The Toff and the Fallen Angels t-53 Read online

  “This time, will you just take my word for it?”

  “I will, but a magistrate might not. All right, Rolly. I’ll call you back in half-an-hour, don’t come charging over here yet.”

  “If you’re thirty-one minutes, I’ll be on my way.” Roll-son said.

  * * *

  Five minutes later, Sir Douglas Slatter, massive in a camel-hair dressing gown, and tight-lipped with bad temper, growled at Grice : “If you have to I suppose you’ll have to, but if you’re doing it without a good reason I shall have questions asked in the House.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Grice.

  He had four men with him and they went from room to room, with Slatter accompanying one couple and a middle-aged grey-haired housekeeper the other. Grice went out to his car, had a message telephoned to Roll-son, and then rejoined his men. They had nearly finished, when he heard the housekeeper say to the two policemen with her :

  “This is the last room—and there’s a girl sleeping in it. A maid. Don’t frighten her out of her wits.”

  Grice reached them as she opened the door, and peered over their shoulders.

  There, sleeping the sleep of the innocent, one bare arm over the bedspread, hair spread like leaves over the pillow, was Angela. She looked what she was : little more than a child. Grice eased himself inside the room and looked down at her closely. She was breathing evenly, her lips lightly closed. He gave a half-smile, of pleasure, and then withdrew.

  Outside, he said : “Now I would like to see the attic and the loft, please.”

  * * *

  Just after half-past three, Rollison’s telephone rang again. It made Gwendoline start up from the chair in which she had been dozing, and as he lifted the receiver he heard the one on Jolly’s extension lifted, too.

  “Ronson.”

  “She’s all right, Roily,” Grice assured him. “She’s sleeping naturally, and I didn’t wake her. There’s no-one who shouldn’t be in the house, no sign of a man who fits the description you gave me, and no mud on any of the doorsteps. I’d leave Angela there. She’s safe enough for to-

  night, anyhow, and I’ll have that house watched as well as Smith Hall. We can decide what to do about her to-morrow.”

  “Good enough,” agreed Rollison. “The little devil!” But he laughed. “Thanks very much, Bill, and goodnight.”

  As he rang off, he heard Jolly’s muted : “Thank God for that,” and he saw Gwendoline by his side, bright with excitement, pretty as the proverbial picture. She clutched his arm and her grip was surprisingly strong.

  “Now will you do a deal?”

  “Yes,” answered Rollison. “I’ll do a deal and I’ll see you get some inside information, but before we come to terms I’d like to sleep on the situation and see how I feel in the morning.”

  “You mean, you’re tired out,” said Gwendoline, giving way to a vast yawn. “So am I! What time tomorrow?”

  “Will two o’clock in the afternoon suit you?”

  “Are you going to sleep that long?”

  “I shall ask Jolly to see that I’m up by nine o’clock, I’ve a lot to do before going to Smith Hall at noon to-morrow,” said Rollison.

  “Do you know,” said Gwendoline Fell, “I think that given encouragement, you might be quite funny, after all.” She turned towards the door. “Thanks for the coffee, and the sandwiches were lovely.”

  Rollison went with her down the stairs; she was un-believably light-footed and graceful; even when she threw a leg over her motor-scooter she showed grace. She placed her crash helmet firmly on her head and then shattered the street with the roar of the engine, raised a hand, and moved off at startling speed. Rollison watched her out of sight, then, went up to his flat, and along to Jolly’s room.

  Jolly was in bed.

  “Well, what do you make of that young lady?” asked Rollison. “Do you trust her?”

  “I grew to dislike her less as time went on,” admitted Jolly grudgingly. “But I certainly wouldn’t trust her too far.”

  “No, nor would I,” agreed Rollison. “Tomorrow, see what you can find out about her background and also about Smith Hall residents Anne Miller and Judy Lyons. Be discrete, and if necessary ask Mr. Grice for help. He’ll probably give it gladly.”

  “He is obviously deeply worried,” said Jolly. “It’s very hard to believe that Professor Webberson is dead, sir, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Rollison heavily. “Hard to realise that two of the girls are probably dead, too, and Naomi Smith is on the killer’s list. At least he won’t use the same hammer again,” he added. “About nine on the morning. That will give us five hours’ sleep, with luck.”

  “I’ll call you, sir.”

  Rollison went to bed with so much on his mind that he half-expected to be a long time getting off, but in fact he was asleep as soon as he had adjusted the sheets and blankets. The reassurance about Angela, shadowed by the other murders, by the dangers, by the threats, had exhausted him.

  Jolly brought him tea at five minutes past nine.

  At ten o’clock he pulled up outside the modern severity of the new New Scotland Yard, was recognised and passed from constable to sergeant, sergeant to Chief Inspector and finally into Grice’s office. Grice was not there. Three newspapers were open on his desk, an indication of sudden departure.

  “He’s with the Assistant Commissioner, sir,” said the Chief Inspector. “He isn’t likely to be long.”

  “Thanks,” said Rollison—and the door opened and Grice came in. He did not look in the best of moods, and simply nodded before rounding the desk and shuffling the newspapers into position. “Good morning, Bill,” said Rollison. “I wanted to come and say ‘thanks’ in person.”

  Grice grunted.

  “The Assistant Commissioner doubts the need or the wisdom of my search of Slatter’s house,” he said. “Slatter’s already been talking to M.P.s and they have been talking to the Home Secretary. Did you have to choose as suspect a millionaire who owns more property in London than any other single person?”

  “No,” said Rollison. “Angela chose him.”

  “She has been seen in the house this morning,” Grice went on. “I want you to find out why she went there as soon as you can, and if it’s some damned flight of fancy, I want her out.”

  “Yes, Superintendent,” said Rollison with tactful humility. “Any news?”

  “The sledge hammer was the one used to kill Keith Webberson.” Grice touched a file on his desk. “It had been stolen from a building site nearby, a small block of flats is going up where there used to be a big house. No fingerprints, but there are burned initials on the shaft,” Grice added.

  “What intitials?”

  “T.S.—and don’t start jumping to any more conclusions.” Grice’s interview with the Assistant Commissioner for Crime must have been very unpleasant. “And don’t ask me whether I’m trying to find the owner, either.” He moved his right hand as one of three telephones on his desk began to ring. “Why should anyone try to murder Mrs. Smith, if we could answer that . . . Grice here.”

  His expression changed as he listened, the sense of grievance died.

  “Yes .. “ he said. “Are you quite sure? . . . Well, now we know where we are. Is there any way of finding out whether she was killed by the same sledge hammer? . . . Yes, compare the wounds with those on the back of Professor Webberson’s head . . . Yes, as far as I know I’ll be here all the morning.”

  He put the receiver down, and leaned back in his chair. Rollison was almost sure what the main news was but he waited for Grice to deliberate, without trying to rush him.

  “The body taken out of the Thames was Winifred de Vaux’s,” he said flatly. “The dentist has just given positive identification. There’s no news of the other missing girl. Webberson was murdered about eight days ago—four or five days before the de Vaux girl disappeared. And—” Grice pulled at his lower lip before going on: “And the neighbours across from Webberson’s flat have identified the gir
l in the photograph as Winifred de Vaux. The woman recognised another visitor to Webberson’s flat, too.”

  Grice paused.

  “The other missing girl,” said Rollison.

  The other missing girl, Iris Jay,” confirmed Grice. “And Mrs. Smith was a regular visitor, too. So the two missing girls and the matron of Smith Hall were regular visitors to your friend’s flat. Rolly,” went on Grice in a brisker, demanding tone, Was Keith Webberson one for the women?”

  Slowly, Rollison answered : “When he was younger, yes.”

  “Do you have any reason to believe he grew out of it?”

  “No,” admitted Rollison. “None at all. But he was one of the group who sponsored this hostel. He—” he broke off, raising his bands, as Grice looked at him severely. “Guilty conscience, do you mean?” he asked.

  “It could be,” said Grice. “It certainly could be. Mrs. Smith told me last night that you were going to be at Smith Hall when the surviving sponsors are to meet this morning. I don’t want a man there but I do want a detailed report of what goes on.”

  “I’ll see you get it,” promised Rollison.

  “Plain and unvarnished,” insisted Grice.

  “Yes.”

  “And by the way,” said Grice, “I had a report that you had a late night visit from that columnist of the Daily Globe, Gwendoline Fell. What was that sly young woman after?”

  “Sly?” echoed Rollison.

  “Don’t say she fooled you,” said Grice. He laughed with some show of irritation. “But perhaps she did. She’s twisted more of our men round her little finger than anyone I’ve ever known. Does she want inside information in return for her help?”

  “William,” said Rollison with feeling, “you get wiser and wiser and wilier and wilier every day. Yes, that is exactly what she wanted.”

  “Be careful how much you tell her,” advised Grice. “If I know her, she’ll want a detailed report of the meeting of the sponsors, too.”

  “Plain and unvarnished, no doubt,” rejoined Rollison. “Bill, did you realise you had a lot in common with Gwendoline Fell?”

  Grice looked astonished.

  “I have?”

  “Yes, you,” said Rollison. “You share the illusion that I’m no longer capable of thinking for, acting for and looking after myself. I’ll be in touch.”

  He smiled broadly, and moved so swiftly that he was outside Grice’s office before Grice had recovered from the impact of his words. And as he walked along the passages of the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police, he was humming to himself.

  In less than an hour, he would be at the meeting of the sponsors; at least, of the four who were left.I

  CHAPTER 11

  The Four Remaining

  POLICE still watched outside Smith Hall, and were stationed at the corners of Bloomdale Street and Bloom-dale Square, in positions from which they could watch Number 29—Sir Douglas Slatter’s house—as well as Number 31. A few bystanders looked on with patient interest as Rollison approached; then a young newspaper photographer sparked their interest by crying out :

  “Hold it, Mr. Rollison!”

  There was a surge forward from the crowd, and an elderly man whom Rollison had known for years as one of Fleet Street’s most astute crime reporters, came from behind the photographer.

  “Good morning, Toff !” he said clearly, smiling.

  Among the crowd the name was echoed: Toff—Toff —Toff—Toff, and on two or three lips it reached Rollison’s ears.

  “Good morning, Arthur,” said Rollison, above the noise of hammering from the nearby building site.

  “What interested you in this—ah—establishment?” inquired the Fleet Street man.

  “The murder of a close friend of mine,” said Rollison. “Professor Webberson, do you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know that he was a—ah—sponsor of Smith Hall?”

  “Not until recently,” said Rollison. “I did know that he was a man with an exceptional social conscience, and if he was a sponsor here, then Smith Hall was worth sponsoring.” He smiled again and moved on.

  “If you’ll spare just one moment—”

  “I’m late already,” Rollison said, and turned into the gate. A policeman, young and obviously admiring, stood just outside. “Good morning, officer. Am I the last?”

  “One to come, sir, I believe.”

  “Good. It’s always nice not to be last!”

  Rollison approached the house slowly, seeing it for the first time in full daylight. It was old, of weathered brick, ugly, but obviously spacious. It stood in its own grounds, like all the houses along here, but between the house itself and the walls dividing it from the other properties there was little more than a car’s width. Beyond the driveway along which he walked were three green-painted garages. The brick wall he had vaulted the previous night looked newer than either of the houses, and the grass on this side of it was still damp. He glanced up at the first floor windows of the house next door—and a young woman slipped out of sight.

  “All right, Angela,” Rollison said to himself, and he stepped on to the porch.

  Another policeman stood just inside; Grice certainly wasn’t taking the slightest chance. The door was closed, but opened before he had withdrawn his finger from the bell-push. Standing before him was Anne Miller; obviously she had been waiting for this moment. In broad daylight, she looked a little older. This morning, she had brushed her hair until it had quite a sheen, and her tunic-type suit was inches longer than the one she had worn last night. Her eyes looked huge, and there were dark, patches under them—patches which should never darken the face of a young woman. The long, narrow face had a curious attractiveness; so did her small, exquisitely shaped mouth.

  “Good morning, Anne’ said Rollison.

  “Good morning, sir’ ‘Sir’ was quite a concession. She closed the door, and went on in an almost conciliatory voice : “I’m sorry I made a fool of myself last night.”

  “Who told you that you made a fool of yourself?” asked Rollison.

  “I didn’t need telling; she said drily.

  “You need telling that when you open your heart and let the hurts pour out, you aren’t making a fool of yourself,” Rollison told her. They stood together in that large hall with the portraits looking down on them, and he saw the shadows not only beneath, but in, her eyes. “I was ready to help all I could before we talked,” Rollison went on. “Afterwards I wasn’t simply ready, I simply couldn’t start soon enough!”

  The way her face brightened showed both surprise and belief.

  “You’re—you’re very kind.”

  He squeezed her hand as the door of the study opened and a man said : “We will have to start without them,” and Naomi Smith appeared, her eyes lighting up when she saw Rollison. But after a glance at him and a quick “Good morning,” she said : “Anne, if Dr. Brown arrives, show him straight in, will you?”

  “Yes,” said Anne.

  “Thank you, dear. Do come in, Mr. Rollison.” She opened the door wider and then stood aside, while two men standing by the fireplace, and one sitting on an upright chair with two hook-handled walking sticks, looked towards him. Nimmo, the physicist, tall, very thin, with a bald pate and a halo of grizzled hair, he recognised;

  Nimmo was standing by the side of a much shorter and much broader man, who had an iron-grey look about him —hair, eyes, suit, even his skin, appeared to be much the same colour. And there was something Teutonic about the shape of his head; Rollison placed him as Professor Offenberger, one of the few men whose renown as a mathematician was worldwide.

  Naomi was introducing them, indicating each with a small wave of her hand.

  “Mr. Rollison, I don’t know whether you know Dr. Carfax.” Carfax, one of Britain’s most renowned scholars, a leading pro-Shakespeare figure whenever Shakespeare’s authorship was challenged, was sitting, so Rollison’s identification of the others was quite right. “Professor Nimmo, Professor Offenberger. I�
�m afraid Dr. Brown hasn’t arrived, but as he doesn’t answer his telephone he is presumably on his way here.”

  “Unless,” said Offenberger, in a hard, near-guttural voice, “he is also dead. Is that what you have come to tell us, Mr. Rollison?”

  Carfax, who had a rose-pink complexion and looked a picture of health despite his infirmity, half-closed his eyes in patient resignation that anyone should say such a thing. Nimmo waved his hands in disclaimer.

  “Nonsense, Otto, you have death on the brain.”

  “That is the way it comes,” said Offenberger with grim humour. “But I say we should already tell the police that George is late. How can we be sure all is well with him after these dreadful things? You know the latest, perhaps, Mr. Rollison? The poor girl, Winifred de Vaux, is dead—murdered like our good friend Webberson.”

  “Yes,” Rollison answered. “The police told me.”

  “Did they tell you also who is doing these wicked things? Why every girl, and also all of us, are threatened with death? And it is no use raising your eyes to heaven, Will.” He turned his curiously iron grey eyes towards Carfax, who was certainly looking as if he were invoking aid from on high. “We all of us are threatened. We take no notice, until the girls disappear and much worry there is. And now Keith is dead of the bloody—” he pronounced the word ‘bloddy’— “hammer, and Naomi’s head is nearly smashed in. Do you deny it is serious? Do you deny it?” He pointed an accusing finger at Rollison. “Do you deny we must stop the good works, that if we go on it will lead to more deaths? Tell me, at once, please. Do you deny the need for that?”

  He still pointed and the others all stared at Rollison, as if he were an oracle.

  “I—ah—am never happy about stopping good work,” Rollison murmured.

  “But how can we the good works do if we are dead?”