The Toff on Fire (8 page)

Then, she struggled.

 

 

The young man who claimed to have come to service the television felt the maid's body relax against his, then took the cloth away. The girl was a dead weight. He eased her from him, put an arm beneath her knees and another round her shoulders, and lifted her. Her head lolled back, and her red, ripe mouth was slack, showing her teeth. The man grinned, as if she could see him, and said lightly: “You and I ought to get together sometime, sweetie.” He kicked open the door of the nursery, and carried the maid inside.

The child slept, without stirring, in the carved oak cot which had served the Wylies for so long.

The man carried the girl to an old rocking chair by the window, lowered her into it, and then took a cloth from his pocket and tied it round her mouth; next he took out cord, secured her wrists, then tied her legs to the chair. He did all this swiftly and expertly. Finished, he stood up, grinned at the girl again, and kicked the chair so that it started to rock to and fro, going back so far that it threatened to tip right over.

Then, he crossed to the cot.

He lifted the child out, without adjusting the blue shawl in which it was now wrapped. He went out. His big tool case was still on the landing, and he put the baby on the floor, and opened the case; it was empty. It was quite large enough for the child, and he put it in, tucked the shawl round, left the face uncovered, and closed the case. He examined the sides quickly, to make sure that none of the blue wool was showing, and then picked the case up by the handle, and started down the stairs.

Another servant, the cook who had once been a nanny here, was coming along the passage by the stairs, a woman in her forties.

“Hallo,” said the young man, as he reached the hall. “I'm just nipping back to get one or two spare valves. More trouble than I expected.”

“Oh, you're the television mechanic.”

“That's me.”

“Have you seen the maid who let you in?”

The young man grinned.

“Last time I saw her, she was singing rockaby baby or some such nonsense.” He had an attractive smile, and the woman smiled back readily.

“Oh, the baby's all right then,” the cook said; “I needn't go up.”

“Suits me,” the man said. “I won't be long.”

“All right.”

The cook opened the door, and the man stepped out, carrying the case quite casually. The door closed behind him, and he stepped towards the cars parked in Throgmorton Square – so close together that there wasn't room for another one, hardly room for a motor-cycle. He turned right, whistling just above his breath, and as he did so a tall man came towards him from one of the parked cars.

“Mind telling me where you're going?” he asked.

The man who was carrying the Rickett baby didn't turn to run, didn't turn a hair. He looked straight into the other's face, and asked:

“Mind telling me what business it is of yours?”

“This,” the big man said, and took out a C.I.D. card. “What have you got in the case?”

“Tools.”

“I'd like a look.”

“Oh, well, I suppose I can't stop you,” said the man with the case, and he actually grinned. He put the case down, close to the kerb, as if allowing plenty of room for passers-by. He did not appear to notice another heavily-built man coming up behind him – second plain-clothes detective, for Grice had put good men on to this job, and Ebbutt's men had gone.

The young man had trouble opening the case.

“Damn thing sticks,” he grumbled. “I ought to have it seen to. Have to get a mechanic on the job!” He grinned again, and his manner was so carefree that neither of the Yard men seriously expected any trouble. Traffic was moving along the Square in one direction only, and a car was crawling up, as if the driver was hoping for a parking place.

The young man fumbling with the lock glanced up and saw the driver; another young man.

He winked.

The Yard men didn't notice that.

“Come on, get a move on,” the first of them said, “or else let me have a try.”

“Half a mo',” the young man said. “Ah, it's coming.”

Then he straightened up, butting his head savagely into the speaker's stomach. The big man gave a groaning belch and staggered back. The other, by the youth's side, grabbed but couldn't hold him. The youth didn't try to get away but attacked him with both fists, smacking viciously into his face and stomach. As he did this, the driver of the car nipped out, grabbed the case and the child, and went back to the car. It was all done so swiftly and smoothly that no one noticed him, only noticed the two men who were fighting and the Yard man who had staggered back from the first impact.

The car roared off.

The Yard man tried to shout, but he was gasping for breath. Two passers-by stood watching the fight, others drew up. The youth tried to free himself now, but the Yard man grabbed his arm and he couldn't get away. He fought viciously and savagely, but suddenly crumpled up, as the Yard man smashed a fist into his stomach.

A uniformed policeman came, hurrying.

“Stop—that—car!” the Yard man gasped. “Dark blue—Austin Cambridge. Stop—”

By then, the car was out of the Square, and as soon as it turned the corner the driver pressed a button and both number plates changed.

Grice listened … “My God,” he breathed.

Rollison heard the telephone bell, and took no notice. It didn't sound loud, but as if it was miles away. But it persisted. His head was heavy on the pillow, the last thing he wanted was to wake, but it wouldn't stop. He flickered his eyelids, and turned over, but still it went on – and then suddenly he was wide awake.

He picked up the telephone, and said: “Rollison speaking.”

“Will you hold on a moment, sir? Mr. Grice would like to speak to you.” The girl operator sounded cheerful.

“Oh, yes,” Rollison said. “Thanks.”

He waited, patiently at first. Grice was a long time – time enough to let him wish that he was asleep again. He most certainly had a headache. He started to frown, because Grice kept him so long, and then he heard a sound –
in
the flat. He caught his breath, and sat up very straight. The sound was repeated, and he had no doubt what it was: someone was turning a key in the lock of his front door.

He put the receiver down on the pillow, where it made no sound, and then pushed back the bedclothes. The door from the lounge hall opened; stealthily? Rollison picked up the gun which he had taken from his prisoner, hitched up his pyjama trousers, and approached the little passage leading to the kitchen, the living-room – the trophy room. Then came footsteps, and for the first time Rollison relaxed, and even grinned; for he could identify those footsteps anywhere in the world.

Jolly had come home.

Jolly would be a tower of strength; a second right arm.

Rollison went forward, to greet him. There was an extension telephone in the study, and he could take Grices' call from there. Grice was probably on the line now, wondering why there was no answer.

Jolly appeared, in the big room, as Rollison looked inside.

Jolly moved with a kind of restrained briskness, turned to close the door behind him, and then advanced into the living-room – and saw the bare, denuded wall. No man, pole-axed, could have been stopped more effectively. He stood with one foot slightly in front of the other, one hand raised, the other clenched by his side. The pose itself was quite a thing to see, but his face—

Rollison could see his reflection in a wall mirror.

He was horror-stricken.

Rollison, who knew him for a man who had schooled himself never to show emotion, had seen him in most moods, but never like this. Horror was the only word for his expression. He surveyed the wall from top to bottom and side to side, and then he closed his eyes, as if by doing that he could put away an evil vision. He opened his eyes again, and saw the truth that was inescapable; and he looked crushed. “Not good, is it, Jolly,” murmured Rollison. Jolly started, and glanced round at him. It was an odd moment, one which Rollison was often to think about in the future. For Jolly took a grip on himself with an obvious effort, squared shoulders which had drooped and a chin which had sagged, and advanced firmly. “Good afternoon, sir,” he said, “I'm very glad to see you again.”

“And believe me, I'm glad to see you. You've landed in the middle of trouble, Jolly.”

“So I perceive,” Jolly said. He smoothed down his sparse hair and pressed his hand against his forehead, sure signs that he hadn't fully recovered. “Is there anything I can do for the moment, sir?”

“No. Get your things unpacked. Be careful of the man in your cupboard, I didn't tie him up, and I should think he will be annoyed. He's a big chap. Make it an inviolable rule never to bump against the wardrobe in my room, it might lay an egg you wouldn't like. If you've time, develop the film in the 35 millimetre camera, and see if a tyre print came out. I think Mr. Grice is on the telephone,” added Rollison, and turned back to the bedroom after all; it was physically an ordeal to go into the study and stand near the bare wall. “Very good, sir, and I won't be long,” Jolly said. No questions; no outburst of anger; nothing but the iron discipline of a man in ten thousand times ten thousand. Rollison found himself smiling as Jolly went into his own room, and then he hurried to the telephone and picked it up. “Anyone still there?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Grice still wants you,” the bright-voiced girl said. “I'll put you through.”

Grice was not always so patient, but Rollison gave that minor miracle little thought. He could hear Jolly moving about, and wondered what was really going on inside his man's mind. He felt better, and much less alone.

Then: “Rolly?” asked Grice.

Very slowly, Rollison said: “Yes, Bill,” and waited. Thought of Jolly was wrenched away, everything was emptied from his mind except this call, for Grice's tone told a story of disaster which couldn't be mistaken.

“I'm damned sorry to have to tell you,” Grice said, “but that baby has been taken from the Wylies' place.”

Rollison didn't speak, just stood by the side of the bed, his face set as if it were a mask.

“I don't know how it was done yet, but there was some kind of a double snatch,” Grice went on. “I called you as soon as I heard.”

Now, Rollison spoke, stonily: “How long ago?”

“Not more than fifteen minutes.”

“Anything known?”

“The kidnapper was driving a dark blue Austin Cambridge.”

“Thanks,” said Rollison.

“Rolly—”

Rollison rang off, and turned to the wardrobe, opened it as if he had forgotten the ‘egg' on top, took keys out of his hip pocket, knelt down and unlocked a drawer at the foot of the wardrobe. In here was a box, and inside the box two Webley automatics, each dull grey, and some clips of ammunition; there was also a thin bladed knife, without a sheath, but fastened to a large clip which could be fixed round his forearm or round the calf of his leg. He clipped the knife on to his right calf, slid one of the guns into his hip pocket, and a clip of ammunition in the left. Then he closed and locked the door. He glanced at himself in the mirror, and wasn't surprised to see the bleakness of his expression or the pallor of his face. He put on his collar and tie, and did up his shoes.

He went out.

“Jolly, I'm going to see a Miss or Mrs. Maggie Jeffson, at the Lancing Hotel, Queen Street, Victoria. If I'm not back in an hour, tell Grice.”

Jolly appeared. “Very good, sir.”

“No time to tell you what it's all about now, but in the middle of it there's a kidnapped baby and a cracksman named Rickett—Daniel Rickett. Get on to Bill Ebbutt, ask him what he knows about Rickett, and get Ebbutt's reaction to a character named the Doc.”

“I think I know it now, sir,” Jolly said. “While you were away—”

This wasn't the time to ask Jolly what he knew; but this would be testing time for Ebbutt.

“Well, check it. Tell Ebbutt I'll probably need a lot of help, and can he fix it.”

“There is something I think you should know, sir,” Jolly said in a tone which brooked no denial. “During your absence in New York, a number of Ebbutt's men turned against you, sir.” Jolly's voice was now quite flat. “They believed you let them down badly by being away so long. Before you left, you said you would be back in a week or two.”

“And instead it was nearly four months. Did anyone think of telling these gentlemen that for two months I was in hospital, and for six weeks, convalescing?”

“I tried to, sir,” Jolly said, “but—well, the man known as the Doc was very active, sir, and you weren't at hand. The rumour spread that you were not ill or injured but—that the Doc had frightened you away.”

“Well, they'll soon have a chance to see how scared I am,” Rollison said. “All the same, tell Ebbutt what to do.”

“Very good, sir,” Jolly said.

Rollison went out, bleakly, telling himself that only one thing mattered.

That child was at the mercy of men who would kill without compunction, and there was just one lead that might take him to the child.

Maggie Jeffson.

 

 

Maggie Jeffson turned away from the telephone and moved to the window of her apartment in the Lancing Hotel. It was a small hotel, but luxurious; and the apartment had everything she could want.

So did she, if appearances told the truth.

She stood by the window, looking out into the street. If she raised her head, she could just see Birdcage Walk and part of the Mall, the deep autumn colouring of the plane trees lining the Mall, and the buildings in the distance, including the walls and roofs of St. James's Palace. She was young; probably in her early thirties. She wore a dark green dress with tiny golden spots on it, and with a neckline which must be nearly a record plunge. The astounding thing about her was her tiny waist, so unbelievably small that when men espied her for the first time, they usually gaped. Then, when they had studied her figure closely if surreptitiously, they wondered whether the small waist was real or illusory; whether it was not the magnificence of her bosom and hips which made the waist look small.

She had auburn hair, cut in loose curls, and the perfect complexion, except for a hint of freckles, which red-haired and green-eyed women often have.

An Austin saloon turned into the street from the direction of Birdcage Walk.

She turned swiftly, and went back to the telephone.

“Mary,” she said when she was answered, “Mr. Brown will be here in a minute or two. As soon as he comes, send him straight up, and then arrange for the car to be driven to the garage, will you?”

“Yes, miss,” Mary said.

Maggie Jeffson rang off, and turned back to the window.

Her movements were easy and natural, and had a natural voluptuousness that had to be seen to be believed. Had she been trying to attract the attention of a dozen millionaires, all competing for her favours, she could not have moved with greater seductiveness; and it wasn't put on, it was natural.

She stretched across a chair and took cigarettes from a small table, lit one, and let the smoke trickle out of her mouth. She had full lips, well-shaped but not excessively made-up; in fact she was hardly made-up at all. Then, a telephone bell rang.

This was not one of the hotel extensions, but a line to the Westminster exchange. She moved across the lovely room, with its greens and golds, its velvets and brocades, and lifted the receiver from the cradle which matched the green of the table on which it stood. “This is Maggie,” she said. A man asked, abruptly: “Heard from him yet?”

“He's on his way,” she answered carefully.

“With it?”

“Yes.”

“So they did it,” the man said, and tension seemed to fade out of his voice. “I was beginning to wonder if Rollison lived under a lucky star. You know what to do next.”

“I know,” said Maggie.

“Don't let any harm come to it,” the man said, and a new harshness sounded in his voice, “I don't want it dead, yet.”

“I'll look after it,” promised Maggie, “but what about—”

The man cut across her words. “What about what?”

“We—we haven't heard from Galloway.”

“We will,” the man said. “Something went wrong at Rollison's flat, I haven't heard what, yet, but when I want you to worry, I'll tell you.”

Maggie didn't smile. Her face had taken on a kind of impassiveness, and was very beautiful. With that slow, exciting walk, she crossed the room again, still drawing at the cigarette. The Austin was parked immediately outside the hotel, and she saw a man get into it and drive off. Before it was out of sight, the door bell of the apartment rang.

She went across and opened it.

“Hi, Maggie,” a young man said, and came breezily into the room. “I've brought the prize packet. Ought to win a first in any show, I'd say.” He waited until she had closed the door, and then lifted the case, swinging it a little, as if he were going to toss it into the air.

“Don't!” exclaimed Maggie.

“Now what's the matter with you?” asked the young man cheerfully. “I thought you had nerves of steel.”

“He doesn't want—it hurt.”

“So it better hadn't be,” the young man said. “He's got enough bad news coming to him, as it is.”

Maggie asked sharply: “What's gone wrong?”

“The Toff oddity had a slice of luck,” the other told her quietly. “His flat wasn't burned and he's still alive and kicking. He caught Galloway, too, and Galloway was good. The Doc won't be too happy about that when he knows.”

“Why doesn't he know already?”

“Smith was with Galloway, and thought he was followed from Rollison's flat, so he went to earth until he knew he was safe.”

Maggie's eyes, lacklustre until then, took on a kind of brightness.

“That's what
he
must have meant when he said he was beginning to think that Rollison had a lucky star.” She watched the youth put the case down on a gold and green couch covered with a rich brocade, and saw him unfasten it. He pushed the lid back, and she took a step forward. “Is there anything else?” she asked.

“Penn was caught doing this job.”

“Penn,”
she echoed.

“That's right. Two keymen gone in one morning,” the young man said, in a subdued voice, but his movements weren't subdued.

“Leo, be careful,” Maggie said quickly, and moved forward.

He was taking the baby out of the case as if it was a bundle of rags; and actually held it upside down. She took it from him, and he made a grimace of distaste, watching her as she lifted the child to a level with her face, and looked at its screwed-up eyes and its little snub nose, the bubbles at its lips.

“It's okay, isn't it?” Leo asked abruptly.

“Yes, it takes a lot to harm a baby,” Maggie said, slowly, and turned away from Leo, towards the bedroom. “I'm to keep it here until five o'clock, when he'll send for it.”

“And we shan't know who he'll send or where it's going to be taken,” Leo observed, and lit a cigarette as he followed her. He watched as she put the child gently down in an armchair, and hemmed it in with cushions. “If the Doc ever fires you, you could get a job as a children's nurse,” he said; “you look as if you'd hate to see it hurt. I say, Maggie.”

“What?”

“Ever get fed up with the Doc?”

She didn't answer.

“You know what I mean,” said Leo, smoothly. “He takes us all for granted, doesn't he—and he doesn't really trust us an inch. Not a millimetre. We're watched and followed, all our movements traced, sometimes I think that if I want to pet a girl I'd have to ask his permission. I just wondered whether you ever felt like some of the others—that he's a bit too much of a good thing.”

“You get your money, don't you?” Maggie asked.

“Oh, no complaints on that score. But can mere money buy loyalty, or will someone—”

“Leo,” said Maggie Jeffson, “if I were you I'd get that nonsense right out of my head. I've worked with the Doc for much longer than you, and I've heard other people talk like you're talking now.”

Leo looked at her levelly, appraisingly.

“And they're now daisy-pushing?”

“Yes.”

“You have a point there,” conceded Leo, grimacing. “But one of these days someone is going to put his nose out of joint. I feel in it my bones. Since Jessie was caught, he's been a hell of a sight worse than he was before; this man Rollison makes him see red. There's just one thing that would put the Doc in the hollow of one's hand, though.”

“Is there?” Maggie asked.

“Just one. Knowing who he is. Do
you
know, Maggie?”

“No,” she said, and it was impossible to be sure whether she was telling the truth, “and I don't think I'd try to find out. You're very young to die, Leo.”

He stared at her.

He shivered.

“You really mean that, don't you?”

“I mean it.”

“All right, I'll be good,” said Leo, hastily. “I'll be very, very good.” Then he moved swiftly and, taking her by surprise, gripped her wrists and held them very tightly. He was slim and supple and very strong, an inch or two taller than Maggie, and in a sharp-featured way, good-looking. He had a tight-lipped grin which didn't seem to reflect amusement as he drew her closer, so that she was squeezed tightly against him.

“Maggie,” he breathed, “you wouldn't tell him that I had this little
tête-à-tête
with you, would you? Because if you did I would in turn tell him a thing or two—not all of them true, perhaps, but with plenty to suggest that perhaps you'd worked with him
too
long. He expects loyalty but he doesn't give it much, does he? If he suspected you were—”

“I won't tell him what a fool you are,” Maggie said. She didn't try to free herself, but stood limp and relaxed, as if a door were pressing against her, not a lean, lithe youth.

Leo laughed.

“Do you want to know something?” he said, lightly. “You and I could go places.”

Then, from the next room, from a man who was out of sight, there came a mild chuckle and a gentle question.

“Could you, Leo? Then why don't you?”

Leo swung round, and Maggie stared towards the door, unbelieving. No one was in sight, but the echo of that voice seemed to be in their ears, with its hint of mocking laughter.

“Could you, Leo? Then why don't you?”

They kept absolutely still. Nothing moved, once the voice had stopped, it was almost as if the words had come out of the air, and had floated away through the open window. The sound of traffic came in, muted and faraway.

Leo said, abruptly: “Who was—” and then broke off.

He put his right hand to his pocket, and drew out a gun; one exactly like that which Rollison had taken from Galloway. “You stay here,” he said, and moved swiftly towards the door. He didn't go into the big room, but stood close to the door, and sidled nearer.

The unseen man spoke again.

“You don't really think that gun will help you, Leo, do you?” he said.

Leo didn't answer.

Maggie Jeffson turned and looked at the sleeping child, then almost wildly at the window. She didn't pick the child up, but moved to the other side of the bed; here was another telephone, an extension of the one with the direct line. She picked it up, and dialled.

“Calling for help?” inquired the unseen man lightly. “Oh, well, fair's fair, you fetch the Doc and I'll fetch the cops. I suppose it had to happen sooner or later. Unless, of course, you care to tell the Doc that the Toff doesn't like the cops and will make it a free-for-all just between our two selves. Nothing barred except babies. If he wins, he can keep my trophies of the hunt, if he loses he wills me his ribs to place high upon the wall.”

Leo was crouching, and creeping towards the door, the gun thrust forward.

“Can you hear me, Maggie?” called Rollison, in a brighter tone than ever.

She was listening to the ringing sound of the telephone, her body rigid, her eyes frightened as she stared towards the door. There was silence as she watched Leo, who was now so close to the door that he couldn't get any nearer without being seen. His face was set and his eyes blazing, and his finger seemed to be quivering on the trigger.

“Mind you don't get in a draught,” called Rollison, solicitously, “you won't be much use to the Doc wid a code in de dose.”

There was no sound in the room, and after Rollison stopped speaking, the only thing that Maggie could hear was the
brrr-brrr-brrr
of the ringing sound; but the Doc did not answer and no one answered for him.

“I'll tell you what,” said Rollison, “I'll make a deal. If you come into this room bringing the baby with you, Maggie, I'll just take you and the baby, and beat it. I won't tell the police where I found the precious infant, I'll just let it be a warning to the Doc. He'll be intrigued to find out whether I can make Maggie talk, too. Yes?”

Leo had moved a few inches from the wall. He was going to spring forward, fling himself into the big room, and shoot Rollison. His lips were parted, and his teeth showed; he had an ugly, savage look.

“No, I perceive,” went on Rollison, as if sorrowfully. “I was afraid not. I'd better bring the police—”

Then, Leo spoke.

“If you call the police, I'll cut the kid's throat,” he said, and sounded as if he meant it.

Maggie stood stock still, looking down at the child, listening to that unending
brrr-brrr-brrr.
After Leo's threat there was no sound and no movement from the other room; it was almost as if Rollison had vanished into thin air.

Then, the ringing sound stopped, and a man said in a deep voice which was almost as familiar to Maggie as her own:

“Who is that?”

“Rollison's here with me,” Maggie whispered, very softly, “he's in the other room, Leo and I are in the bedroom. He wants the baby.”

The Doc did not even seem to pause to think.

“Hold him there,” he ordered. “Never mind how, but hold him there, I've had enough of Mr. Ruddy Toff, I'll send someone to put him where he belongs.”

Then he rang off.