The Toff In Town - John Creasey

ALLEN : I’d lost count of time, but kept hoping. I’d picked up a bit of the lingo by then, and one day gathered that a neighbouring, but hostile tribe, was coming to pay a visit. My little crowd was in a panic. They said this other tribe was armed with modern weapons, supplied by the Japs. My people decided to break camp. I slipped away from them during the night, and heard the fighting from way off.

INTERVIEWER: You were glad to be out of it, I bet.

ALLEN : Oh, yes. And by good luck, I found a way through one of the passes and met up with a small party of film people—mostly Americans—on their way to Rangoon after taking some shots for a travel film.

INTERVIEWER : You were glad to be out of it, I bet.

ALLEN: I certainly needed it I shall never forget seeing white people again, after so long. I shall never forget their faces, either. I hope to meet them all again one day—the sooner the better. We’ve a lot of memories to share.

INTERVIEWER: YOU certainly have! Let’s hope you find them.

Jolly finished typing, and took the paper from, the machine. Then they compared the new version with the old.

“It looks very simple, Jolly, doesn’t it?” Rollison said at last. “In one way, sir,” agreed Jolly. “It conveys a clear message— that Allen would like to get in touch with the men concerned, that he remembers them, and that they have something which they ought to share with him. Do you agree, sir?”

“I don’t see what else it can mean. And if Pauline knows her job, she’ll make sure that the people for whom the message is intended will hear it. They’ll be warned in advance to listen to Allen that night, and they’ll probably obey. There’s a threat in the message too—that Allen would recognise all of them again. I can’t imagine the B.B.C. arguing against this, can you?”

“I see no reason why they should,” agreed Jolly. “And I don’t see how it would help us if they did.”

Rollison said: “I think I do, Jolly.”

“Indeed, sir? How?” When Rollison did not answer, and by his silence exhorted Jolly to think, the latter went on slowly: “We have only the vaguest notion where Snub has been. You know, sir, in spite of everything, I’m coming to the conclusion that we would be wise now to tell the whole story to Scotland Yard. We won’t find Snub or the girl, but the police might. I really don’t think you told Mr. Grice enough. Is there any other chance of getting results, sir?”

Rollison half-closed his eyes and looked at the ceiling.

“We can’t find Snub, there isn’t time and we haven’t a clue. But we do know that Pauline is desperately anxious for this particular message to be broadcast to-morrow. She’s gone to extreme lengths to make sure of it. Everything she’s done proves that it’s her priority Number One. And she told me that she would have a stooge in the B.B.C. studio who would make trouble if it weren’t broadcast in this version. Right?”

Jolly did not speak.

“And I believe she will do that,” said Rollison. “I think she’s proved up to the hilt that she’ll take any risk to get that message put over. And I think she’ll send someone whom Allen knows to the studio, someone who will put the fear of death into him, to make sure that he doesn’t get cold feet at the last minute.”

“Possible, sir,” conceded Jolly.

“Jolly, we must find Pauline or someone who can lead us to Pauline, or we’re lost. If her stooge is in the studio, we must find a way to force his hand. But if we tell the police, they’ll have to prevent the broadcast. Grice couldn’t gamble on a quick showdown in the Aeolian Hall. If he did . . .”

He broke off at a sharp rat-tat on the front door which cut across his words. Jolly moved quickly, but Rollison reached the hall before him. He switched on the light and saw a white envelope lying on the mat. He strode to the door opened it; there was a distant scuffling movement; whoever had brought that note had gone. Rollison rushed downstairs and into the street, calling:

“Perky!”

He saw Perky Lowe’s cab a few yards along, but Perky didn’t make a move towards him. He thought he heard running footsteps but could see too one, for the lighting in Gresham Terrace was very poor.

“Perky!” He hurried to the cab, but still the driver did not move.

Rollison saw why a moment later. Perky had been struck on the back of the head, blood matted his hair, and he was slumped forward over the wheel.

Perky Lowe came round when Rollison reached the flat with him, and Jolly helped to carry him to the sofa. He vaguely remembered a man coming along the street and asking if he were free, but he wouldn’t recognise him again. He’d said “no” —and had then been struck on the back of the head by someone who had approached from behind.

“But never mind abaht me,” he insisted. “I’m okay, Mr. Ar. You ‘ad any luck?”

“I don’t think so,” said Rollison, looking at Jolly, who had doubtless opened the letter.

“I’m afraid not, sir,” said Jolly. He took the letter from the desk and handed it to Rollison. Perky watched, with bloodshot eyes. Jolly stood erect and at attention, as he always did in moments of crisis. And Rollison read:

“The police will find Merino’s body; and the gun, with his finger-prints on it; and impeccable evidence that he shot Merino. But you can have the gun and the evidence after the broadcast on Saturday night, if it all goes well.”

“That settles the issue, sir,” said Jolly.

“We wait until to-morrow night, after the broadcast,” agreed Rollison.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

REHEARSALS

“OF course you can stay,” said Hedley, warmly. “Very glad to have you with us, Mr. Rollison—thought any more about that broadcast of yours, yet?”

“Not very much,” said Rollison truthfully. “I hope you will,” said Hedley. “Quiet a minute, the tenor’s going to sound off.”

He grinned and held up his hands for silence, and sat down on a slung-canvas chair, one of twenty or so which were ranged along the walls of the studio. The Italian tenor, a short man with a shock of dark hair, chest and shoulders like a bull, and plump hands which were clasped together nervously, spoke in frantic Italian to a much smaller man, obviously a foreigner, who kept pulling at his pink and blue tie and looking as if he would strangle himself. Another Italian, of aristocratic mien, sat at the grand piano in a corner of the large studio, his long, pale hands raised above the key-board. He glared at the pink and blue tie, and a compact, middle-aged man—a B.B.C. official with a patient, tired manner, kept saying:

“Now take your time, there’s no hurry—this is only a rehearsal, remember.”

The Italians jabbered on; the rest of the people in the studio watched them or someone else, openly or furtively; or else read their scripts or stared with wide-eyed interest at the upright microphone in front of the tenor, the two table-mikes planted on small tables at one end of the room or—greatly daring—through the glass partition which separated the studio from the next room. Some were composed and poised, others obviously and unashamedly nervous. One little group of young people gathered in a corner and whispered.

Rollison sat next to Allen.

The tenor opened his mouth, threw back his head, and let forth a tremendous bellow. The patient-looking man jumped, the pianist clutched his head in horror, the blue and pink tie suddenly became unfastened, its wearer jabbered. Hedley jumped up and went towards them, saying mildly: “That was a bit too loud.” The little group in the corner giggled, but the tenor seemed quite unaware of the minor consternation he had caused. He glared at the mike as if it would lean forward and strike him.

Allen stared at the scene with lack-lustre eyes.

Rollison had been to fetch him that afternoon, and as far as he could find out, Allen had made no effort to leave Dinky’s; had eaten and slept and mooned about all day. For different reasons, Allen and his wife were behaving in exactly the same way.

Obviously he had expected Rollison to come for him.

Hedley had been busy with the tenor, and beyond greeting them with a bright smile and a few cheery words, paid them no attention. The question of the alteration in the text had not yet been brought up.

Jolly was still at the flat, but was due to arrive here just after five o’clock. McMahon of the Morning Cry wasn’t here yet, but Rollison had no doubt that he would come. He looked round at the others. There were nine in addition to the Italian contingent, and he glanced down at the comprehensive script, covering each broadcaster which Hedley had pushed into his hand, trying to place the people from their appearance.

The stage and screen “comics” certainly weren’t here yet; he would have recognised them. A young couple, with blonde hair and nervous smiles, were sitting on two chairs, touching hands, leaning forward every now and again and whispering; they were the young Danes, he hadn’t much difficulty in placing them. A burly man in ragged and patched clothes, who had shaved badly and had long, curly side-whiskers, was standing in a corner, reading his script with a vast frown which wrinkled his forehead; he would be the busker, Rollison decided.

He glanced through the roneoed sheets. The “wandering artist” or the writer of inn-signs didn’t appear to be here yet— unless he was the pale, neatly dressed young man who sat by himself, smoking a new pipe. His name, according to the front page of the script, was Arthur Mellor. He was to broadcast first; the Danes were to follow; the Lundys were third, then came the busker followed by the tenor, with Allen the final act. Allen hadn’t glanced at his script—just seemed prepared to sit back and do nothing.

The tenor suddenly burst forth again, still much too loudly. Hedley pulled the mike away from him, the blue and pink tie fluttered wildly and its wearer held his hands palms outwards a few inches from the singer, urging him backwards. The tenor tried to watch him, the mike, the pianist—and suddenly tossed his arms high in the air, stopped singing, and struck an attitude which he proceeded to justify with a string of fluent Italian— including, as Rollison knew well, one or two of the choicest Milanese oaths.

His friends pleaded with him. The tired-looking man raised his eyebrows resignedly, spoke to Hedley and went out into the mysterious chamber behind the studio. There, three or four men were sitting, one of them with earphones on and looking very earnest

The altercation over, the tenor took up his stand again— and suddenly everything went right. His volume was exactly what was required, no one disapproved, the ends of the blue and pink tie hung straight and its wearer achieved a seraphic smile. This was reflected on the face of the tenor; the pianist also beamed broadly.

A curious thing happened.

Everyone in the studio stopped whatever he was doing and looked at the Italian. In the small studio his voice was loud but the notes were perfect, and they flowed easily and smoothly, he swayed slightly to and fro, keeping his hands raised, as if without effort. The tenor’s eyes were half-closed and dreamy, he were holding them out to some invisible maiden, appealing, beseeching.

Even Allen was affected.

Rollison fought against the seductive beauty of the singing and glanced at Allen, seeing his face relieved of strain—not smiling, but almost serene, as if he had been taken into a new world of peace. The tough-rough busker watched the tenor without blinking. The smartly-dressed man who was probably the wandering artist had his mouth open, and he also swayed from the waist. The two Danes held hands tightly. The little crowd which Rollison could not identify was the last to come under the spell, but its members fell eventually. Hedley looked dreamy. The weary-looking man, who wore a cream-coloured linen coat and flannel trousers, shed his tiredness. Two girl members of the staff stood near the piano.

The singer stopped but the spell remained, until he lunged forward and gripped one end of the blue-and-pink tie, and cried:

“It was wonderful—yes, yes, wonderful!”

Then he was submerged in a welter of congratulations from his friends. Hedley sent an inquiring glance towards the glass partition, where the earnest-looking man, smiling with quiet satisfaction, shook his head. Hedley turned to one of the girls and said sotto voce:

“We’ll give him another try-out at the last minute, let him rest now.”

Another man came into the room, dressed in navy blue, wearing brown suede shoes, ruddy-faced, smiling and cheerful. Hedley called him “Bill”, and brought him immediately to Rollison and Allen. Rollison stood up, Allen hesitated before following his example. If Hedley and “Bill” noticed that Allen seemed strained, they showed no sign.

“This is Bill Wentworth, who will interview you, Mr. Allen,” said Hedley. “Mr. Allen—Mr. Rollison.”

Wentworth had a quick, firm handshake.

“Satisfied with your script?” Hedley asked Allen.

“Er—I’d like a few alterations,” said Allen. “If—if that’s all right with you.”

“Oh, of course,” said Hedley. That’s easy enough, we’ll have a look at it in a minute. Better give the young Danes a run through,” he added to Wentworth, and took him off, saying: “Won’t keep you a jiff. Now there’s no need to worry,” he said to the Danes. “Just read naturally, don’t raise or lower your voice too much. The mike’s “live” on both sides.”

“Live?” queried the girl, brushing her blonde hair back from her forehead.

“Er—it can pick up anything you say, even a whisper,” said Hedley. “Speak into it, not to one side—keep a foot away. Don’t let the script rustle too much, or the mike will pick that up, too.”

The Danish girl gripped the script tightly, until her knuckles showed white and the paper quivered violently. Her companion moistened his lips, stared at the mike and then at Wentworth, who had his copy of the script flat on the table in front of him. He was calm, friendly and reassuring. He leaned forward and whispered something, and then looked round.

“Quiet, everyone, please,” called Hedley.

A hush fell on the chattering Italians, but they continued to whisper earnestly near the piano. Wentworth opened with a summary of the organization which the Danes represented, finishing with the question:

“And you like it here in England?”

“Oh, we do!” exclaimed the girl.

“It is wonderful!” cried the boy.

Wentworth shook his head and sat back, tapping his script. Hedley raised his hands hopelessly and watched, half-way between the table and Rollison and Allen.

“I’m sure it’s wonderful,” said Wentworth patiently, “but you have to read from the script—from the paper. Now, look—I finish by saying: “And you like it here in England?” and then Hilda—not you, Hans, you come next, when I’ve spoken again. Hilda, you answer, just as it says on the paper. Forget about the microphone, just follow my words on the paper as you’re told there—see your name?”