The Toff In Town

“Yes,” said Rollison.

“Follow that cab, Lowe,” said Jolly, pointing to a cab which had just moved off, and then realised that the instructions were superfluous.

“Get in,” said Rollison. He helped Barbara into the taxi. Jolly followed and was about to close the door, when McMahon came running and swung into the cab as it moved off. A little further along New Bond Street the other cab was gathering speed. There was no sign of Lundy or Allen.

“Two of ‘em got in,” said Perky cheerfully, shouting through the partition.

“All right, Perky—you just get a move on,” said Rollison. He sat back and took out cigarettes. “It’s all right Jolly,” he said “that cab in front belongs to a friend of Perky’s, I arranged for him to be at hand to pick up Allen.”

“I see, sir,” said Jolly; but obviously he didn’t see at all.

“Now supposing you give me the story,” said McMahon.

“Shut up, Mac,” said Rollison. “Think yourself lucky that I don’t throw you out on your ear. Barbara, don’t cry.” His words made Jolly and the reporter realise that she was leaning back with tears streaming down her face, making no attempt to stop herself. “It isn’t your fault,” he went on gently, “you’re not to blame.”

The words had no effect on her.

McMahon started to speak, then checked himself. He and Jolly sat on the tip-up seats, opposite the Toff and Barbara. Perky drove at a good speed towards Piccadilly, then to Trafalgar Square and along the Strand.

“Was it Mr. Lundy, sir?” asked Jolly.

“One of them is Lundy,” said Rollison quietly, “but he was present chiefly for our benefit. Jolly, he isn’t the real villain.” Rollison gave a harsh little laugh, and glanced at Barbara. She was still crying, stifling her sobs; and in the half-light she looked pathetic. “Surely you know whom we’re after, Jolly?”

“I—I’m afraid I do not sir,” said Jolly. “It appears to me that unless Lundy is our man, then we have lost completely. Allen remembered those lines perfectly, he didn’t have to read them.”

“He remembered them word for word although he didn’t have a copy of the new script for more than a few minutes, he could hardly have read it, could he? Yet he knew it off by heart. I’ve wondered several times whether you were right when you first reminded me that nice, young women sometimes married bounders, Jolly. You were.”

“Bounders? Allen?” gasped Jolly.

“Allen,” said Rollison. “I began to wonder when he went off with Pauline. He was at the flat about the time that Merino was murdered. And afterwards, he was adamant—he meant to broadcast at all costs. The way he behaved to Barbara wasn’t just the result of overwrought nerves. His own fear of the police proved he had committed one serious crime. He was obviously prepared to do anything to save his own skin.”

“Allen!” breathed Jolly.

Barbara opened her eyes and looked at him through the screen of tears; and then she relapsed into subdued sobbing, she could not keep silent altogether. McMahon sat without speaking. The taxi bowled along the Mile End Road—and then turned off, heading for Bill Ebbutt’s gymnasium; and Perky Lowe suddenly stepped on the accelerator and swung round the corner in the wake of the leading cab.

“Allen!” breathed Jolly again.

Rollison did not speak. The cab pulled up outside the dimly-lighted entrance to the gymnasium. Three or four of Bill’s men stepped into the murky street, and the comparative quiet was broken by angry voice—Lundy’s voice, which Rollison had learned to recognise while he had been in the studio. Lundy was protesting vigorously, but the driver of the first cab climbed out and suddenly it was surrounded by Ebbutt’s “boys”. Rollison opened the door of his cab and jumped down, saying: “Look after Mrs. Allen, Jolly,” and Jolly was compelled to stay behind, whether he wanted to or not. McMahon jumped out nimbly and followed Rollison to the leading cab. By that time the protesting Lundy had been dragged out of the taxi, and another of Ebbutt’s bruisers helped Allen out.

“Run through his pockets,” said Rollison, pointing to Lundy, and before the actor could protest, a man had patted him all over. This man drew out a pipe from Lundy’s right-hand pocket; and Rollison knew then that Lundy had pretended that the pipe was a gun.

Rollison and Allen came face to face.

“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” growled Allen. Clear out, and let me go home!”

“I don’t think you’ll be going home again,” Rollison said. He glanced at Ebbutt, who loomed out of the darkness. “Get him inside. Bill.”

“I’m not going inside anywhere!” Allen rasped.

“Oh, yes, you are,” said Ebbutt. He stretched out a colossal hand and yanked Allen by the collar towards the entrance. Allen kicked out and tried to free himself but failed, and another of Bill’s men came behind him. Allen started to kick and struggle, as if he were suddenly overcome by a frenzy. But he was overpowered, and there was nothing he could do to save himself from being taken into the gymnasium. The others followed in a little group—and Rollison, glancing out of the corner of his eye, saw that Jolly was escorting Barbara.

The big room was in semi-darkness.

Ebbutt and the other man released Allen, and he stood back against a punch-ball, biting his lips, glaring through the gloom at Lundy. And before any of the others could speak, he burst out:

“There’s your man! Lundy! He threatened me while we were at the studio. He had a gun—I don’t care what you took from his pocket, he had a gun!”

“Did he?” asked Rollison.

“It—it’s a lie,” muttered Lundy. “I—I had to pretend——”

“Pretend!” screeched Allen.