The Toff and The Sleepy Cowboy

9

The Short and the Tall

ROLLISON DID NOT REPLY but looked at Thomas G. Loman, who actually backed a pace, as if Jolly had delivered him a physical blow. His face showed a whole gamut of expressions, from shock to unbelief; until at last he turned to Rollison and spoke with unmistakable feeling.

“And I said that you talk straight.”

“When one is dealing with life and death, as Mr. Rollison and I have been for many years, one has to talk very straight indeed,” said Jolly.

“Sure,” conceded Loman. “You bet!” He flashed his most attractive grin. “I’ll be good,” he promised. “But if you two go out and leave me alone I don’t promise not to prowl around.”

“Prowl wherever you like,” Rollison said. “Are you going to look for anything in particular?”

“All I can find out about you and Mr. Jolly.”

“In the cupboards beneath the Trophy Wall you will find press cuttings books and case histories. Help your-self.” Rollison pointed to three cupboards with sliding doors beneath a wide ledge about the height of his desk on the wall, then turned to Jolly. “Show Mr. Loman our safety measures, won’t you?” He smiled at Loman and then turned and walked briskly out of the room.

He went to his bedroom and knelt down beside a big wardrobe, opened the doors and then a drawer at the bottom, pressed a knot in the wood at one side and allowed a false bottom to slide back smoothly and with little sound.

Hidden here were weapons in great variety.

He selected a small pistol not unlike the one which Pamela Brown had in her bag, and four cigarettes which he placed carefully into his gold cigarette case. Each cigarette was in fact a tiny blow-pipe and inside it not a dart but a phial of tear gas; that little invention, thought up over twenty years ago, had saved his life times out of number. He picked up a narrow, stiletto dagger clipped into an arm band. This would fit comfortably below the elbow, from where he could work it down towards his hand by flexing his muscles. He put this back again, saying: “Not this jaunt,” and left the flat by the other passage, hearing Jolly talking to Tommy G. He glanced up at the periscope mirror and satisfied himself no one was on the staircase or the landing, then went out.

Just outside the street door stood one of Grice’s men, another stood on the far side of the street, making no secret of their presence, and returning Rollison’s amiable nod. Police protection, Rollison thought half-bleak, half-amused. He saw a third man who did not look like a policeman, farther along the street.

On the instant, he was prepared for trouble.

The man was of medium height, chubby rather than fat, and he wore a pale coloured suit, of a peculiar shade of blue grey. That, and his hat, betrayed him as an American; or at least that he had bought these clothes in America. The man took a step from a wall in front of one of the houses, and Rollison’s alarm signals faded; at least the other was not attempting to hide himself.

“Excuse me,” the man said, quietly. He was un-mistakably American.

“Can I help you?” Rollison asked.

“Can you —” there was a moment’s hesitation before the speaker went on. “Can you tell me where Piccadilly is?”

Rollison was as nearly sure as he could be that his accoster had switched questions at the last moment. He looked into the healthy, olive-skinned complexion and the honey brown eyes as he answered.

“That’s very easy. Go along there —” he pointed —”take the first left and then the first left again. It’s no more than a hundred yards.”

“Thank you,” the man said, and turned and walked off.

Rollison got into his car, so pre-occupied that he hardly noticed the dents and holes in the body, eased out of the parking place and went in the opposite direction to that of the American. He did not notice the two detectives, drove by side streets towards Park Lane and finally into Hyde Park, joining a fast-moving stream of traffic. Grice’s men were obviously watching both the flat and Loman. Soon, he was driving along the Edgware Road, with its small shops and its crowds, then along a street which was cut in two by a stream of water: the Regent’s Canal; for a few hundred yards, the countryside seemed to be in the heart of London. Somehow, the hint of rural England was more impressive here than in the great parks themselves.

And there was room to park!

He sat still for at least three minutes. Several cars passed but no driver or passenger took any notice of him. Some small boys were tossing stones into the Canal, birds darted, two ducks appeared to float by. He got out of the car at last and crossed the road, walked fifty or sixty yards to a house numbered 68. He turned in, walked on to a ramp to the front door, and pressed a bell-push. Almost immediately an elderly woman with the figure of a teenager opened the door.

“Yes?” she said, slightly querulous — and then her expression changed to one of warmth and welcome. “Why, it’s Mr. Rollison! Come in, do.” She stood aside to allow him to pass in a narrow passage. “Percy will be delighted to see you. He really will!”

She pushed the door open on to a room of photo-graphs; the walls were covered with them, from floor to ceiling, and there were more on filing cabinets and tables. In the window, sat a big, broad-faced man, whose face was lined either from pain or anxiety.

His eyes lit up, and he touched the metal arm of his chair and swung himself round; it was an invalid chair, which he had needed for as many years as Rollison had known him.

His handshake was powerful enough to crush un-suspecting visitors.

“Rolly!”

“Percy.”

“You look magnificent!”

“You look as if you’re bearing up.”

“Just about,” roared Percy Bingham. “You’re just about right, as usual. Well, now! How can I help you?”

Rollison, sitting in an old-fashioned button-back Victorian sofa, refused a cigarette, and said :

“You can find me an actor, six feet six or seven, lean as a lamp, stands and walks with a slight stoop, has a long, lean face and a spade-like jaw. He must be around twenty-five to thirty years old and able to speak with the accent of a man from the great south west of America.”

After a moment’s pause, Percy retorted:

“That’s a tall order.” They both laughed, before Percy asked: “What do you want him for?”

“Probably, attempted murder,” Rollison answered.

“Murder!” exclaimed the little woman, who came in briskly with a tray holding glasses and a small decanter. This would be cherry brandy, Rollison knew; it was part of the ritual of a meeting of old friends.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Percy said. “Now leave us alone, unless you want to be frightened out of your wits.” The smile he gave the woman as she went out was one of deep affection. “What else can you tell me, Rolly?”

“He may be in training to impersonate a man who answers the description I’ve just given you.”

“Well,” said Percy Bingham, pouring a little brandy into small, bow-shaped glasses. “I know of only three possibles. Eyes?”

“Honey-coloured.”

“I know of only one possible,” Percy said, with abso-lute certainty. “If there is an actor who fits, this is your man. Of course your man may not be an actor.”

“I think he is,” Rollison said. “Only an actor could do what I think this man is going to do. Can you find out if he’s free?”

“Yes, of course.” Percy gave a twist to his chair so that he was close to a row of three-drawer filing cabinets, one red, one black, one green. He pulled open the middle drawer in the green cabinet and ran through a number of cards under the letter K. Deftly, he selected one card, glanced at it, then handed it to Rollison while he wheeled himself closer to the telephone and began to dial.

King, Alec George, the card was headed : Flat 3, Rubicon House, Fell Street, Chelsea, S.W.3. Rollison knew the narrow street and thought he probably knew the house, too. Age: 27 (at 1st January 1968). Educated:

Nelson College. That was a small public school with a liking, obviously, for the sons of sailors.

Training: South Western Repertory Company. Special suitability: Character acting for very tall, supple man. For tall, read 6 feet 7 inches.

Acting Career. As a child, a number of walk-on parts . . .

There were several short paragraphs about the plays, films and radio he had appeared in and at the foot a note saying : Photograph and Physical Details: Over. Rollison flicked it over as Percy began to talk on the telephone. A large face was there, vivid, arresting. This man was like Tommy G. and there were some striking similarities, including the long, spade-shaped chin, the jutting eyebrows. Among the physical details were:

Height : 6’ 7”

Hair : Fair

Eyes : Pale brown

Distinguishing marks on face: None

Rollison put the card aside as Percy replaced the receiver.

“Me first?” he asked, and went on when Rollison nodded: “His wife answered. She says he’s in work, what she calls a very important part but they must not say what it is. When I said I might find him work for at least a month she said this present part would go on for a long time. Sound like your man?”

“It could well be,” Rollison said. “Percy, you’ve been invaluable. But then, you always are.” He sipped the brandy and they chattered for five minutes before Rollison stood up briskly and said: “I ought to be on the way.”

“Don’t wait so long before you come again,” Percy urged.

He was at his desk near the window when Rollison walked past, hand raised. A breeze set the leaves of the trees rustling, and would give Percy Bingham much pleasure; he had moved to this particular spot only when he had learned that he would never walk again.

Rollison reached his car.

Not long ago, not far from here, someone who had wanted him dead had put high-explosive under the bonnet, set to go off at a touch of the self-starter. It was absurd to think there was a booby trap under the bonnet here, but — well, he would look.

There, fastened to the self-starter, was a small plastic phial.

There, in fact, was a bomb.

He stood staring down, a shiver running up and down his spine. People passed, glancing at him. He looked along the street, then down to the canal and the path alongside it. The boys were still tossing stones but the ducks had gone. A car passed, slowly, and he looked up.

A man sitting next to the driver of the car, a Rover, was staring at him. He had a chubby face, a beautiful olive-skin, and fine brown eyes; Rollison had last seen him in Gresham Terrace.

The car gathered speed and went on, and before Rollison could move, other cars were in the roadway. Farther along, he saw a policeman’s helmet. He bent closer to see how the plastic container was fastened to the metal, and could see no way.

Suddenly, he realised that it was stuck on; and with a quick-setting glue, that probably meant it was very tight indeed. He straightened up, to find the policeman very close by, a pale-faced weakling of a man to look at.

“Good afternoon, sir.”

“Good afternoon,” returned Rollison, and forced a smile: “Do you recognise me by any chance?”

“No, sir, I —” the man began, and then his eyes lit up and he exclaimed. “You’re the Toff, sir! Mr. Rollison!”

“That’s right on the nose,” Rollison said. “You know that I’m not half-witted and mean what I say, don’t you?”

The man looked puzzled, but was game.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, someone has glued what looks like a bomb on that part of the self-starter, under the bonnet,” Rollison said, pointing as he went on: “I have an urgent appointment, and can’t handle this job myself. Will you ask your division for help — don’t touch it yourself, it’s glued on.”

“I won’t touch it!” The policeman straightened up, gulping. “Then — then all of those stories they tell about you are true.”

“Oh, just one here and there,” Rollison said. “I must run.”

He did run, literally, to the end of the street known as South Canal, and saw three empty taxis pass just before he was near enough to hail, then had to wait several minutes for one, as only buses and private cars passed. His chief purpose in running was to make sure he was not held up by a lot of questions, which would be inevitable if divisional detective officers arrived.

A car slid to a standstill in front of him.

The man with the olive-coloured skin was at the open window, next to the driver, and he said :

“Are you Mr. Rollison?” He pronounced the name Rawlson.

“Yes, but —”

“Can I give you a lift?”

“No,” Rollison said, backing away as he went on solemnly : “My mother always told me never to go in cars with strangers.” He smiled fleetingly, then espied a taxi with its sign lighted, and he hurried towards it, one hand outstretched.

The man with the American voice might shoot him.

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.