The Toff In Town

“Well, I won’t get lorst,” said Perky with a vast grin. “An’ I’ve got me spanner.”

He had an encyclopaedic knowledge of London and it was his boast that he knew the name and position of every road, street, mews, square and block of buildings in the City, West End and near suburbs.

Rollison had given his instructions when the girl came out of Blotts and stood looking up and down, obviously not pleased with herself.

There she is,” said Rollison. “Don’t lose her.”

“Bit of an eyeful,” approved Perky.

The girl turned left and walked along Coventry Street, and the driver moved off as soon as she had gone a dozen yards. She kept looking round, as if hoping to find a free taxi, and actually put her hand up as Rollison’s passed. Perky backed into Wardour Street and then invented a little trouble with his engine. The girl walked past, still hailing taxis; opposite the Warner Theatre, she was lucky.

“Now we can move,” said Rollison.

“Okay!” breathed Perky.

His was a newish cab; the girl’s an old one which made a circuit of Leicester Square and then returned along Coventry Street and went along Piccadilly. Near New Bond Street, it turned right, took another turning and then swung into a narrow cul-de-sac. Rollison’s taxi went past

“Dead end, sir,” said Perky. “Lilley Mews, this is,”

“Stay as near as you can, will you?” asked Rollison.

He got out and walked briskly towards the mews. The girl had paid off her taxi and it was swinging round. She disappeared into the doorway of a dingy-looking building. In fact, all the buildings here were dingy, except a garage which had a bright coat of green paint. There were several lock-up garages, but other buildings—which had once been stables—had been turned into flats or houses.

Rollison went first to the garage, but luckily no one came to attend him. He stepped from the garage to the doorway through which the girl had disappeared. On a small plate fastened to the door were the names: Miss Pauline Dexter— Flat 1. Mr. Oliver Merino—Flat 2.

The door stood ajar.

Rollison pushed it open and looked into a narrow passage. Facing the door was a short flight of stairs and at the top of that, a freshly painted red door on which was the white numeral, 1. The stairs went higher, with iron railings protecting them; the door of Flat 2 was immediately above that of Flat 1.

He examined the lock of the lower flat, smiled because the tenant doubtless thought it was burglar-proof, then left the building and went back to the garage. A small man with long, greasy hair and long, blackened nails and dirty overalls came out and looked at him with disfavour. Rollison asked if there was a garage available for the night The garage-hand said no, there wasn’t, and didn’t add that he was sorry. Rollison asked if he could recommend a garage and the garage-hand said no, he couldn’t, and did not appear to be upset about that Rollison said it was a pity, and a pound note appeared in his right hand. The other pushed his fingers through his hair, to get it out of his eyes, and said:

“Wait a minute, I might be able to fix sunning.”

He returned after five minutes and said that Number 5 was empty for three nights, only for three nights, but number 9 might be empty after that. Thirty shillings a week and they were lock-ups. Rollison added thirty shillings to the pound which had already changed hands, and inspected garage number 5. It was spacious and empty, except for an old tyre and one or two dented cans, but what interested Rollison was the fact that it had a small window, about head-high, fitted with plain glass. From the window he could see the doorway through which the girl had gone.

“Yes,” he said, “this will do nicely.”

“Ain’t a better in London,” said the garage-hand. He handed over a bent key, and disappeared.

Rollison turned away, just as the girl came out of the doorway into which she had disappeared.

With her was a tall man of striking appearance, who—and Rollison’s eyes crinkled in a smile at the sight—had a fine, neatly trimmed, black beard. He was massive, had a prominent nose, a fine, full mouth and square chin, and he walked with easy grace. He was dressed in a light brown suit of American cut, and wore a wide-brimmed, beige-coloured felt hat—a Stetson, no less. The girl talked to him briskly as they walked towards one of the garages, and the man opened the door with a key. Rollison strained his ears to catch what she said, but succeeded only in hearing odd snatches.

They went into the garage, which was two removed from number 5; car doors slammed, an engine purred, and a minute later a luxurious cream Chrysler nosed into the mews. There was just room for the car to turn; the driver, the man, judged it to a nicety.

Rollison walked after the car rapidly. It was held up at the end of the mews by passing traffic, and Rollison reached Perky’s cab before it had gone far.

“I’m not coming with you,” said Rollison. “Follow that Chrysler, and let me know where it goes. Don’t fall down on the job, Perky.”

“What, me?” said Perky. “You be careful, Mr. Ar!” He grinned and drove off.

Rollison remembered that cheery grin and the warning, an echo of Jolly’s. And he was about to take a risk which nothing could fully justify. He went back to the mews, where the garage remained deserted, and walked boldly to number 7. He did not know which flat the couple had come from; he did not even know whether anyone else was in the flats. So he rang the bell at number L There was no answer. He tried again without getting a response, then went upstairs. He opened the letter-box and listened, but heard nothing.

He put on the gloves and then took a knife from his pocket.

It was, in many ways, a remarkable knife, and he had taken it from a remarkable young man who, over a period of years, had cracked crib after crib and remained free of the police. The young man had eventually slipped up and was now languishing on the Isle of Wight, in a prison in a forest. His knife had better fortune. Among its