The Toff on Fire Read Free Page B

home and bed as quickly as she could. It was now nearly half-past two, so with any luck he would be in bed by half-past three.
    He talked, easily, his task to amuse them.
    â€œI’m on my own for a few days, as my man’s on holiday; he prefers the autumn to summer. Grieve for me as head cook-and-bottle washer, please.” He crossed the hall, and the others followed, the women glancing about them but noticing only that the cushions on the couch were not properly in position. Rollison opened the door of his living-room-cum-study, and went blithely forward, knowing almost to the letter what the others would say and how they would exclaim when they saw what there was to see. First there would be a moment of startled silence; then squeaks; then a grunt or two. And finally Esmeralda would advance across the large room, her eyes glistening, and would touch the hempen rope which hung from a miniature scaffold on his trophy wall, and say: “Is this a real one? Did it hang a man?”
    He would say ‘yes’, and all three of them would enjoy a few seconds of chills and horror, while he opened the cocktail cabinet and took out the drinks. Esmeralda would then start asking questions. What was the top hat doing at the top of all the exhibits on the wall? Why – oh, was that a bullet hole through it? Had he been wearing it when the shot had been fired? Yes. What was in those little glass tubes, poison? Yes. Surely that knife hadn’t been used in a murder, had it? Yes. And that gun, that piece of iron piping, that swordstick, that palm gun and – how on earth did the cuckoo clock get there?
    It all went according to plan. Wylie was content to watch and listen and cup a whisky-and-soda in both hands, as if it was brandy. He watched, sleepy eyed. Jane’s sleepiness was driven away, but she was a little uneasy. Esmeralda was so excited that she could hardly stop to sip her gin and Italian.
    At last: “Rolly, what on earth is that cuckoo clock doing there?”
    â€œAs a matter of fact,” said Rollison easily, “it was a present from a French friend of mine. Nice of him, wasn’t it? Instead of the cuckoo popping out while I stood in front of it and saw how it worked, the door opened and a bullet struck me between the eyes.”
    Esmeralda spun round, to stare aghast at his face.
    â€œNot really? There’s no scar. I—oh, you fool! But honestly, was there a bullet?”
    â€œYes.”
    After a long silence, Esmeralda took a longer sip of her drink than before, and then asked earnestly: “How many people hate you like that, Rolly?”
    â€œOh, only one here and there.”
    â€œQuite enough, too,” Wylie interpolated, to prove that he had not been asleep. “Mind if I get a word in edgeways, Es? Hrrrrmp. These—ah—exhibits, Rollison, are they all genuine?”
    â€œJohn!” Jane Wylie’s protest was almost anguished.
    Rollison chuckled. “Fair question, after all the wall looks as phoney as a wall can be. But the answer’s yes. Don’t ask me why I started it, just be charitable because I was young when it really began. See that knife with the piece off the point? That was the first. An East Ender wanted for murder tried to stick that in my back, but thanks to my youth and inexperience, I was wearing a chain waistcoat. Ever seen one? There are still times when—”
    â€œI have, yes,” said Wylie, and he touched a small, glass case inside which there was a single silk stocking. It was crumpled and laddered – and one ladder had been stopped by a dab of scarlet nail varnish. “That doesn’t really look lethal,” Wylie added.
    â€œJust an ordinary 15 denier with a few ladders,” Rollison told him, “and it was worn by the last woman we hanged in this civilised country.”
    Wylie looked very bleak.
    â€œI am opposed to hanging women,” he said, and Esmeralda shuddered.
    Jane Wylie