The Toff and the Fallen Angels (7 page)

Naomi seemed to draw back when she heard the girl crying, then moved quickly towards her. She glanced at Rollison, and he expected to see scorn or reproach; instead she gave him a flashing smile, of thanks or congratulation. She put an arm round the girl and led her towards a chair. Rollison had not realised how tiny Anne was. He felt for the girl; he could understand her bitterness and her fear, but he feared for Angela with a kind of desperate self-blame.

As he stepped into the hall, Grice appeared from the front door, and they stopped, a few yards separating them.

‘So you know nothing about this affair,' Grice said, accusingly. ‘When are you going to stop trying to fool us?'

‘The real question is the old question - when are you going to start believing the truth?' asked Rollison.

‘Why did you come here?'

‘You know why. And if I hadn't come, Naomi Smith . . .'. He told Grice all there was to tell, and before he was through, knew that Grice had not seriously believed he had arrived with foreknowledge. ‘Have you heard from Jolly?' he asked.

He hardly knew what answer to hope for.

‘Yes,' said Grice.

‘So - Angela wasn't at the Corner House,' Rollison said heavily.

‘He gave her fifteen minutes, then called the Yard,' said Grice. ‘We had four men there within five minutes and a thorough search was made, but she wasn't in the place. Jolly went back to Gresham Terrace.'

‘Have you put Angela on the missing list?' asked Rollison.

‘Her description is with every division and every Home Counties force,' Grice replied. ‘Her picture will be sent round tomorrow.' He paused, and then asked in a wary way: ‘Do you want it to go to television and newspapers?'

‘Of course. Why not?' asked Rollison.

‘You must be very tired to ask that,' remarked Grice.

‘Why should I—oh. The press will know that she was a resident here, and do I want her picture to appear before the public gaze.' Rollison felt almost angry. ‘Bill, can you seriously think I care a damn about gossip?'

‘Your family might,' Grice said.

‘Damn my family,' growled Rollison.

‘Including Lady Gloria?'

‘She is the one person who won't care a hoot.'

‘Although if one of the family was in the—ah—was in trouble, surely the Marigold Club would be the first place for her to go,' said Grice. ‘This could look as if Lady Gloria will extend the hand of charity to strangers but not to her own family.' Grice spoke with unusual feeling, and Rollison realised that he was trying to be helpful, trying to make sure that Rollison, so deeply involved, was seeing this situation objectively.

‘Bill,' he said, ‘arrange for the photograph in the newspapers and on television, will you. And—thanks.'

‘Right,' said Grice. ‘I've a man waiting.' He strode to the front door and spoke clearly to a man whom Rollison could not see. ‘Put all three pictures out to the press and television, Soames.'

‘Very good, sir.'

Grice turned back again, his manner easier, more matter-of-fact. He took a large wallet from his pocket, opened it, and took out a photograph which he handed to Rollison. Even though he first saw it upside down, Rollison recognised it at once: this was a photograph of a sledge hammer.

He turned it round.

‘That was quick.'

‘We can be quick,' observed Grice drily. ‘It's probably the one with which Webberson was killed, too. There's a chip out at one corner, and it appears to coincide with an impression on Webberson's skull.' After a lengthy pause, Grice went on: ‘Did you get any kind of mind picture of the man who was waiting here?'

‘No,' answered Rollison slowly. ‘Not of his face.' He considered, and then went on more briskly: ‘Mind you, it was a very broad face. The features were squashed down by the stocking, but if I saw him again as he was then, I would probably recognise him.' He paused, then went on: ‘He had little or no neck. I've never seen a man with broader shoulders and when he turned round on me I saw how deep chested he was. A barrel-chested, bull-necked man at the peak of physical fitness, I would say.'

Grice was smiling.

‘Not a bad mental picture,' he approved. ‘I'll get that sent round at once - why didn't you get him? Distracted by Mrs Smith's danger, were you?'

Rollison shook his head, very slowly.

‘No,' he answered. ‘He was too quick and too powerful, and I didn't give myself enough time.' He allowed a few moments for that to sink in, and then added: ‘This man could crush one of the girls with his fist. Any sign of him?'

‘None at all,' answered Grice.

‘Footprints?'

‘We've rigged up some floodlights but we're not getting much cooperation,' said Grice. ‘We'll have to wait until morning before we've much chance of finding out which way this man went. At least he will have mud on his shoes, he was standing where a garden hose had been leaking most of the day.'

‘I wondered what made the grass so wet. What's this about no cooperation?'

Grice, almost saturnine when he smiled in this dim light, said offhandedly: ‘Sir Douglas Slatter does not approve of
(a)
the police and
(b)
the residents of Smith Hall. If he'd had his way our chaps would be driven off his grounds. As it is he won't allow us to use the mains electricity from his house for the floodlighting - we had to send for more cable and run it off the supply here. Some of these old men are so prejudiced it's hard to believe.'

‘Well, well, well,' said Rollison.

‘What strikes you as so remarkable about that?' asked Grice.

‘Sir Douglas doesn't approve of the place,' remarked Rollison, almost to himself. ‘And he's not simply non-cooperative, he's actually obstructive. We're looking for a motive for the threats and the attacks, Bill. How is this for a motive: psychopathic disapproval of—'

Grice stopped him, abruptly.

‘That's the wildest jump to a conclusion I've ever come across,' he rebuked. ‘He's an old man, he's bad- tempered, he's not well and he was awakened out of a deep sleep. He'll be a different man in the morning.'

‘Bill,' urged Rollison, ‘have a look at the doorsteps leading into the back or side entrances of the house next door. If there are any footmarks, don't leave them to be brushed off in the morning.'

Grice contemplated him thoughtfully.

‘That won't do any harm, anyway. I'll fix it.'

‘Thanks,' said Rollison. ‘Do you want me here for anything else?'

‘No,' said Grice. ‘Just one piece of advice, though, before you go.'

‘I'm in the right mood to take advice,' said Rollison heavily.

‘You've very strong personal reasons to stick your neck out,' said Grice. ‘I've seen you before when you've a guilt complex working like a computer in your mind. Don't stick your neck out too far, even for Angela. Think three times before you do anything off your own bat - and use us as much as you can. You may not believe it, but I'm as anxious to find Angela as you are.'

For the second time, Rollison warmed to the policeman.

‘I believe you,' he said. ‘And you'll watch this house closely, won't you?'

‘A mouse won't be able to get in or out without being seen,' Grice boasted.

Rollison nodded, turned to the study door, which was closed, and tapped. There was a muted call of ‘come in'. He found Naomi sitting behind the desk and Anne Miller lying back in a small armchair in front of her. She appeared to be all legs and long, loose hair, and had the face of tragedy.

‘You needn't have any fear of being attacked,' he said. ‘The police will make sure of that.'

‘Yes, I suppose they will,' said Naomi, as Anne Miller looked up at Rollison from those sombre dark eyes. ‘And there will be no way of keeping this out of the newspapers, will there?'

‘Absolutely no way at all,' said Rollison.

Momentarily, Naomi Smith closed her eyes. Then she seemed to make a physical effort to pull herself together, braced her shoulders and spoke more crisply.

‘Then we shall have to try to turn it to advantage. I've asked those of our sponsors who are free to be here at twelve noon in the morning, Mr Rollison. I will be most grateful if you will join us.'

‘I'll be glad to,' Rollison accepted. ‘One question. How do you get on with your next door neighbour?'

‘We don't get on,' answered Naomi Smith.

‘That
old lecher!' exclaimed Anne Miller with sudden venom. ‘He used to think that all he had to do was open his window and beckon, and when he learned that we're in the baby business strictly for love, he started a virtue-and-hate campaign. Laughable, really. But—hateful.'

Rollison pulled up outside his house in Gresham Terrace, and decided to leave his car there. He did not feel like taking it to the garage and walking the five minutes back. A light was on in his living room, and he saw the curtain move and a brighter light appear for a moment: Jolly had heard the car.

It was a little after two o'clock.

Jolly, dressed as if it were midday but looking very grey and tired, was at the flat door.

‘This won't do,' said Rollison, with forced jocularity. ‘We can't have you losing your beauty sleep.' Then he saw Jolly's expression, a warning in itself, and realised that someone was in the flat. Inwardly, he groaned, for the last thing he wanted was another argument . . .

Unless this were news of Angela.

‘Good evening, sir,' said Jolly. ‘A Miss Gwendoline Fell called about an hour ago, and
insisted
on waiting.' There was a world of resentment in that insisted. ‘I told her that there was no assurance that you would see her.'

‘And I said you'd better,' declared Gwendoline Fell, from the inner door.

Rollison went in and looked across at her levelly. Her golden-brown hair was tumbled, her big blue eyes were tired, but she looked ready enough for battle. She also reminded him, rather strangely, of Angela.

‘And what makes you think I wouldn't be happy to see her?' he asked lightly. ‘Some coffee and sandwiches, Jolly.'

‘At once, sir.' Jolly disappeared by the alternative route to the kitchen, and Rollison beamed down at Gwendoline.

‘Come and sit down.' As they went into the big room, he added: ‘Are you old enough to be offered a drink?'

‘You really do have the most execrable sense of humour,' she remarked.

‘Yes, I know. I'm sorry about that. What will you have?'

‘What are you going to have?'

‘I might have a spot of brandy in my first cup of coffee, to make it interesting and to wake me up.'

‘May I have that, too?'

‘Yes, of course.' Rollison looked at his large armchair longingly, and sat on a corner of his desk, with the Trophy Wall behind him. He did not need telling that the girl had come with serious purpose, and his respect for her had risen the moment he had seen her, for many a young columnist so disrespectfully treated would have assuaged her dignity by a vitriolic attack in print.

Perhaps she had done so.

‘What brought you?' he asked.

‘I heard about the trouble at Smith Hall and that you saved Naomi Smith from having her head bashed in.' She spoke as casually as if she were recording the buying of a penny stamp. ‘So I put in my standby column and postponed the one on you.'

‘Pity,' he said. ‘I was looking forward to reading about my parasitic and anachronistic way of life.'

‘You might still do so.'

‘You mean, if I do what you want me to do, you won't write scurrilously about me?'

‘I never write scurrilously about anyone. And in any case, your background and your innate sense of superiority - of being untouched by such things as public comment - would protect you. No, I mean—I might change my mind about you.'

‘Oh. Why?'

‘You might get Smith Hall and Naomi Smith off the hook.'

‘Oh,' said Rollison, and resisted a mischievous impulse to ask whether she was qualified to reside at Smith Hall. ‘So you now know she came to see me?'

‘And that you promised to help.'

‘Who told you?'

‘I've a friend who lives there - Judy Lyons.'

‘Scatterbrain,' remarked Rollison.

‘Who on earth told you she was a scatterbrain?' asked Gwendoline, in astonishment. Her expression changed and she went on: ‘Oh, Naomi, I expect. Well, I talked to Judy on the telephone when the story came in about the trouble at Smith Hall, and she told me you'd made yourself quite a hero. And she said that Naomi seemed to think that you would and could help. So—' Gwendoline glanced up expressively. ‘I thought you and I might bury the hatchet, and work together over this.' She glanced at Jolly who put a laden tray down on the low table at her side, and went on: ‘The one certain thing is that you'll never solve this case on your own.'

After a moment of startled silence, Jolly drew back, looked at Gwendoline with a withering dislike, and said:

‘I trust that will be all, sir.'

‘Yes,' said Rollison. ‘You go to bed.'

‘Thank you, sir. If there is any word of Miss Angela you will wake me, won't you?'

‘Yes,' promised Rollison.

‘If you want to know where Angela is, don't go to bed yet,' advised Gwendoline. ‘Because I'm pretty sure I know where she is.'

Rollison moved from the desk, towards Gwendoline. Jolly, on his way back to the kitchen, stopped and turned round. The two men dwarfed the girl, and there was something almost threatening in their manner. Her eyes showed a sudden awareness of this.

‘Where is she?' demanded Rollison.

‘We have to make quite sure whether that statement was true or false, sir,' Jolly said, roughly for him. ‘This young woman is quite capable of proffering false hope in order to get the information and assistance which she desires from us.'

‘Yes. Where is Angela?' Rollison repeated, in a steely voice.

‘I—I didn't say I was certain - I said I was pretty sure,' said Gwendoline, looking apprehensively from one man to the other.

‘Where do you think she is?' demanded Rollison.

‘Next door to Smith Hall, in Sir Douglas Slatter's house.'

‘What!'
gasped Rollison.

‘I tell you that's where I
think
she is. Oh, for goodness sake stop towering over me in that melodramatic manner!' exclaimed Gwendoline, straightening up abruptly. ‘Angela suspected that some rather unpleasant telephone calls came from the house next door, and she found out that they wanted a housemaid. So she took the job. It's as simple as that.'

‘Well I'm—' began Rollison, but his heart was lighter than it had been since he had first heard that Angela was missing. It was so like her - to pretend there was nothing to report while she was working ingeniously and desperately hard to prove her capacity as a detective. ‘When did you know about this?'

‘Only tonight - from Judy Lyons. That's why I decided to come here, I thought you and I might come to an arrangement. If I put your mind at rest about your niece, will you give me inside information which no other newspaperman or woman can possibly get? I suppose it's too late to strike a bargain now,' she added resignedly. ‘I—what on earth are you doing?'

Rollison turned away suddenly, and picked up the telephone and began to dial. He did not answer. His heart was thumping, and he was staring at the far end of the Trophy Wall, hardly aware of the old-fashioned cutlass or the bicycle chain in his direct line of vision; each had been used for murder.

‘What
are
—' began Gwendoline.

‘Please be quiet, Miss!' Jolly was sharp.

‘This is Smith Hall,' a man answered Rollison.

‘Is Mr Grice still there?' asked Rollison urgently. ‘This is Richard Rol—'

‘Hold on, sir! He's just moving off!' There was a clatter of the telephone, and then silence, and at last Rollison turned to Gwendoline and Jolly.

‘If she's at Slatter's place, I mean to find out. If the police won't search his house, I will.'

‘Oh,' said Gwendoline, in a small voice. And then, while Rollison was still holding on to the telephone and Jolly, also tense, was watching him, she asked almost petulantly: ‘May I have some coffee, please?'

Jolly opened his mouth as if in anger, closed it, relaxed, took a table napkin off a silver dish of sandwiches and poured out coffee.

‘Hallo,' Grice said to Rollison. ‘What is it now?'

‘Bill,' said Rollison. ‘I've just been told that Angela took a job as housemaid at Sir Douglas Slatter's house. If she did and she's there now, she might be in acute danger before the night's out. Too many people now know who she is and what she's doing.'

‘Yes, indeed,' said Grice, slowly. ‘Hold on a moment.'

Rollison held on while Gwendoline, reaching for her coffee cup, stared at him; and Jolly, hot milk in hand, looked up from a half-stooping position over her.

‘Yes,' repeated Grice. ‘We'll have to find out. I wouldn't mind having a look round there, I've been thinking over what you said.' A chuckle fluttered his voice. ‘I'll need a search warrant, though and that—'

Grice broke off, only to go on more decisively. ‘I'll go and ask him to let me search and see what happens. If I have to get a search warrant, what evidence do you have?'

‘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,' Rollison 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 Rollison, 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.

‘Rollison.'

‘She's all right, Rolly,' 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 tonight, anyhow, and I'll have that house watched as well as Smith Hall. We can decide what to do about her tomorrow.'

‘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 tomorrow,' 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 unbelievably 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 discreet, 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 in 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 MPs 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 initials?'

‘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 girl 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 hands, 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.'