Accuse the Toff (3 page)

As he saw the sergeant turn away he heard the front door of the cottage opening and he looked over his shoulder. An old, grey-haired man in shirt-sleeves braved the cold of the day to walk quickly along the path. Rollison turned back and watched him. A lined face, weather-beaten by constant exposure, held bright blue eyes which were both angry and anxious. Rollison thought that the other's lips were a little unsteady as he asked: ‘Do—do you want anything, sir?'

Rollison smiled at him charmingly and took out his cigarette-case. He proffered it and the old man said that he did not mind if he did; his fingers were unsteady as he extracted a cigarette. Rollison flicked his lighter into flame.

‘I was going to find out whether I could get a cup of tea,' he admitted. ‘I've walked much farther than I intended and—' he broke off, his smile widening. ‘Then I decided that it wouldn't be fair with rationing and all that.' He raised a hand, a resigned gesture.

‘It wouldn't be any
trouble,'
said the old man but he had some difficulty in articulating. ‘I don't know how mother's fixed for tea, though.' He stood indeterminate, eyeing the Toff and further convincing the latter that he was anxious although the anger had faded from his eyes. ‘Shall I go and ask her?'

‘Would you mind?' asked Rollison. ‘It would be a kindly act if she did make one.' He opened the gate and saw the old man lick his lips. A step behind the other he walked up the garden path with a trim privet hedge on either side of him. Glancing up to the attic window he saw the curtains move again.

A sharp gasp greeted his entry into the parlour of the cottage; the front door led straight into the room where he saw a kitchen dresser. A swift movement followed and then a clatter of pots and pans; something broke. Rollison made a banal comment while the old man hurried into the kitchen. Another gasp and a tearful voice was raised on a high note to be cut short by a gruff command from the man. A whisper which followed came clearly: ‘You must pull yourself together, Jane! He's a decent chap, he wants …'

The words faded while Rollison drew on his cigarette and then glanced out of the door by which he had entered. It led, on the far side, to another room and a flight of stairs. He stepped towards the stairs and ascended them, making little sound. A small landing at the top revealed three doors and a loft-ladder; there was an opening in the ceiling – the entrance, he assumed, to the attic. He reached the ladder and began to mount it, still making hardly a sound, intent on his errand but prepared at any moment to hear an exclamation from below-stairs, evidence that he was missed.

No interruption came from the parlour but he heard a gasp above his head and then a bundle, which looked like clothes, hurtled down. He swayed to one side on the ladder; the bundle struck it, then dropped heavily to the floor. A moment later a pair of legs showed, feet rested on the top rung of the ladder and the man from the attic began to hurry down. He swung from the ladder ahead of Rollison, landed heavily, made a wild blow at Rollison and then darted for the stairs.

 

 

As Rollison evaded the wild swing a cry came from downstairs. At the same moment he saw the feverish eyes of the man who rushed past him, a good-looking youngster with lips drawn back over large white teeth. The youth ran for the stairs, the shouting from below grew in volume while Rollison followed more leisurely to the landing, taking his revolver from his holster as he went. The escapee was near the bottom step when Rollison called down: ‘I shouldn't go any farther. I don't want to shoot.'

The casualness of the words made them effective. The youth stopped on the bottom step; instinctively his arms went upwards. Into the small passage crowded the old man and a woman, a tiny, thin creature with white hair and enormous, horrified eyes.

‘Oh, Tom, Tom, Tom!' she incanted. ‘Oh, Tom, Tom!' She pushed past her husband and reached the youth, flinging her arms about him. ‘They won't hurt you, they won't! Oh, Tom!'

It was not a moment for sentiment or soft speaking although the poignancy of the scene was not lost on Rollison. He stood half-way down the stairs, still pointing his gun, and spoke sharply: ‘Stand aside, mother! Don't play any foolish tricks, son, you'll only get hurt. Turn round and let me get a look at you.'

The boy obeyed.

He was dressed in an ill-fitting suit of navy blue. His eyes were blue and his face made it obvious that he was the son of the old man. His features were clear-cut and he was pleasant-looking despite the fear in his eyes and the way his mouth quivered. Yet he eyed the Toff steadily while he stood by his mother and his father joined them.

Looking down on them, Rollison wondered if ever there had been so odd a scene. Then he spoke firmly: ‘I don't know what this is about yet but the quicker I do the better for all. Supposing you go in the parlour and sit down?' He went a step nearer them and they backed into the little parlour, furnished with old-fashioned furniture but not overloaded with knick-knacks or photographs. For the first time Rollison grew aware of an appetising smell coming from the kitchen; it reminded him that he was hungry.

The trio obeyed and sat down. The woman burst out quickly and tearfully, her right hand clutching her son's arm.

‘He didn't mean it; he didn't, I tell you; my Tom wouldn't do such a thing! He was—he was going to give himself up, weren't you, Tom? Tell the officer you were, tell him! It's only been three days, he didn't mean to desert, I swear he didn't! He got drunk, he was out with a lot of men older than he is, and they made him drunk! He would have come back himself. I swear he would!'

She stopped abruptly, peering at the Toff as if trying to judge his reception of the statement. What the woman said could explain the family's anxiety and the youth who had been hiding. He looked again into the clear eyes of the soldier who would be classed a deserter and remembered the man who had run amok on the previous night. Sharpness would get him the necessary information quickly, sympathy would fail him.

‘Where's your uniform?' he demanded.

‘In—in the kitchen,' muttered the youth.

‘What's your name?'

‘J—Jameson, sir.'

‘Regiment?'

‘The—the Twenty-first Commando Detachment, sir.'

Commando, thought Rollison, and narrowed his eyes. But he did not allow the other a respite and fired question after question, getting straight answers to them all.

Jameson said that he had been on seven days' leave and was now three days overdue. He had been stationed in Kent. He had spent most of the leave with his parents but met a crowd of men he knew at a public-house three nights before. He had got drunk and did not remember what had happened until the following morning when he had arrived home in a condition so maudlin that he had been put to bed immediately. Then he had discovered that his revolver and some of his equipment was missing. Knowing the men with whom he had been drinking, he had gone to see them the next night, being assured that none of them had seen the missing equipment. Scared of reporting without it, he had tried again on the following night – the night of the shooting affray.

‘I—I only had a bitter, sir,' he exclaimed, as he saw the apparently sceptical expression on Rollison's face. ‘Just one, that's all! It—it knocked me over; I went right out, drunk as a lord. I'm not used to it, honestly I'm not, but I can't understand one—one bitter.'

‘Nor will anyone else,' said Rollison uncompromisingly.

He felt that it was reasonably likely that the worry of the older Jamesons was simply that the youth had overstayed his leave and lost his equipment; he could not yet be certain of the youngster himself. He could understand, too, that they would look on deserting as a cardinal crime, could imagine the panic into which the youth's carousals had sent the household. But he was not interested in that, as such: he was interested in Jameson's gun and equipment.

‘But it's true,' protested Jameson. ‘I remember that clearly, and then—and then I don't remember anything else until I was in the water.'

‘What water?'

‘Why, the canal, sir.' exclaimed the old man. ‘Tom was walking home, he must have been walking home, and fell in. That sobered him; he's not a lad who's ever taken much strong drink and he climbed out and came home. He was going to report, sir, I swear it! He wasn't going to waste no more time looking for his gun or anything, he was going back to his unit as—as soon as he'd got his clothes dried. We had them hanging in the kitchen but mother took them down when we saw you.'

‘They're all bundled up in a cupboard now,' declared “mother” pathetically.

Rollison looked from one to the other. Young Jameson's manner impressed him favourably; the story of the lost gun and equipment was plausible enough to explain his first reluctance to return to his unit. To overstay leave was bad enough but to admit losing equipment would earn double punishment. It was a trivial business, even though it would appear enormous in the eyes of this family; but the point at issue was how it affected the shooting in Chiswick. It was too much of a coincidence to believe that the car had been placed near the cottage quite independently of Jameson's return.

He decided it was time for the more sympathetic approach and he took out his cigarette-case again. Jameson looked startled when offered a cigarette but said ‘No thank you, sir,' stiffly, as if expecting a rebuke if he accepted. The old man followed the son's example. Rollison lit a cigarette, leaned against an easy chair and spoke quietly: ‘I want you to listen carefully, Jameson. Quite accidentally, I think' – the mendacity in the circumstances was justifiable – ‘you've become mixed up in something more than over-staying your leave. Have you told me the whole story without any frills or any lies?'

‘It's God's truth, sir!'

‘I hope so,' said Rollison slowly. ‘The trouble I've mentioned is about a car that was stolen last night and found near here. Probably you've seen it.' The old man nodded and the woman gasped. ‘I don't know a great deal about it but I can tell you that it was driven by a Commando.' Rollison skidded over thin ice expertly and went on: ‘So before you report to your unit, Jameson, I want you to come with me and see the police in London.'

‘But—' began Mrs. Jameson aghast.

‘The police!' exclaimed the old man.

It was Jameson himself who interrupted their protests, eyeing Rollison with a sudden new interest, frowning a little but speaking with an eager note in his voice.

‘Just a minute, mother. Would you mind telling me your name, sir?'

‘Rollison,' said the Toff, and waited.

‘I
thought
so,' said Jameson, softly, and there was a gleam in his eyes, eagerness in his expression. ‘I've read a lot about you, sir, of course. Who hasn't? I'll come with you gladly. It'll be all right, mother,' he went on quickly. ‘You've heard me talk of Mr. Rollison. The Toff.' He uttered the soubriquet a little hesitantly, bringing a smile to Rollison's lips and a gasp of surprise from the old man.

Jameson, not Rollison, won the parents over to make no further protest, except that Mrs. Jameson refused to let him leave without his dinner. She made so bold, she said, as to wonder if Colonel Rollison would care to share their humble meal. Rollison, mildly amused at the irony of the situation, feeling for the old folk, partly convinced of Jameson's sincerity and yet reserving final judgment on him, gladly joined them. The meal was as appetising as its aroma had promised and he did no more than justice to it while wondering what the police outside would have said had they known the whole truth.

Outside, the police were still dragging the canal.

Jameson passed them without comment. Nor did he speak while they walked to the trams which ran nearby and boarded one for the nearest station. He was silent on the journey, also, and his first comment, except for odd, irrelevant remarks, came when their taxi drew up outside the doors of Scotland Yard.

‘What am I wanted for, sir?'

‘I don't know that you're wanted yet,' said Rollison. ‘In any case, if you've told the truth you're all right.' He led the way to the waiting-room then asked Jameson to stay there until he was sent for. In the passage outside Rollison called a constable aside and asked him to make sure the other man did not leave then hurried along to Grice's office; the fact that he was
persona grata
at the Yard had rarely been more useful.

He tapped on Grice's door and put his head into the room. Grice was speaking into the telephone but glanced up and, when he saw the caller, beckoned him with his free hand. He continued speaking for some seconds then replaced the receiver and pushed the instrument away from him with a sigh.

‘Aliens, aliens, nothing but aliens,' he complained. ‘My life is a nightmare with 'em. It doesn't matter what job we're on, the Alien Laws crop up somewhere and there are times when I could do violence to the authors of 18B!' He smiled wryly and his mood altered. ‘But never mind that, Rollison, I've some news about the shooting. The War Office has done a remarkably good job this time.'

‘Be careful,' warned Rollison. ‘Remember I adorn it. What have they done?'

‘Traced the gun back to its owner,' said Grice. ‘Or lessee, as the case may be. A Thomas Martin Jameson at Canal Cottage, Wembley.' The Superintendent's eyes were creased as he went on: ‘You were right on his doorstep, Rolly. There's the car stranded nearby and a Commando living on the spot, one whose gun was used last night. I've put out a call for Jameson, of course, and his home will be visited this afternoon. We may find the explanation the simple one. Well, now—what did you find?' added Grice. ‘It isn't a day I'd choose to walk along the canal for the sake of it.'

Rollison put his head on one side.

‘Cancel the call for Jameson,' he urged. ‘I have him with me, together with a story that fits all the questions we've been asking ourselves.' He paused long enough to survey and enjoy Grice's expression of sheer incredulity. ‘Before I get back to the office I've just time for this. Jameson says that he was due to go back off leave, had a final night out, mixed with a hard-drinking crowd at a local pub and had too much to drink. His gun and other odds and ends were stolen. When he sobered up he was scared because he'd overstayed his leave and his parents are the kind to think the immediate penalty for desertion is shooting. He tried to get the gun back but failed. He tried again, was dosed with a knockout—that seems to be what happened, anyhow—and, later, thrown into the canal. The throwing coincided with the arrival of the Ford. The reason for it all is obvious. We were to believe that Jameson had a grouch and was worried. The incident with Ibbetson worried him more and he went off the handle, took the car, returned to a spot near his home, was filled with remorse and tried to drown himself. Impact with cold water removing his more distant fears, he climbed out and sought refuge at home. That,' finished Rollison, ‘is the story. It looks pretty, doesn't it?'

Grice made no comment at all.

‘Of course, Jameson may have done the job himself and thought this story up,' conceded the Toff. ‘But if we grant that he did lose his gun and someone else used it, we have the perfect picture in the perfect frame—with one thing that went wrong; would Jameson, in such circumstances, drive right up to his own doorstep before trying to drown himself? On the face of it, I say no.'