John Creasey - The Toff and The Sleepy Cowboy

“Bill,” Rollison said quietly. “All fogs disperse sooner or later.”

“Oh, yes.” Grice turned back and leaned against a corner of the desk, closer to Rollison. “A man was picked up in the grounds of the Browns’ house last night — an American policeman whose identity is beyond all doubt. He came over on the same flight as Loman because he thought Loman might be a victim of a big luggage stealing racket at Kennedy Airport. He really came on a kind of hunch. The thing is, Rolly —”

“Yes?” Rollison’s voice was sharp.

“These are damned dangerous days. Hi-jacking of aircraft, the blowing-up of aircraft and government and police buildings are commonplace. We’ve got what looks Re a case of impersonation to get a large inheritance, but the tactics used are the same tactics as those used by terrorists. Those hand grenades are now known to contain high explosive and powerful incendiary material much more powerful than they had originally. Can you tell me what’s really going on, Roily?” Grice asked, and then leaned forward and demanded in a hard voice: “If you have the faintest idea you’ve got to tell me. You can’t fight a war against terrorists on your own.”

17

Ebbutt Warns

ROLLISON WAS SO STARTLED that In back sharply enough to bump his head against a hangman’s rope which dangled on a swivel; someone had moved it from the wall. He half-turned, pushed it back, then faced Grice again.

“No,” he said. “I can’t and I know I can’t. I have seldom, if ever before, been involved in a case about which I’ve told you everything from the beginning.”

“Everything?” Grice echoed, dubiously.

“Everything. Bill, this may be an offshoot of a baggage racket at Kennedy Airport. It could be an extension of terrorist activities — it had the look of that from the beginning, but if it is, I’ve no advance knowledge of it. And we may have a simple case of attempted fraud on a scale big enough to warrant all the violence. Did Jolly give you that tape yesterday?” he added abruptly.

“Yes.”

“That is everything I can tell you,” Rollison asserted. “But it doesn’t make sense,” protested Grice. “They are trying to kill you.”

“I was vaguely aware of that,” Rollison retorted. When Grice did not respond, he asked: “Have you learned anything from the prisoner?”

“He is a man named Simms, much older than he looks when he’s on his motor-cycle,” Grice replied. But he can’t, or won’t, give us any help. He lives in a one-room apartment in Notting Hill, and had twenty-one more of the grenades stacked in a cupboard. He’s admitted the attacks, denies that he is being paid by anyone and says he’s a revolutionary who thinks that everyone who lives in Mayfair should be executed.”

“Do you believe him?”

“No. But it could be true.”

“Did he say why he threw the bomb at Rubicon House?”

“He says he followed you and had seen you in the room.”

Rollison felt a shiver run down his spine.

“I hope there aren’t many more about like him,” he said, heavily. “Is there any word at all about Hindle?”

“No,”

“Or the actor, King?”

“No.”

“How’s his wife?” asked Rollison.

“She’s still under sedation,” answered Grice. “She came round once, and said she didn’t know where her husband was, she hadn’t seen him for two days. The baby is perfectly normal in every way according to the doctors and nurses,” he went on with a faint smile. “We still haven’t a line on King, although we’re keeping a teletype machine and five telephones open for com-munication with the newspapers, who are being inun-dated with calls from people saying they’ve seen him in a hundred different places at the same time. One or two are from people who’ve known him in the theatre or socially, and we’re following these up, of course.”

“Yes,” Rollison said, heavily.

“What’s on your mind?” asked Grice, and when Rollison didn’t answer immediately he went on: “Do you think they killed him once they knew the switch of individuals couldn’t work? So that he wouldn’t be able to talk, I mean.”

“It’s possible,” Rollison admitted.

“It’s everything I would have called melodramatic nonsense,” said Grice. “More American than British.”

“After the Kray brothers and the Great Train Robbery I don’t see how we can say that,” objected Rollison.

“Is there anything else at all you can tell me?” asked Grice, tacitly accepting defeat on that

“Nothing, but Bill Ebbutt telephoned in a mysterious mood, wanting me to go and see him,” Rollison told the Yard man. “One of his chaps might have picked something up. I’m going over to find out.”

“It’s a waste of time saying ‘be careful’,” Grice sighed, standing up slowly.

“It’s probably not even possible in this affair,” replied Rollison.

He saw Grice out, then went back to the big room to find Tommy G. Loman coming from the passage which led to his room, a savage look on his face. Rollison thought for a moment that he was annoyed because Grice had not seen him, but the tall man said in a voice cold with anger :

“I called Pam’s father, and can you imagine what he said?”

“What did he say?”

“He said if I go anywhere near his daughter he’ll horsewhip me.”

Rollison, smiling faintly, said: “I would like to see him try,” and rested a hand on the bony shoulder. “It’s bad enough as it is, I know, and worse because you can do nothing. All the same, I would prefer you to stay here. You might hear from a newspaper which really has a clue where we can find King”

Scowling, Tommy said: “You want to know some-thing, Toff ? I’m not staying in this apartment for ever.”

Rollison gave a mock shudder and said: “Heaven forbid!”

Tommy was actually laughing when Rollison went out.

Police and a few newspapermen were still in the street, and the windswept rain brought a faint odour of burning from the house which had been destroyed. A small fire tender and some firemen were outside the house. Rollison evaded the newspapermen but not the police, and went to the mews garage where the battered Bristol had been taken after the fire. The engine started at a touch, and he drove to Piccadilly and then through the heart of London to the East End. The heavy rain and gusty wind made driving unpleasant. He kept a police car in view in his driving mirror, and had no doubt that policemen along the route were on the alert ‘for him and would report his progress to the Yard’s Information Room. Once through the narrow streets of the City, past the great banking houses and the insurance companies, the Bank of England and the Stock Exchange, he drove through surprisingly light traffic through Aldgate and then the Mile End Road.

The police car kept close behind.

Policemen waved him on.

Soon he was in a section of old London’s dockland, where narrow streets of tiny houses without gardens looked drab as well as dank. At last he turned a corner where there was a big Victorian public house, The Blue Dog; an inn sign with a blue greyhound on it swung and groaned in the wind. He pulled round the corner, to a wooden building standing back from the road, emblazoned:

EBBUTT'S GYMNASIUM

Here, over the years, Bill Ebbutt had trained some of the best boxers of the British ring.

A little man with his coat collar turned up against the rain came hurrying towards Rollison, peaked cloth cap sodden.

“In the pub, Mr. Ar!” he called, and led the way to the backyard of the Blue Dog where huge barrels and stacks of beer bottle crates made a kind of maze. The back door opened as they appeared and Ebbutt stood beaming at his visitor, then gripped his hand.