The Toff and The Sleepy Cowboy

much too hot but seldom too cold. Near it were many mines, mostly producing copper, and the final word was : ‘Tucson is one of the five quickest growing cities in the United States judged on population.’

“Humm,” Rollison said to himself.

Immediately, Jolly appeared with a tray which he placed on a table in a small, raised dining-alcove at one end of this large room. Rollison set to, Jolly drank coffee, Rollison told the story briefly, and Jolly remarked :

“I remember Mr. Selly, sir.”

“You do?” Rollison was intrigued.

“He came one day when you were out,” Jolly informed him, “and asked me what a Toff was.”

“Oh,” said Rollison, still further intrigued. “What did you tell him?”

“That a toff is a toff, sir.”

“I am sure that conveyed everything he needed to know,” Rollison said drily.

“Of course I elaborated somewhat,” went on Jolly urbanely, “but basically it is a difficult term to define, especially to this generation.” When Rollison speared a piece of bacon, obviously expecting him to go on, Jolly continued: “I told him that a toff was a gentleman of high social standing who exerted himself to do great good among the less fortunate members of society.”

“Oh,” Rollison said. “Can’t we do better than that?”

“Can you, sir?” inquired Jolly.

“I shall think about it,” Rollison decided, and after a liberal helping of bacon and eggs, spread butter and a dark-coloured marmalade on toast, finished breakfast and went to his room to dress. It was not one of his good mornings, for his attempt to define a ‘toff’ proved both disconcerting and abortive. He found that Jolly had made his bed and laid out a medium weight suit of heather colour, perhaps as satisfactory as any for this autumn day. “A toff,” he said in a complaining voice, “is a man who gets waited on hand and foot and is rich enough to give hand-outs.” He knew that was not fair to himself, laughed aloud, dressed, and was going into the big room when the telephone bell rang again.

“I’ll get it!” he called, and this time sat down with his back to the Trophy Wall, plucked up the receiver, and said: “Richard Rollison.”

“Good morning, Rolly,” said a man with a familiar voice. “And what have you been up to?”

“Bill” Rollison almost groaned.

“That’s right. Come on, now. You might as well confess.”

“Bill,” interrupted Rollison in a tone of mock des-peration. “You are the very man I need. Who better than Chief Detective Superintendent William Grice of New Scotland Yard to tell me what I am? Bill — can you define ‘a Toff?”

There was silence.

He had at least gained time to think, but thinking did not take him far. Grice was both old adversary and old friend, and had been concerned in most of the cases remembered on the Trophy Wall. Frequently, when he, Rollison, became involved in an inquiry it was before the police discovered that there was anything to inquire about. At such times Grice was likely to call and ask: “What have you been up to?” Rollison could not think of a single recent activity which could justify the question.

At last, Grice said: “A toff is a toff, of course.”

“You’re a great help,” said Rollison heavily. “Nothing.”

“What?”

“I have been up to nothing which might interest you.”

“That is the one thing about you I would never believe,” retorted Grice. “You can’t expect me to believe it, either.”

“Bill,” Rollison said, pleadingly, “be more specific, will you? It has been one of those mornings. I can’t get any sense out of anybody and least of all from myself. What makes you think I have been ‘up to something’?”

Again there was a pause, doubtless while Grice decided whether he was stalling or whether he was genuinely baffled. Rollison made himself more comfortable in his chair. Suddenly, Grice said: “Just a minute, Rolly,” and Rollison held on, hearing voices in the background; someone had come in Grice’s office. This time Rollison felt the stirring of impatience; he seemed to have done nothing but hold on at the telephone all the morning. The delay was very short, and Grice came back in a stronger voice: “What do you know of a man named Thomas G. or C. Loman?”

Rollison sat bolt upright in his chair.

“And don’t say ‘nothing’,” Grice almost barked.

“Bill,” said Rollison, faintly, “I know next to nothing. An American newspaperman named Selly called from New York this morning and asked me if I were expecting a visit from a man named Loman. I answered truly : I was not. He then wanted to know if I knew any Loman.

I answered as truly : I did not. He added that Loman hails from the city of Tucson, in —”

“I know where he hails from,” interrupted Grice. “Is this gospel, Rolly ? You really don’t know him?”

“Until this morning I had never heard of him. I couldn’t have placed Tucson with any accuracy on a map, either.”

“Never mind Tucson.” There was another pause and a murmur of voices, as if Grice were in consultation in his office. Then Grice came back and demanded in one breath: “If you don’t know him, how is it he has your name and address as his final destination in London on his travel documents.”

“He has?” exclaimed Rollison.