The Toff and The Lady

“You fool!” came a woman’s voice, with a note of searing contempt which probably made Farrow flinch. You don’t like the way he looks at you! Why”

“Be quiet, Gwen,” said Renfrew, nervously.

Rollison, standing quite still, was aghast at the truth which was now all too evident. Gwendoline was in that room. She was a party to all that Renfrew had done, was in his full confidence and intent on keeping Farrow quiet.

So many puzzles were solved with that realization. Gwen’s manner before the attack on her; she was afraid he suspected the truth and in a mad moment, had thought of killing him. Her lies about seeing the Lady of Lost Memory, her hatred— to provide grounds for her behaviour—her anxiety to keep the a” air from the police, her complaisance with Pomeroy, who was a party to the plot; all those things fell into place.

There were others.

Everything Gwen and Renfrew had told him could be discounted. He should have realized before then Gwen had cut his hand to try to send him to his death. Renfrew had not been near enough to the window to use a knife. Her professed anxiety for her father and her carefully prepared story of her suspicions of him—all was false. She had once called at the Strand office of Pomeroy, Ward & Pomeroy, but he had not paid that enough attention.

How she had lied!

All that passed through Rollison’s mind as he stood in the hall. Then he pushed the door open slowly, and could sense the sudden tension which had sprung into the room, but he could not hurry; in whatever else he had been right, he had completely misjudged Gwendoline.

He went in.

Renfrew was sitting at a bureau desk in a large, plainly furnished surgery, and Gwendoline was by his side. When she saw Rollison she jumped to her feet, and into her eyes sprang an expression which he had seen before, at the time when she had drawn an automatic from her pocket. Then he had thought her overwrought and hardly responsible for her actions, but now fear made her desperate.

Renfrew backed further away. Gwendoline snatched her bag from the table and opened it.

Rollison said: “I shouldn’t do that.” The words were the same as he had used before, only their tone was different. She kept her hand inside her bag, and glared at him, while Renfrew, making a desperate effort to regain his self-control, stepped forward and slammed the door, avoiding Farrow who tried to stop him.

“It’s all right,” said Rollison to Farrow. He was still looking at Gwendoline, and she returned his stare with all the malignance of which she was capable, cold, murderous, utterly evil. “So this is how it is! With Hilda dead you would be worth a fortune on your father’s death.”

She said: “Don’t move an inch.”

He stood quite still.

“And I thought Renfrew was the evil genius! I almost wish that Hilda would die; you would then be hanged, the pair of you—hanged by the neck until you are dead”

“Be quiet!” screamed Gwendoline.

“With a bandage over your eyes and only the hangman on the gallows with you,” said Rollison, in a voice low-pitched with cold fury. “Clever Gwendoline! You showed Hilda that letter you found, didn’t you? You made her suspicious of David, you tortured her mentally and you tortured him, setting one against the other while you stood by and gloated, seeing your plans maturing and your hopes increasing, with your lover aiding and abetting. How long would you have waited before killing David?”

She said: “I am going to shoot you.”

“There are a lot of things you’re going to do,” said Rollison. “Among them you’re going to talk freely. Where does Pomeroy come in this, where does the Countess come in, where”

“Look out!” cried Farrow.

He shouted as Gwendoline snatched the gun from the bag and, watching her closely, Rollison flung himself to one side. Renfrew, uttering a hoarse cry, rushed towards the door. Farrow shot out a leg and tripped him up—and Gwendoline fired.

A bullet passed between Farrow and The Toff, another was nearer The Toff as he went forward, and the third hit the floor as he reached her and struck her arm down. He twisted her wrist until she gasped in pain and the gun dropped. But she was not finished yet. She pulled herself free and then flung herself bodily at him, gouging at his eyes, kicking at his shins and trying to knee him in the groin, but he got a grip on her wrists at last and forced her away from him. She stood like that, bent forward, the breath hissing between her clenched teeth. Behind them Farrow was standing over a prostrate Renfrew.

There was a wild banging on the door, and the receptionist screamed:

“Help! Help! Let me in, let me in! Help!”

“Keep her quiet,” said Rollison to Farrow, and the “footman” went towards the door, while Renfrew dragged himself painfully to his feet and Gwendoline dropped into a chair. He picked up her gun and motioned with it to Renfrew, making the man join Gwendoline. Renfrew stood beside her with one hand pressed heavily on the desk.

“And telephone Superintendent Grice,” Rollison called to Farrow.

Renfrew gasped: “Rollison, you’re wrong. We—we didn’t do anything; Hilda has a weak heart, she might die at any time, I tell you she might die at any time!”

“With help from adrenalin,” said Rollison, coldly.

“That wasn’t me, that was Farrow!”

“Not Farrow,” said Rollison. “Renfrew, if Hilda dies you’ll hang—unless you turn King’s Evidence. You might escape death if you do that.”