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Stars For The Toff - John Creasey
- Дата:20.06.2024
- Категория: Разная литература / Прочее
- Название: Stars For The Toff
- Автор: John Creasey
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- Комментариев:0
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“Call the police, Jolly?”
“They are on their way, sir.”
“Didn’t get the number of that car, did you?” Rollison asked. “Or recognise either of the men?”
“No, sir. I didn’t get a clear view at all.”
“What hit the windscreen?”
“Two packets of flour, sir,” Jolly said.
“Quick work, Jolly.” Rollison gripped his man’s arm. “But for that they’d have got Stride.”
Grabbing the young man and the girl by the elbows, he hustled them into the house. They moved mechanically. As the door closed behind them the girl began to shiver and her lips quivered as words tumbled out:
“It—it—it’s horrible—horrible! I hate it. I tell you I hate it!”
“What do you hate?” asked Rollison sharply.
“I hate seeing things!” Mona Lister cried. “I can’t help it. I do see them and I wish I didn’t. I
“Mr Rollison,” said Lucifer Stride in a shaky voice, “she told me what was going to happen to me, and it did happen—exactly the way she said it would.”
Rollison could see both incredulity and panic in the watery eyes.
CHAPTER SIX
The Girl Who Couldn’t Help Seeing
Rollison followed Lucifer Stride into the living-room. Mrs Abbott hadn’t left her chair, Madam Melinska still stood near the window, Mona Lister was standing staring blankly at the Trophy Wall, while Olivia Cordman was at the telephone, talking very quickly and distinctly.
“Yes, that’s right . . . Jolly . . . Yes, but for him the man would have been seriously injured . . . Yes, the police are in the street now . . . What? . . . Oh, she has it, don’t make any mistake, she has it, this isn’t phoney . . . Must go now . . . yes, I’ll be in touch.”
She rang off, her face glowing with excitement.
“Rolly, you saw what happened. You do know she has it, don’t you?”
“Who has what?”
“Mona has second sight.”
“If only I didn’t,” cried Mona, spinning round so that her shirt swirled and her hair swung. “I’d give anything not to hava it. Anything!”
“My dear child,” said Madam Melinska, “it is a wonderful gift, and you should cherish it.”
“But I hate it, I hate it!”
“And you ought to be ashamed of yourself for encouraging it.” Mrs Abbott said bitterly to Madam Melinska.
“You know, Mrs Abbott, you really must pull yourself together,” said Madam Melinska gently. “The child has always had this gift. Trying to crush it out of her can only do harm. Mona, child, you should go and lie down.”
“I don’t want to lie down!”
Madam Melinska looked at Rollison, without speaking, and he found himself turning to Mona and taking her arm. She did not resist as he led her to the spare bedroom, the door of which stood ajar. The bed had been turned down; Jolly was at his absolute best today, thought Rollison.
That door leads to a bathroom,” he said, pointing. Try to sleep, Mona—and try not to worry.”
“How can I help worrying?” she asked distractedly. “How would you like to be able to foresee horrible things happening to your friends?”
Rollison didn’t answer. Her eyes looked so tired that he felt quite sure that she would fall asleep the moment he left her. Closing the door firmly behind him, he rejoined the others; but no sooner had he done so than the front door bell rang yet again. This would be the police, of course, to question Lucifer Stride.
It was.
They asked all the usual questions, and Lucifer told them exactly what had happened, but made no mention of Mona’s prophecy.
“And you’ve no idea why these men should attempt to run you down, Mr Stride?”
“None whatsoever,” said Lucifer, almost superciliously; he had regained a little of his composure.
Rollison and Jolly explained their part in it, Madam Melinska and Olivia Cordman confirmed what they had seen from the window, and twenty minutes later the police left.
“Rolly, my love,” said Olivia Cordman as the door shut behind them. “I really must fly, do give Lady Hurst my regards and tell her I’ll do everything I can.” She beamed at Rollison, then turned to Madam Melinska and said almost cooingly: That is understood, isn’t it? I do have an option on your story until six o’clock this evening?”
The older woman raised a faintly protesting hand. “You know very well that isn’t true,” she said gently.
“But you promised—”
“No, Miss Cordman. Mona may have promised, but I don’t think she should be held to a promise made under duress. And I never accept money for my reading or my interpretations.”
“Now do be sensible,” urged Olivia Cordman. “You will need money for your defence—and for Mona’s. You can’t go on refusing to accept payment.”
“I can and I will,” said Madam Melinska.
Olivia paused, obviously at a loss. Rollison wondered if she would try again, but all she did was to shrug, pick up her handbag and gloves, and say goodbye—though Rollison was quite sure she hadn’t really taken no for an answer. As he came back from seeing her off, Mrs Abbott was saying angrily:
“Who do you think you’re fooling?”
“The only one being fooled here is you,” said Madam Melinska, “and you are fooling yourself.” She turned to Rollison. “Mr Rollison, I cannot thank you enough for your kindness and help, and I do want to assure you of one thing: I have certain gifts which are quite genuine—I am not a charlatan. To prove this to the satisfaction of sceptics, I will accept no money for my readings. And Mona does have second sight. She is a natural clairvoyante. In all my years,” the woman went on with curious emphasis, “I have never known anyone with the gift developed so highly. Properly guided and encouraged, she will become a very great seer, perhaps the greatest the world has known. It would be wicked to do anything to discourage her.”
“It would be wicked to let her go on,” said Mrs Abbott. “It’s a lot of mumbo-jumbo, I don’t care what you say.”
“The car which nearly ran me down was hardly mumbo-jumbo,” interpolated Lucifer Stride.
“How do you know she didn’t arrange it and tell Mona what to say?” Mrs Abbott rose out of her chair, pointing an accusing finger.
Madam Melinska, still with that strange dignity, looked back at her, calm-faced and serene.
“Hester,” she said quietly, “I wish I knew why you hate me so.”
“I hate you because you killed my husband, I hate you because you’ve stolen my niece, and I hate you because you’re a fake!” cried Mrs Abbott. She turned towards Rollison. “And if you help her, you’ll be as bad! If you’ve any sense at all you’ll send her packing, and then my niece will come back to me.”
Madam Melinska shrugged. “Mona is quite free to go back to you whenever she wishes.”
“No she isn’t! You have some hold over her, you—”
“Aunt Hester,” Mona said from the door, “I can’t ever come back and live with you. It wouldn’t work, really it wouldn’t. And neither of us would be happy.”
Her aunt swung round. She looked at Mona accusingly, her eyes flashing.
“You—you ungrateful little chit. I wouldn’t have you back. You’ve chosen your precious Madam Melinska, and you can have her. But he laughs best who laughs last, my girl, don’t forget that.” Gathering up her handbag and gloves with hands quivering with rage and hysteria, she stumbled unsteadily towards the door.
Stride hesitated, and then said under his breath:
“She’s not well enough to go on her own.”
“She certainly isn’t,” agreed Rollison. “Will you go with her?”
“Well, someone ought to. I suppose it might as well be me.” Stride paused for a moment, as if uncertain, then hurried after Mrs Abbott.
Rollison moved over to the window. In a few moments he saw Mrs Abbott stumble down the street, saw Lucifer Stride hurry after her and take her arm. On the other side of the road two men were loitering, one big and burly, the other like a wizened jockey. The jockey turned in the wake of the couple, and Rollison watched this with satisfaction. Madam Melinska joined him, saw the man walking after the others, and spoke with sharpness of alarm.
“Look at that man!”
“So you haven’t second sight,” Rollison said drily.
“I don’t understand you.”
“That is a friend,” Rollison said. “Jolly must have telephoned for help.” He looked into the woman’s puzzled eyes and felt a strange moment of satisfaction, for her anxiety somehow made her more human. “His name is Charlie Wray. He was once a very good light-weight boxer and he now works at a gymnasium owned by a friend of mine—Bill Ebbutt. We work together a great deal.”
“Why have you had them followed?” asked Madam Melinska.
“Not them. Stride. There are one or two things I’d like to know about that young gentleman,” said Rollison slowly. He turned away from the window. “And there are a great number of other questions I’d like answered,” he added. “First and foremost, what is all this about?”
“All I can tell you is that there is a conspiracy to discredit me and Mona,” Madam Melinska told him. Tdon’t know why and I don’t know by whom, but I do know that you are going to find the answers to both questions.”
“How can you know?” Rollison demanded.
“Because it is in the stars,” the woman said, and touched his arm gently. “You don’t have to believe me, Mr Rollison—but you will find yourself quite unable to resist continuing with this work. I don’t think you will ever be convinced of certain things, but I am quite sure you will never reject them absolutely.” She paused, and then went on: “And I cannot thank you enough for the help you have already given us.”
Rollison said gruffly: “I’ve done nothing, yet.”
“You have helped a great deal,” Madam Melinska said, “and will help a great deal more.” She paused for a moment, then added gravely: “And unless you’re very careful indeed you will be seriously injured while doing so.”
Rollison could not keep off the chill which followed her words.
* * *
Charlie Wray looked a fool, and often behaved like one. He also looked—at a distance—like a child, and often behaved like one. But he had certain qualities in which he was second to none, and he was probably a better shadow than any expert at Scotland Yard. In middle-age he was almost as fit and tough as he had been at the height of his boxing career, and when following a quarry, as now, he thoroughly enjoyed himself.
Anticipating Rollison’s wishes to know more about Lucifer Stride, Jolly had telephoned Charlie Wray, asking him to tail a man who would shortly be leaving Rollison’s flat.
Jolly’s description had been good, but Stride’s appearance still came as a shock to Charlie.
“Man,” he muttered to himself as he turned the corner of Gresham Terrace, “he’s about as much a man as my Aunt Emma. Cor lumme what are they coming to these days. Can’t tell boy from girl.” Charlie, fond of talking to himself, gave a broad grin as he watched Stride and Mrs Abbott walking along Piccadilly. “Wonder where they’ll go . . .”
They crossed the road by Green Park and reached a bus stop, where there was already a small queue. Charlie held back until a free taxi came along, and hailed it.
“Follow the bus I tell you to,” he ordered. “And look out for that blond fellow in the blue jacket, talking to the old girl with grey hair. Let me know if you see them get off.”
The cabby, little more than a boy, said “Okay!” with great eagerness.
A bus came along almost at once and the couple boarded it. The cabby followed— through Knightsbridge, then along Brompton Old Road, then into Fulham Road. Charlie satback, smoking in a lordly fashion. Slowly they lumbered over Stamford Bridge towards Fulham Broadway, and then the driver looked over his shoulder and said excitedly:
“Here they come.”
“Drive past,” hissed Charlie.
The driver overtook the bus and pulled up in front of a large removal van, which effectively screened it from Stride and Mrs Abbott. Charlie paid the driver off, and sauntered back along the street until he saw his quarry turn down a side road of shabby terrace houses. By the time Charlie had reached the corner, Mrs Abbott was standing beneath a shallow porch while Lucifer Stride waited on the pavement.
“Quite sure you’re all right?” His words floated back to Charlie.
The woman mumbled her reply.
“Sure you wouldn’t like me to come up with you?”
Charlie saw the woman shake her head. Then she disappeared into the house.
He moved into a doorway and waited to see what his quarry would do next—would he carry on down the street, or would he turn back? But for the next twenty minutes or so Stride stood irresolutely outside the house into which his companion had disappeared. Charlie, peering from his doorway, watched him looking anxiously up at the windows. “He’s worried about the old girl,” thought Charlie. “Can’t make up his mind whether he ought to go in after her or not.”
But at last Stride came to a decision, and with one last backward look, he retraced his steps towards the main road. Charlie dived back into his doorway, and Stride passed without a glance. Charlie gave a little grin of satisfaction—but as he swung in the wake of his quarry, a sudden clatter of footsteps behind him made him turn his head. Looking back, he saw two tall dark-haired men leap into a small black car which had been parked along the street.
Charlie shrugged. “Some folk are always in a hurry,” he thought. Then, with a start of dismay, he realised that Stride had reached the main road.
“Gawd!” exclaimed Charlie. “I’ll lose him.”
He dashed across the road after his quarry— then heard the car close behind. He glanced over his shoulder.
As he did so, he felt a terrible surge of fear, for the car was heading straight towards him. He made a desperate effort to get clear.
One moment he was running.
The next there was an awful crunch of sound, and his body went sailing through the air.
As it thudded to the ground the car roared up the road and disappeared round a corner.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Old Glory”
Rollison turned the wheel of his Bentley into a square of Georgian houses in the middle of which was a beautifully tended garden—a few late flowering shrubs, two magnificent beds of red and pink tulips, and a stretch of bright green lawn enclosed in black iron railings. At one side of the square three houses had been knocked into one, and now comprised the Marigold Club. This had been described by cynics as a house for fallen angels, but in fact it was a club for women in genuine distress, whether the distress was caused by a faithless lover, an errant husband, or some less emotional crisis. Lady Hurst owned it. Lady Hurst ran it—although with the help of a staff of remarkable efficiency. The manageress, a little, auburn-haired woman with a pleasant face and clear, green-gold eyes, opened the door as the Bentley drew alongside.
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