The Toff In Town

“Get yourself a drink,” said Rollison. “I’ll try one now, too.”

“Very good, sir.” Jolly went to the cabinet and poured out whiskies-and-soda, one weak, one strong. The weak one he gave to Rollison. He sat down again at a word from Rollison, and sipped.

“You—you’ve no idea where Snub is, sir?”

“Not the foggiest,” Rollison told him. “No easy way out of this, Jolly. I’ve been given an ultimatum, too. Er— what’s the time?”

“A little after twelve-thirty,” said Jolly. “I was getting worried, and would shortly have telephoned Ebbutt, in the hope that he knew something of your most recent movements. Snub— Snub did telephone though, it was his voice, I’m quite sure.”

“Oh yes No blame on Snub or you. They let him send for me and then shanghaied him. And they weren’t exactly gentle with me. A man named Max . . .”

Jolly listened to the ensuing recital without making any comment; and Rollison told it at some length, because that helped him to fix the details in his mind. He did not even hurry over the interview with Pauline Dexter, because he wanted to picture her, with that curious blend of naivete and blaseness, wanted to remember the inflection of her voice when she had “threatened”.

“And the question now is, what to do,” he said finally. “I’m empty of ideas, Jolly.”

Jolly, looking a better colour, stood up.

“We must do something about that corpse,” he said worriedly. “In most circumstances I would say that Mr. Grice should he consulted, but——”

“This being murder, he couldn’t hold his hand,” said Rollison. “He would immediately see Pauline and her staff, and might detain them. But Pauline was so very sure of herself. She must have other friends who are looking after Snub. She’s relying on the danger to Snub forcing me to keep silent. And she isn’t far wrong. There isn’t much we can do, Jolly. Grice will have Lilley Mews watched by now; we can’t take Bill’s boys along and raid the place. Even you’d like to use them for this, wouldn’t you?”

“I would, sir,” said Jolly. “You—ah—might make a further attempt to persuade Mr. Allen to talk. If you know what is behind all this, you will have a much stronger hand.”

“Oh, I’ll have another go at Allen,” said Rollison.

“On the other hand,” said Jolly, “I really don’t think you are well enough to see Mr. Allen to-night. I don’t like advising it, but the best immediate course is for you to have some rest. Your head looks very nasty, sir.”

“Oh,” said Rollison.

“I hope you will agree,” said Jolly. “Meanwhile, there is the question of the disposal of the body.”

“That must stay where it is,” decided Rollison, “we can’t cart a corpse about London. Jolly, bad head or no bad head, I must tackle Allen to-night. Get me a cab. And if this doesn’t work, I’ll get Ebbutt’s boys to tackle Lilley Mews, police or no police. I mean it,” he added, getting up with an effort.

Jolly was about to protest but changed his mind.

Barbara Allen opened the front door of the Byngham Court Mansions flat so quickly after Rollison’s ring that he knew she hadn’t been asleep. In fact she was fully dressed although she looked tired out. A gleam of hope sprang to her eyes when she first saw him, but he shook his head.

“Nothing new, Mrs. Allen, but I want a word with your husband.”

“Oh, please don’t wake him up,” she begged. “He’s dropped off to sleep, and——”

“I must have a word with him,” insisted Rollison. “I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t essential.”

She gave in.

“I suppose you must if you must. He’s in the spare room he went straight in there when he came in. He hardly said a word, and wouldn’t have anything to eat.”

She led the way to a tiny room, where there was a single bed, a small table and a corner cupboard. Allen lay under the sheet, wearing his singlet and trunks. He breathed evenly, and when Rollison called his name, did not stir. Barbara looked tense when Rollison shook Allen’s shoulder vigorously.

But Allen didn’t wake.

Rollison pulled up his eyelids and examined his eyes; they were contracted to tiny pin-points, and he judged from them that Allen had been drugged with morphia. He felt his pulse; it was very sluggish. He did not think the youngster was in any danger, the dose was enough to make him unconscious, but was not fatal.

He told Barbara, and added:

“It’s probably as well; at least he won’t be worried for a few hours. Keep him warm—and then go to bed yourself. There’s absolutely no danger. If I had my way, I’d give you a shot, that would send you off to sleep.”

“I haven’t slept—not really slept—for days,” she told him.

One of the most expert cracksmen in the East End of London had long since retired but, because of a service which the Toff had rendered him some years ago, agreed to have a look at the flat in Lilley Mews and to open the door. He found little difficulty in climbing over the back of the garage and dropping into Lilley Mews, without being seen by the two police-constables who were unostentatiously hovering near the entrance. What was more, he discovered an, easy way over the old buildings of the mews, and several of Bill Ebbutt’s men followed him.

The flat was entered.

No one was there; nor was there anyone in the upstairs flat.

It was after three o’clock when Rollison went to bed, and after eleven when he woke up. His head still ached and was tender where he touched it, but his eyes were clearer and he could move about without difficulty or pain. So he bathed, shaved and breakfasted, much as if it were a normal morning.