The Toff on Fire (4 page)

“Rolly darling,” cooed Esmeralda, “I don't care how many babies there are, I think you're a genius. No wonder you're so famous! That couple on the motor-cycle
did
bring the baby here, didn't they?”

“It's possible.”

“And the way you wormed it out of the policeman was absolutely gorgeous,” went on Esmeralda, marvelling. By then, they were half-way up the stairs. “Without giving him the faintest idea that anything had happened here, too. Of course I can understand why you mustn't allow anyone to learn about this,” she continued, becoming earnest and conspiratorial. “You needn't worry about me. I'll keep mum, but you might find it difficult with John and Jane. Especially Jane. She has rather a thing about there being one law for the rich and one for the poor, you know, and the fact that it would cause a dreadful scandal and get in all the newspapers if it leaked out, wouldn't stop her. You're going to have your work cut out to convince her that the baby isn't yours,” declared Esmeralda, “that's about the only way you'll keep her quiet. Jane's a wonderful Aunt and I'm very fond of her, but she's got such an uncomfortable
conscience.”

Rollison looked thoughtfully down upon the golden head.

“Whereas you just have a mind,” he observed. “I wouldn't like to be the man who marries you, my Esmeralda. Now let's go and do battle with Aunt Jane.”

As they went up, he wondered a little uneasily how right Esmeralda was about her aunt.

 

 

Sir john wylie, looking more blackly massive than ever, smoking a pipe and so providing a screen for his red-rimmed, tired eyes, was by himself in the living-room-cum-study. There was no sign of Jane or the baby. From the direction of the bedroom, which was approached from a passage leading to the kitchen and bathroom, there came the faint sound of crooning; it was the first lullaby that had ever been heard in Rollison's flat.

“Hallo,” Rollison greeted, “is your wife playing mother?”

“That's about it,” said Wylie, and took out his pipe and pointed it at Esmeralda. “Go and see if you can help her.” No Victorian father could ever have been more emphatic with a daughter whom he wanted out of earshot, and for some reason best known to herself, Esmeralda went off meekly. Wylie put the pipe back between his full lips, and regarded his host through a grey haze of smoke. Then he said: “Hmm.”

“You could be more explicit,” murmured Rollison.

“I am trying,” announced Wylie, heavily. “Man of few words y'know. Very ticklish situation. My wife” – he pondered, chewing the stem of his pipe, and then he struck oil – “believes right's right,” he finished.

“Hear, hear,” approved Rollison.

“No joking matter,” Wylie said. “She's outraged.”

“Not, I trust, literally.”

“Positively. Very difficult situation for me,” went on Wylie. “Embarrassing. Fact is, Jane—”

“Let me try to make it a little easier for you,” suggested Rollison kindly, “your wife can't imagine why anyone should dump a baby on my doorstep—”

“Couch.”

“Couch, if we must be literal.”

“Important difference,” declared Wylie.

Rollison looked baffled and felt baffled. It was as if he had been fighting against unknown forces from the moment he had agreed to bring this little party here. Had he come alone, had he discovered the sleeping infant himself, it would have been bad enough, and the pencilled note would not have made it any easier; but if the situation wasn't quickly corrected, it could get out of hand. Wylie's erratic manner of speech did nothing to help, and whenever Rollison thought of Esmeralda it was a little uneasily, for there was old devil mischief in the child. Child?

It would be easy for Rollison to lose patience; but not wise.

“Where is the important difference?” he asked patiently.

“Doorstep, couch.”

“I was speaking figuratively.”

Wylie contemplated him as if he, not Wylie, was being obtuse.

“My wife is a literal woman,” he announced, at last. “No kinder-hearted woman in the world, but—never mind. Literal, logical and highly intelligent. A baby on the doorstep is one thing. No key required. A baby on the couch in a locked apartment—key required.” Wylie paused as if for breath, and Rollison waited, admiration mingling with apprehension. “Who would have a key?” inquired Wylie, and then made almost desperate circles in the air with his pipe. “No offence meant,” he blurted and as if to protect himself against any further indiscretion, he put the pipe back in his mouth.

Rollison studied him.

It was easy to fill in the gaps in Wylie's dissertation, and obvious that he and Jane had been busily talking for much of the time that Rollison and Esmeralda had been downstairs. Put bluntly and simply, the Wylies had jumped to the conclusion that no one would present Rollison with a child, without good reason: that probably the child was his.

The difficulty was to stop his lips from twitching.

He could soon disabuse the Wylies; the pencilled note would be enough for anyone who was literal-minded. But at this stage, did he want to disabuse them? The note was a plea, and the note had mentioned ‘The Doc'. This was the first time he had heard of the Doc since his return from New York, but he knew that many people, little crooks and honest men alike, were in terror of him.

Someone unknown had brought the infant, apparently believing with a startling faith that he, Rollison, would protect it.

And the Doc might snatch, might kidnap the child.

If the Doc knew where it was, if he suspected that it had been brought to this flat, it would be easy for him to find out where it was being cared for; so a snatch would be possible if not easy.

The fewer to know where the baby was, the safer.

For the time being, Rollison decided, the important thing was to keep the Wylies quiet; for the truth might make them talk, or make them insist on bringing in the police, and if the writer of the note had wanted that, he would have gone to the police himself.

All these things passed through Rollison's mind as he studied John Wylie's heavy features. So did Esmeralda's opinion of Jane Wylie's character. Esmeralda was probably ignorant of one thing because she was very young. Among people of the Wylies' generation – which was also Rollison's – there was a kind of code. A high moral conviction might possess Jane, making her believe that he must ‘do right' by the mother; but she would give him the chance to do so before trying to exert any pressure – such as threatening to gossip about the new arrival at Gresham Terrace.

Now Rollison believed that he needed a little straight man-to-man stuff with Wylie.

“Wylie,” he said slowly, “I don't mind admitting that all this is a shock. Big one, too. Caught me on the wrong foot, so to speak. I know I can rely on your discretion. Your wife's too. I need just a little time to—er—make arrangements. I shan't let anyone down, of course.”

Out came the pipe and, explosively: “Of course not! Regret, personally, we decided to come here. Very interesting trophy wall, though.” Wylie's eyes did not twinkle and his face did not light up, but he did not need to add that the most interesting trophy was the one collected tonight. “I'll have a word with Jane. Ah—'nother problem.”

Oh,
no!

“Oh?”

Wylie jerked the stem of the pipe towards the bedroom.

“Needs woman's care,” he announced.

“Ah,” said Rollison very softly, and had one of his better moments. “You couldn't be more right. Do you think that your wife—?”

“Surprised if she won't,” declared Wylie. “Might be an idea if you went along now—see how things are.” Back went the pipe, this time with finality, and he moved away towards his chair and a glass which was still half full of whisky and soda.

Rollison put a cigarette to his lips, and stepped slowly towards the bedrooms. There were two at this side of the flat, his – which was large – and a spare one which was much smaller. He had taken it for granted that Jane was in his room, but soon realised that he was wrong. The light showed at the door of the spare room.

That was unfortunate, but Rollison found himself smiling as he tapped at the door. If ever two were available to add to two, it was here. By accident – it was hard to believe that it was design – Jane had gone into this room. She would have looked about for things she needed for the baby, and would have found women's clothes in the wardrobe, make-up in the dressing-table, a room that was much more boudoir than one would expect in any bachelor's flat.

Rollison went in.

Esmeralda, her eyes still glistening and a kind of awe in her expression, stood by the dressing-table. Jane Wylie was sitting on the edge of a large single bed. The clothes had been turned down and the baby, still in the shawl, lay on it like a huge grey chrysalis. Pillows on either side were placed so that it could not roll off. Jane, frowning, looked up. She was a handsome woman and there was no doubt that she had a conscience: it seemed to be written in her eyes.

“Jane,” said Rollison, firmly, “I'm in a bad spot, you don't need telling that, and I need a little time to sort things out. If I ask my family or my friends for help, gossip will go on wings, and before I know where I am, the newspapers will get this story. So they will if I try to put the child in a nursing home. Will you come to my rescue?”

Straight Jane looked at him squarely.

“I don't see why I should.”

“Nor do I, but will you?”

Esmeralda was handling a gold framed hand mirror, the back worked with beautiful
petit point,
and looking at herself in it. She glanced at Jane, but didn't speak; she knew when silence was called for.

“Someone has to look after the baby, I suppose,” Jane said practically. “I'd better have a word with John. I'll look after him for the night, anyhow; I certainly shan't leave him here.”

Rollison gulped. “Him?”

Jane raised her hands. “Do you seriously mean to say you didn't know what sex—” she broke off, jumped up, and pushed past him angrily.

When her voice was audible in the big room, Esmeralda looked seductively into Rollison's eyes, and said cooingly: “Isn't this a beautiful dressing table set?”

“Yes, isn't it?”

“And what a lovely room.”

“Beautiful.”

“You know, Rolly, I've been thinking,” declared Esmeralda. She put the mirror down, and picked up a tiny scent spray and pressed the bulb gently. She half closed her eyes, as if in ecstasy. “A lot of people call you Rolly, a few call you Richard, and of course everyone knows that you're called the Toff, but
I
have a new name for you.”

“Oh.” It was easy to be suspicious of this child. “What?”

“Lothario.”

“One of these days I'm going to think up a new name for you,” said Rollison, “and it won't be Calista. Esmeralda, I may need some help in the next day or two, and I'd want it from someone who knows about this, the fewer the better. Are you likely to be very busy?”

“Lothario,” said Esmeralda, picking up the mirror and looking at herself again. She poked at her hair, put her head on one side, and at last seemed satisfied. “Lothario, if I can rely on an honorarium, say something like this, I'd be happy to help.”

“And when it's over I shall recommend you strongly to one of the political parties; you'll be wasted outside the House of Commons. Are you staying with the Wylies?”

The look in Esmeralda's eyes was positively wicked.

“Yes, for a few days, but I share a flat in Shepherd Market; I can go back there whenever I like—I'm having a holiday on John and Jane. But you know! Shall I telephone you?”

“Please,” said Rollison, and rounded the bed and took the mirror away from her. “This is to be for a mission accomplished, not for promised help.”

“I'll remember,” Esmeralda said.

Twenty minutes later, Rollison saw them all into the Rolls-Bentley, Jane in the back this time carrying the baby, Esmeralda sitting next to Wylie. The car moved off with only a whisper of sound, and as its red light disappeared, Rollison turned and hurried upstairs, to come back again within five minutes, carrying a camera with a special lens and a flashlight. Jolly, his man, was an accomplished amateur, and his equipment was always in the flat. Rollison bent down and focused, and a bright flash lit up the street – once, twice. Going back into the house, he wondered if Jim the policeman had noticed the flashes and was already on his way to investigate.

That didn't matter.

He ran up to the flat, closed the door and went straight to the telephone. He dialled an East End number, and after a long pause, a man answered in a sleepy voice.

“Whossat?”

“Bill,” said Rollison, “I'm sorry to worry you now, but could you send a couple of men to Throgmorton Square for me?”

There was a pause.

Ebbutt, the man at the other end of the line, was an old friend of the Toff, a man of influence in the East End, and of many parts. He had often done such things as this – but now his hesitation seemed very marked.

Then: “What's the trouble, Mr. Ar?”

“I just want a house watched—there's a possible baby-snatch in the offing.”

“Oh,” said Ebbutt. “Sure, okay, Mr. Ar. I'll fix it. What's the number of the 'ouse?”

He did not sound as enthusiastic as he often had in the past, but Rollison put that down to his being, woken out of .a heavy sleep.

Rollison pushed the telephone away, lit a cigarette and poured himself another brandy and soda. He sat back in an armchair facing the trophy wall, and closed his eyes, but he had seldom been further from sleep at four o'clock in the morning.

The Doc was putting on the black again – so much seemed obvious, but that wasn't the matter of first importance. The man who had forced these locks held pride of place.

Rollison knew that strata of London known as the ‘underworld' almost as well as the most knowledgeable officials at Scotland Yard; and one by one he conjured up mental images of men who could force locks as expertly as his had been forced.

He narrowed the number down to seven. Two of these he ruled out because they were old, and not likely to have a vested interest in a baby and certainly not likely to ride about on a motor-cycle. Two more he ruled out because he knew that they were in jail. That left him with three.

Suddenly, he opened his eyes wide, finished his drink, and jumped up.

“I'll check with the Yard in the morning,” he told himself, “and then get busy. There probably isn't more than one motor-cycling safe breaker.”

He was humming to himself as he went into the bathroom – and then he stopped abruptly. In the bath were damp-looking babies' napkins, and from the towel rail a towel was missing.

“And practical too,” he said, laughed, spread another towel over the heap of soggy napkins, and began to brush his teeth.

He was on the point of getting into bed, at twenty minutes to five, when the telephone bell rang.