The Toff In Town

“And Bill would say, ‘Mostly, or all?’ ” said Hedley. “And you would answer: ‘Oh, there are just as many crooks in the West End as the East End, but I’ve met most of mine in the East’.”

“And something about liking East Enders,” chimed in Miss Myall.

“We’d bring in “The Toff” somewhere,” said Hedley obligingly.

“And mention Scotland Yard—or would you prefer to leave them out?” asked Miss Myall, looking at him keenly. “I mean, Bill could ask you your opinion of the police, how you think the force could be improved, and——”

“I can see I shall have to have a stab at writing this epic myself,” said Rollison. “It may be possible to improve the Yard, but I’m not up to it. I wonder——”

“Will you write a script?” demanded Miss Myall, eagerly.

“We’ll gladly put you in on Saturday week,” said Hedley. “We’ve never had a private detective before.”

“Or whatever you call yourself,” said Miss Myall.

“We can do with something a bit lively the week after this,” went on Hedley enthusiastically. “It won’t take much time, and you’ve a broadcasting voice—hasn’t he, Mr. Wardle?”

“Possibly,” said Wardle dryly.

“Oh, if he talked as he’s been talking now, it would come over as if he’d been broadcasting all his life,” declared Miss Myall. Hedley was equally eager; and for the first time Rollison realised that both of them really lived in their jobs. Next Saturday’s was the 400th edition of In Town To-night and yet they brought to the 401st an enthusiasm as great as to a new venture.

“Do come!” urged Hedley.

“May I think it over?” asked Rollison, who hadn’t the heart to say “no” out of hand.

“Write your own script,” offered Miss Myall, grandly. “We’ll just vet it.”

“I say,” said Hedley, suddenly swayed by a new and brilliant notion, “could you bring one of the crooks with you?”

“I think perhaps we had better stick to the point,” broke in Wardle, not reprovingly but because he had a rigid mind. “Is there anything else you’d like to know, Roily?”

Miss Myall and Hedley fell obediently silent.

Rollison said slowly: “I don’t know. I see how you get the people, how you prepare the script—what time do they arrive here for the broadcast? Half-past five?”

“Great Scott, no!” exclaimed Hedley. “People who haven’t been on the air lose their voice the first time they sit in front of a mike, or else squeak or whisper. But as soon as they’ve tried it out once or twice, most of them are all right. So we have them here any time after 2.30, the earlier the better, for rehearsals. That has to be done, because they’re all allowed a limited time. One man might take five minutes to read a script which another would read in three, or even less. Sometimes cuts have to be made or bits added on, you can’t really tell until you’ve rehearsed. It’s all right with stage and screen people, but put an ordinary man in front of a mike with a script perched up in front of him, and he dithers.”

“I can well believe it,” said Rollison. I suppose some are really shy. This man from Burma, for instance—does he really want to talk about it, or have you used a lot of persuasion?”

“He was all right,” said Hedley. “Bit worked up. We did the script yesterday afternoon, and I think it will be good. You’ve got it, Rose, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” said Miss Myall, and produced several sheets of foolscap.

“I suppose there isn’t a spare,” inquired Rollison. “If I’m to think about it, I’d like to——”

“Take one,” said Miss Myall, and thrust a copy of Allen’s script into his hand.

“Thanks,” said Rollison. “And thanks for everything else. Now, what about having a drink with me?”

No one said “no”.

Perky Lowe took them to the Chester Arms, in a side street near Gresham Terrace, and they sipped their drinks—except Wardle, who took his whisky-and-soda in two gulps—and chatted, crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s of the discussion. Miss Myall was the first to leave. Hedley followed soon afterwards, and Wardle, who had a remarkable capacity for whisky-and-soda after office hours, gulped down half his fourth, lit a cigarette and eyed Rollison fixedly.

“What is all this about?” he demanded.

“I’ll tell you later on,” promised Rollison. “Very hush-hush, for the time being. Thanks, Freddie!”

They left the Chester Arms together. Perky came out of the public bar, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and took the wheel of the cab. Rollison went out of his way to drop Wardle at Charing Cross, and then was driven back to Gresham Terrace.

“Anything more to-night, Mr. Ar?” Perky Lowe asked.

“Anywhere special to go?” asked Rollison.

“No, Mr. Ar, I’m at your service, same as always. Shall I stick around?”

“I think you’d better,” said Rollison.

“Oke.” Perky pulled up outside the flat, jumped down and, as Rollison climbed to the pavement, held out a folded sheet of paper. “My report,” he said proudly. That Chrysler made three calls—juicy bit, ain’t she?”