Stars For The Toff

“That’s a welcome if you like,” the policeman said with reluctant admiration. “They’re waiting for you, sir. Lot of half-wits!”

Rollison chuckled and then said: “I don’t want to run that gauntlet, I’d better go the back way.” He opened the far door of the car and stepped out, but as he did so a middle-aged woman coming along the street cried:

“There he is!”

Someone else shouted: “There’s the Toff!”

“You haven’t a hope,” said the policeman, sotto voce.

Rollison stood by the side of the car and watched the crowd bear down on him. Suddenly he was surrounded, engulfed, enmeshed in hundreds of seemingly bodiless hands stretched frantically to clutch his own.

Rollison thought with alarm: “They’ll mob me.”

Then he thought: “They’re here to help.”

“You will get help from many unexpected sources.”

“Sir!” hissed the policeman, “Chief Inspector—”

“God bless you, sir.”

“She didn’t cheat anyone! She couldn’t do it.”

“She’s an angel, that woman is.”

“Don’t let them put her in prison, Mr Rollison.”

“Sir, Chief Inspector Clay wants—” The policeman tried again.

Rollison stood perfectly still by the side of the car, with the crowd pressing nearer and harder; it would need only a sudden surge from behind to crush him and those nearest to him against the Bentley, and once that happened disaster could follow.

Very clearly, Rollison cried: “What I would like to do is to talk to you all from my window—if I could just get through to my flat . . .”

“The Toff wants to get through.”

“. . . a speech.”

“Make room.”

“Clear a path.”

“The Toff’s going to talk to us!”

“Stand aside, there,” the policeman said, as if he did not believe he would have the slightest effect.

“Stand back!” a little woman shouted shrilly.

Another began to push.

“Make a path.”

“A path!”

“Get back!”

“Link arms—make a chain . . . chain . . . chain . . .”

And as if by magic a path appeared among the crowd, as those standing nearest to Rollison linked arms in time-honoured policeman fashion and pressed back on those behind. There were outbursts of cheering, and two men started to sing “For he’s a jolly good fellow.” Immediately the refrain was taken up by the crowd, louder and louder, until the whole street was singing.

*     *     *

At the window of the big living-room at Rollison’s flat, Chief Inspector Clay stared down, watching the seething, excited people, seeing the way they moved aside for Rollison, noting the respect, the affection, almost the love they had for him. After a few minutes he turned round and bumped against Jolly, who had also been staring down, his eyes quite moist.

“Nothing like this can ever have happened before,” muttered Clay. “It’s crazy.”

“It’s happened at least three times to my knowledge, sir,” Jolly said. “I remember—” He broke off, for Clay was at the telephone, and turned back to watch the scene below. Rollison was now almost directly beneath the window. The singing rose to a crescendo as he reached the steps leading up to the front door downstairs.

Jolly moved to open the door of the flat. Two of Clay’s men were in the hall, looking ill-at-ease. Jolly opened the door and went to the head of the stairs. The noise was fainter here, and sounds from the downstairs hall were sharp and clear; a key in the lock, footsteps, the closing of the door, then Rollison’s footsteps on the stairs.

Then a man said clearly:

“Stay there, Rollison.”

Rollison, out of sight, seemed to catch his breath.

Jolly, startled and alarmed, stepped forward. “Who are you?” he heard Rollison ask.

“Never mind who I am. What did you find at Mrs Abbott’s flat?”

Jolly began to creep very slowly down the stairs.