John Creasey: The Toff and the Fallen Angels

Several faces lit up.

“And I think the end may come when the criminals make one final tremendous effort to force you out of here,” Rollison went on. “If you go, you’ll be playing into their hands, if you stay you may be in very grave danger indeed.”

When he stopped, no-one spoke until Naomi asked in a very quiet voice

“What do you advise, Mr. Rollison?”

“I can’t advise anything,” said Rollison. “I hope you’ll stay. If I’m right and it’s all over by tomorrow—”

“We still have our marching orders from Slatter,” Anne remarked. “We can’t win.”

“If it’s over by tomorrow,” said Rollison, quietly, “I think there’s an even chance that Sir Douglas will change his mind.”

“You mean there would have been if Anne hadn’t thrown that brick,” said the African girl, simply, and without bitterness. “You can’t seriously believe that Sir Douglas would relent after that.”

“I seriously believe it,” Rollison assured her.

“I think we all ought to make preparations to leave,” Anne said. “I—” She broke off as a bell rang sharp and dear, and suddenly her expression changed. Something like near-despair touched her. “I have to anyhow. That will be the police. This is arrest by appointment,” she went on. “They said they would come for me at half-past nine.”

Judy was staring at her helplessly.

“I have to go, too,” said Rollison. “I’ll come down with you.” Anne stood up, so tall and slim and strangely lonely and forlorn. “And I’m absolutely serious,” he said to the others. “I think tomorrow may be the last day.”

No-one spoke as he went out. Naomi jumped up, but he waved her back to her chair, and opened the door for Anne. There was a knock and a ring. He went ahead and opened the door cautiously, but this was no trick; there were three police officers in the porch, and the one in the middle was Adams.

“Miss Anne Miller?” he asked formally.

“Anne,” said Rollison, “if you need help, you have only to ask me.”

He heard Naomi hurrying down the stairs, obviously to offer what comfort she could. He nodded to the policemen and left the house.

There was no way of being sure the girls would stay on, but he believed they would. And if they did, and he was right in his supposition that tomorrow would see the whole hideous affair cleared up, then tomorrow would hold for them their greatest danger yet.

And he would have brought it upon them . . .

Two policemen watched him go.

Two policemen, obviously by coincidence, were standing outside Aldgate East Underground Station when he pulled up some distance away, and they were looking about them as if idly, but with particular interest at Gwendoline Fell, who stood by the side of her motor-scooter which was parked right outside the station. She looked questioningly at the policemen, then glanced round in Rollison’s direction. Her eyes lit up. The policemen, too, glanced at Rollison as Gwendoline went hurrying towards him, eager now as if to a lover. Rollison took both her hands.

“I was half afraid you wouldn’t get here,” she said, gripping tightly. “Are you all right?” She searched his face. “Don’t look so innocent!” she cried. “You were nearly blown-up, weren’t you?”

“That story’s got around, has it?” Rollison said, and laughed. “Yes, I survived. I’m afraid the car I’m now using isn’t big enough to put your motor-scooter in the boot.”

“I’ll leave it here,” she said, and they turned and walked back to Jolly’s battered Austin. She appeared not to notice its age and condition. “You’re going to get a front page headline in The Globe, and probably in other papers, too.”

“I don’t deserve it,” Rollison said. “Will it also be connected with Slatter?”

“Yes.”

“I hope to heaven I’ve done the right thing.”

“Let me be the judge of that,” said Gwendoline primly. “Off the record.”

He told her what he expected and had asked, and added as he drove along Commercial Road:

“The police are already watching Smith Hall in strength, but they will probably be recognised, and I want some strong-arm men who won’t be. Have you ever heard of the Blue Dog?”

“In Wapping? Or is it Whitechapel?”

“Whitechapel,” Rollison said. “So you’ve heard of it.” He turned two corners, and on the next was a public house, the woodwork painted bright blue, and the inn-sign yellow with a blue-painted mongrel. Several people went in and two came out as they passed. Rollison turned this corner, and on the left was a big wooden building, over the front of which ran the legend: Ebbutt’s Gym. Some elderly men and a few youths stood about, the youths sparring. Rollison pulled up near the entrance, and a man called :

“Lumme ! It’s Mr. Ar!”

“Where’s Bill?” called Rollison.

“In the pub, Mr. Ar!”

Rollison was giving Gwendoline Fell a hand.

“Ask him if he can spare me a few minutes here,” said Rollison.

“Sure will, Mr. Ar!” The man, small and with a nutcracker face, hurried towards the back of the Blue Dog. The youths stopped sparring, and stared with great interest at the Toff and his companion. The door of the gymnasium was open and the sound of leather on leather came clearly. Rollison pushed aside a canvas flap, remarking for all to hear :

“I’m bringing in a lady.”

“S’okay,” said another, smaller man in a white polo-necked sweater. “Always welcome, Mr. Ar, with or without!” He beamed welcome at Gwendoline with a grin stretching from cauliflower ear to cauliflower ear.

The gymnasium was much bigger than it looked from outside. There were two boxing rings, both occupied by youngsters, half-a-dozen men gathered around each. The walls were fitted with parallel bars, there were vaulting horses and punch balls, everything, in fact, needed for training in a modern gymnasium. Over in one corner was a small office, partitioned off. In another was a door marked “Showers’. The doorkeeper hovered near as Rollison explained.

“Bill Ebbutt, who owns this and runs the pub next door, used to be a heavyweight,” Rollison began.

“And a bloody good un, too,” interpolated the doorman. “And he trains promising youngsters for nothing or next-to-nothing,” said Rollison.

“Picks the good uns, too,” whispered the doorman. “And a lot of old professionals come in and help with the training. It’s really a kind of club.”

“And a good un, too,” repeated the doorman. Then his voice rose : “Here’s Bill,” he announced with obvious pride, and waved a hand in greeting as Bill Ebbutt came in.

Ebbutt was huge, bald-headed, treble-chinned and wheezy of breath. He wore an enormous polo-necked sweater of a heather-mixture wool; knitting it must have been a year’s labour of love. So big was his jowl and so comparatively small his head that he looked rather like one pear reared upon another. His eyes, deeply buried, were a bright, periwinkle blue.

“Cor lumme, Mr. Ar, you’re a sight for sore eyes.” He engulfed Rollison’s hand. “Glad to see you, always will be, who’s your lady friend?” He towered above Gwendoline, who looked up at him with barely-concealed amazement.

“Miss Gwendoline Fell,” said Rollison.

“Glad to meetcha, Miss Fell, any friend of Mr. Rollison’s—” he extended a vast hand, but before he took Gwendoline’s a change came over his expression, and almost in a whisper, he said: Not the bitch who writes in The Globe?” He raised both hands in an onslaught of horror. “I never ought to ‘ave said that, I’m sorry, I . . .”

“Very well put, Mr. Ebbutt,” said Gwendoline calmly. “That’s what at least half a million readers think of me.” She beamed up at him. “I don’t mind what I say about them, so why should I mind what they say about me?”