Salute The Toff

Waikato Times, Volume 127, Issue 21183, 5 August 1940, Page 3

Salute The Toff

BY JOHN CREASEY

OUR SERIAL STORT

CHAPTER XXI. “Very Familiar" All the fight that had ever been in Benny Duvanto was knocked out. His teeth were chattering, with fear and not with cold, and he slumped down into the chair where the Toff dumped him, staring up with terrified eyes into Rollison’s. “I—l had to—l had to!" “How’d you get in?" asked the ‘‘Hum! I broad daylight too. Who :ent you?” ‘‘lt—lrma.” Toff conversationally. “The fire escape." “You’re very familiar," murmured the Toff. “What did Irma say?” “She—she wanted to know what you were doing this afternoon. I had to come—she threatened ” “To cut your throat, and I almost wish you’d stayed away and let her,” said the Toff gently. “Where’d you find him, Pete?” “In the wardrobe,” grinned Pete. He was skulking behind a pile of clothes, but I wanted to see if I could find a clean collar, and—well, I basted him rather.” “Lucky you didn’t give him time to use his knife,” said the Toff, and as he spoke the fright seemed to disappear from Benny. The little rat’s eyes narrowed, and his right hand slid into his pocket. It flashed out with a speed that rivalled some of the movements of the Toff, and the blade of a knife flashed. Rene gasped. Delray ducked, but the Toff made a dive and gripped the puny wrist before any damage was done. Benny Duvanto screamed with pain, and the knife clattered to the floor. The Toff kicked it away. “Nice little fellow aren’t you, Benny? Well, that’s attempted murder with three witnesses, and I think you can reckon on a very long stretch. Unless,” he added casually, “I forget to tell McNab about it.” Benny was cringing back with real fear now, and at the Toff’s words he darted forward. Rene Wellward saw with disgust that he was on his knees. “I’ll do anything—anything. I didn’t mean to do no ’arm, I ” The Toff jerked him to his feet. “You meant to do all the harm you could, Benny! Where was Irma when you sent the message?” The crafty expression in Benny Duvanto’s eyes increased. “If I tells yer—you won’t see McNab?” “I’ll probably forget—if you tell me and you’re not lying, Benny.” It seemed incredible, but Benny—whose vanity was the most unlikely and unsquashable thing in 'the world —puffed out his pigeon chest.

“It’s the trufe, Mister Rollison, Gawd’s trufe. Irma’s at a little place near Dawking. Between Dawking an’ Guildford. I see ’er there this morin’. And—” the craftiness glittered in his little eyes, “I reckon there’s a big house there that you might be in’rested in, Mister. Gawd’s trufe ” “The addresses,” said the Toff. To Rene and Pete he seemed a lot cooler than the circumstances warranted. For the first time there was real information that they could use, and Pete was almost hopping on one foot. “The big place is Morton Lodge, an’ the little one’s called ’Ope Cottage,” said Benny Duvanto. “My, I couldn’t ’arf do wiv a spot o’ whiskey, Mister Rollison! I ” “Forget it,” snapped Rollison. “How do you get to these places?” Benny looked aggrieved, but he gave the required information, and then he had one of the surprises of his life. For the Toff called for Jolly, and Jolly secured Mr Benjamin Duvanto’s hands, legs and mouth so that he could neither move nor speak—nor even gurgle. Rene’s eyes were blazing. “Roily—we’ve got them! Got them! You’ll tell the police right away—” The Hon. Richard Rollison laughed as he rested his hand on her shoulder. “Rene, you’re a nice girl, and very trusting. Benny's the biggest liar in London, and that’s near enough the world. He may be right, but he may be wrong, and we’ll see. And —” he glanced out of the window — “your two boy friends of the Yard are waiting outside. Get home, will you?” She seemed reluctant. “Well—all right. But you’ll let me know if you have any luck?” “I’ll ask Pete to ’phone,” said the Toff gently. The Toff in Disguise In a brilliant pea-green suit of plus fours, Pete Delray waited at the wheel of a green sports car, near the Pilfer Street offices of Gabriel Selsom. He disliked the suit, and it was his private opinion that it made him look noticeable, but the lines of grease-paint—applied by the Toff—at his eyes and mouth certainly made him look a typical young American out for a sight-seeing trip. It was two o’clock. Gabriel Selsom, taking long, easy strides, had just walked along the street and entered the offices. The magnate’s Daimler was waiting, however, for the afternoon ride. Pete wished that Rollison had told him more about it, but he was still convinced that the other man was wise. Selsom came out at two-fifteen. Pete let in the clutch and started off. In Regent Street he allow the Daimler to pass him, while he caught a glimpse of a large Austin moving off from the kerb. From a distance the handkerchief in the driver’s pocket looked white, but it was probably pink. Nothing about the face of the man was familiar, partly clue to the bushy moustache. It was Rollison, all right, for as he passed the sports car, he winked. Pete laughed to himself, wondering how long the drive would take.

By the time he had reached Kingston, he was beginning to guess. At Esher and Cobham he was reasonably sure. Selsom—in the Daimler a quarter of a mile ahead—was aiming for one of the two houses that Benny Duvanto had talked of. And when they skirted Guildford, taking the Dorking road, he was reasonably sure it was Hope Cottage. He was vaguely worried when Rollison, in the Austin, followed the Daimler through the winding country roads. If anyone of the Irma Cardew crowd was watching Selsom, they must see the two following cars, and it shouted suspicion. In his pea-green suit Pete scowled. They saw Hope Cottage about the same time. A small signboard outside proclaimed the name, and the Daimler turned into a short drive. Cottage it might be called, but Pete would have looked on it as a largish house. The Austin drove past, and he was about to follow suit when the bar was dropped across the road. It seemed to fall from the hedge, but Pete had no time to do anything but jam on both his brakes and hope for the best. The sports car stopped, inches from a thick sapling, and before he could go to his pocket for his gun, the hedge seemed filled with men. He did manage to grab a spanner from the dashboard and crash one fellow over the head, but it was a short taste of triumph. Something heavy crashed on the back of his own head. He felt a terrible pain, a red mist surged across his eyes—and then came blackness. Mr Gabriel Selsom entered the hall of Hope Cottage, and looked about him nervously, as though he expected a door to open, and a gun to show. Nothing happened, however. but the maid who had admitted him took his coat and hat, left him his case, and opened the drawingroom door. “Madam will be down in a moment, sir.” “Thanks,” said Selsom. The room was plesantly furnished, and he could not rid himself of an impression that it was the genuine country home of ordinary, decent people. And then, without warning, came the squealing of brakes from outside. He leapt from the chair he had dropped into, and jumped towards the window. He was in time to see three or four men rushing at a small green car—and then Irma Cardew’s voice came from behind him. “Very nicely done, Mr Selsom.” He swung round. The woman was dressed in an afternoon gown of flaming red, and although he could hardly measure his thoughts, he knew that he had never seen anyone more beautiful, in an exotic way. But the cruel twist at her lips seemed to rob her of the higher rewards of her beauty. “I ”