The Toff and The Sleepy Cowboy

Loman stood like a big boy with a slightly hangdog air.

“I’m sorry,” he said simply.

“If we have to tangle with each other, let’s make sure it’s for a good reason,” said Rollison. “Help yourself to sugar and cream.” He stood with his back to the fireplace, cup in hand. After lunch Jolly always served tall, slender cups; after dinner, demi-tasses. “Have you got this letter which was supposed to be from me?”

“No,” answered Loman. “All my baggage was stolen on the flight from Tucson to New York. And nearly everything else was stolen on the B.O.A.O flight.”

“You mean they robbed you twice?”

“They surely did. And I was doped twice, too.”

“Oh,” said Rollison slowly. “It looks as if they didn’t find what they wanted in the baggage, and had a second go.” He moved quickly, lifted the telephone, dialled the number of Scotland Yard, asked for Grice and was pre- pared to have to leave a message. But Grice himself answered. “Bill,” Rollison said. “Loman was doped and robbed on his Flight — number?” he asked Loman.

“Flight 212, TWA.”

“Flight 212, TWA,” Rollison passed on to Grice. “He was given a shot on that aircraft, too, so it’s possible the same man or woman did the two jobs. Is there a way of checking the two passenger lists?”

“As far as we can judge, Loman was the only passenger who was on both flights. All the others who left the aircraft at Kennedy have been traced by New York,” Grice responded. “But whoever it was probably didn’t use the same name. I’ll check, though. Has Loman been able to explain?”

“He says I wrote to him and told him that if he came to see me I would arrange for him to get one million pounds — pounds, not dollars,” Rollison added for emphasis. “He doesn’t really want to believe that I didn’t write to him at all, but I think he’s come round to it. Have you had any luck?”

“The bomb was an English World War II hand grenade,” Grice announced. “We haven’t a line on the motor- cyclist yet, I’m afraid. Rolly —” He paused. “Yes, Bill ?”

“Don’t hold any morning mood against me, will you?”

Rollison chuckled. “No, William, I will not!” He rang off, feeling remarkably high-spirited although there was a warning note in his mind: vacillations in his own mood had to be watched, he needed to unwind. He moved back to the fireplace and explained: “That was Chief Super-intendant Grice of Scotland Yard. He started the day like a Doubting Thomas, too. Thomas —”

“Richard,” said Loman. “I have told you everything I can.”

“Not everything. When did you get the letter, for instance?”

“Last Friday,” stated Loman.

“Only five days ago?”

“I couldn’t move any faster,” said Loman, apologetic-ally. “All the banks were closed when I got the letter, so I couldn’t get money or travellers cheques. A friend brought the letter out to the ranch from Tucson for me.”

“Where is the letter?” asked Rollison.

“It was in my grip,” replied Loman, “which means I may have seen the last of it. I would have come sooner but I had to buy some clothes and make arrangements with my boss to have my job back if this turned out to be fool’s gold.”

“So you thought it might be,” Rollison said.

“Sure,” Thomas answered laconically. “But I always wanted to visit England. My folks were said to come from England, a place called Stratford-on-Avon, maybe you know it. So I bought me a suit and got me some money —”

“How much money did you lose on the trip?”

“One thousand dollars in cash money and five thousand in travellers cheques,” Loman answered. “I left one thousand dollars in the bank in case I got home hungry.” Loman gave his slow, lazy grin. “They left me my billfold on Flight 212, it wasn’t until the second flight they took that. I guess I’m broke.”

“Do you have the numbers of those travellers cheques?”

“In the billfold,” Loman answered.

“You can call American Express and tell them where you bought them and get them cancelled,” Rollison said. “They’ll replace them in London when they learn what’s happened. Do you know what the thieves were after?”

“No, sir. Unless it was the letter.”

“Where was that letter?”

“In my billfold.”

“Our word for billfold is wallet,” Rollison told him. “Were there any other papers?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Loman.

“What?”

“My birth certificate, I guess.”

“Ah! Did I ask for that?”

“You sure did.”