The Toff and The Sleepy Cowboy

15

Attack

PAMELA BROWN HAD NEVER been so happy.

She knew that ‘happy’ was the right word, although what she felt was a kind of exaltation; euphoria. When-ever she felt Tommy’s hands on her, it was as if an electric shock ran through her whole body. No one’s touch had affected her in anything like the same way. She had known there was something different about the American when she had first seen him, and within an hour knew that he mattered. She even had time to try to rationalise. It was because of the excitement, the nerve-racking things that had happened, the fact that everything and everyone involved seemed so much larger than life.

Rollison, for instance: the Toff.

And that incredible scene when the bomb had been thrown.

Everything.

In spite of what had happened, and the known dangers surrounding them, so much had seemed funny. Persuading the police to let them pass the cordon to get her car, for instance! Dozens of firemen were directing water on the flames, and the fire was under control, but steam and smoke and the fat, snaking hoses made a kind of Bedlam. Then Tommy had tried to get at the wheel of the little car, and could not get his knees under it! So she had had to drive and he had to squat on the back of his seat, long legs stretched out. They said silly things; laughed; even giggled. She drove carefully to avoid making him bump his head, and kept her wits about her enough to know that they were followed by two cars.

It was half-past eleven when she turned into the drive of her house.

She had been born here, in a room in the shade of the trees of Clapham Common. It was a big, Victorian house standing on a corner, overlooking the Common on one side and the corner house across the street on the other. One of her father’s prides was the shrubbery in the middle of the driveway; he, himself, clipped each laurel, rhododendron, privet and bush of every variety. Eric — her brother — took over only in emergency. Eric kept the grass trim and she looked after the flowers while her father was in sole charge of the small but fruitful vegetable garden behind the house.

As they had driven across Clapham Common, Tommy had been quiet almost for the first time, until he said wistfully:

“England sure is green.”

“In daylight, this common is lovely,” Pamela told him. “Common?”

“Or park, I suppose you’d call it,” she explained. “A patch of open land inside the city.” She turned into the driveway, explaining : “I can put the car away afterwards.”

“Where does it go?” he asked.

“In the garage.”

“How do you get there?”

“Drive straight on to the side of the house.”

“Is it dark in your garage?”

“It is if I don’t put the light on,” she said.

He bent down and kissed the side of her cheek. She fell silent as she drove on. Either her father or her brother had left the garage doors open, and the dipped headlights of the little car showed the shelves on one side, with tools and tins of paint and a few off-cuts of wood, with old tyres hanging on the wall at the far end. She drew the car to a standstill, and sat without moving. Tommy opened his door and eased his legs out.

“Come,” he said.

She moved across to get out, and into his arms.

He held her so tightly that she could hardly breathe, but soon he let her go. He kept one hand on hers as they went out of the garage, for here there was no room for him to stand. Outside on the driveway, in the shadow of the laurels, he swung her round to face him and took her in his arms once again. She gazed up at him with a half-smile, and for a few moments they looked at each other without speaking; then, suddenly, Tommy bent his face to hers, and their lips met. Slowly, he drew her closer. She was wildly aware of him, desire was like fire in her veins as she knew it was in his. She felt her heart thumping as if it would burst through her ribs. She felt his hands, touching her, sending these currents of ecstasy through her whole body. His mouth found hers again, and for what seemed an age they were as close as one. Then, when at last he let her go, she gasped:

“Let’s go — indoors.”

“Can we?”

“Why not?”

Slipping her arm through his, she led him past the laurels and towards the house.

She heard no one approach, but then few noises would have sounded above their breathing. She saw no one; but then all she could see was Tommy. Without the slightest warning she felt a blow on the back of the head, saw Tommy pitch forward as if he too had been struck, suddenly felt her legs hooked from under her and fell, her head cracking against a tree.

On that instant, she lost consciousness.

At the same time a man shouted from outside, and a police whistle shrilled, but Pamela knew nothing of what was going on.

* * *

Detective-Sergeant Williter, of New Scotland Yard, had been standing by the side of his car, the driver still at the wheel. It was a clear, starlit night, without a moon. In the distance traffic hummed, in the sky aircraft droned on their ceaseless to-ing and fro-ing. Ebbut’s men were in a car round the corner, so that both approaches to the house were covered.

“If you ask me,” the driver said, “those two make a bad case.”

Williter nodded.

His job was to make sure the girl got home and that the man returned to Rollison’s flat safely, and no time limit had been set for either. He was by nature both patient and tolerant. When he saw the car disappear into the garage, lighting up the inside, he waited; when the car lights went out, he moved farther away. When the couple lingered in the driveway, he moved back to his car.

No one had told him to play gooseberry.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a movement in the shrubbery, and a moment later the figure of a man appeared against the light-coloured gravel. He whispered to the driver :

“Come on, quick. Someone’s there.”

He was cut off from the garage by the shrubbery when there was a sudden gasp, a scuffle of movement. Williter put his whistle to his lips. Ebbutt’s men came running from the side entrance and the police driver was close behind, shining a torch.

The beam fell on Pamela Brown, who lay still on the ground; on Loman, who was on his knees, his hands at his head, making a funny moaning sound, and on a man who was running alongside the garage towards the back of the garden.

“Stop him!” Williter roared.

Ebbutt’s men were nearer, and could just make out the running man, now on the back lawn. One of them, a little terrier of a man, put on a spurt before flinging himself forward, hands outstretched for the runaway’s ankles. He clutched one, and the man crashed down. Before he could get up, Williter had arrived and other policemen, summoned by radio from the division, were on the way.

When Williter returned to the path near the garage, grey-haired Martin Brown and his son were on their knees beside Pamela, and a policeman was bending over Loman.

“How is she?” Williter asked Brown, urgently.

“She’s got a big bruise on the back of her head and bruises on her throat,” Pamela’s father said. “If I ever catch the swine who did it —”

“We’ve got him, and we’ll take care of him,” Williter retorted with deep satisfaction. He turned to the police-man who was straightening up from Loman; the Ameri-can was no longer moaning but appeared to be trying to straighten out his legs. “How is he?”

“If you ask me,” the policeman replied. “He had a knee or a kick in the groin, sir. You know what kind of pain that causes.”

“I know,” Williter said. “He’d better come with us to the Yard. Are you sure your daughter’s all right?” he asked Brown.

“Yes,” Brown growled. “No thanks to you, though.” He glared at the prisoner, a short, solid-looking man with dark hair; there was something very un-English looking about him, he was more Southern European.

When at Scotland Yard this man was charged with assault with intent to cause bodily harm, he replied in a marked American accent — a New York accent to those who were familiar with accents from various parts of America.

“I didn’t attack anybody. I was trying to help.”

“What’s your name?” Williter asked, and for an answer he had one of the shocks of his life.

“Sergeant Luigi Tetano, of the Long Island Police Homicide Squad,” the arrested man answered; and so saying, he took his identifying badge out of his pocket.

* * *

Grice, who had hurried back to the Yard and been given news of the attack, went to the waiting room where the accused was being held. In the good light he saw the evidence of strain and tension on the plump face, the suppressed anger in the fine dark eyes. This man had much strength of character, and gave the impression of one with some authority who was fighting hard to maintain his self-control.

“I tell you I’m Sergeant Tetano,” he insisted. “I came over on the same flight as Tommy Loman because I thought Loman was a victim of a luggage racket which has been causing trouble at Kennedy Airport for a long time. Too long,” he added, scowling. “Then I began to wonder if I was wrong, so I stalled for a while, just watching. I was going to see what happened when the

Brown dame reached home. Sure, I knew she was on the way with Loman, I was in Gresham Terrace tonight during the shenanigan there, and stayed around until they left. I drove my rental car round the house while they were in the garage, and went into the yard on foot.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to hear if they were in this together, they’d behaved like old lovers outside the garage, and — oh well, you don’t need telling you have to suspect every-body. All I heard was a pair of lovebirds.”

“And then?”

“Someone threw a rock at me,” Tetano said, pointing to an inflamed swelling on his forehead. “I guess it was the man who attacked the others. By then your cops were closing in and I tried to get away.”

“Why not stay behind and tell us what you’ve just explained?” demanded Grice.

“Are you kidding?” Tetano’s voice rose in a laconic note. “Who was going to believe me?”

“It would have been easier to believe you if you stayed where you were,” said Grice. “Did you get a good view of the assailant?”

“I didn’t see a thing that mattered. One moment I was listening to the lovebirds and the next a rock hit me,” answered the sergeant from Long Island Homi-cide. “Maybe that knocked the sense out of my head and I wouldn’t have run if it hadn’t hit me.”

“Perhaps,” Grice said. “Have you seen Mr. Loman before?”

“Sure — at Kennedy.”

“Just one moment,” Grice said. He went to the door, opened it, and stood aside for Tommy Loman to come in, and as the door closed he asked sharply: “Have you seen this man before, Mr. Loman?”

“Sure have,” Loman replied without any hesitation.

“Where?”

“At Kennedy Airport,” Loman said. “He’s one of the cops there.”

“Have you seen him in England?”

“No, sir, I have not.”

“Did you see the man who attacked you and Miss Brown tonight?” asked Grice.

Loman replied in a wondering voice : “No, I didn’t. I think the guy must have been hiding in the garage. All I know is something hit me in the groin and all I could think of was the pain. That was what I call agony. I didn’t see who it was or what hit me. All I know is that if your men hadn’t followed me, Superintendent, Pam and I both might be dead. How is she?” he added in a rougher voice.

“She’ll be all right in a day or two,” Grice tried to soothe.

“Are you sure, or —?”

“I am sure. She has been seen by her own doctor and by a police surgeon,” Grice replied. “Are you going back to Gresham Terrace? Or would you rather stay here for the night? We could find you a shake-down.”

“I promised Rollison I would go back.”

“I’ll have a car take you,” Grice volunteered. He called for a man on duty outside, and gave instructions. Next he turned to Luigi Tetano and spoke in a more relaxed way. “Mr. Tetano, I am inclined to accept your statement but I’ll need to keep you here overnight.”

“On a charge?” Luigi asked, ruefully.

“No. Until I hear from Long Island.”

“You’ll hear the simple truth,” Luigi assured him. “I thought it was the baggage racket and hopped the B.O.A.C. flight — all airlines will take a cop if he can prove he is one, and let him pay later. You will probably be told I’m absent without leave.” After a pause, he went on: “You can’t mean what I mean by a shake-down.”

“A camp bed,” Grice said. “The folding type. You surely have them in America.”

“A camp —” Tetano started off puzzled and then exclaimed: “Oh, a rollaway! Why sure, that’ll be fine! I didn’t know Scotland Yard was a hotel.”

Grice actually laughed.

“That Rollison,” Luigi Tetano went on in a wonder-ing tone. “He’s quite a guy.”

“Yes,” agreed Grice quietly. “He is quite a guy. I only hope —” He broke off, as if suddenly reluctant to say what was in his mind.

“Hope what?” asked Luigi.

“That he lives through this case,” Grice completed heavily, and looked the American straight in the eye. “I would hate him to die for a stranger he’d never heard of until this morning.”

Luigi Tetano put his head on one side, and then asked softly :

“Are you sure of that, Superintendent? Are you sure Mr. Rollison has told you everything he knows or suspects in this case? Maybe you are but I am not. No, sir, I am not. I am a long way from it.”

* * *

Oblivious of what had been going on, and of Luigi Tetano’s doubts, Rollison slept the sleep of the sedated. It was Jolly who let Tommy into the flat, able to assure him that a police message had confirmed that Pamela Brown really was only slightly hurt.

Outside the police kept watch, while the empty house smouldered.