The Toff and The Lady

Rollison did so.

He found himself in an empty outer office of sumptuous appearance. Here was nothing of the traditional fustiness of an accountant’s or solicitor’s office, but chromium and light oak furniture, a thick pile carpet, and a polished counter with a bell and the words: “Please Ring If Office Empty: Comfortable armchairs with leather seats were lined along one wall, and by the side of each was an ash-stand with a magazine rack. Rollison glanced at a dozen magazines and found they were current issues.

On the other side of the counter were three doors, one leading right, and marked: “Mr. J. E. Pomeroy,” the others blank. From J. E. Pomeroy’s office there came a murmur of conversation and, as Rollison lifted the flap in the counter and stepped through to the forbidden side, the clink of glasses. A man laughed, another spoke in a low-pitched voice which Rollison heard with difficulty, and then the other man laughed more loudly. It was a throaty sound.

“Enjoying themselves,” murmured Rollison, and reached the door.

Suddenly the office was filled with the jangle of swing music which even a swing fan might have thought discordant. It came from Mr. Pomeroy’s office; the men inside were indeed about to enjoy themselves. The music was so loud that it was unlikely that they were carrying on a conversation. Rollison hesitated. If he opened the door and walked in, they might, with some justification, take a very high hand. He did not want to give them reasonable grounds for doing so, and decided to return to the right side of the counter and ring the bell. As he turned, he saw a door opposite open.

He stood still.

“Good-evening,” said Marcus Shayle.

He stood by the open door, smiling broadly, as if he were taking great pleasure in discomfiting Rollison, who stared at him without expression. Marcus Shayle was a man with most pleasant features. He had bright and rather merry eyes, his full lips smiled as if he were really amused, and there was something boyish about his round face and curly hair. He was well-dressed in flannels, and looked as flourishing as the outer office of the firm.

“Good-evening,” said Rollison.

“Can I help you?” asked Shayle.

“I’m not sure,” said Rollison.

“Or would you prefer to help yourself?” asked Shayle, with a broad beam. “I wonder if you will do something for me?”

It was clear that when Rollison had stepped through the counter he had trodden on a warning bell or a light —and that the radio had been switched on to deaden the sound of movement in the other room. The laughter was explained; it had been to deceive anyone who stood outside. In those few seconds his respect for Marcus Shayle and the firm rose considerably.

“Will you do something for me?” insisted Shayle.

“What?” asked Rollison, giving the impression that he was very much alarmed.

“Lift the telephone and dial Whitehall 1212,” said Shayle.

Rollison murmured: “The number sounds familiar.”

“It’s very well known,” said Shayle. “You see, when a stranger forces open the door of this office and shows other indications of being here with a dishonest purpose, we always call the police.”

“Very sound policy,” said Rollison. “The door was open.”

“Oh, I assure you that it was most securely locked.” Shayle stepped across to the door and put down the catch; as it clicked home, he laughed. “You see? Only an extremely clever cracksman could pick that lock, and the police will doubtless be able to identify you. You will oblige me, won’t you?”

“I wonder if I should,” murmured Rollison.

“After all. if you were to try to get away or struggle or fight,” said Shayle, still in the best of good spirits, “it would add violence to the crime.”

“You could ring them yourself,” said Rollison.

“But that would spoil my enjoyment,” said Shayle. “However, if you insist”

“Oh, I’d hate to be disobliging,” said Rollison, and he turned and lifted the receiver, without batting an eye. Shayle looked startled. Deliberately Rollison dialled WHI 1212, with Shayle watching him closely so that he could be in no doubt about the number, and he heard the operator at Scotland Yard.

“Give me Superintendent Grice, please,” he said.

The smile had faded completely from Shayle’s face. He took a step forward and much of the pleasantness had gone, like his smile. In fact he looked disagreeably surprised and uncertain.

“I didn’t tell you to ask for anyone,” he said.

“I know you would like to fly high,” murmured Rollison. “Hallo? . . .  Oh, he’s not in . . . . No, I won’t leave a message, unless—hold on a moment, will you?” He turned to Shayle, and asked, politely: “Would you like to leave a message?”

“No,” said Shayle, curtly.

“No, no message,” said Rollison, and replaced the receiver. He took out his cigarette case and proffered it. Shayle waved it aside. He lit a cigarette, replaced the case, and smiled. “Checkmate,” he said. “Or your move.”

“Who the devil are you?” demanded Shayle.