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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
- Просмотров:2
- Комментариев:0
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Olivia stared at him for a moment, open-mouthed. “Something in it! Something in it! My dear Rolly, of course there’s something in it. Madam Melinska’s one of the most gifted seers—” She paused, as if at a loss for words.
Rollison chuckled. “Okay, so you believe in it. But that—”
Olivia interrupted him. “There aren’t any “buts”. I certainly do believe in it, and I believe in Madam Melinska, and so do three-quarters of our readers. And if Madam Melinska would sell us her story it would add twenty thousand to our circulation. Can you help us to get it, Rolly?”
Thoughtfully, Rollison said:
“I doubt if anyone will ever make her do anything she doesn’t want to do, but if she decides to sell, and if you’ll meet the competition, I’ll put in a word for you.” He swerved to avoid an oncoming car. “What do you know about Mona Lister?”
“Only that she’s been working with Madam Melinska—and that she’s a natural born clairvoyante. Why, you saw for yourself how she “saw” what was going to happen to Lucifer Stride.”
“So I did, so I did,” murmured Rollison. “Just one more question. What do you know about Space Age Publishing?”
Olivia looked indignant. “I just can’t believe that Madam Melinska was involved in anything dishonest,” she said flatly. “And if she really did advise people to buy shares—well, it must have been advice given in good faith. As for Space Age, all I know is that the company changed hands recently and seemed to be doing well. They were planning a very big advertising campaign—money no object— then, suddenly: Phut!”—Olivia snapped her fingers— “they were broke. We were doing some of the advertising for them, and I met the senior partner—Michael Fraser, I think his name was. He had an office in Fleet Street, why don’t you go and see him—if he’s still there,” she added.
Rollison looked thoughtful. “Do you know, Olivia, I think I will.” He pressed his foot down on the accelerator, and the big car sped past the Tate Gallery and soon approached the Gothic magnificence of the Houses of Parliament, superb in the early evening sun. Rollison rounded Parliament Square, then went along the Embankment; spotting a parking space near Waterloo Bridge, he pulled in. As he was putting sixpences into the meter, Olivia was flagging down a taxi.
“This time I’ll drop you,” she said.
The Space Age Publishing offices were in a large new office block within a stone’s throw of the Church of St Clements; Olivia dropped Rollison outside, giving him a searching look from her bright eyes as she waved a nonchalant hand. It was nearly six o’clock and Rollison wondered whether anyone would be in the office. The lift attendant said dolefully:
“Usually go by five-thirty sharp, sir.”
As he walked along a bright new passage in the bright new building, a door ahead of him opened and a girl came out. At first, she simply glanced at him—but suddenly, ten feet or so away, her eyes widened, she stared and missed a step. Then she spun around, ran back along the passage, and rushed into the doorway from which she had just come. The door slammed.
Rollison reached the door. On it, in gilt letters, were the words: Space Age Publishing, Ltd. Mr Michael Fraser. Inside the room the girl was talking in a low-pitched voice, conveying the same sense of urgency that her manner had done. Rollison turned the handle and pushed. As the door opened, the girl was saying:
“It can’t be a coincidence, I’m sure it’s him!”
Rollison pushed the door wider open. The girl, standing by another open door at the far side of the room, jumped wildly. A man standing in that doorway stared at Rollison in mingled surprise and alarm. He was not Lucifer Stride, but he was remarkably like him, except that his fair hair was short and he was dressed in a well-cut, conventional dark grey suit.
“Good evening,” said Rollison. “I gather you’re expecting me.”
The man drew a deep breath.
“Sooner or later, I suppose we were,” he admitted.
“It’s all right, Jane, you worry too much.” He gave Rollison a rather subdued smile. “I suppose you want to know all we can tell you about Space Age Publishing.”
“That’s exactly what I do want,” Rollison agreed.
“You’d better come in,” said the man. His likeness to Lucifer Stride was quite remarkable, thought Rollison. “And you’d better come and take some notes, Jane—or better still, fix the tape-recorder so that we’ve a record of the conversation.” He pushed the door behind him wider and stood aside for Rollison to pass.
There was just one thing wrong: the girl’s manner.
The man was completely convincing, smooth, pleasant-voiced, but the girl was still agitated. Rollison went forward as if with no suspicions, but at the last moment gripped the man’s shoulders, spun him round, and thrust him into the inner room. As he did so, he saw a raised hand flash down from the other side of the door—a hand holding some kind of weapon.
There was a dull, heavy thud.
The man went down like a sack as Rollison, using all his strength, banged the door back against his would-be assailant, pulled it away, then banged it back again. There was a gasp, a groan, the weapon dropped and slithered along the carpet, and the man whom Rollison had squeezed between the door and wall joined his companion on the floor. Behind Rollison the girl stood, terrified. Rollison turned and passed her, scarcely out of breath, and twisted the key in the lock of the passage door.
CHAPTER TEN
Big Deal
The girl was slim, delicate-looking, with honey-coloured shoulder-length hair and a fringe. She watched Rollison tensely, following every move he made. When he took her arm, she jumped wildly.
“No need to worry, my dear, just do exactly what I tell you and you’ll come to no harm,” Rollison promised. “But do it quickly. Go into that room, prop the door wide open—we don’t want any more people hiding behind it, do we?—then straighten out the joker who knocked the wrong man over the head.”
He thought she would be too frightened to obey, but she freed herself and went into the inner room, while Rollison glanced around the outer one. The furniture was plain and spindly; on the walls were drawings, obviously the original artwork for advertisements in newspapers on such magazines as The Day. There were two shelves full of books and two filing cabinets as well as three desks, two typewriters, a very small telephone exchange and four telephones.
Jane was blocking the door open with a chair.
The man who had welcomed Rollison so pleasantly was beginning to stir. Rollison crossed to him, bent down, gripped his coat lapels and heaved him to his feet. Then he half pushed, half lifted him across the inner office. This was a larger room than the other, but furnished in much the same way. Behind a big flat desk, black-topped on auburn-coloured wood, was a swivel desk chair. Rollison moved this with his foot and dumped the man in a sitting position on the floor behind it, his back against the wall. “Don’t move,” he said shortly, “or I’ll call for the police.”
The man looked up at him from dazed eyes—but he might not be so dazed as he pretended, reflected Rollison, keeping a careful eye on both him and his assailant, who, with the girl’s help was now sitting up. Rollison waited until he was on his feet, and then said:
“And after telephoning the police I’ll break your neck. Go and sit next to your friend. On the floor.”
The man’s hair was ruffled, and his tie askew. He was broad-shouldered, solid-looking, and appeared to be in his middle thirties. He began to speak, then changed his mind and did what he was told.
“You, too,” Rollison told the girl.
“But—”
“Do I have to make you?”
Meekly, she went to the wall and sat down beside the two men, while Rollison tried to decide the best way to handle the situation. An appearance of omniscience might make the men crack earlier than they would otherwise, but he wasn’t sure. Despite what had just happened, neither looked the type to use violence.
Or to do murder.
On the desk was a sheaf of papers protruding from a manilla folder which was tied around with a piece of pink tape. Until then, Rollison had shown no interest in it; now he moved towards it. The man like Lucifer Stride drew in a sharp, hissing breath. Rollison glanced at the folder and read a name, upside down: Abbott. H. J. His heart began to beat faster. These papers might have been taken from Mrs Abbott’s flat; if they had, then these men were obviously suspects for the murder. He turned the folder round and pulled the tape; the bow which secured it undid easily.
“Who killed Mrs Abbott?” he asked casually.
The man like Lucifer Stride gasped.
“Killedr Jane echoed hoarsely.
“Oh, no!” Jane gasped. “Oh, no!”
The broad-shouldered man said breathlessly: “But I never saw her. The flat was empty. She wasn’t there.”
“My God,” said the other man, turning towards him, “if you killed her—”
“I swear I didn’t!”
“She can’t be dead!” cried Jane.
“The police are looking for her murderer,” Rollison said. “Or her murderers. And when they discover that you stole these papers from her bureau they’ll put two and two together, won’t they?” He spread the papers out. There were statements of accounts, share certificates, bank statements, some snapshots of the man whose photograph had been at the flat, one of Mrs Abbott, one of Mona Lister. Rollison moved back a pace, seeing that the broad-shouldered man was bracing himself, possibly in an attempt to spring up at him. But he appeared to notice nothing.
“Where are they?” he demanded.
“Where—where’s what?” That was the man who resembled Lucifer Stride. This must be Michael Fraser, reflected Rollison.
“I don’t know what you know about me, Fraser,” he said, “but it doesn’t seem enough. You are all three involved in a theft at Mrs Abbott’s flat and you could be charged with murder. And I’m impatient.” After a pause, he went on harshly: “I’m not here to find out who killed Mrs Abbott. That’s a job for the police. I am here to get the papers which were in this file and which you’ve taken out. Where are they?” A shot in the dark, he reflected to himself, but one which might well find its mark.
It did.
Michael Fraser swallowed. “If we give them to you, will—”
“Shut up!” rasped the other man.
Rollison stretched a hand towards the telephone. At this stage he had no intention of dialling Scotland Yard, but there was no way his prisoners could be sure of that. He actually put the instrument to his ear and dialled 2 before Jane cried out:
“Don’t let him!”
Fraser said chokily: “They’re in my brief-case.”
“You damned fool,” muttered the other. “He wouldn’t call the police. He’s bluffing.”
Rollison looked at him with raised eyebrows. “I can assure you, my friend, that I’m not.” He picked up the brief-case, which was black and very heavy. He hadn’t the faintest idea what papers it contained, other than that they had been taken from Mrs Abbott’s folder, but did not mean to find out while he was here. “One more thing: why did you suddenly stop your advertising campaign for Space Age Publishing?”
Fraser muttered: “We couldn’t pay for it.”
“We spent far more than we could afford on layout and artwork,” the other man said. “It was a gamble, but we hoped it would pay off. Then that infernal fortune-teller decided to use our name to swindle money out of her fool clients. We didn’t know anything about it, but mud sticks, and the public will never believe we didn’t. Oh well—” he shrugged— “I guess we’ll be lucky if we can hold out for another month—that’s what that damned fortune-teller did to us.”
“Mr Rollison,” Fraser said, “what’s your interest in defending this woman?”
“Her reputation,” answered Rollison.
“That bitch! You don’t give a damn for her reputation!”
“As a matter of fact I do,” Rollison said, “and in the course of my trying to protect it, two people have been killed and attempts have been made on the life of another. So I’ve an added interest. What did you call her?”
“She’s a bitch and you’ll soon find out,” Fraser rasped. “Underneath that sweet and gentle manner of hers she’s a devil. Don’t make any mistake, she’s taking you for a ride.” Fraser was pale with rage, his voice quivering with repressed fury. “You can’t save her reputation, she hasn’t got one. She’s a phoney. All she wants is money. She’ll use anyone to help her— even you’ve fallen for it. That woman is a hell-cat. She ruins anyone she touches, anyone who’s influenced her. She’ll ruin Mona Lister, she’ll ruin you:
Anger still rasped in the man’s voice but it was a righteous anger. There was no doubt, thought Rollison, that Michael Fraser believed what he was saying.
“All right, I’m duly warned,” he said drily.
“Now tell me how you know all this, and what proof you have against her.”
“There’s your proof!” Fraser declared, and he pointed a quivering finger at the brief-case.
“He didn’t know,” the other man said in a strangled voice. “He was bluffing. And that’s the only real evidence we have. He’ll suppress it, destroy it; have you forgotten that he’s defending the woman?”
Making a tremendous effort, he sprang to his feet and launched himself at Rollison, roaring as he sprang:
“Hit him!”
He was roaring at Jane—and Jane snatched up the telephone to use it as a weapon. Rollison knocked it out of her hand, then, instead of dodging or ducking, met the other broadside on. His left shoulder thudded against his assailant’s chest. The man groaned and collapsed across a chair. Rollison spun round to meet an attack from Fraser, but Fraser was still sitting on the floor, looking up at Rollison with a strange expression in his eyes.
“Do something!” screamed Jane.
Fraser ignored her.
The man lying across the chair was groaning.
“Ted, he’s hurt you. Ted? She leaned over the stricken man, “Ted, don’t. You’ll be all right. Ted?” There was despair in her voice.
Still watching Fraser, Rollison said: “He’s winded, that’s all. Straighten him up.”
“Rollison,” said Fraser, “what would you do if you were convinced that Madam Melinska was a charlatan—no, by God, more than a charlatan—a criminal?”
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