’s happened three or four times. Whenever that happens, he goes farther than he normally would. I’ve also been checking on the Lane girl. She has practically everything. You know Rollison. He’s quite capable of taking the rap for this job, while the girl gets away. It’s the kind of crazy thing he’d do, if he really thought anything of her. And remember they spent quite a bit of time together at the hotel. I know all about holiday friendships, but is Rollison a man who’d spend all that time with her if he wasn’t interested?’

  Grice said softly, ‘No, probably not.’

  ‘That’s what I think’s happening,’ said Middleton. ‘And if it’s right, he’ll certainly try to get her out of the flat.’

  ‘Yes. Don’t forget to double the watch tonight.’

  Middleton grinned.

  ‘I fixed that before I came in,’ he said.

  Rollison crouched on the roof of the house in Hilton Street, and peered down into the street itself. There were two men farther along, undoubtedly Grice’s men; and there were two at the back. That could mean that Grice was contemplating a raid; could also mean that he had reason to think there would be an attempt to break into the house that night.

  Rollison had reached this spot without difficulty, there were wide sills at the windows. He’d walked over the roofs of a dozen houses. A small skylight led down into the loft; he had to get into the flat below, out of that, and into the girl’s.

  It was nearly half past eleven.

  The skylight wasn’t fastened, it was easy to lift it up. He shone a torch inside, and the beam showed cobwebs, oddments of furniture, thick dust, and a water-cistern which gurgled faintly. It was low-roofed. He climbed over, and lowered himself and, when he was at arm’s length, his toes touched the boarded floor.

  He stood in the middle of the loft, shining the torch.

  The greatest obstacle might be the loft-hatch. He kept the torch on as he went towards it. It opened upwards, he could tell that from the position of the hinges. There might be a bolt below.

  He opened the catch and pulled.

  The hatch didn’t move.

  He sat back on his haunches, placed the torch so that it shone on the hinges, took out a screwdriver and began to work on the screws. He had all but two out, and those two loosened, before he stopped. Then he took a long, flexible hacksaw blade from the little bag of tools and worked it beneath the edge of the hatch, so that it would take the strain. Holding that with one hand, he took the remaining screws out with the other, then gently prised the cover up until he could get his nails into the side.

  He pulled.

  It slipped, and fell into position with a dull thud. He listened intently, but there was no sound.

  The second time, he lifted the hatch and levere
d it up until the hasp of the bolt was torn out of the ceiling of the room below – and fell with a clatter. There was silence afterwards. He lifted the hatch back and put it aside.

  There was no light on below. He was over the bathroom, and his torch light shone on the white porcelain bath and on a hand-basin. He lowered himself quickly, and found himself looking at his reflection in a full-length mirror. He was covered with dust and cobwebs. He brushed himself down, slipped the tools into his pocket, and placed a bathroom stool beneath the hatch. If he had to come back in a hurry he would find that useful.

  The whole flat was in darkness, and he reached the front door without trouble.

  He opened it.

  Marion-Liz was in the flat below. It was approached by the same staircase as this, and the police might have stationed a man on the landing.

  There was no fight, anywhere.

  He didn’t use his torch, but crept forward, groping with feet and hands until he reached the top of the stairs. He went down one at a time, a hand on the banisters. He could soon find the girl’s door, even in the darkness he should have little difficulty.

  He reached the next landing.

  There was only a Yale lock between him and the girl’s flat. He listened intently and heard no sound of breathing, nothing to indicate that anyone was watching below. He didn’t use his torch, just felt for the lock, then took out a strip of mica and gradually forced it between the lock and the door. When the barrel of the lock was in the middle of the strip, it would be forced back.

  He heard it click.

  He opened the door and stepped into the flat where Marion-Liz was staying. He closed the door softly behind him; the lock didn’t fit properly, forcing it that way had damaged it. He knew the trick of fastening the catch so that it would look all right from the outside.

  The bright beam of his torch pierced the darkness like a sword.

  A man said, ‘Drop that torch. Put up your hands.’

  The sword of light showed a gun in the man’s hand.