The Toff on Fire (2 page)

 

“Oh, we can't go home yet,” said Esmeralda Gale in a tone of dismay, “it's far too early. Where shall we go?”

Jane Wylie, who was just on the wrong side of forty and showing signs of wanting to slow down, glanced at her watch and said, almost
sotto voce
and longingly: “It's a little after two.”

“That's what I mean,” said Esmeralda. Her glittering bracelet was a token, only lately received, of her twenty-first birthday. She looked with rounded green-gold eyes at her aunt. “We just
can't
go home yet, darling. Rolly, don't you know where we could go for a little bit of life? How
dull
London can be! Sometimes I wish—”

“Don't say it,” advised Richard Rollison, regarding Esmeralda's round, fresh, pretty face with interest and amusement, “the night life of Gay Paris is not for the likes of you.”

“Oh, don't be ridiculous! I was there for three weeks last year, and nothing happened to me!”

“You can't always rely on guardian angels. Do you really want excitement?”

“Oh,
yes.
Rolly, darling, where will you take us? Is it really exciting? Criminal, I mean. It couldn't be China town, could it? Someone once told me—”

“It isn't criminal and it isn't Chinatown; Chinatown is far too respectable these days. And we are not going to another hot spot at this hour of the morning; they're all flat, half-empty and smelling unpleasantly of stale tobacco. Those idiots who stay after two o'clock are drunk and maudlin or just drunk. No. I thought you might like a drive through London, on a dark night it's quite a thing to do and remember. We might even look in at Scotland Yard, if the chap I know is on duty there—”

Esmeralda's face fell.

“I say, that's not a bad idea,” said Sir John Wylie, his eyes lighting up for the first time since they had reached the Star Club, which they had just left because it was too dull to be true. “Prowl cars, Flying Squad, all that kind of thing. How about it, Jane?”

“I'll go with the majority,” said his wife, and looked her silent thanks at Rollison for rejecting another nightclub, with its giddy noise and its false gaiety, its heat and its haze of tobacco smoke. “Is it likely to be very exciting at Scotland Yard at night?”

“Nothing guaranteed,” said Rollison, and waited for Esmeralda to say whatever she had to say now.

They were in a narrow Mayfair Street outside the Star Club. Above their heads was a small star, shaped out of yellow neon, which gave them all a peculiar look of jaundice, and flattered no one, not even the pretty girl. Except for the star and the street lamps, it was very dark. Had he had his way, Rollison would have driven alone round the empty streets, to relish the feel and the smell and the ghost of London at night. For this was his home, and he had a great affection for it.

Recently he had been in the United States for several months, following his peculiar kind of business, and now that he was back, London exerted its unseen influence again.

He knew that he intrigued both Esmeralda and her aunt, but had a suspicion that earlier in the evening Jane Wylie had slightly disapproved. That was not surprising, for he had a reputation for being both a ladies' man and a lady-killer, and of leading a strange life, half in his own milieu of Mayfair, half in London's murky East End.

And this was partly true.

Esmeralda would not disapprove, however wild the rumours. She had already made that obvious, by her eagerness to dance and touch and whisper in his ear while dancing. It was to his eternal credit that he did not take advantage of the many girls of Esmeralda's age and comeliness who found that his good looks, his dark hair with its tendency to wave, and the glints in his grey eyes, were all irresistible. There was an unending string of could-have-been conquests – a host of sweet young things who lived to bless his name.

But Esmeralda—

A gust of wind cut along the street; they would not want to wait much longer. In the distance, thunder rumbled, and the street lights glistened on wet roads and wet pavements. Inside the Star Club, the thunder had sounded even above the band and the dancing, but here and there stars showed, now, and the storm was nearly over.

They waited upon Esmeralda.

That was not only because she was spoiled, but because this was one of a few days' holiday; she wanted to make the most of them, and they were anxious to help her. Waiting, they gazed upon her, and Rollison, who was old enough to think of Esmeralda as being very, very young, saw the light come slowly into her eyes. This was the dawning of some great idea. Rollison groaned, inwardly, for there were far better ways of spending the witching hours than listening to slow music or frenzied bop, drinking indifferent champagne and eating stale sausages.

“I
know,” declared Esmeralda, and took hold of Rollison's hands. “We'll go to
your
flat, and have another drink. You can tell us all about
every
thing.”

“It's hard to believe,” said Rollison, with some relief, “but there are things about everything which I don't yet know. Come by all means, but are you sure—”

“Of course I'm sure!” cried Esmeralda. “It was talking about Scotland Yard that made me think of it. Do you know, it's very hard to realise that you are a modern Sherlock Holmes, a kind of—”

“That's almost sacrilege,” Rollison reproved. “Don't let anyone with a passion for Holmesiana hear you say it.”

“Of course you'd make light of it,” scoffed Esmeralda, and she appealed to her aunt for support. “Jane, isn't he a detective? I mean, isn't he a
famous
detective? I mean—”

“Had the shock of my life, once,” put in Wylie, as if he meant it. “Had to go and see a chap at the Home Office, happened to coincide with a wave of smash-and-grabbing. You know.” Wylie was large and solid, stolid and, by reputation, unimaginative. “Actually heard a VIP from Scotland Yard say to my opposite number, ‘what we're going to do is see if Rollison has any ideas'. You might,” added Wylie earnestly, “have knocked me over with a piece of straw. Always thought this reputation of yours was newspaper nonsense, Rollison. Isn't, though. Congratulations. Is it true you have a kind of Black Museum at your flat?”

“Black
Museum?”
Esmeralda echoed, almost shrill. “You mean—you mean relics of
crimes
and things?”

“Especially things,” agreed Rollison mildly. “The odd knife or two, here and there a gun, a little poison and odds and ends of weapons of assault. You wouldn't be interested at all.”

“You brute!” cried Esmeralda, “why didn't you suggest this before?”

She led the way to her uncle's large grey car, and waited for Rollison to get in first. She slid in next to him, leaving the front for Jane and John Wylie. There was just time for Rollison to see Jane's expression, and to realise that she was grateful that they weren't club-crawling; then the doors were closed and Wylie started off, handling the Rolls-Bentley as if it was part of himself.

Those who knew him slightly believed that he was at best an ass and at worst an oaf. He held a high and some what vague position in the Foreign Office, he was reputed to be absurdly rich, and until that evening Rollison, judging only from his reputation, would have given him no marks for tact. Yet his mention of a Black Museum had been the deciding factor; and obviously his wife was not the kind of woman who would gladly suffer a fool.

They had met early that evening at a cocktail party, and Wylie had suggested dinner when Rollison had nothing in particular to do. He had been intrigued by Wylie's restrained heartiness, and attracted by his niece, and so he had joined the party. Now he believed that he would always have a healthy respect for Wylie, but their acquaintance was not likely to blossom into a beautiful friendship.

And Esmeralda was too young—

Esmeralda, suddenly, was cuddling close against Rollison, and asking to be kissed. Silently. They passed street lamps and Rollison saw her fair face and her curly golden hair, now in a bright light and now in shadows; there were worse things in life than this. She wriggled so that Rollison put his arm round her shoulders, but he was as impersonal as it was possible to be, and soon she realised it.

He was sorry that it had turned out this way. Esmeralda in a huff at the flat would not be amusing; he would probably regret—

They passed another lamp and he looked down at her, and saw that she was smiling, almost laughing at him. He chuckled gave her a squeeze which made her breathless and then kissed her on the lips. Esmeralda gave a mock sigh, and snuggled comfortably close.

“Gresham Terrace, didn't you say?” Wylie said, without looking round.

“Yes, that's right. Number 22.”

“Not far now,” said Wylie, and stifled a yawn. “Don't be surprised if I drop off to sleep, will you. Had a heavy day.”

“Ha-ha,” said Esmeralda, derisively.

“Young people,” complained Wylie, “no respect.” He turned two corners, and they were in Gresham Terrace, where Rollison had lived for many, many years. The light was still on in the hall, the 22 jet black against the frosted glass. Wylie brought the car quietly to a standstill, and a minute later Rollison was opening the ground floor door. Nothing suggested that it had been forced. He ushered the others in, and although they were not unruly, their footsteps made plenty of noise. By the time they reached the top, Wylie was out of breath.

“Must say this,” he said, pausing between words. “My medal goes to the man who invented lifts.”

It was dry but it wasn't even slightly funny. Rollison speculated how long the visit would last. Half an hour was too sanguine. An hour? If he judged Jane Wylie aright she would leave for home and bed as quickly as she could. It was now nearly half-past two, so with any luck he would be in bed by half-past three.

He talked, easily, his task to amuse them.

“I'm on my own for a few days, as my man's on holiday; he prefers the autumn to summer. Grieve for me as head cook-and-bottle washer, please.” He crossed the hall, and the others followed, the women glancing about them but noticing only that the cushions on the couch were not properly in position. Rollison opened the door of his living-room-cum-study, and went blithely forward, knowing almost to the letter what the others would say and how they would exclaim when they saw what there was to see. First there would be a moment of startled silence; then squeaks; then a grunt or two. And finally Esmeralda would advance across the large room, her eyes glistening, and would touch the hempen rope which hung from a miniature scaffold on his trophy wall, and say: “Is this a real one? Did it hang a man?”

He would say ‘yes', and all three of them would enjoy a few seconds of chills and horror, while he opened the cocktail cabinet and took out the drinks. Esmeralda would then start asking questions. What was the top hat doing at the top of all the exhibits on the wall? Why – oh, was that a
bullet
hole through it? Had he been wearing it when the shot had been fired?
Yes.
What was in those little glass tubes, poison?
Yes.
Surely that knife hadn't been used in a murder, had it?
Yes.
And that gun, that piece of iron piping, that swordstick, that palm gun and – how on earth did the cuckoo clock get there?

It all went according to plan. Wylie was content to watch and listen and cup a whisky-and-soda in both hands, as if it was brandy. He watched, sleepy eyed. Jane's sleepiness was driven away, but she was a little uneasy. Esmeralda was so excited that she could hardly stop to sip her gin and Italian.

At last: “Rolly, what on earth is that cuckoo clock doing there?”

“As a matter of fact,” said Rollison easily, “it was a present from a French friend of mine. Nice of him, wasn't it? Instead of the cuckoo popping out while I stood in front of it and saw how it worked, the door opened and a bullet struck me between the eyes.”

Esmeralda spun round, to stare aghast at his face.

“Not
really?
There's no scar. I—oh, you fool! But honestly, was there a bullet?”

“Yes.”

After a long silence, Esmeralda took a longer sip of her drink than before, and then asked earnestly: “How many people hate you like that, Rolly?”

“Oh, only one here and there.”

“Quite enough, too,” Wylie interpolated, to prove that he had not been asleep. “Mind if I get a word in edgeways, Es? Hrrrrmp. These—ah—exhibits, Rollison, are they all genuine?”

“John!” Jane Wylie's protest was almost anguished.

Rollison chuckled. “Fair question, after all the wall looks as phoney as a wall can be. But the answer's yes. Don't ask me why I started it, just be charitable because I was young when it really began. See that knife with the piece off the point? That was the first. An East Ender wanted for murder tried to stick that in my back, but thanks to my youth and inexperience, I was wearing a chain waistcoat. Ever seen one? There are still times when—”

“I have, yes,” said Wylie, and he touched a small, glass case inside which there was a single silk stocking. It was crumpled and laddered – and one ladder had been stopped by a dab of scarlet nail varnish. “That doesn't really look lethal,” Wylie added.

“Just an ordinary 15 denier with a few ladders,” Rollison told him, “and it was worn by the last woman we hanged in this civilised country.”

Wylie looked very bleak.

“I am opposed to hanging women,” he said, and Esmeralda shuddered.

Jane Wylie looked at the stocking.

“Who was she?” Esmeralda asked.

“As a matter of fact,” said Rollison, “she was as brave as any resistance hero; she was a beauty, and she died without naming the man who really sent her to the gallows. A man known as the Doc—an East End criminal who began a kind of protection racket among lesser thieves and fences. One of the fences fought back, when he was blackmailed. The Doc asked for five hundred pounds, threatening to give the police proof that the fence dealt in stolen goods, and—”