The Toff and The Sleepy Cowboy

8

“ . . . Pounds not Dollars”

A GREAT DEAL HAD HAPPENED to Rollison that day. He had been woken out of deep sleep to answer a call about this man of whom he had never heard. The incident of Pamela Brown had been amusing and yet exasperating, the attitude of William Grice had been annoying, and the attack at the airport had, he knew, a delayed action shock effect. It was a combination of all these things which had worked in him to make him keep his composure: until now.

Suddenly, he felt a blaze of anger.

He had to fight back the impulse to jump to his feet and get his blow in first. Angry though he was, he was aware that Loman was very powerful and at least fifteen years younger than he.

“Sit down,” he barked.

Loman leaned farther forward.

“You are going to tell me, or —” he began.

Rollison shot out his right hand, gripped a bony wrist at the vital spot, and twisted. Taken entirely by surprise, Loman went staggering backwards and thumped against the wall. Rollison rounded the table and stood in front of the younger man, who began to slide helplessly down the wall, losing height rapidly.

“Now behave like a rational human being or get out,”

Rollison said coldly. “The rest of this affair is bad enough without having you behaving like an ill-bred bull.”

He stared icily upon his guest, then turned and went into the Trophy Room, where Jolly had appeared as if by magic. He gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, saying in effect : “Leave this to me,” and poured out coffee. Jolly hovered, out of Loman’s sight. Rollison was aware that the young American was standing upright again but had no ideas what his mood would be like.

Loman stepped down from the dining alcove as the telephone bell rang. Rollison moved like a flash to the desk, plucked up the telephone, and announced: “Rollison.” Immediately, a man responded.

“That is Mr. Rollison?”

“Yes,” said Rollison.

“You — er — you did invite me to come and have a drink about five o’clock this afternoon, didn’t you?” the caller went on. “I — er — I wasn’t dreaming.”

“I’d very much like you to come.”

“Then I’ll be there, as soon as I can be. Oh! This is Jack Fisher, the man who saw the explosion this morning.”

“I remember you very well,” Rollison said.

“Do you know if they’ve caught the men yet?” asked Fisher, and added in a voice touched as if with horror: “To try to kill you — why, it’s criminal!”

In spite of himself, Rollison chuckled. “Yes, isn’t it? Soon after five, then.” He replaced the receiver and turned round slowly, not sure how near Loman was yet acutely aware of him. If this really came to a conflict he must finish it very quickly.

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.”

“And more?”

“Sure,” answered Loman. “Some old papers showing my grandpa had come from Stratford-on-Avon, a kind of family tree, I guess.”

“Wasn’t that in the baggage?”

“No, sir.”

“In your hand baggage — anything that was stolen in New York?”

“No, sir,” repeated Loman. “I kept those papers in an envelope in my pocket, I didn’t want to take any chances with them. You think that’s what the thieves were after?”

“I think it could have been,” answered Rollison slowly, and he went on, hardly daring to ask : “Have you any copies of these documents?”

“No,” answered Loman. “Why would I want copies when I have the genuine article?”

“Some people play safe,” Rollison remarked heavily. “Were you carrying anything else in your pockets?”

“I guess not — I got everything else back at the airport.”

Rollison asked, out of the blue: “What was your grandfather’s name?”

“Joseph.”

“Joseph what?”

“Joseph Loman, what else?”

“It could have been on your mother’s side,” Rollison pointed out. “Did you —?”

“There was something else!” cried Loman. It did not occur to him to wait but whenever a thought came into his head he interrupted in the most natural way. “I’d forgotten, I guess. There were some old photographs.”

“Of you?”

“Are you crazy? Of my grandfather and his wife. They were pretty old, those brown-coloured prints, what do you call them? Sepia, that’s the word, sepia. I’ve had them ever since my pa handed them to me just before he died. Had them in a special folder,” Tommy Loman added. “It was too big for my billfold so I put them in this envelope so they could all go into my pocket.” His eyes glowed with this happy recollection, but the Toff’s heart sank.

“Tommy,” he said.

“Yes?”

“Do you have any brothers?”

“No, sir. No brothers, no sisters.”

“Cousins?” asked Rollison.

“I’ve never heard of any relatives any place,” answered Loman.

“No one at all like you?”

“Richard,” stated Loman with great certainty, “there ain’t nobody like me, any place.”

“I can believe it,” Rollison replied feelingly, and he moved towards the tall man, going on in an even voice. “Tommy, I am only guessing but it looks to me like a good guess. You appear to stand to inherit a lot of money — that’s the simple and obvious explanation. If someone wants to prevent you from getting it, then the obvious means would be to impersonate you. That could be done safely only by killing you or keeping you out of the way until the inheritance had been claimed and paid over. The simple way would be to kill you but not until they had these documents and photographs. From now on, if I’m anywhere on course, so far as these impersonators are concerned you would be far better dead.”

The word ‘dead’ hovered about the room and seemed to echo from the trophies on that resplendent wall. As it hovered, Rollison looked into Tommy Loman’s light brown eyes. The younger man’s face was blank, he looked almost as if he had not taken in everything that Rollison said.

But he had taken it in, for he said: “It would make sense, I guess, if you had written and told me about a legacy. But you didn’t. So who did? And who told me to come see you?”

“That we shall find out.”

“And who tried to blow you up?” asked Loman. “You, Richard, not me.”

“We shall find that out, too,” Rollison promised. “We have found out one thing: you are in danger.” After a long pause, Loman said: “So?”

“So, we must look after you.”

“I’m good at looking after myself,” Loman retorted laconically.

“On a cattle ranch, I am sure you are. But in an aeroplane?” Loman opened his mouth to reply, but closed it again. “Or in London, a strange city where you don’t even know the rule of the road?”

Resignedly, the other said: “So how are you going to protect me?”

“In the first place, have you stay here,” Rollison began. “Then —”

“Richard,” interrupted Loman, spreading his hands, “do you know what claustrophobia is? Do you know what it feels like to be in a big city surrounded by bricks and stone when you’re accustomed to riding a range where all you can see are mountains and saguaro cacti and dirt?”

“I can imagine,” Rollison conceded.

“This is a nice room,” stated Loman. “But.”

“It won’t be for ever,” Rollison said.

“It can’t be for long, Richard. And there’s another thing.”

“What’s that?”

“When I’m in trouble I like to do my own protecting.”

“Yes,” Rollison said levelly. “Yes, I am sure you do. However, you must stay here the rest of the day and tonight, at least. I may be able to find out what’s really behind all this if I have a little time. At seven o’clock we shall have company —” He called across to Jolly, who was clearing the table. “Did I tell you that Miss Brown will be here for dinner, Jolly?”

“No, sir,” Jolly replied, and straightened up with a crumb tray in one hand, crumb brush in the other. “Then I should go and do a little shopping.”

“Hey!” exclaimed Loman, in sudden excitement. “What’s the matter?” demanded Rollison.

“I can go out with Mr. Jolly! He can look after me.” A glint of merriment showed in the tall man’s eyes.

“Tommy,” Rollison said very softly, “I don’t think you understand. The evidence is that you are in grave danger. Until we know what kind of danger you need to take extreme precautions. We know that the people involved are prepared to throw an explosive grenade, and if they’ll do it once they might again. If you want to go out and risk your neck, I shan’t stop you. But I won’t risk Jolly’s. I’m not yet sure it’s worth it.”

Very slowly and deliberately, Tommy Loman backed away and at the same time raised his hands.

“I can say one thing about you,” he said in a husky voice. “You speak straight and you act fast. You want me to stay here that bad?”

“I think you would be wiser to stay here,” Rollison answered.

“Okay, then I’ll stay,” promised Loman, reluctantly. “If I change my mind I’ll tell you. Are you going to have the place surrounded?” The amused glint appeared in his eyes again.

“Yes,” answered Rollison.

“Jehosophat!” exclaimed Loman. “You mean it!”

“I mean it,” confirmed Rollison, turning to Jolly. “Call Bill Ebbutt and ask for some of his chaps, Jolly, then tell Mr. Grice what I’ve done and why — because I think Mr. Loman’s life is in acute danger.”

“And isn’t yours, sir?” asked Jolly, very earnestly. “And if it is, isn’t it simply because you are helping a complete stranger, who really has no call on you at all?”