The Toff and the Fallen Angels

There were a dozen useless questions while Rollison moved towards the wall and began to search the ground. There was so little light here. A policeman turned into the gate. As Rollison bent down, a young man joined him.

“Looking for something?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve got a torch.” There was a click, and a pale beam of light wavered over grass and the dark brick wall— and then shone on the heavy-looking head of a bricklayer’s hammer.

“What’s that?” the youth darted forward.

“Don’t touch it !” exclaimed Rollison, in time to make the other draw back.

Behind them, Naomi Smith was saying: “I’m all right, I am, really.” On Rollison’s right the policeman was bearing down and a number of other people had gathered in the gateway. Why did people have to stand and gape and watch when others suffered? What sadistic streak lay buried in man?

“Good evening,” said the policeman. He was slight but quite tall and had a faintly Scottish accent. “What’s happening here?”

“A man was waiting to attack whoever was coming out of the house, as far as I can tell,” answered Rollison. “I happened to spot him. He dropped this,” He pointed to the hammer, glad to notice that the policeman bending down, made no attempt to touch it. “The assailant got away.”

Was anyone hurt?” asked the constable, practically.

“I don’t think so,” said Rollison. “Unless he himself was. This is a hostel for young women, and—”

“I know what it is, sir,” said the policeman, and lowered his voice. “Aren’t you Mr. Richard Rollison?”

“Yes,” said Rollison simply.

“Is this anything to do with what happened at St. John’s Wood, sir?”

“From the look of that hammer it wouldn’t surprise me,” said Rollison. “Can you see that it’s left there until your C.I.D. men come and have a look round?”

“I certainly can, sir.” The policeman pulled out a knob in the transistor radio tucked into his tunic and began to report to his division with a lucidity which Rollison admired, and which gave him much relief : he did not need to guide this young officer into doing what he wanted. And other police were approaching, from the gate one spoke with the patient firmness of authority.

“Move along, please, you’re causing an obstruction. Move along.”

“Is anyone hurt?” floated from the gateway.

“Isn’t that the hostel where—”

“Move along, now! I don’t want to have to tell you again!”

“I’ll be inside,” Rollison said to the constable near him, as the man pushed the aerial in.

“Thank you, sir. We’ll have a car along in a very few minutes.”

Raison looked towards Naomi Smith, who was now standing in the porch with the door behind her open and the light throwing her in dark relief. The policeman and the youth, seeing that they could do nothing more for her, turned towards Rollison.

“Are you the Rollison?” the youth breathed. The—the Toff?”

“Yes,” answered Rollison, crisply. “Now I must look after Mrs. Smith. Why don’t you telephone me later tonight or sometime tomorrow? You’ll find my name in the book.”

“Oh—may I?” There was tremendous excitement in the young voice.

“I’d like you to,” said Rollison. “And thank you for your help.” He moved away, watched very intently now by everyone who was near, and joined Naomi Smith. “Let’s go in,” he said, and took her arm leading her towards the hall beyond.

No one was there.

Rollison noted that the hall was pleasantly bright and much better furnished than might have been expected. There were oil portraits on the wall; the chairs, an oak settle and a big wardrobe were all old and well-preserved. The parquet flooring was well-polished and there was a big Indian square—Mirzapore, Rollison thought. A central staircase ended at a half-landing from which another flight led to the right and to the left.

Looking down from a wooden rail were three girls. In the shadowy light up there, each looked pale and nervous and dark-eyed.

Why hadn’t they come downstairs?

He wished Angela was one of them.

Naomi led the way to a room on the right, and switched on ceiling lights revealing a room which was part office, part sitting room. The big square desk had a green leather top, so did a smaller desk near it, on the right. On the other side was a typing table. Here were two telephones, a terra cotta jar filled with ball-point pens, another with finely-sharpened pencils.

Naomi, her hair ruffled, turned and faced him, her expression one of dismay and distress.

“I suppose you realise you might have been killed,” Rollison said in a conversational voice : there was no point in hectoring her, that would only worsen her distress.

“I—I do. I can’t—thank you—enough.”

“You feared that two of your girls were dead, didn’t you?” asked Rollison in the same, almost casual tone.