Accuse the Toff by John Creasey Page A

he added mendaciously, ‘but she could be connected with Peveril.’ He paused. ‘Nothing clicks? All right, what about Ibbetson?’
    â€˜Ibbetson?’
    â€˜Yes. Don’t you say it well?’
    â€˜Don’t be an ass,’ said Grice, eyeing Rollison warily. ‘You know where the name Ibbetson cropped up as well as I do. He was the man whose car Jameson stole last night—I mean the night before last.’
    Rollison put his head on one side thoughtfully.
    â€˜Is that an established fact? Jameson stole? Or is it a police theory because there’s no one else convenient to hang the job on?’
    â€˜It isn’t proved,’ admitted Grice, ‘but I’ve interrogated Jameson and his parents and I’m not particularly satisfied. I’ve found the pub where he had his drinks and the landlord says that he was drunk most of the time—the kind of drinking when a man sets out to make himself blind.’
    â€˜H’m,’ said Rollison. ‘He’d do anything to forget, is that the idea?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜So Jameson’s story doesn’t stand up,’ murmured Rollison. ‘That’s a pity, I hoped that it would. Did he go back and talk about lost equipment?’
    â€˜He did but there was no evidence that he lost it,’ said Grice. ‘The landlord and two barmaids remember him clearly. He sat in a corner and just drank on steadily, not getting violently drunk but taking enough for the landlord to refuse to serve him after an hour on the second night. What happened there, Rollison, is that young Jameson got an attack of nerves and planned to desert. The actual first steps scared him, so he drank himself into a stupor and the after effects brought temporary insanity. That’s not the medical jargon but you know what I mean.’
    Rollison regarded him silently for some seconds and then slowly shook his head.
    â€˜No, it won’t work. There’s more in it than that, whether Jameson is our man or not. Ibbetson, whose car was stolen, is risking charges of attempted murder to get hold of a small black case which your Lancelot Brett lost before he went to America.’ He avoided telling the full story for the time being, preferring to wait until he had given more attention to the girl’s part, and went on: ‘Ibbetson thought I had it, the Lord knows why. He came to the flat and a bit later I’ll show you the mess he made of it. Was it coincidence that Ibbetson was waiting for the Commando to steal his car or was it a put up job? Was the car waiting there, not to be stolen by a madman but to be used for the getaway after a series of deliberate murders?’
    â€˜Ibbetson!’ repeated Grice, almost inarticulately.
    â€˜I’ve given you the bald details,’ said Rollison. ‘And I’ll give you more. When I called at the office yesterday it was simply because the affair intrigued me—I saw the improbabilities of the man taking the particular road he did. You probably think I had stumbled on something earlier but I knew just nothing. Despite my virgin innocence someone unknown not only told Ibbetson that I had the black case but sent it to me. Here it is.’ He put a finger on the case and looked into Grice’s startled eyes, deriving no satisfaction from putting the policeman out of countenance but seeing the complexities of the affair more vividly than he had done before. ‘It was sent to me here by special messenger and my CO took it in and handed it to me, sealed as it’s sealed now. Would you care to open it?’
    Grice picked up the case slowly.
    The cover was of Moroccan leather, or a good imitation, and had a poor surface for fingerprints except for the sealed paper and the address label. Grice was careful to hold the case without touching the paper, as Rollison had been.
    â€˜Not until I’ve been over it for prints,’ he said. ‘Are you serious? Was it