Salute the Toff (5 page)

 

The Toff stretched an arm upwards and pulled at the alarm cord, the shriek ringing in his ears. Harrison was standing at the open door, gripping the sides and swaying with the motion of the train.

“Move back, old chap.”

Slowly Harrison obeyed. His face was pale, and his lips were parted.

“There's whisky in my case,” said Rollison.

As he spoke the train was slowing down, and doors were banging farther along the corridor. Lights were shining from carriage windows which a few minutes before had been in utter darkness. A guard came hurrying towards the Toff's compartment, calling: “Who pulled that cord, please? Who pulled the cord?”

The Toff waited for the man to reach him.

“I did,” he said, to a portly man with a silky brown moustache decorated with breadcrumbs. The guard was hatless, and his bald head was shiny.

“Well, what—'Ere, what are you doin' with that
gun!”

His voice went upwards, and carried far along the corridor. Voices and mutters of conversation ceased, except that a woman said clearly: “Someone's got a gun, George.”

“All right, m'dear,” said the unseen George. “That's all right, the guard will look after it.”

Rollison spoke slowly, shaken by the sudden jump from the window.

“Nothing, as it happens. A man has jumped out of my door.”

“Jumped!” exclaimed the guard, and the woman who had called out before repeated in her clear, carrying voice: “He says a man has jumped out of the door, George.”

“All right, m'dear, I can hear,” said George.

It was that which broke the tension that had been in the Toff's mind from the moment the little man had disappeared. He uttered silent thanks to the unseen George, while two more guards came up to the compartment, both carrying lanterns. The Toff unfastened the gun from his wrist and placed it on his bunk.

“I'll give you what information you want later,” he said. “Where are we?”

“Just running into Crewe, sir.” The guard appeared to be reconciled both to the gun and the Toff's manner, but he remained in the carriage while the others jumped down to the track and walked back along the line. The Toff sat on the edge of his berth, smoking, and a few passengers passed by and stared into the compartment. Harrison glowered at them, and it occurred to the Toff that if ever a man looked guilty – of what it did not matter – Ted Harrison did then. But he had recovered by the time a messenger came to say that the body had been found.

“So he's dead,” Harrison said.

“We were travelling fast,” said the Toff. “He didn't have a dog's chance. The one thing that poor devil knew was that he must not be caught. He preferred to risk that jump.”

“Isn't it time you told us about it?” asked the guard.

“They'll want me for an inquiry at Crewe, I take it?” said the Toff. “I'll get dressed.”

He hoped that there would not be a long delay, and his hopes were vindicated. The assistant station-master on duty was satisfied with a brief outline of the story plus Rollison's name and address. That was helped by the willingness with which he offered to contact with Scotland Yard. In different circumstances he would have been amused by the officials, who gave the impression that they welcomed the tragedy because of the opportunity to meet him.

The Toff disliked the tragedy intensely.

It was not the death of a man that worried him. As with the man he imagined to be Draycott, the fact of death itself had no effect on him. But the desperation in the crook's mind had sinister implications.

Why had he been so afraid of being caught?

For the crime on the train he would have suffered no more than three years' imprisonment, and probably a lesser sentence: yet he had acted like a man who had committed murder and arrest seemed imminent.

Or a man who was afraid of other things.

“What other things?” asked Harrison. Both had dressed, and there was no thought of sleep. The train was moving at speed again.

“I don't know,” said the Toff slowly, “but our man was possessed by the fear of the devil, and that is not a nice thing.”

“You're a queer fellow, aren't you?” remarked Harrison.

The Toff shrugged but did not answer. He was still wondering about the dead man – on whom there had been nothing likely to help identification – when they reached Manchester. It was a fine, bright morning, with the sun just breaking over the horizon, and lending to the Lancashire city a touch of early-morning grandeur. The station was not busy, taxis were available, and the Toff and Harrison went at once to the Queen's Hotel.

The night porter was heavy-eyed and inclined to be surly. He did not know if there was a Mr. Draycott there, and if he did no one was going to be disturbed by him at six o'clock in the morning without orders. There was no chance of him calling the manager, either: what did he want – the sack?

A ten-shilling note made no impression. The porter was a north-countryman of the rare type who seemed to have a perpetual grievance. He was going to do nothing, although somewhat grudgingly he said that they could wait in the lounge.

“All right,” said Rollison. “Go and make us some tea, will you?”

“Ah don't mind doin' that,” said the porter. Harrison waited until he was out of earshot, and then snapped: “I wouldn't have handled him like that.”

“If a bribe won't do it, shouting certainly won't, but our porter is a fool in his way. Come on.” The Toff left the lounge, and, with Harrison on his heels, reached the reception desk. The Toff went to the clerk's side of the counter and lifted the heavy register.

“We know he's here, don't we?” Harrison said.

For the first time that morning the Toff showed signs of irascibility.

“Don't be a fool! I'd rather deal with a dozen porters than you.”

Harrison stumped off towards the lounge. Rollison ran his forefinger down the list of entries. ‘Draycott' was there – he had arrived two mornings before, on the morning when Fay Gretton had first missed him. He was in Room 45.

Rollison replaced the register and reached the lounge ahead of the porter, who brought both tea and biscuits. Rollison paid and tipped him. Harrison apologised and started to pour out tea. Rollison watched the porter straightening some tables, and they had nearly finished a cup of tea when the man went out.

Rollison replaced his cup promptly.

“We're going upstairs,” he said. “We'll use the staircase, and with luck dodge the porter or anyone else who might be about.”

Harrison drew a deep breath.

“You're going up, of course, and you got his room number from the book. I'm too tired to have any sense, Rolly. Kick me next time I get obstreperous!”

“It wouldn't surprise me if I took you at your word,” said the Toff.

They were seen only by a maid as they hurried up, to find a small plaque on the second-landing wall pointing to the room numbers 32 to 50.

The Toff glanced at the door-locks as he went by, and was pleased yet not surprised to find they were of the old-fashioned kind. His pick-lock would make short work of the one on Draycott's door.

Room 45 was the last one on the right-hand side of the corridor, and an open window was admitting a chilly breeze as they reached it. There were no boots or shoes outside, although there were at most of the other doorways. Rollison would not be particularly surprised to find Draycott – or the man who was calling himself Draycott – had left.

Harrison watched him manipulate the key, and was grinning as the lock clicked back. Rollison took a quick glance along the passage, saw no one, and opened the door.

He stepped through with Harrison on his heels.

And he stopped abruptly, for he saw a man standing opposite the door covering him with an automatic. It was the second time that he had seen a gun in the hand of the man named Lorne.

 

 

There was a moment of utter silence.

Earlier that morning the Toff had assured himself that he had been taken by surprise for the first and last time in this affair, but he was wrong, and admitted it. He would have said that the one thing he considered quite certain was that Lorne would not be in Manchester. But there he was, standing and looking as if he had had a full night's sleep, full of confidence, which was only partly explained by the gun in his hand.

“Come in, come in,” said Lorne, and his voice was deep and mellow, not unlike it had been when the Toff had heard him for the first time chiding the redhead Myra. “I half-expected you, Rollison.”

Harrison said in a hoarse whisper:
“I'll make a dash for it.”

Since the Toff was first in the line of fire, that was a sensible if risky suggestion, but Harrison was wrong, for as he spoke another voice came from behind him.

“Don't you believe it.”

The Toff did not take his eyes from Lorne's, but he heard the second voice, and the thump which followed it. He assumed that Harrison had been struck with a cosh. He had walked into as carefully prepared a trap as he was likely to encounter, but even then the most surprising thing was the speed with which it had all been arranged. He was less afraid than puzzled, because it seemed as if Lorne had expected him here.

Lorne must have flown from London.

The Toff went forward a pace as Harrison was lowered to the floor and dragged into the room. Then the door was closed by a chunky, broad-shouldered man dressed in an ill-fitting blue suit.

“I'm sure you won't make the same mistake as your friend, Rollison,” said Lorne almost jovially. “Quite an unexpected meeting, isn't it?”

“Up to a point, yes.”

“And such a pity that you did not herald your call with one of those interesting little cards,” added Lucius Lorne. “You are a peculiar man, Rollison, with quite a reputation, and yet interested in such puerilities.”

The Toff, who was some twelve inches from the wall, went back and leaned against it. He looked a little tired, and his eyes were half-covered by lids that dropped more than he often allowed them, but his poise was a thing to marvel at. His manner gave no idea that there was an armed thug at his side – Harrison was on the floor and still unconscious – and another man in front of him, while he regarded Lorne with no more than polite curiosity.

In fact, the Toff looked bored.

“‘Puerilities',” he said reflectively. “Quite a big word for you, isn't it? Or did Myra tell you about it when she jumped at seeing the card?”

Lorne's eyes lost their humour.

“Keep that mouth of yours shut.”

“And now we sink to a lower stratum,” murmured the Toff. “I hardly expected you to keep it up for long. But about those cards of mine. It's always interesting to get the other man's point of view, and if they could be improved—”

“Guv'nor, do we
'ave
to listen to this?”

The Toff regarded the man with a fresh interest. The accent was Cockney, which was hardly surprising, for it was not to be expected that Lorne would have natives of Manchester to help him. A short, broad-shouldered, coarse-faced man, with a scar from an old burn under his right eye which did not improve his looks. His eyes were brown and small.

“Please yourself,” answered the Toff, “but if you don't want to listen, go away.” He smiled at Lorne. “Don't you get tired, holding that gun?”

Lorne's lips tightened.

The Toff was satisfied with one thing: he had Lorne guessing, and it was good when the other side was unsure. Lorne had expected him to crack when he was faced with the gun and the knowledge that he had been tricked, but it was not the Toff's habit to crack, although there were times when he pretended to. His chief interest was to undermine Lorne's confidence, and he was succeeding, for as Lorne grew angry so his confidence ebbed.

“Rollison,” Lorne's voice grew high-pitched, “I warned you last night, and you took no notice. I can't afford to have you around.”

“Oh, I don't charge much,” said the Toff.

It was then that the little thug hit him.

The punch was delivered with force towards the small of the Toff's back, and landed heavily. But the Toff had seen it start, and held himself slack. The blow hurt, but not excessively, and as it landed he turned, ignoring Lorne and the gun, and took a chance which he knew might prove fatal.

His right fist went like a piledriver for the man's chin, taking him so much by surprise that he watched the blow coming but did not dodge. It struck him with a
crack
! that echoed through the room, lifted him from his feet and landed him on the floor two yards away. His eyes rolled, and he did not move.

The Toff said: “I don't want to lose my temper, Lorne, but your roughnecks aren't helpful. Don't imagine that gun will help you. The place will be raided at the first sound of a shot.”

Lorne snapped: “This silencer will drown it. You can't bluff me.”

“No?” said the Toff inquiringly. “My dear fool, you don't imagine that I came here unprepared? Or that I thought there was any chance of the real Draycott being here?”

“I don't care what you thought!”

“It's always a mistake to underrate your opponent,” said the Toff, and then – as throughout that strange interview – it was as if he had the gun and the upper hand, and was able to dictate the conversation. He slid one hand into his pocket, and Lorne raised the gun two inches.

“Oh, don't act like a school-kid!” said the Toff testily. “I'm here, and others will be soon. If you want a cut-and-dried case for murder against you, shoot and be damned. If you'd rather have a chance to avoid the Draycott charge, get out.”

Lorne said: “You're lying. And I didn't kill Draycott.”

“Really?” The Toff brought out his cigarette-case and his lighter, lit a cigarette and tossed the case gently towards Lorne. “Smoke?” he added.

It was the simplest of things.

The case curved an arc through the air, and was aimed to land about the region of Lorne's waistband. Lorne either had to dodge or to make an attempt to catch it. He tried the latter, and for a moment the gun was pointing away from the Toff. Rollison moved his right hand to his trousers pocket and his own gun. He fired through his pocket. His bullet went wide, but the report was loud, and enough to make Lorne jump and then go pale.

“Want another?” demanded the Toff, and his voice was very hard. “One to warn, and the other to mean business. We'll shoot it out if you like.” Lorne said in a strangled voice: “Remember what I said about making a charge. If anyone comes, send them away!”

The echo of the shot had faded, but there were footsteps outside. The Toff knew that Lorne was as desperate as ever he would be, and that if the door opened he would try to shoot his way out. There was no point in risking that: and for the moment the Toff preferred Lorne at large than in a police-station cell, although undoubtedly Chief Inspector McNab would have said that he was wrong. A sharp knock came on the door. The Toff said: “It's all right, thanks.”

“Ah heard shooting,” called a North-country voice. “Ah swear it coom from here, sir.”

“It's nothing to worry about,” said the Toff. “I'll see you in ten minutes if you care to come back.” He did not seem to think it possible that whoever was outside would insist on coming in, and after a pause footsteps retreated from the door. Lorne was breathing hard, and his forehead was beaded with sweat. Quite slowly the Toff took his gun from his pocket, for Lorne had been intent on watching and covering the door. “Put that gun down,” Rollison ordered. Lorne took one look at him and obeyed. Harrison made a peculiar gasping noise, and sat straight up as if operated by a switch. He stared uncomprehendingly at the Toff and Lorne. “I'd rinse my face if I were you,” said the Toff easily. “Things have changed, and Lorne is now going to tell me a pretty story.”

“I'm saying nothing!” cried Lorne.

“You have a peculiar habit of talking in exclamation marks,” said the Toff. “However, I'm not going to waste a lot of time. You flew here, didn't you?”

“Supposing I did?”

“Who told you I was on my way?”

Lorne said, with a slight return of his earlier confidence: “I had you watched, but you didn't realise it. You were followed to Euston, and I guessed where you'd be making for.”

“That's fine,” the Toff said. “So you arranged for the fake Draycott to telephone Harrison from here, did you?”

Lorne swore: “Why, you swine—!”

“There you go into the purple again,” said the Toff, “and you still don't impress. I wonder why you wanted to create the impression that Draycott was still alive? Perhaps you hoped that the body wouldn't be discovered yet, and a call to the flat would have made it inevitable. You arranged for the call from here, but not until after Miss Gretton and I had looked in at Chelsea. Right?”

“Supposing it is?”

It was right, of course.

Harrison bathed his head and face, dried himself on a soiled towel, and looked at the Toff with amazement.

“How did you do this?”

“Chiefly by persuasion,” said the Toff. “Lorne is a beginner, and beginners are always easy. We now know that Lorne was most anxious that Draycott's body should not be found so soon. Too bad, wasn't it? And of course,” he went on musingly, “he followed—or preceded—us up here because he was afraid I knew enough to put him inside for the murder. A very proper fear too,” added the Toff. “But what I said at Dring Mansions still holds good, Lorne. I want the bunch of you.”

“You'll never get us.” Lorne was very pale.

“So there
is
a gang!” exclaimed Harrison.

“And now you're getting the exclamation-mark complex,” said the Toff. He put his head on one side and regarded Lorne thoughtfully. “I can't make up my mind what to do with you. You can't stay at liberty, and you certainly can't stay here. I think perhaps you'll talk more easily to me than to the police. I—”

There was no tap on the door, but it opened abruptly, and he saw two men. They looked as if they knew which end of a boxing-glove should be used for the greatest effect. They were hefty and husky, and the first of them said: “Put that gun down, you!”

The Toff did not obey; but neither did be use the gun, for a missile that he did not at first recognise came through the air from the second newcomer and struck his arm. The gun dropped, and then Lorne turned.

Towards the windows!

It was open at the bottom, and he pushed it up swiftly and climbed through. The Toff could do nothing, and when Harrison made a rush one of the newcomers caught his arm. Lorne scrambled outside, and from the fact that he stood upright the Toff guessed there was a fire-escape. The clanging of his footsteps proved it.

It happened so quickly that it was hard to believe it was true, but the missile – a stone, as it turned out – had caught his funny-bone; and a simple thing like that could easily incapacitate him.

“And that takes care of Lorne for the time being.” He regarded the two huskies calmly but without approval. He did not think that either man was armed, or the guns would have been shown by then. “Who are you?”

The first man, taller, blunt-faced, and with a truly remarkable cauliflower ear, said slowly: “Was that Mr.
Rollison'!”

“Oh, my God!” exclaimed Harrison. “What is this?” And the Toff, very softly, laughed.

“It's a joke,” he said. “And if you can see it that way it's funny. No, George. I'm Rollison.” The husky roared:
“What's that!”

“I'm Rollison,” said the Toff, and went on: “and you, of course, are friends of Bert?”

“That we are that,” said the speaker, and his villainous face took on an expression of such abject self-reproach that even Harrison smiled. “Bert got on t'phoon and told us t'coom right here, after we'd seen a man come by t'airyplane from London. Meaning,” he added confusedly, “we were t'follow t'man, that's so. We didn't see him, mister, but we found that he'd coom up here—”

“A case of mistaken identity, George.”

“Ah'm Harry, if ye don't mind.”

“Of course not, George,” said the Toff. He talked for some thirty seconds, showing a real grasp of the essentials. He had wondered how Lorne had left London without the attentions of Bert Ebbutt's men; but it had not happened. Lorne had been followed to the airfield, and Bert had telephoned Manchester friends to watch for his arrival. A slight mishap, and then misapprehension – and Lorne was at large in Manchester. Harry and his companion were full of apologies.

“It fitted in with what I wanted,” Rollison said, and meant it. “But if you want to try to help, get some friends—as many as you like—and have the airfield and the stations watched for the man who got away. Will you?”

“Ah will that!” said Harry dubbed George.

He went, with his companion, at the double; and the Toff went downstairs, paying Lorne's bill to prevent an inquiry. Lorne, it proved, had booked a room by telephone and had arrived in at three o'clock that morning, omitting to sign the register after booking the room under the name of Williams. But, what was more important to the Toff and Harrison, the maids and the waiters at the Queen's remembered ‘Mr. Draycott' well. A tall, thin, dark-haired gentleman who had arrived late three nights before. On the previous night he had had dinner in his room again – he had taken all his meals there. And he had asked for his bill early that morning.

“But Draycott's fair-headed, Rollison,” Harrison said. “It was someone else, and that means Draycott
is
dead.” This when they were in Room 41, which the Toff was allowed to use after saying that he was proposing to wait for Draycott, but if the latter did not arrive he would pay the bill.