The Toff In Town

“An accident. It’s all right, just an accident.”

“Accident!” gasped a man who came out of the flat nearest to Rollison. The whole place was shaken!”

Sorry,” said Rollison. “My man was making an experiment. Jolly! Clear up the mess, and don’t forget that message for Mr. Wardle.”

“Very good, sir,” said Jolly.

Rollison turned and went on downstairs, holding on to the banisters. He ignored the indignant coments of the neighbours, and smiled at them placatingly. When he reached the foot of the stairs, a motherly little woman holding a Pekinese in her arms—which looked up at him with protuberant eyes —cried out:

“Mr. Rollison, your face! And your hand! You must have them attended to !”

“I will, very soon,” said Rollison. “Must hurry now.” He gave her a flashing smile, not realising that smoke had blackened his face and that there were several scratches from which blood oozed. Because of the black, his eyes looked feverish and his lips moist and red. He reached the street, took in several gulps of clean air and felt a little better.

Jolly appeared by his side.

“You should really come and have that hand dressed, sir,” he said.

“I will,” said Rollison. “Shortly. You deal with these people, and when the police arrive, tell ‘em I tripped over a string that was tied across the stairs, and the explosion came from a brown-paper packet. Don’t let that reach the crowd,” he added in a whisper, as several people drew near. “I’ll be all right,” he added, although he felt as if he had received a heavy blow on the head.

“Very well, sir,” said Jolly.

“And tell Snub to keep out of sight,” ordered Rollison.

He turned towards Piccadilly, pushing his way through a thickening crowd, and saw a taxi drawn up at the side of the road.

Perky Lowe began to get down from his seat.

“Stay there,” Rollison said, and pulled open the door and climbed in. He sank back in a corner and Perky drove off rapidly. As they turned the corner, he glanced through the partition opening, and asked:

“ ‘Orspital?”

Rollison gave a weak chuckle.

“Not yet. Aeolian Hall.”

“Oke,” said Perky, “but you need——”

“I’ll get all I need there,” said Rollison.

“Well, you’re the boss,” said Perky.

Rollison leaned forward to look into the glass of an advertisement mirror which was fitted in front of him, and understood why the little woman had been so alarmed. He smoothed down his hair which was standing on end, and brushed the dust off his clothes, then dabbed at the blood on the back of his hand. He leaned back with his eyes closed, still unable to concentrate, but by the time the taxi reached the Hall, he was pondering over the daring of Mr. Merino.

Had Merino himself fixed that string and set the trap? Had he had time?

“ ‘Ere we are,” said Perky. “Want me to wait?”

“Please.”

“Okay—give you me report later,” said Perky. “Not that it’s much, Mr. Ar.” He jumped down from his seat and helped Rollison out—and Rollison certainly looked as if he needed helping. “Sure you can walk?”

“I’m all right,” said Rollison, stubbornly.

He went into the large, rather gloomy entrance hall of the building. It widened a little further along, where a broad staircase covered with blue carpet led upwards. Rollison had an impression of blue carpet, dark brown polished wood and glass all about him.

Standing near one wall was a tall, well-dressed man in striped trousers, a black coat and a Homburg hat— Freddie Wardle.

Opposite Wardle sat a commissionaire in a uniform which had been copied from the police. The commissionaire stared in amazement and Wardle stepped forward gaping.

“Roily!”

“Slight mishap,” said Rollison. There’s a first-aid room here, isn’t there?”

“Yes, of course,” said Wardle. “Come along.”

He did not ask questions, but led Rollison to a wide staircase —not the one he had noticed. There were only a few steps, and Wardle led the way along a narrow passage with cream walls. He turned into a room which was painted white, there were rows of bottles and first-aid equipment, a hand-basin and some cases of surgical instruments.

“Better wash first,” said Wardle. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

He was away for several minutes and when he returned, Rollison was drying himself on a bloodstained towel. The colour had returned to his cheeks and he looked much more himself. None of the scratches on his face was serious. His hand wound was rather ugly, and he allowed Wardle to bathe and then bandage it. Throughout the operation Wardle made no comment—a remarkable reticence, which Rollison