The Toff and the Fallen Angels - John Creasey

“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 bands, 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.”

“Plain and unvarnished, no doubt,” rejoined Rollison. “Bill, did you realise you had a lot in common with Gwendoline Fell?”

Grice looked astonished.

“I have?”

“Yes, you,” said Rollison. “You share the illusion that I’m no longer capable of thinking for, acting for and looking after myself. I’ll be in touch.”

He smiled broadly, and moved so swiftly that he was outside Grice’s office before Grice had recovered from the impact of his words. And as he walked along the passages of the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police, he was humming to himself.

In less than an hour, he would be at the meeting of the sponsors; at least, of the four who were left.I

CHAPTER 11

The Four Remaining

 

POLICE still watched outside Smith Hall, and were stationed at the corners of Bloomdale Street and Bloom-dale Square, in positions from which they could watch Number 29—Sir Douglas Slatter’s house—as well as Number 31. A few bystanders looked on with patient interest as Rollison approached; then a young newspaper photographer sparked their interest by crying out :

“Hold it, Mr. Rollison!”

There was a surge forward from the crowd, and an elderly man whom Rollison had known for years as one of Fleet Street’s most astute crime reporters, came from behind the photographer.

“Good morning, Toff !” he said clearly, smiling.

Among the crowd the name was echoed: Toff—Toff —Toff—Toff, and on two or three lips it reached Rollison’s ears.

“Good morning, Arthur,” said Rollison, above the noise of hammering from the nearby building site.

“What interested you in this—ah—establishment?” inquired the Fleet Street man.

“The murder of a close friend of mine,” said Rollison. “Professor Webberson, do you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know that he was a—ah—sponsor of Smith Hall?”

“Not until recently,” said Rollison. “I did know that he was a man with an exceptional social conscience, and if he was a sponsor here, then Smith Hall was worth sponsoring.” He smiled again and moved on.

“If you’ll spare just one moment—”

“I’m late already,” Rollison said, and turned into the gate. A policeman, young and obviously admiring, stood just outside. “Good morning, officer. Am I the last?”

“One to come, sir, I believe.”

“Good. It’s always nice not to be last!”

Rollison approached the house slowly, seeing it for the first time in full daylight. It was old, of weathered brick, ugly, but obviously spacious. It stood in its own grounds, like all the houses along here, but between the house itself and the walls dividing it from the other properties there was little more than a car’s width. Beyond the driveway along which he walked were three green-painted garages. The brick wall he had vaulted the previous night looked newer than either of the houses, and the grass on this side of it was still damp. He glanced up at the first floor windows of the house next door—and a young woman slipped out of sight.

“All right, Angela,” Rollison said to himself, and he stepped on to the porch.

Another policeman stood just inside; Grice certainly wasn’t taking the slightest chance. The door was closed, but opened before he had withdrawn his finger from the bell-push. Standing before him was Anne Miller; obviously she had been waiting for this moment. In broad daylight, she looked a little older. This morning, she had brushed her hair until it had quite a sheen, and her tunic-type suit was inches longer than the one she had worn last night. Her eyes looked huge, and there were dark, patches under them—patches which should never darken the face of a young woman. The long, narrow face had a curious attractiveness; so did her small, exquisitely shaped mouth.

“Good morning, Anne’ said Rollison.

“Good morning, sir’ ‘Sir’ was quite a concession. She closed the door, and went on in an almost conciliatory voice : “I’m sorry I made a fool of myself last night.”

“Who told you that you made a fool of yourself?” asked Rollison.

“I didn’t need telling; she said drily.

“You need telling that when you open your heart and let the hurts pour out, you aren’t making a fool of yourself,” Rollison told her. They stood together in that large hall with the portraits looking down on them, and he saw the shadows not only beneath, but in, her eyes. “I was ready to help all I could before we talked,” Rollison went on. “Afterwards I wasn’t simply ready, I simply couldn’t start soon enough!”

The way her face brightened showed both surprise and belief.

“You’re—you’re very kind.”

He squeezed her hand as the door of the study opened and a man said : “We will have to start without them,” and Naomi Smith appeared, her eyes lighting up when she saw Rollison. But after a glance at him and a quick “Good morning,” she said : “Anne, if Dr. Brown arrives, show him straight in, will you?”

“Yes,” said Anne.

“Thank you, dear. Do come in, Mr. Rollison.” She opened the door wider and then stood aside, while two men standing by the fireplace, and one sitting on an upright chair with two hook-handled walking sticks, looked towards him. Nimmo, the physicist, tall, very thin, with a bald pate and a halo of grizzled hair, he recognised;

Nimmo was standing by the side of a much shorter and much broader man, who had an iron-grey look about him —hair, eyes, suit, even his skin, appeared to be much the same colour. And there was something Teutonic about the shape of his head; Rollison placed him as Professor Offenberger, one of the few men whose renown as a mathematician was worldwide.

Naomi was introducing them, indicating each with a small wave of her hand.

“Mr. Rollison, I don’t know whether you know Dr. Carfax.” Carfax, one of Britain’s most renowned scholars, a leading pro-Shakespeare figure whenever Shakespeare’s authorship was challenged, was sitting, so Rollison’s identification of the others was quite right. “Professor Nimmo, Professor Offenberger. I’m afraid Dr. Brown hasn’t arrived, but as he doesn’t answer his telephone he is presumably on his way here.”

“Unless,” said Offenberger, in a hard, near-guttural voice, “he is also dead. Is that what you have come to tell us, Mr. Rollison?”

Carfax, who had a rose-pink complexion and looked a picture of health despite his infirmity, half-closed his eyes in patient resignation that anyone should say such a thing. Nimmo waved his hands in disclaimer.

“Nonsense, Otto, you have death on the brain.”

“That is the way it comes,” said Offenberger with grim humour. “But I say we should already tell the police that George is late. How can we be sure all is well with him after these dreadful things? You know the latest, perhaps, Mr. Rollison? The poor girl, Winifred de Vaux, is dead—murdered like our good friend Webberson.”

“Yes,” Rollison answered. “The police told me.”

“Did they tell you also who is doing these wicked things? Why every girl, and also all of us, are threatened with death? And it is no use raising your eyes to heaven, Will.” He turned his curiously iron grey eyes towards Carfax, who was certainly looking as if he were invoking aid from on high. “We all of us are threatened. We take no notice, until the girls disappear and much worry there is. And now Keith is dead of the bloody—” he pronounced the word ‘bloddy’— “hammer, and Naomi’s head is nearly smashed in. Do you deny it is serious? Do you deny it?” He pointed an accusing finger at Rollison. “Do you deny we must stop the good works, that if we go on it will lead to more deaths? Tell me, at once, please. Do you deny the need for that?”

He still pointed and the others all stared at Rollison, as if he were an oracle.

“I—ah—am never happy about stopping good work,” Rollison murmured.

“But how can we the good works do if we are dead?”

“An excellent point,” said Rollison. “Do you know who is trying to kill you? And do you know why anyone should try to kill you?”

“If we know, we tell the police,” rasped Offenberger.

Rollison’s gaze moved slowly to the other men, and rested finally on Carfax, who looked almost cherubic, his fair hair concealing any streaks of grey, and whose head and shoulders and torso gave a remarkable impression of strength, in sharp contrast to the thin legs which dangled over the edge of the chair.

“Supposing you don’t know, but only guess,” Rollison asked mildly. “Would you tell the police whom you suspect?”

“It would be a waste of time,” said Carfax, his voice beautifully modulated. “We believe—”

“You must speak for yourself,” Naomi broke in quietly. “Yes, Naomi, I am doing so, and I speak also for Arthur, and probably for Otto. What kind of man would wage a war of persecution like this? Do we need to ask? We believe that the man involved is a fanatical bigot, probably extremely religious, who did his best to prevent us from launching this scheme, and when that failed has resorted to this hideous campaign. And the man we have in mind is so highly regarded at Westminster and in Whitehall, so immensely wealthy, that the police simply cannot agree as to his involvement. I speak, of course—” Carfax paused, to look round at each of the others, and received a nod from both men— “of Sir Douglas Slatter.”

“I simply cannot believe it,” Naomi said in a husky voice. She sat with both hands clasped tightly on the desk in front of her. “I know he has been difficult, and that some of the girls imply he has made approaches to them, but they could have been—either wilfully or sincerely—mistaken. In their circumstances it is understandable that they should be suspicious and oversensitive.”

“If he’s the puritanical fanatic Dr. Carfax suggests he might be, would he make passes like that?” Rollison wondered aloud.

“I’ve known some of these religious maniacs—” began Nimmo, only to break off. “That isn’t a fair thing to say. If a man’s a pathological sex case, he can still be honestly religious. And we’ve something more than suspicion and prejudice to go on, Rollison. The lease of these premises is virtually up, and Sir Douglas, who is the landlord, will not extend it. I feel that the timing of these attacks is too much for coincidence.”

“I can see why you do,” agreed Rollison. “Sir Douglas—”

“According to his own lights I believe Sir Douglas is a good man,” interrupted Naomi, stubbornly. “Mr. Rollison—” She broke off.

“Will you check more closely on Slatter?” asked Car-fax. “You may not have the same prejudices as the police.”

“I shouldn’t under-estimate the police,” Rollison said drily. “So yes—I will see what I can find out about Slatter. But before I do—are you seriously considering closing down Smith Hall?”

“How can we go on?” demanded Offenberger. “How is it possible? I have been warned like the others—stop coming here, finish the work—or you will be killed. I do not want to be killed. And I say to you all, let us not be obstinate. There are other girls, other men, who are very clever. These girls will be the loss, yes, but not irrepairable.”

“Irrepar—” Carfax began to correct, but stopped.

“Are they then?” Offenberger demanded fiercely. “It has been a good and courageous experiment but this is not now a matter for private individuals. The brains of the country, they should be looked after by the country itself. Professor Nimmo has spent a fortune here, all of us give what we can but it is—no good. We stop. I vote for we stop.”

“Is that what you’re here to decide?” asked Rollison.

“I’m afraid so,” said Nimmo, running a hand over his shiny pate, “and although I don’t like it, I think Otto is right. Unless we can put an end to this campaign of violence quickly, we must do what we’re told.”

“I disagree,” said Carfax. “And if George Brown were here, I think he would disagree. And I am not considering only the girls—I’m thinking that we owe at least something to Keith.”

After a short silence, Nimmo said : “An unfair appeal, Will. Whatever we decide won’t make any difference to the thoroughness with which the police search for the murderer. We won’t be letting Keith down—or the dead girls, for that matter.”

“Girls?” exclaimed Naomi, shrilly.

“We don’t really need telling that they’re both dead,” argued Nimmo. “Surely you aren’t buoying yourself up with false hope. I—”

The shrill ringing of the telephone bell made them all start, and it seemed to ring on for a long time before Naomi picked up the receiver, it was almost as if she were afraid that this call would bring bad news.