“Down the pan,” Loman answered. “I went along there and gave myself a shot and put the plastic hypo down the pan and came back to my seat.”
The nurse managed to ask : “Do you use cream in your coffee?”
“Sure,” said Loman.
“Not for me,” answered the doctor.
“I use facts,” Luigi said. “Why did you dope yourself, Loman?”
“Like the doctor said, I need sleep.”
“Like I said, I need facts,” retorted Luigi. He picked up a cup of coffee which had neither cream nor sugar, and sipped; his gaze did not once leave Loman’s face, but the young man stared back without apparent embarrassment.
“What did you have in your baggage?” Luigi asked. “Clothes.”
“In your hand baggage?”
“A razor and toiletries and two books.”
“What kind of books?”
“Adult books,” the young man answered amiably. “I’m an adult.” He finished his coffee, and turned to the doctor as if he were no longer interested in the policeman. The nurse had moved away and was looking from one to the other as if she could make nothing of the conversation or of the situation. “Doctor,” went on Loman, “I’m appreciative of the trouble you’ve taken and I’ll be glad to pay your fee right now. That’s if someone will hand me my billfold,” he added with a boyish grin.
“The nurse will get that,” the doctor replied. “You take it easy.”
“As soon as I’m dressed and in the B.O.A.C. lounge I’ll take it easy,” Loman assured him. “I don’t need to eat, there will be food on the aircraft.” He finished the coffee, and smiled at the nurse. “Okay for me to have the rest of my clothes now?”
She answered: “I still think you’re crazy.”
“My folks often used to say just the same thing,” Loman assured her, but now there was something so attractive in his smile that she half-laughed, and fetched his jacket.
Luigi went outside, and found the Security Officer hovering. The man crossed to him at once, and asked in his hard, controlled voice:
“Is he making a complaint?”
“He will, if he’s no fool.”
“Luigi,” the Security Officer said, “you don’t have to be like this.”
“It’s just the way I am,” replied Luigi, and went on: “He’s going to fly on to London. He’ll ask you to look for his luggage and send it on to him, and if I were you that’s exactly what I would do.”
The Security Officer said: “So there’s no complaint.” He looked relieved as he nodded and moved away, almost as Thomas G. Loman came out. He pretended not to notice the man from Homicide but went with long strides towards the air line’s desk and made his complaint about lost luggage, asking for it to be sent on. A young girl with a magnificent honey-brown skin took details, then asked:
“What is your forwarding address in London, sir?”
“Care of Richard Rollison,” Loman answered. “Number 25g, Gresham Terrace, London, W.I.” He spelled out both the name of the man and the street, then moved away. He did not bump into Luigi, only because Luigi darted back quickly. Loman towered a head and shoulders above the policeman, who asked:
“You want to go to the B.O.A.C. terminal?”
“I don’t want to go to police headquarters.”
“Something on your conscience?” flashed Luigi. “I’ve got a flight waiting for me.”
“Loman,” Luigi said. “I won’t give you the runaround. I’ll take you to B.O.A.C. departures if that’s where you want to go.”
“That’s where I want to go,” the man from Tucson declared.
Luigi Tetano drove him there with the speed and roadway knowledge more characteristic of a taxi driver than a policeman, and watched him check in. No one appeared to be surprised that he was early, the only surprise was about his lack of luggage. Soon, he went up the escalator and out of Luigi’s sight. The policeman left his car again and went to a telephone booth just inside the departure building, while aircraft roared and screeched overhead. He dialled a friend on the staff of the New York Times, and when the other man answered, said:
“Ben, you know London pretty well, don’t you?”
“I’m not sure I don’t know it better than New York,” answered Ben. “Are you forgetting I was the London correspondent for five years?”
“I half-remembered,” Luigi replied drily. “Can you tell me anything about a guy named Rollison?”
Without even an instant’s pause the other repeated, like an echo: “Rollison! Richard Rollison?”
“That’s right, he lives —”
“Luigi,” the newspaperman said, “I know plenty about Rollison. If you take my advice, you won’t tangle with him.”
“I don’t believe the criminal I won’t tangle with exists,” retorted Luigi. “What’s so special about him?”
“He’s not a crook,” answered the Times man.” ‘Private eye’ isn’t the right description but you would call him one. He doesn’t know the criminal he won’t tangle with, either. He —” there was a pause, a sharp intake of breath, another pause, then a deep-voiced question redolent of suspicion. “What do you want with the Toff ?”
“The who?”
“The Toff. T — O — F — F,” the Times man spelled out. He allowed just enough time for the spelling to register on Luigi’s mind before repeating : “I’ll tell you what I know about the Toff when I know why you want the information. You come clean, Luigi, and I will.”
“Off the record,” Luigi said.
“Off the record,” agreed the newspaperman. “In the beginning, anyway.”
“Okay,” agreed Luigi. He told the story in outline, answered a few questions, and then in a tone of deep finality he declared: “That’s plenty, Ben. Now you tell me all you know about this Rollison — this Toff. What is a Toff, anyway?”
3
A Toff is a Toff
THE HONOURABLE RICHARD ROLLISON, known to SO many as the Toff, stood at a corner of his large, flat-topped, heirloom desk on the top floor of 25g Gresham Terrace, London, W.’, the telephone held in one hand and a pencil in the other. Silence was coming from the telephone, the faintest of aromas creeping from the domestic quarters of this unusual, indeed unique flat, as Rollison gazed pensively at his Trophy Wall.
He was a tall man, and lean.
Like Thomas G. Loman, he was surprisingly strong and muscular.
Unlike Thomas G. Loman, he was remarkably hand-some, classic in the Ronald Colman style, with the same hint of virility and humanity in his good looks. The years had passed lightly over him despite many dangers and crises, his hair was dark with only a touch of grey here and there, adding a note of distinction. He had well-marked eyebrows and his skin had a weathered look; what few lines there were at forehead and eyes seemed due more to concentration than to years.
He was not young in the sense that teenagers are considered to be young, but he was a century away from being old. In most moods, and this was one, he had exemplary patience, and the silence from the telephone did not worry him.
In fact, he was day-dreaming.
It was comparatively early in the morning; half-past eight. He had been at the home of friends the night before, and back here late, so when the telephone had disturbed him he had not woken easily. It had been the overseas operator to ask if he could take a call from New York in half an hour’s time. So he had had time for his tea in bed, to scan the newspapers, even to shave. By the time the telephone bell had rung again he had been in this room. Waiting.
And studying the Trophies.
That was his man’s word for the strange assortment of objects on the wall behind the desk, and it was a good choice, for each was indeed a trophy of the hunt. In every case the quarry had been human, in most cases a man, but some had been women.