The Toff on Fire (3 page)

“Where did the girl come in?” interpolated Esmeralda.

Wylie watched Rollison closely; intently.

“She collected the money from the Doc's victims,” Rollison said, “and this one said he knew who the Doc was and would give him away rather than pay a penny. To save her man, the girl killed the fence—and died for it.”

Esmeralda breathed: “And this—this
beast
called the Doc let her die?”

“He couldn't have saved her,” Rollison said practically. “He did try—he sent big sums of money to the best defending counsel in the country, but the evidence was too strong.”

“What a sordid story,” Jane Wylie said.

“Life, m'dear, life in the raw,” declared Wylie.

“There's one thing you haven't told us,” Esmeralda pointed out. “Why is the stocking here?”

“The fence who died had a queer idea that I'd help him against the Doc—and he'd sent for me. I arrived a few moments after the murder. The girl was getting through a window, and I held her by the legs. She was wearing those.”

There was a deep quiet in the room.

Then, there came a sound which Rollison fancied he had heard before, a faint, distant whimper. Imagination.

“Rolly,” asked Esmeralda, “what was her name?”

“Jessica Gay,” said Rollison. “She came from a good home, and the Doc first ruined and then led her to the gallows. One day—”

The whimper came again. Imagination?

Rollison saw Jane Wylie glance towards the door, then at her husband, who appeared to have noticed nothing. The story of Jessica Gay seemed to have shocked him deeply.

“Ya,”
came the sound, more loudly and quite clearly.
“Ya, ah, ya, ah, ya.”

This time, Wylie turned his head sharply, and Esmeralda looked at the door; and then back at Rollison. He was so startled that he was nonplussed, so completely unaware of the baby that he did not look even slightly ill-at-ease.

“Ya-ah, ya-ah, ya.”

The two women and John Wylie did not turn round this time, but continued to stare at Rollison; and it was well they did, or they would have missed the sight of a lifetime. One moment he stood staring almost foolishly at the door, the next he moved so swiftly that he seemed to be in two places at once. He reached the door but did not open it wide, just turned the handle and opened it an inch. Then he stood waiting, as if someone stood outside, ready to do him harm.

More clearly than before, and much more crossly, came the now familiar sound.
“Ya, ah, ya, ah, ya, ah.”

“That's a baby!” Jane Wylie exclaimed, and jumped up and made for the door.

“Stay there,” said Rollison in a sharp, commanding voice, “stand still. All of you.” And with one arm thrust out to check Jane Wylie's progress, he listened as if for other sounds.

 

 

In the pause which followed and the tension which Rollison's manner had created, there sounded only the heavy breathing of John Wylie, and a kind of snuffling from the lounge hall. Then the snuffling stopped, but only to give way to a muffled crying.

Jane Wylie moved swiftly towards the door, in spite of Rollison.

“That's a
baby!”

“That's right,” agreed Rollison, “and I'm wondering where the stork is.” He turned towards Jane and gave her a smile so bright and friendly and even gay that for a moment she was nonplussed too. “Give me another minute,” he added, and moved with that startling speed to the other side of the door. He pressed close against the wall beyond, leaned forward for the handle, and pulled the door wide open.

The baby cried more loudly.

Beyond, there was gloom outside the range of light from this large room. The front door was closed, and Rollison looked at it tensely, as if he expected it to open, or else to find evidence that it was not properly closed. It was. He moved again, but this time with a difference; all his tension had gone. He flashed that smile again, taking in' both Jane and Esmeralda, and said lightly: “False alarm.”

He went into the lounge hall, switching on the light. He could see every corner, every picture, every piece of furniture – and he saw the piece of paper held down by a glass paperweight on the writing bureau. Jane was hurrying towards him, with Esmeralda not far behind, but he reached the bureau and slipped the note into his pocket before anyone saw what he was doing. Then he went to the landing door and made sure that it was locked.

He turned round.

Jane and Esmeralda stood together just ahead of John Wylie, who was framed in the doorway. Both women looked about them, as if hunting some prey. Then Jane spotted two cushions out of place and moved towards the couch, while Esmeralda stepped to Rollison's side.

“So everything I've heard about you
is
true,” she breathed.

Rollison, watching Jane, said mildly: “Mmmmm?” and then, realizing what she had said, turned to look sharply at Esmeralda. “What's that?”

“Everything
is
true,” repeated Esmeralda. She looked at him with great green eyes shining, her lips parted, and her teeth glistening. She made a picture indeed.

“I don't get it,” said Rollison, blankly. “What's true?”

“Your reputation,” she cooed.

“Oh, that private eye nonsense—”

“I wasn't thinking about private eyes,” said Esmeralda, “I was thinking about” – she hesitated, glanced towards the couch, and then said obscurely – “sailors.” Satisfied, she turned and joined Jane, who was bending over the couch and moving one of the cushions.

There was the baby, enveloped in its grey shawl.

“Why, look!” exclaimed Esmeralda, “it can't be more than a week or two old!”

“No,” said Jane, in a quiet, controlled voice, “two or three weeks at the most.” She bent down and picked the baby up, slipping her hand round it protectingly, behaving as if this was the only tiny infant in the whole, wide world.

Esmeralda seemed to be infected with a gaiety which put a lilt into her voice and added brightness to her eyes.

“It looks healthy enough, anyhow;
look
at its fat cheeks.” She did so for what seemed a long time, while Rollison busily contemplated her and the situation, and John Wylie watch him from the doorway. Then, slowly and with great deliberation, Esmeralda turned to look upon Rollison.

He had seldom undergone such an appraisal.

She was interested only in his face, and looked so long and lingeringly that it seemed almost as if she was dissecting it, feature by feature. Her eyes were still glistening, but her lips were pursed, as if she was bottling up some kind of merriment which might burst out any moment.

Then, she gravely shook her head.

“He isn't a bit like you,” she announced, and turned back to Jane and the baby.

Jane was too interested in the child to hear what Esmeralda said; was fussing in a quiet way, unwrapping the grey shawl. But her husband heard, gulped, and said: “Esmeralda, impertinent.”

Esmeralda was not at all impressed by her uncle, but switched attention to the baby, touching pink cheeks, seeking tiny hands. Rollison stared ruefully at the girl as Wylie moved ponderously towards him, and said: “Take no notice of her.”

“No notice?” There was a moment's pause, and then Rollison grinned. “I certainly shall, that girl has a quick mind.”

“Not offended?”

“If she means exactly what I think she means, I ought to feel highly complimented.” Rollison said, and was relieved to see Wylie's stern face pucker into something near a smile. “Sadly, things are not always what they seem. Hold the fort for a few minutes, will you? Don't let anyone telephone.” He went to the door, opened it, and bent down, studying the lock with great care. Wylie came towards him, interestedly. “Neat job,” Rollison observed, “whoever did that is a craftsman and there aren't many of them today.”

“Did what?”

“Broke in.”

Rollison said that while getting up and dusting his knees, but Esmeralda spun round, her face ablaze with excitement, the baby quite forgotten.

“Rolly, is that what happened? Did someone break in here? Why, they might have—”

“Left a small atom bomb behind,” said Rollison, and then chuckled. “Perhaps they did. Like to come with me, Esmeralda?”

“Where?”

“Looking for that stork.”

“That what?” She was puzzled at first, then threw up her hands in delight. “Oh, I see!” She had never seemed more gay or wide awake, and it was now half-past three in the morning. “Where shall we look?”

“Downstairs, for a start.” Rollison wasted no more time on her, but opened the bureau drawer and took out a flashlight, then went towards the landing door. Esmeralda was already there. He gripped her arm and squeezed, then said: “Give me half a minute, will you, there's something I want to do.” He went ahead of her down the stairs, moving so fast that had she wanted to, she could not have caught up with him. He seemed to bound downwards like a spring uncoiling. Half-way down, he took out the pencilled note, and slackened his speed enough to read it; for this was what he wanted to do without Esmeralda's help.

It read:

 

The Doc's after the kid's mother and me.

If he gets a chance he'll snatch the kid.

 

That was all.

Rollison put the note back into his pocket as he reached the ground floor. Esmeralda came floating down with a billow of black skirts and white lace and frills, for she was very feminine. She was equally eager. Rollison went to the front door, opened it, and shone his flashlight. Esmeralda bent down beside him.

“See that?” He pointed to scratches so faint that they were hardly visible. “The marks of his tool. He forced this lock and the one upstairs, left the baby, and—”

“He
did?” Esmeralda's voice was shrill with doubt.

“If there's a woman in the world who could pick a lock like that, I'll freely admit that I'm the baby's father,” Rollison said, and so robbed Esmeralda of all future chances of being sly and obscure. “I doubt if there are six men in London who could do it this way, without damaging the lock.” He turned towards the street, where the darkness was greater now because only one other window showed any light, and the street lamps were a long way from Number 22. He shone the torch down on the steps leading to the front door, on to the pavement, on to the kerb. He stooped down, picked up a cigarette end, and took out his won cigarette case and put the end inside.

“Is that a clue?” breathed Esmeralda.

“Could be.” Rollison behaved as if he had forgotten that she was there, and sprayed the kerb and the roadway with light. There was a damp dust in the gutter, and, just behind the Rolls-Bentley, tyre marks which no one could fail to see. He bent down closer, saying as if to himself:

“Very small tyre, either an old baby car or a motorcycle, more likely motor-cycle. Pity Jolly isn't here, he could get a cast. Wonder if a flashlight photograph would show anything.” He straightened up, fully aware of Esmeralda's closeness and her quick breathing. He was also aware of something else; a man turning into the street; but Esmeralda seemed to be unaware of that.

“Do you really think a flashlight photo—”

“Shhhhh,”
hissed Rollison, and gave her full value for her night out. “Someone's coming.”

Esmeralda stood still and silent as a mouse, and did not even look away from Rollison. It would take a lot to make her jumpy; she had the steady nerves of healthy youth. As he glanced towards the corner he found himself thinking, absently, that there were more qualities in Esmeralda than he would have suspected while at the Star Club or on the way here.

Then: “It's all right,” he said, “it's a policeman.

“A
copper!”

“A policeman,” repeated Rollison firmly. “We are in a mood to be polite. Start looking in front of the car, will you? Switch on the headlamps to give us more light.”

Esmeralda didn't ask why, but obeyed. The big car's powerful lights showed more of the street than had been visible since dusk had fallen. The steady footsteps of the policeman drew nearer, while Rollison joined Esmeralda in the fake search.

The policeman drew level.

“Evening, sir.” He looked down at Rollison, and on the instant his manner changed and his voice altered. “Good
evening,
Mr. Rollison. Looking for something?”

Rollison straightened up.

“Hallo, Jim. Yes, I've lost a propelling pencil, no great value but sentimental, you know. Afraid it's not here, though—we've looked along the kerb pretty thoroughly.”

“Perhaps it's under the car, sir.”

“Could be,” agreed Rollison, “but I don't think it's likely, I had it earlier in the evening. Probably left it at the Star Club. Serve me right if I will visit these dens of iniquity, doesn't it?”

“Oh, the
Star
Club is quite respectable, sir.”

“It is?” Rollison sounded surprised. “I must have been misinformed.” He waited for the policeman's chuckle, which wasn't long in coming, and sensed that Esmeralda was looking at him almost with awe. “Not a lot you don't know about your beat, Jim, is there?”

“Well,” said the constable, modestly, “can't be sure that we keep track of everything, but since that burglary in Gresham Mews we've been pretty much on the alert around here.”

“I can imagine. Jim” – Rollison put a hand on Esmeralda's shoulder, and gripped firmly; warningly – “this is Miss Esmeralda Gale, and she doesn't know much about London by night. Earlier in the evening we were talking about your chaps on the beat, and I told her that there was very little you didn't notice if it was at all out of the ordinary.”

“Well, sir, we're trained observers, you know.”

“Believe me, I do! There was the time when—but never mind me,” dissimulated Rollison hastily, “be a friend, and give us a demonstration.”

“Well, sir—”

“Oh,
please,”
begged Esmeralda.

“Well, don't hold me to everything, will you? I wouldn't swear to it all in the box, but I don't think there's much wrong. Let's see. I came on duty at eight o'clock, and at eight-twenty-seven there was a minor accident involving a car and a cycle, in which the cyclist received slight scratches and bruises of the right leg. There was a bit of thunder about. At eight-forty-three a high-powered car was heard to be moving very fast, probably considerably in excess of the speed limit, along Millaway Street towards Piccadilly Circus. At nine-ten there was a loud explosive noise coming from the direction of Hill Street, upon investigation this proved to be a window slamming as a result of a broken sash-cord, the breaking glass of which accounted for the explosive sound. We had quite a storm about then. At ten-nineteen a smell of smoke from the direction of …”

He went on, briskly and confidently, as if he were reporting to his sergeant. Esmeralda watched and listened, fascinated; and the constable, in his early thirties, was not at all bad-looking. Nor was he unaware of Esmeralda's gaze.

Rollison gave him full marks but wished that he would hurry; it would not be long before John or Jane Wylie came to investigate.

“… at one o'clock, approximately, a two-stroke motorcycle was heard to approach the vicinity from Piccadilly, and three or four minutes later the engine was switched off. Later, the motor-cycle was seen turning out of Gresham Ter—out of this
street,
sir, driven by a man with a female passenger—” the constable paused, grinned, and had second thoughts. “With a girl on the back. I personally checked every street door in the Terrace subsequent to that, sir, and every ground floor window. There was no indication of anything wrong. At two-o-three …”

Three minutes later, he finished, coughed, and looked mildly self-conscious; obviously he was even more aware of Esmeralda's glowing eyes.

“That was wonderful,” breathed Esmeralda, in a quivering voice, “it really was. Thank you very much indeed.”

“Pleasure's mine, miss,” the constable said. “Anytime.”

“From this night on I shall sleep sounder whenever I know you're on duty, Jim,” Rollison said, and proffered cigarettes. “I know you can't smoke now, but that's a large helmet you're wearing.” The constable scooped, gratefully. “Now we'd better go and tell the others that we can't find the pencil,” Rollison said to Esmeralda, “or they'll think we've eloped. Good night.” He took Esmeralda's arm firmly and led her away, and the policeman did not move until the door had closed on them. “Esmeralda,” went on Rollison with deep feeling, “you could be the ruin of that young man's life.”