The Toff and The Sleepy Cowboy

13

“Never So Frightened”

VERY SLOWLY, Tommy’s expression changed.

He had been listening for a long time, of course; anything else would be beyond the average man’s endurance. Certainly he had heard enough to make him put his heart into his voice, and the way he looked at Rollison seemed to ask: “And what are you going to do about it?” Only slowly had he realised how attractive the girl was, and as that grew on him his mouth dropped open and his eyes became huge.

“Good evening,” Pamela said in a small voice. “I am Pamela Brown.”

Tommy gulped; and only when he gulped did his Adam’s apple reveal its prominence. He gulped twice.

“Jumping cats,” he said, breathlessly. “You’re the one who wrote to me?”

“Yes.”

“You signed that letter P. Brown.”

“I am P. Brown.”

“Great galloping gophers,” breathed Tommy. “Why, you’re beautiful.”

She did not simper, play coy, or otherwise use the coquettish kind of feminine wile, but said simply: “Thank you.”

“You most surely are.”

“Thank you.”

“And still frightened?” inquired Rollison mildly. “Yes,” she answered quietly.

“Miss Pamela,” said Tommy in a weak voice. “You sure made me forget how scared I was.”

For the first time since his appearance, a hint of merriment showed in Pamela’s eyes, and she replied :

“You almost did the same for me.”

“I did?” Tommy looked delighted.

“Yes,” she went on, demurely. “Every moment I expect you to bang your head against the ceiling.”

“My head,” he echoed, and glanced up. “No, ma’am, that ceiling’s all of eight feet. I couldn’t bang my head against it even if I jumped. Pink-eared jack-rabbits, I didn’t think young women like you grew in England.”

“England is a remarkable place,” replied Pamela.

“Yes, ma’am. And it sure is green.” Tommy looked round and found a chair, lowered himself into it and for comfort’s sake had to stretch his legs straight out. Now they were all at equal eye-level, and the strain of craning necks had gone. “Miss Brown,” he went on, “that was a mighty strange story you just told.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Pamela agreed. “But true.”

“I’ll strike the first man who calls you a liar, ma’am.”

“Not many people do,” said Pamela, and she finished her ginger ale.

As Rollison got up to refill her glass and pour a drink for Tommy, he noticed two things. Tommy was staring at Pamela Brown as if he could not tear his gaze away from her, and Jolly appeared in the doorway. This was Jolly’s way of announcing that dinner would be ready in ten minutes; if Rollison wanted it delayed he must now say so or for this occasion hold his peace. Rollison nod-ded, Jolly disappeared, Rollison joined the others with the drinks.

“Scotch on the rocks,” he said to Tommy.

“That’s just right,” Tommy said appreciatively. He raised his glass to them both, sipped, and had hardly swallowed before he went on: “Richard, I’m not so sure you’re right about my life being in danger. Yours is, I guess, and Miss Pamela’s, because you know too much.”

“And now you know too much,” Rollison pointed out.

“Do these other folk know that?”

“They know you’re here,” Rollison said. “They know all that matters.” He stood with his back to the fireplace and looked at them both, and told them what he had found and what had happened at Rubicon House, but he did not use the name Rubicon, just said ‘a house in Chelsea’. They sat, spellbound, until he had finished by telling them what the man from the Globe had said. It seemed a long time before Tommy G. remarked quietly :

“So they’ve been training a guy to impersonate me.”

“Yes.” Rollison was brisk.

“And now he’s missing.”

“Yes. But no one’s yet tried very hard to find him,” Rollison replied. “The odds are that he will stay in hiding until he thinks he sees an opportunity to take your place, or because he’s afraid that now the truth is suspected, the people who hired him might decide they ought to stop. Once caught by the police, he would be pretty strong evidence of the impersonation story, and would probably talk easily. Until he’s caught, there can’t be any proof.” When neither of the others responded to this, Rollison went on slowly: “At the moment there is only one person who could be made to talk.”

“The motor-cyclist!” exclaimed Pamela.

“We don’t know where he is and can’t talk to him,” Rollison pointed out. “No: King’s wife, Effie. And I suspect that the attempt to throw suspicion on me at her house was to make sure I couldn’t go after the motor-cyclist. The arrival of her baby means that neither I nor the police can push her too hard, although from what I saw of her size, the birth wasn’t very premature, and she’s getting all the sympathy she can. Trying to get in to see her would be worse than breaking into an armed camp. Everyone in the hospital will be guarding the poor little mother, and —”

“Richard,” interrupted Pamela.

“Yes?”

“Could this place which was damaged possibly be Rubicon House?”

Rollison said sharply: “Yes. Does it mean anything to you?”

“It’s the house where the other relative of old Josh lives,” said Pamela, slowly. “The one whom I didn’t trust at all. He is a Mr. Hindle, at Flat I, Rubicon House.”

“About five-eight, plump, grey-haired, a bald patch, a broad nose, slightly tip-tilted, a round chin, rather a vague man to look at?”

“That’s him exactly!” cried Pamela.

“He’s the man who was so eager to help and believe Effie King,” declared Rollison. “Well, well, well! What a remarkable coincidence that they are living in the same house!”

“He owns the house — that is, Mr. Hindle does, and lets off three flats. The rents are almost his only income.” For a moment there was utter silence.

Jolly broke it from the raised alcove by saying : “Dinner is served, sir.”

* * *

Rollison needed time to ponder.

The discovery excited Pamela but her excitement soon faded and she sat looking down at her plate or looking up and catching Tommy’s eyes. He seemed never to look anywhere else. Jolly served first a halved grapefruit steeped in sherry and covered with sugar and heated under the grill, then a morsel of lemon sole with a sauce which melted in the mouth, finally saddle of lamb with peas and new potatoes which made believe it was spring. Half-way through the main course, they began to talk, slowly at first and then with more animation, until finally Pamela said:

“Richard, you must tell the police about Hindle. They must look for him as well as for King.”

“Yes,” Rollison agreed. “I’m trying to see all the angles.” He finished his lamb, and went to the hotplate ‘by the side of the table. “More for either of you?” Tommy’s eyes lit up, and he carved from the saddle of lamb hidden until then under a silver cover, adding peas and potatoes. “Pamela?”

“I shouldn’t really.”

“Keep Tommy company,” urged Rollison, and added: “I’ll go and talk to the Yard and to one or two friends of mine — I’ll be back before Jolly brings in the dessert.” He went to the kitchen where Jolly was whipping cream for a sherry trifle, and said: “Hold it until I’m through, Jolly, I won’t be long.”

“This won’t spoil, sir.”

“Good!” Rollison hurried out by the fire-escape, which was reached through the kitchen door. There was still light enough to see two men on duty in the courtyard behind the house, bounded on one side by these old Gresham Terrace houses, on one by a row of mews all three hundred years old and more, on two sides by big new buildings of ferro-concrete. He had a word with the two policemen and also with a third man, small and wiry, who had been sent here by Bill Ebbutt, after Jolly and Ebbutt his oldest and staunchest friend.

“Hallo, Percy.”

“Anything for us to do, Mr Ar?”

“Just look after me,” Rollison quipped.

“That’ll be the day,” replied Percy Wrighton, at one time a light-weight boxer near the top of his class. “There’s a pack of reporters out the front. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I’ll never say a word against you,” promised Rollison, and went through an alleyway into the mews and then round the corner into Gresham Terrace.

At least thirty men were there, with a sprinkling of women. He saw several with cameras, and also saw a camera on a tripod in the porch of a house opposite number 25, covering his front door. A cackle of voices sounded, surprisingly loud in the street. Two policemen were keeping the crowd away on one side so as to allow traffic to pass, other plainclothes men were on duty. On the fringes of the crowd were more of Bill Ebbutt’s men from the East End.

Parked some distance along but this side of the crowd was Ebbutt’s Model T Ford, his most prized possession. Rollison guessed that Ebbutt was sitting at the wheel of this, and walked up and stood alongside. There was Ebbutt, a mountain of a man, paunch squeezed against the steering wheel, his breath wheezing. The car was close to an empty house with ‘For Sale’ posters in the windows.

“Bill,” whispered Rollison. “Move over.”

“Who—?” began Ebbutt, turning his head swiftly; then he gasped. “Mr. Ar!” He eased his bulk to one side, and Rollison climbed up. “They’re after you tonight, Mr. Ar. Anyone would think no one had ever had a baby before.”

“Just a human story, you know how they love the angle,” Rollison said lightly. “May I use the running board to make a speech from? It won’t take long.”

“You going to talk to them lousy newshounds?” demanded Ebbutt.

“They’re not lousy, Bill — just story conscious. May I?”

“Use the roof if it will help,” Ebbutt replied.

“Thanks. I’d like you to go round to the police and your chaps and tell them to watch all the people on the fringe of the crowd. It’s just possible one of them has a hand grenade.”

“Strewth,” wheezed Ebbutt.

“I’ll stand on the running board and you give a toot or two on the horn,” said Rollison. The rubber bulb of an old fashioned horn was close to Ebbutt’s hand, and it was said that he could get a dozen different notes out of this. Rollison got out and rounded the car and climbed on the running board. As soon as he was holding on to the door, Ebbutt punched and poked at the horn, making an unmistakable tune.

“Da-di-di-da-di-daa-da! Da-di-di-da-di-da!”

Rollison found himself singing to the second rendering:

“Come to the cookhouse door, boys; come to the cookhouse door.”

The men and women in the crowd swung round and a man shouted: “There’s Rollison!” Another called: “There’s the Toff!” Others called out, many ran and cameras flashed. Ebbutt slid out of the driver’s seat on his errand. Soon questions were being flung at Rollison.

“Were you at Rubicon House?”

“Did you know she was going to have a baby?”

“Had you ever seen her before?”

“Was it an attempt to kill you, Toff?”

“Have you seen her since the baby was born?”

“Bill!” called Rollison in a tone which could be heard by nearly everyone present, “give one long blast on your horn, will you?”

“Glad to,” Ebbutt said, and immediately the horn hooted a hoarse, low-pitched sound which cut across the questions, silencing everybody. Then it wailed into silence itself, and Rollison raised his voice:

“I’ve no time to answer questions but I’ll make a statement. Ready?” After a chorus of ‘we’re ready’ and ‘fire away’, he went on: “I went to Rubicon House to look for a character actor named Alec George King, who lives there. I did not know him or his wife, Effie. King wasn’t there and I believe he’s in acute danger — of losing his life. Every newspaper must have a picture of him somewhere in its files. I don’t give a damn what you say about me provided you make everyone realise I want to see this man — urgently.”

“What do the police say?” a man called out. “They can’t act on this, yet.”

“Do you think King started the fire?” a man demanded.

“Did you start the fire?” another called.

“No, to both,” Rollison said. “The man or woman who started the fire was medium size, and King is six feet seven. The man or woman rode a motor-cycle, and wore a stocking mask. I can’t tell you anything about the man who started the fire but I can tell you about Alec George King.” He paused for a moment and then called: “Is there anyone here from the Globe?”

“Yes — I am!” a tall, fair-haired man showed clearly in the street lamplight.

“Is your name Stevens?”

“No — we’ve no one named Stevens on the paper.”

“Check at your office for me, will you?” asked

Rollison. “A man purporting to be from the Globe —”

“Mr. Ar!” bellowed Ebbutt, fear overcoming the hoarseness of his voice, “look out!”

A policeman shouted: “He’s throwing a bomb!”

Rollison saw the crowd freeze, momentarily, except for two policemen and a man on the pavement, whose right hand was raised in the act of throwing. For an awful moment it seemed as if most of those present were mesmerised by fear, but suddenly there was a wave of movement from the car; the crowd seemed to billow and sway rather than turn and run.

In the half-light, Rollison could see the dark spheroid in the air, curving an arc towards him and the Model T. He dared not take his eyes off it; dared not look to see if the man had turned and run once he had hurled the bomb. Rollison felt sure it would be a hand grenade, which would explode on contact with car or road. He had never been nearer to death. He stepped down from the running board and cupped his hands, fully aware that if he caught the grenade it might blow up in his hands.

He caught it.

It did not go off instantly.

With great deliberation he drew back his arm and threw the grenade towards the empty house; and he had never been nearer praying. No one was close to the spot, but if it exploded outside it could do unspeakable harm.

It crashed through the window.

A split-second later, it exploded.