The Toff In Town Page 9

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  BUSINESS AT THE B.B.C.

  THROUGH the pall of smoke which floated about the staircase and the landing, Rollison saw first Jolly, then Snub. He waved to reassure them. His head was ringing; and a splinter of wood from the banisters had made a nasty gash in his hand, which was bleeding freely. That was not the worst. Doors opened downstairs, and the occupants of the other flats hurried towards the scene, a woman calling out in alarm.

  Rollison made himself stand quite still, and called:

  “An accident. It’s all right, just an accident.”

  “Accident!” gasped a man who came out of the flat nearest to Rollison. The whole place was shaken!”

  Sorry,” said Rollison. “My man was making an experiment. Jolly! Clear up the mess, and don’t forget that message for Mr. Wardle.”

  “Very good, sir,” said Jolly.

  Rollison turned and went on downstairs, holding on to the banisters. He ignored the indignant coments of the neighbours, and smiled at them placatingly. When he reached the foot of the stairs, a motherly little woman holding a Pekinese in her arms—which looked up at him with protuberant eyes —cried out:

  “Mr. Rollison, your face! And your hand! You must have them attended to !”

  “I will, very soon,” said Rollison. “Must hurry now.” He gave her a flashing smile, not realising that smoke had blackened his face and that there were several scratches from which blood oozed. Because of the black, his eyes looked feverish and his lips moist and red. He reached the street, took in several gulps of clean air and felt a little better.

  Jolly appeared by his side.

  “You should really come and have that hand dressed, sir,” he said.

  “I will,” said Rollison. “Shortly. You deal with these people, and when the police arrive, tell ‘em I tripped over a string that was tied across the stairs, and the explosion came from a brown-paper packet. Don’t let that reach the crowd,” he added in a whisper, as several people drew near. “I’ll be all right,” he added, although he felt as if he had received a heavy blow on the head.

  “Very well, sir,” said Jolly.

  “And tell Snub to keep out of sight,” ordered Rollison.

  He turned towards Piccadilly, pushing his way through a thickening crowd, and saw a taxi drawn up at the side of the road.

  Perky Lowe began to get down from his seat.

  “Stay there,” Rollison said, and pulled open the door and climbed in. He sank back in a corner and Perky drove off rapidly. As they turned the corner, he glanced through the partition opening, and asked:

  “ ‘Orspital?”

  Rollison gave a weak chuckle.

  “Not yet. Aeolian Hall.”

  “Oke,” said Perky, “but you need——”

  “I’ll get all I need there,” said Rollison.

  “Well, you’re the boss,” said Perky.

  Rollison leaned forward to look into the glass of an advertisement mirror which was fitted in front of him, and understood why the little woman had been so alarmed. He smoothed down his hair which was standing on end, and brushed the dust off his clothes, then dabbed at the blood on the back of his hand. He leaned back with his eyes closed, still unable to concentrate, but by the time the taxi reached the Hall, he was pondering over the daring of Mr. Merino.

  Had Merino himself fixed that string and set the trap? Had he had time?

  “ ‘Ere we are,” said Perky. “Want me to wait?”

  “Please.”

  “Okay—give you me report later,” said Perky. “Not that it’s much, Mr. Ar.” He jumped down from his seat and helped Rollison out—and Rollison certainly looked as if he needed helping. “Sure you can walk?”

  “I’m all right,” said Rollison, stubbornly.

  He went into the large, rather gloomy entrance hall of the building. It widened a little further along, where a broad staircase covered with blue carpet led upwards. Rollison had an impression of blue carpet, dark brown polished wood and glass all about him.

  Standing near one wall was a tall, well-dressed man in striped trousers, a black coat and a Homburg hat—Freddie Wardle.

  Opposite Wardle sat a commissionaire in a uniform which had been copied from the police. The commissionaire stared in amazement and Wardle stepped forward gaping.

  “Roily!”

  “Slight mishap,” said Rollison. There’s a first-aid room here, isn’t there?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Wardle. “Come along.”

  He did not ask questions, but led Rollison to a wide staircase —not the one he had noticed. There were only a few steps, and Wardle led the way along a narrow passage with cream walls. He turned into a room which was painted white, there were rows of bottles and first-aid equipment, a hand-basin and some cases of surgical instruments.

  “Better wash first,” said Wardle. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

  He was away for several minutes and when he returned, Rollison was drying himself on a bloodstained towel. The colour had returned to his cheeks and he looked much more himself. None of the scratches on his face was serious. His hand wound was rather ugly, and he allowed Wardle to bathe and then bandage it. Throughout the operation Wardle made no comment—a remarkable reticence, which Rollison appreciated. At last the job was finished, and Rollison combed his hair and shrugged his coat into position.

  “Much better,” he said. “Thanks.”

  “What the devil are you up to?” demanded Wardle. “I hope you’re not going to try any of your fancy tricks here, Roily.”

  “Not my tricks, the enemy’s,” said Rollison. “I don’t know what they’re going to do, old chap. Sorry. And I don’t see why there should be trouble here; this happened before I left the fiat.”

  Then why didn’t you have your hand seen to?”

  “I can’t keep important B.B.C. personages hanging about like that, it’s not good for morals. The In Town To-Night people are still here, I hope?” he added anxiously.

  “Yes—I just popped along to make sure. Not all of them, but the two who’re arranging Saturday’s show have stayed on.” Wardle stood firmly in front of Rollison, legs slightly parted, arms stiff by his sides, “Before you see them I want to know more about this business—why you’re so interested.”

  “It’s quite simple,” said Rollison. “A young fellow who’s due to broadcast on Saturday—name of Allen—is having a spot of bother. I’m lending a hand. This is just a routine check, asthe police would say.”

  “Do they know anything about it?”

  “They will soon,” said Rollison. “This can’t be kept from them any longer. You’d rather have me poking about than the police, wouldn’t you?”

  “Oh, come on,” said Wardle.

  He led the way out of the room and along the passage between the cream-coloured walls. Rollison looked about him with some interest, although he could not keep his thoughts wholly from Merino and the explosion. He noticed that the walls were partitions, and did not stretch as far as the ceiling. Names were painted on the doors. This was a large hall, which had been partitioned off into offices.

  They stopped outside a door on which were the names: M. T. Hedley: Miss Rosa Myall and, beneath it in smaller print the words: In Town To-Night.

  Wardle and Rollison went in.

  A tall, youngish man in brown, and a short, attractive woman wearing a white blouse and dark skirt stood up from the same desk—they had been sitting opposite each other. Although Rollison was fairly presentable, his appearance was enough to justify their startled glances.

  Wardle was more than equal to the occasion.

  “This is Mr. Rollison—he’s had a slight accident that delayed him,” he said. “Miss Myall—Mr. Hedley.” He pulled up chairs, and they all sat down, the couple murmuring suitable condolences. Hedley produced cigarettes and Rollison lit up appreciatively.

  “Well, now——” began Wardle.

  “Wouldn’t Mr. Rollison like a cup of tea?” asked Miss Myall. “I
can easily get one from the canteen. Or perhaps something stronger?”

  “That’s a good idea,” approved Wardle. “A drink Roily?”

  “Tea, please,” said Rollison.

  Miss Myall hurried out, but was back almost before they could start talking; someone else would bring in the tea. Obviously she did not intend to miss anything of this interview. Hedley fiddled with a pencil and looked thoughtfully at Rollison.

  “Mr. Rollison is interested, as I’ve told you, in finding out the procedure by which you get the celebrities for the show,” Wardle said. “You’re particularly interested in next Saturday’s performance, aren’t you—the day after to-morrow?”

  “Well, just to take it as an example,” said Rollison. “This is just Mr. Prodnose at work.”

  Clearly none of them believed him.

  “It’s quite simple——” Hedley began.

  “Every week——” started Miss Myall, and they broke off.

  “Go on,” said Miss Myall.

  “Go on,” said Hedley.

  “Miss Myall,” said Wardle, in the tone of a man who was tired of shilly-shallying.

  “Mr. Hedley’s right, it is simple,” said Miss Myall. The chief difficulty is one of selection. There are so many people we could put on. They fall into three categories, I suppose. The celebrities who really are famous, who come along for a special occasion, such as the launching of a new film, or from a play that’s been running almost for ever. Secondly, the sensational people——”

  “Such as?” asked Rollison.

  “Now what have we got this week?” asked Hedley. He glanced down a typewritten list. “Well, like Allen, for instance —chap who was lost in Burma for several years, lived with natives all the time and only turned up again a few weeks ago.”

  “Of course, he’s exceptional,” said Miss Myall. “We tried to get him when he first arrived but couldn’t find his address, and we were pretty crowded that week, anyhow. Then there’s the third category—not really exceptional but giving us a new slant. I mean, we might put on a miner some week when the coal output has been very good, or an engine-driver on a holiday week-end—or a man who runs The Skylark at some seaside place, or a passenger on a train which nearly had an accident. Or a busker—you know——”

  “Itinerant entertainer,” said Rollison gravely. His head still ached, but he was pre-occupied by this information and by what he had already been told about Allen.

  “How do you get hold of such people?” he asked.

  Hedley shrugged his shoulders.

  “Somebody always knows somebody,” he said vaguely. “One of us might hear of an unusual turn, or a friend might mention one. Of course, P.R.O.’s and publicity agents help—although they put one across us now and again!”

  Judging from his expression, Wardle disapproved of that comment.

  Take next Saturday,” Miss Myall said, referring to her copy of the list. “We’ll start with a wandering artist—a man who paints country-inn signs. Then we go on to a young Danish couple who are in England on a holiday—one of these hospitality-in-return-for-hospitality stunts; we’ll probably put on the two people who’ve been staying in Denmark as guests of the Dane’s parents. Then we’ve Billy and Jill Lundy, who are in a new film—comics,” she added with a sniff. “Then there’s Toni, the Italian tenor——”

  “We’ll never get him to stand far enough away from the mike, he’ll blast our heads off.” Hedley complained.

  That can be controlled,” Wardle put in quickly.

  “Trouble is, Toni will blast off before Dick can twiddle the control,” said Hedley. “That’s the lot, except for the man we’ve mentioned—young Allen.”

  “And how did you get them all?” asked Rollison.

  “Miss Myall was staying in a Hampshire pub last week and the wandering artist war doing the sign, so she roped him in,” said Hedley. “The Lundys are a promising couple and we like a bit of light relief—some of the turns get a bit heavy, the mike scares ‘em, you see. Toni happens to arrive in London this week, and a singing turn always goes down well, so we got in touch with his manager. The Danes are a follow-up, we’ve done something like this once or twice each holiday season. Allen—how did we get on to Allen, after all?” He looked at Miss Myall.

  “Pauline Dexter,” said Miss Myall promptly.

  Rollison looked blank.

  “A regular artiste,” said Wardle. “You ought to listen to your radio occasionally, Roily.”

  “I’m all for low comedy and Appointment With Fear.”

  “I wouldn’t say that Pauline Dexter’s a regular artiste,” said Miss Myall, judicially. “She has broadcast in several of the regular programmes, but isn’t a first-rate broadcaster. She’s being groomed for the films, I believe.”

  “Ought to do well,” remarked Hedley.

  Miss Myall bent upon him a dark look.

  “Possibly,” she said. “She was in Town a few months ago and looks in every now and again. She came along last week to say that she could put us on to Allen. It’s a bit old as news goes, but it’s still got a lot of human interest. Life among the cannibals and all that.”

  The Burmese are not cannibals,” Wardle informed her.

  They aren’t far short, from what I hear of some of the tribes,” retorted Miss Myall. “You did Allen’s stuff yesterday, didn’t you, Mark?”

  “Yes,” said Hedley. “Pretty good, strong stuff, too.”

  “So you do a script beforehand,” said Rollison. “How do you go about that with a man who hasn’t broadcast before?”

  That’s where the difficulty comes in,” said Hedley. “We couldn’t put them up to speak impromptu. It might be a Communist or a Fascist or anyone with a bee buzzing in his bonnet. We can fade ‘em out pretty sharply, of course, but we don’t want the programme to fall down. So they have a script. We have a man reading the script while it’s being spoken into the mike, so that if there were any serious deviation, we could fade out. Not that we ever have to,” he added.

  “But how do you prepare the script?” asked Rollison. “Do you write it for them?”

  “Now come, Roily!” protested Wardle.

  “Not exactly,” said Miss Myall. “We have them here for a chat. They nearly always talk freely, because they love the idea of broadcasting—the few shy ones soon get used to it when Mark switches on his charm! And, generally, when the story is told we’ve enough copy for a twenty minute broadcast. That has to be condensed into three minutes. That’s where we come in.”

  “So you write the script from the story you’ve been told?”

  “Not necessarily, and certainly not always,” said Hedley. “Some people are professional writers—or stage or film stars— and know exactly what they want to say. They write their own script and we vet it. Sometimes the others make a pretty good job of preparing their own script, and provided they don’t try to slip in any glaring publicity stuff and are prepared to keep it down in length, we don’t interfere. Now supposing we were preparing a script for you——” he added casually, and without moving an eyelid. “We’d lead in through the interviewer—Bill Wentworth, say, and Bill would start something like this: ‘Probably no man in England knows as much about crime, except of course detectives, as the Hon. Richard Rollison, who’s in the studio with us to-night!’

  “And then you would say,” said Miss Myall, who for some strange reason was writing shorthand notes, “I have met a few bad men one way and another, mostly in the East End!”

  “And Bill would say, ‘Mostly, or all?’ ” said Hedley. “And you would answer: ‘Oh, there are just as many crooks in the West End as the East End, but I’ve met most of mine in the East’.”

  “And something about liking East Enders,” chimed in Miss Myall.

  “We’d bring in “The Toff” somewhere,” said Hedley obligingly.

  “And mention Scotland Yard—or would you prefer to leave them out?” asked Miss Myall, looking at him keenly. “I mean, Bill could ask you your opinion of the
police, how you think the force could be improved, and——”

  “I can see I shall have to have a stab at writing this epic myself,” said Rollison. “It may be possible to improve the Yard, but I’m not up to it. I wonder——”

  “Will you write a script?” demanded Miss Myall, eagerly.

  “We’ll gladly put you in on Saturday week,” said Hedley. “We’ve never had a private detective before.”

  “Or whatever you call yourself,” said Miss Myall.

  “We can do with something a bit lively the week after this,” went on Hedley enthusiastically. “It won’t take much time, and you’ve a broadcasting voice—hasn’t he, Mr. Wardle?”

  “Possibly,” said Wardle dryly.

  “Oh, if he talked as he’s been talking now, it would come over as if he’d been broadcasting all his life,” declared Miss Myall. Hedley was equally eager; and for the first time Rollison realised that both of them really lived in their jobs. Next Saturday’s was the 400th edition of In Town To-night and yet they brought to the 401st an enthusiasm as great as to a new venture.

  “Do come!” urged Hedley.

  “May I think it over?” asked Rollison, who hadn’t the heart to say “no” out of hand.

  “Write your own script,” offered Miss Myall, grandly. “We’ll just vet it.”

  “I say,” said Hedley, suddenly swayed by a new and brilliant notion, “could you bring one of the crooks with you?”

  “I think perhaps we had better stick to the point,” broke in Wardle, not reprovingly but because he had a rigid mind. “Is there anything else you’d like to know, Roily?”

  Miss Myall and Hedley fell obediently silent.

  Rollison said slowly: “I don’t know. I see how you get the people, how you prepare the script—what time do they arrive here for the broadcast? Half-past five?”