The Toff and the Kidnapped Child (10 page)

Almost at once a woman answered: “Welling's receptionist. Dr Welling's surgery.”

“Bridie, how's Jolly?” Rollison's heart thumped painfully.

“Oh, I'm so glad you've called, Mr Rollison,” the receptionist said. “Dr Welling's at the hospital now, and they are operating at once. It was a burst appendix. There's always a
very
good chance even with the elderly, but the doctor thinks it would be better if you were at the hospital, just in case.”

Rollison thought: ‘It's almost as if this was the way it was meant to be.' He said: “I'll go straight away, Bridie.” He hesitated, and then added, “Central London?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks,” said Rollison.

He hurried out. The Rolls-Bentley was standing pointing in the direction of the hospital in Westminster. He was getting into the driving seat when a car turned the corner, and on the instant he recognised a car from Scotland Yard; as they passed he recognised a Chief Inspector who was certainly on the way to see him. He pretended not to notice the man, reached the corner, and swung round.

At the corner he saw Max, sitting at the wheel of a small M.G. sports car, painted dark green. Max actually grinned and waved, then started off. The little car roared and the big purred its way across the West End, until Rollison turned into the courtyard of the hospital. Max drove past the entrance, with a final wave.

Rollison thought: ‘Bill, don't lose her,' and pulled up where there was just room to park, and hurried to the entrance. As he stepped through he saw Dr Welling and, in that moment, Eve Kane was completely forgotten.

“Jolly's still in the theatre,” Welling announced.

 

 

The bank manager was a younger man than his grey hair suggested, tall, very affable, more than a little anxious. He had given the instructions for the money to be obtained and packed in four packets of equal size and value, and now Eve sat in front of his desk, while he drew at a cigarette, twiddled his hands, and said yet again: “You do understand that this is most unusual, Mrs Kane, don't you?”

“Yes.”

“I'm not sure that it is wise for you to have a large sum of money like that with you.”

“I shan't have it for long.”

“Would you mind telling me what you intend to buy with it?” asked the manager. He gave a rather harassed little smile. “I can't imagine any ordinary—any normal—thing for which your cheque wouldn't be good enough.”

“This time, I need cash.”

“Yes, of course.” He squashed out his cigarette, and then asked: “How is Mr Kane?”

“Very well, thank you.”

“Good. I'm very glad to hear it,” said the manager over-heartily. “Very glad. I—ah, here it is.” There was a tap at the door, and two men came in, each carrying two parcels. One could have carried the four, but not with comfort. “Can I—er—can I send a messenger with you?” That struck him as a brilliant idea. “I will, gladly! Richards—”

“No, thank you,” Eve said. “I've brought this case.” She had stopped on the way and bought a lightweight fibre case, but now she wondered whether it would be large enough; the physical difficulty of handling so much money had not occurred to her before. “And I have a taxi waiting.”

“I'd be happier—”

“Mr Gray, will you please give me the credit for knowing exactly what I am doing,” Eve said sharply.

Gray looked first startled, then offended. “Oh. Yes, very well, Mrs Kane.” He stood aside while the two men put the money into the case, then pressed it and closed the lid; it just fastened. One of the men picked it up, and pulled a face.

“It's rather heavy, sir.”

“Take the case to the taxi for Mrs Kane,” ordered the manager coldly. “Good afternoon, Mrs Kane.”

“Good afternoon,” Eve said.

From the way the case was carried, making the man lean to one side, and from the way in which it was pushed along the floor of the taxi, it must be heavy. She wondered how she would manage to carry it when she reached the Astor Hotel. The porter would take it for her, of course, there would be no trouble actually at the hotel, but afterwards the problem might become really difficult. She sat back, her eyes smarting, wishing she had not snapped at the bank manager for doing his job. She kept thinking of the way Rollison had looked at her when she had finally made him understand that she was going to have her own way. If Rollison were with her, there would be no problem about carrying the money. She stared at the case, oblivious to the traffic, until the taxi pulled up outside the Astor Hotel. Parked close to the entrance was an M.G. sports car. A porter came up, and Eve saw Max standing near the revolving doors, smiling, nodding approval. She also saw, although without noticing, a man on a motor scooter and another in a small, very old car, drawing up just behind her; she had not noticed them near the bank, either.

The porter opened the door, took out the case, but did not find it too difficult to carry.

“Are you staying—” he began .

Then Max came up, hand outstretched, beaming.

“Hallo, there, you're dead on time,” he greeted. “All right, porter, we're taking the case to the baggage room.” He slipped half a crown into the porter's hand, took Eve's arm, and followed the case without speaking; the baggage room was at one side of the entrance hall, with a diminutive man in charge. “Hold this for an hour or two, will you?” asked Max, and another half-crown changed hands, as he went on: “You'll give me a ticket, won't you—thank you.” He took a ticket, gave it to Eve, and watched her put it in her handbag. “Come on, we'll be late,” he said to Eve, and took her away from the baggage room and across the little foyer of the second-class hotel. From the moment he had appeared, he had taken complete charge of the situation. “We'll go out the other way,” he said, and she saw a passage leading to a side door and a street which she did not know. “There's a nice little restaurant across the road, and I've reserved a table.”

“I don't—” she began.

“You've got to eat and so have I, and we might as well eat together,” Max said. “You've got the receipt for the case; there's nothing at all to worry about. After lunch, Caroline will be here.”

Eve's heart leapt.

“Here?”

“She'll be in the hotel foyer, I promise you.”

Eve said: “She must be.” She felt a frightening uncertainty which had not been there before. It was all too easy. The man seemed remarkably open and frank, but – he
had
kidnapped Caroline – he
had
run down that policeman. He or his brother had, anyhow. She had almost forgotten that. These men were hardened criminals, and she'd known that Max's brother had meant what he said when he'd threatened Caroline. Oh, God, why had she come on her own? Why hadn't she allowed Rollison to handle the situation? All that money was in the baggage room, and the little ticket in her handbag meant practically nothing at all. She allowed Max to lead her into a small restaurant, one of the coffee-bar kind which had a small room for main meals. Their table was in a corner, close to the window.

“It's not licensed here, but I'm sure you won't mind that,” said Max. He picked up a plastic menu, and handed it to her. “What will you have?”

“I—I really don't feel that I can eat.”

“Oh, nonsense!” He looked at the card. “Have something light – the omelettes here are very good. I can tell you that from past experience.”

“All right.”

“A mushroom omelette, perhaps? Or
fines herbes?”

“I really don't mind.”

“You're worrying too much,” Max chided, and leaned forward and squeezed her hand. “You needn't, my dear. In an hour we'll go across there, and you'll see Caroline actually in the hotel lobby. My brother will be with her. As soon as I have the case, he'll leave her by herself. She'll feel a little strange – she has slept a lot – and her memory may be a little shaky, but by tomorrow she'll be absolutely herself again. There isn't a thing to worry about.”

Please God, let that be the truth, Eve prayed.

The omelette was large, and served with crispy fried chips; she was surprised not only that she could eat but enjoy it. She did not want anything else, but Max, opposite her, and attentive as Rollison would have been, followed a steak with cheese and biscuits; she noticed that his nails were beautifully manicured, like his brother's, and that he was just as immaculate. She wondered what made men who could behave like this turn bad.

Then, she yawned.

It wasn't surprising; she hadn't slept more than three hours the previous night, little the night before. She stifled another yawn.

“Will you take coffee?” asked the waitress.

“Yes – black or white, Eve?” asked Max.

“Black, please.” Black coffee would help her to keep awake. It was ridiculous to feel so sleepy now, when, if he had told the truth, she would be seeing Caroline within half an hour.
Half an hour!
She could not bring herself to believe that this man had lied to her; he seemed so truthful, so pleasant now that he had his own way. And, for Caroline, twenty thousand pounds was nothing at all. Not long ago she had hated her wealth, because that was what had tied Ralph to her; now almost for the first time she really felt thankful for it. She tried to feel excited, tried to induce a sense of exhilaration, but the truth was she was absolutely exhausted. It must be the reaction after the excitement. Her eyes felt heavy, and all she wanted to do was to lean her head against the wall behind her, and doze for a few minutes.

Why shouldn't she?

It was ridiculous; she must not! That black coffee would be here in a moment.

“Sugar?” Max asked, and spooned white sugar into the coffee when it arrived. She stirred and sipped it, and within five minutes her head nodded. She saw Max smiling his broad, beaming smile at her, and she knew that she could not keep awake. The sight of his smile and the glint of triumph in his eyes was the first real warning she had that this was no longer natural tiredness, that somehow he had managed to drug her.

He had put the sugar in her coffee!

I mustn't lose consciousness, she thought desperately; but her eyes were closing, even her fears were sluggish, and she leaned forward, chin on her breast, unconscious.

Max beamed at her . . .

“She's had a long journey, travelled most of the night,” Max told the waitress. “May I leave her here for twenty minutes or so? I've a couple of telephone calls to make, and it seems a shame to wake her.”

“She'll be all right there,” the waitress assured him.

Max stood up, hesitated, then quite openly picked up Eve's handbag, unfastened it, and made a lot of jingling noise taking out small change as if for the telephone; doing so, he palmed the ticket for the suitcase. He closed the bag, put it close to Eve's side, and went to the cash desk. He looked across at Eve from the window outside, and grinned as he stepped into the side entrance of the hotel. Two minutes later, he exchanged the ticket for the case. He carried it out to the M.G., dumped it in the back, and saw his brother standing near the hotel. He gave the thumbs up sign, and drove off; and his brother waved for a taxi.

 

“She's absolute dead asleep,” the waitress said to the manageress of the little restaurant. “The man with her said he was going to make some telephone calls, but that's an hour ago. What shall I do?”

“Well, she isn't in the way there, and she might as well get her sleep in,” the manageress said. “She looks very tired. Did he pay?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Well, you go off, and don't forget to be back at four o'clock sharp. We've that party of Swedes coming for the
smorgasbord.
I'll keep an eye on her.”

Eve slept . . .

“I really think we'll have to wake her,” the manageress said, uneasily, a little before four o'clock. “I hope she's all right. She—she couldn't be
dead,
could she?”

“Good heavens!” the afternoon waitress gasped. “That would be a do, wouldn't it?” They approached Eve, and then the girl said: “No, she's breathing, you can see her breast rising and falling. Thank Gawd for that.” She watched the manageress step up to. Eve, and touch her shoulder – Eve felt the touch.

She had been rising to the surface of consciousness for some time, aware of noises, of moments of quietness, of voices, of cars passing in the street, and of footsteps; but she had not really thought about those things, and had not realised where she was. Then she felt someone shaking her and tried to open her eyes, but they were so heavy. She heard a woman saying: “Wake up, madam, please.
Please
wake up.”

At last her eyes opened, and almost at once she realised where she was, and that she was alone.

 

The ticket and the case had gone, and there was no sign of Caroline, no hope of seeing Caroline. There was only horror in Eve's mind.

 

 

“I should say there is more than a fifty-fifty chance now,” said Welling. “In fact I'm sure there is, Rollison. I will make sure that Jolly gets everything he needs; you can forget about him. If there's the slightest sign of a change for the worse, I'll tell you – and you can contact my surgery or my flat any time you like to pick up a message. It won't do you any harm to be busy. Most attractive woman at your flat, although I've seldom seen anyone looking more tired. My strong advice is that you find some way to make her rest.”

“Ah, yes,” said Rollison. “Thanks.” He smiled, although he did not feel at all like smiling and was not sure whether to believe Welling about Jolly: the doctor might simply be trying to ease his mind. “Wouldn't it be better if I stayed at the hospital for a while?”

“Absolutely no point in it at all,” answered Welling. “You've just seen him – and he'll be unconscious like that for at least twelve hours, probably for twenty-four. Take my advice, Rolly – go back and carry on with whatever job you're handling. And don't forget what I told you about Mrs Kane; she is very near collapse.”

“Yes,” Rollison said mechanically. “Thanks again.”

He went across the courtyard of the hospital to the Rolls-Bentley. When he opened the door, heat came out as from a hot oven. He got in, wound down the window, and started off. It was nearly three o'clock; he had been at the hospital for three hours. He wondered where Eve was, and whether by any freak of chance she had Caroline back. Now that the worst of the emergency with Jolly was over, he could think more clearly about Eve. He should have put up a stronger fight, and would have done with nine people out of ten. Why hadn't he found some way of making her let him deal with Max and the brother, what was his name? Felix.

Max and Felix.

Supposing he had? He would have had to come to the hospital, anyhow, without being able to give his mind to the problem. As things had worked out, it had probably been wise to let Eve have her own way: if anything did go wrong this time, she wasn't likely to argue with him in future. He hoped desperately that it would not go wrong, as he drove as fast as the traffic would let him to Gresham Terrace. He hoped to see an old T model Ford outside, the car which Bill Ebbutt of the gymnasium drove with great pride; but it wasn't there. None of Ebbutt's men from the East End was in sight. Rollison went in and up the stairs. There had been times when he would have hesitated at the front door, wondering if all was well; but there was no reason for danger; as far as Max knew, he had given way.

Had Ebbutt's men got to the bank in time? Had they followed Eve?

He went in. The flat had a slightly woebegone look, oddments were out of place, a newspaper was on the floor of the lounge hall; none of these things would have been so had Jolly been at home; there was even a thin film of dust everywhere. Jolly would be away for at least four weeks, and possibly twice as long. It would be necessary to get someone in to take his place; one of Ebbutt's men had come before and would doubtless come again.

Rollison went to his desk and dialled Ebbutt's number, and again he had to wait a long time before it was answered. He felt hungry; he must have been hungry for a long time, but hadn't realised it. He could get a snack and—

“Ebbutt's Gym,” Bill Ebbutt announced.

“Rollison here, Bill.”

“Oh, Mr Ar! Bin trying to get you on the phone,” Ebbutt said quickly. “That right Jolly's been took ill?”

“He's just had a serious operation.”

“Oh, Gawd,” said Ebbutt. “He's not going to kick the bucket, Mr Ar, is he?”

“The doctor says not, Bill.”

“Never can trust these perishing doctors; says what comes into their mind so as to stop you worrying,” Ebbutt said roundly. “Mr Ar, I can imagine how you feel, I can really. Tell you what, though. Percy Wrightson's not working at the moment; he wouldn't say no to a chance to come over and help out. That be any use?”

“I'd be very glad, Bill. Thanks. Any news from those two men you sent to the Midpro Bank?”

“As a matter of fact, Mr Ar, there isn't,” said Ebbutt. “I was wondering if you'd heard anyfink, as a matter of fact. I told them to report to you first; there wasn't any need to report to me unless they couldn't get hold of you. I sent Harry Mills and Joe Locket; couldn't do better if I tried. ‘Eard nothink from either of them yet?”

“No.”

“I'll call you the minute I hear, if they do ring up,” promised Ebbutt, “and I'll send Percy over in time to get your dinner.” He paused. “Okay, Mr Ar?”

“Thanks, Bill, that's fine,” said Rollison.

He replaced the receiver and went into the kitchen. He saw the toaster in a different position from usual, bread still on the board, a tea tray with dirty cups and saucers. He went to the larder; at least that was well stocked, with ham, bread, butter and cheese. He opened a bottle of beer, made himself a good meal, and at ten minutes to four was standing all the dirty things on the draining board; Percy Wrightson could look after them when he came in.

Why wasn't there any word from Harry Mills and Joe Locket? They were middle-aged, able men, and had often helped Rollison when he had been working as the Toff. He had heard Yard men say that those two, as well as others who worked for Ebbutt, would have made excellent detectives with a little more training, for they had a natural intelligence and quickness of eye and mind. Had Rollison himself been able to choose, he would have chosen the pair.

He went to the big room, hesitated, then turned up the number of the Midpro Bank at Dover Court; there was a chance that the manager hadn't left the office. The call was answered promptly, and in a moment the manager was on the line.

“Good afternoon, Mr Rollison! You may remember, we met once last year, when . . .” He was eager to make claim to acquaintanceship.

Rollison let him finish, and then said: “Yes, of course I remember.” The manager was delighted. “Mr Gray, can you tell me if Mrs Kane has been in today, to take out a large sum of money?”

The manager hesitated, and then said in a much colder voice: “I'm sure you understand that I cannot betray a client's confidence, Mr Rollison.” He sounded stuffy and pompous. “But—ah—yes, she has been here. Yes.”

“Can you tell me what time she left?”

“At a little after twenty minutes to two.”

“Was she alone?”

“Yes.” The manager dragged that word out, and then went on much more briskly: “I am sure that it wouldn't be breaking a confidence to say that I was very worried about her, Mr Rollison. She looked ill—positively ill. And she was—well, perhaps I shouldn't say this, but she certainly wasn't herself. Do
you
know what she was planning to do with that very large—”

He broke off.

“Twenty thousand pounds,” said Rollison quietly.

“So you know?”

“I know that she was going to make one or two large purchases, and I wanted to make sure that she wasn't being swindled,” Rollison said.

“You can't
imagine
what a relief that is to me,” exclaimed the manager. “To feel that you are looking after her interests relieves me of all anxiety. I'm quite sure that...”

When Rollison rang off, he thought: ‘So she didn't lose a minute.'

It was just after four o'clock. He wished even more fervently that there were some news from Harry or Joe. It would be pointless to telephone the hospital, but staying in and waiting was the last thing he wanted to do today. Yet if he went out, he might miss a message. He went to his desk and picked up the photograph of Eve, her husband and Caroline, which Eve had left for him. He did not look at the child or the man, only at Eve. He put it down slowly, frowned and said: “What the devil is the matter with me? Why should she be so important?”

Was it really that his nerves were frayed because of Jolly?

The telephone bell rang. He picked up the receiver quickly, gave his number, and heard the pennies drop into a call box at the other end as someone pressed Button A. He was taut and tense as he stood up; then a Cockney voice came very clearly: it was Joe Locket.

“Mr Rollison there?”

“Hallo, Joe,” Rollison greeted, and his heart was beginning to thump. “How've you been getting on?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, it's bin a funny turn up for the book,” Joe declared. “We got to the bank as hinstructed, Mr Ar, no trouble about that, and abaht twenty minutes arterwards, out this dame comes—I mean, this lady showed up. She had a whacking great suitcase, which one of the clurks carried for her, and a taxi was waiting.”

Joe paused; one of his troubles was that he wanted to make absolutely sure that he omitted no details, and

Rollison knew from experience that he would lose the thread if he were interrupted.

“Yes,” Rollison encouraged.

“Well, ‘Arry followed ‘er in ‘is baby Orstin, I ‘ad me Vespa,” Joe went on. “We didn't ‘ave no trouble abaht that, neever. Went to the Astor ‘Otel, she did – you know it?”

“Yes, Joe.”

“Awkward place, that Astor, ‘cause there are two ways out,” Joe explained. “So ‘Arry stayed at the front entrance and I went rahnd to the back – just in case they went out that way.”

“They?” asked Rollison quickly.

“Gorblimey, I'll forget me ‘ead next,” said Joe, in explosive self disgust. “There was a cove waiting for ‘er – just like the bloke you described to Bill, Mr Ar. Be a Teddy boy if he wasn't too old. Greeted her like a long lorst friend, ‘e did, and they went inside together.”

“With the case?”

“Yes, they took that all right,” answered Joe. “Well, I went rahnd the back, like I said, and a few minutes arterwards this lady and the bloke with her go into a little café, and . . .”

‘Get on with it,' Rollison thought, but he forced himself to listen.

“. . . when the bloke left I ‘ad to make up me mind pretty damn quick whether to go arter ‘im or whether to stay and look arter the lady, Mr Ar. Which would you have done?” Joe asked naïvely ; and obviously he wanted to be quite sure that he had done the right thing.

“Watched her, Joe.” Please God, he had.

“Strewth, that's a relief! That's the very thing I did,” declared Joe. “The bloke went back into the Astor and never came aht no more, so I said to myself, Joe I said, it's okay because ‘Arry'll pick ‘im up the other side. You stick around. That's where I come to the funny turn up for the book, Mr Ar. You know what the lady did?”

Rollison felt as if he were choking.

“Tell me, Joe.”

“She went right off to sleep.”

“What?”

“Dead to the world,” Joe assured him. “Now and again I got close enough to the window to take a dekko. She was okay, I could see ‘er breaving, but sleep – talk about dead to the wide. They're just waking ‘er up, Mr Ar – at least, they was when I come away to telephone.”

“Joe, go and see her,” said Rollison urgently. “Tell her to wait there until I come.”

“Okay, Mr Ar.”

“And that was a perfect report, Joe,” Rollison remembered to praise, then slammed down the receiver and swung towards the door. He knew the hotel well, and also remembered seeing the restaurant in Moor Street, opposite the back entrance. Because parking would be difficult he did not take the car, but hurried towards Piccadilly; as he reached the corner he met an empty taxi. In ten minutes he was pulling up near the restaurant. He saw Joe outside, a short, stocky figure, wearing a badly cut suit of light grey, rather shabby brown shoes, and a cloth cap; by him was a smart-looking new Vespa motor scooter, Joe's greatest pride. As Rollison got out, Joe's eyes lit up, and he gave the thumbs up sign; so at least Eve was all right.

He turned into the restaurant, with its green plants climbing up in the corners, a kind of imitation bamboo partition separating the dining-section from the counter service, the shiny red and black topped tables, the wicker-work chairs. He saw Eve sitting in a corner by herself, being watched from a distance by two waitresses; half a dozen people were sitting in the café, equally curious.

Eve looked up and saw him.

Dr Welling had been alarmed by her look of distress and near collapse; if he saw her now, he would order her straight to bed, and give her an injection to make sure that she slept. Rollison went across to her. She looked into his eyes, while her own eyes were covered with a film of tears, and her lips trembled. He pushed two chairs out of the way, sat down at the table, and took her hands, holding them tightly. He realised then that above everything else he wanted desperately to see her.

“Rolly,” she managed to say, “what have I done?”