The Toff and The Sleepy Cowboy

But nothing happened, and twenty-five minutes later Rollison got out of the taxi at the corner of Fell Street and, it proved, Rubicon Road. He paid the driver off, then stood at the corner, looking at a house which stood on its own, not really large but certainly not small. On a wooden door were the words : RUBICON HOUSE. No one was in sight when the taxi turned the corner, and Rollison walked slowly and thoughtfully towards the front door.

As he did so, he put one of the blow-pipe cigarettes to his lips.

This street door was unlocked and he went into a square hall, which had a few pieces of heavy furniture and two bamboo chairs, to see a staircase with an arrow on the wall, pointing upwards to Flats 3 and 4. He went up the wide carpeted staircase. As he reached the landing a small, young woman obviously far gone in pregnancy opened the door marked 3, came out and closed the door firmly. He turned towards the other flat across the landing, just saying:

“Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon,” the woman returned, and went downstairs with unexpected vigour.

10

Wild, Wild West

ROLLISON STOOD AT THE DOOR of the fourth apartment until he had heard the woman’s footsteps clatter down the stairs, patter across the hall, and be cut off by the closing of the street door. Then he turned to the other door and tapped; there was no answer. He banged with the side of his clenched fist but there was still no answer.

He went down on one knee and examined the lock.

It was one of the old fashioned mortice type, difficult to open unless one had the know-how. He had. He took a knife from a special pocket in his trouser waist-band, one with a surprising number of blades — a souvenir of Poland, where knives were knives. This had a pick-lock blade. He used it quickly, not worrying too much about noise as the flat seemed to be empty. The barrel resisted for a long time but at last shot back with a snap of sound greater than he liked.

He paused, but no other sound came.

He pushed the door open cautiously, seeing more and more of the room beyond. Someone might be there, lying doggo: Alec George King, for instance. Certainly no one was in this room, which was pleasantly furnished but in no way remarkable.

Two doors led off on one side; one, off the other. He checked the one first; it was a bathroom. He checked one of the others to find a small kitchen. So the third door would lead to a bedroom. He pushed it open cautiously, and saw a huge, king size bed, the kind of bed a really tall man could stretch on.

On the bed was a stetson hat, of pale brown leather; and laid out was a suit which, even at first glance, was not a conventional cut. He went farther in, and at the side of the bed saw a pair of western riding boots, not unlike Tommy Loman’s. He felt quite certain that the guess that Tommy was to be impersonated was justified. Now, he needed to find out all he could about the plot.

There was a small dressing-table and a chest of drawers; he went through every drawer but found only clothes. A hanging cupboard was filled, half with a man’s apparel, half with a woman’s; there were no papers. He moved back to the living room and saw a small writing desk, much higher than most; obviously this was to allow Alec George King to get his knees under. The long middle drawer was unlocked and inside were oddments, cheque books, cheque stubs and letters. Rollison scanned the letters which were all demands for payment of overdue bills.

Folded in a bank statement was an even sharper demand for the clearance of an overdraft.

Rollison went through the other papers with extreme care, and found one thing he was looking for in the paying in book. A week ago, King had paid five hundred pounds into his bank account, putting this into credit by over three hundred pounds.

There was nothing to indicate where the money had come from.

Rollison tried two smaller drawers in the bureau; one was unlocked, and contained postage stamps, pins, clips and other trifles. The other was locked. He used the pick-lock blade of his knife again, and in a few moments the lock turned and he pulled the drawer open gently.

Inside, were pencilled notes kept in diary form. Obviously the early notes had been jotted down from memory, for they ran:

Sept. 15/16 — A.W. called.

Sept. 17— Saw A.W. who outlined the general idea.

Sept. 17/18 — Talked it over with Effie, who didn’t like it much.

Sept. 19 — Asked A.W. how much it would be worth — he said ?5,000 minimum, ?500 at once — cash.

Sept. 20 — Talked it over with Effie again and she agreed to go ahead if I would salt the first ?500 away.

There followed some notes about a meeting with the mysterious A.W., his promise to pay a further ?500 once King had started ‘the job’. There was a cryptic note: “I was always good in a Yankee part!” If that meant what it seemed to, King did not know the difference between a Yankee and a man from the south west, but that was a passing thought. How had King started to earn that second five hundred pounds? There was another note:

Oct. 3rd — Effie says she can’t tell the difference.

Oct. 4th — I did the tape and posted it to A.W.

Oct. 6th — A.W. delighted — he coughed up the second ?500.

Rollison put this aside and looked about the room, saw a portable record player in one corner and a small tape recorder with several tapes kept in place with rubber bands, on a nearby stool. One tape was on the recorder, ready to play. Rollison studied the instrument and then switched it on. There were some squeaks and scratches, before a man’s voice sounded.

“Sure — that’s my name . . . I come from Tucson, Arizona . . . I work at the Lazy K ranch between Tucson