John Creasey: The Toff and the Fallen Angels

“Gawd!”

Yet another gave a choking scream.

Rollison unlocked and unchained the door in three swift movements. On the landing two men were reeling, and another was sprawling halfway down the stairs. The one with the dynamite was backing away, a hazy figure through the gas. Rollison closed his eyes and mouth, nipped his nostrils, and rushed downwards. When he opened his eyes again the man hurled the dynamite at him, then turned and rushed down the second flight of stairs. Rollison simply levelled the gun and the pellet hit the stairs and burst in front of the escaping man.

On the next landing was yet another assailant.

And in his hand was a sledge hammer.

He raised it, to throw, alarm showing in his eyes. Rollison ducked. The hammer flew over his head and crashed against the wall. Instead of using the pistol, which contained two more pellets, Rollison hurled himself at the man, both fists clenched; he had never struck a chin with greater force, and the man simply toppled backwards and slid, head-first, down the next flight of stairs.

At this point the door of one of the flats opened, and an elderly tenant demanded in a deep and authoritative voice :

“What the devil is going on here?”

“Call the police,” Rollison said, over his shoulder.

Then the front door burst open and half-a-dozen men rushed in, enough to have struck terror even into the Toff but for the sight of Bill Ebbutt, leading the way. In Bill’s hand was an old-fashioned black leather cosh, once regarded as a deadly weapon but a toy compared with knuckle-dusters, bicycle chains, iron bars and flick knives. The elderly neighbour withdrew hastily and slammed his door. One of the fallen men crawled to his feet, then backed against the wall, his hands raised.

“Any of your boys at the back?” asked Rollison.

Ebbutt looked up, mouth wide open.

“Gorblimey, Mr. Ar, I thought you was a goner. You okay?” The broadest of grins nearly split his face in two. “I don’t need any telling. I should have known. Strewth, Mr. Ar—”

“Are any of your chaps at the back?” interrupted Rollison with greater urgency.

“Six,” answered Ebbutt. “I should’ve known you—” He broke off and lunged past Rollison, who turned round in alarm, but it was only one of the men whom he had gassed, coming down the stairs a step at a time, tears streaming from his eyes. Behind him came Angela, a handkerchief over her nose and mouth, her eyes tear-filled. She stopped halfway down the stairs at the sight of Ebbutt, who touched his forehead and said smartly : “Good morning, Miss. I—strewth. It’s Miss Angela, I didn’t recognise you for a moment.” He pushed forward and gripped Angela’s hand—and as he pumped her arm up and down, Jolly appeared, and asked in a voice hoarsened by the tear gas :

“Is everything satisfactory here, sir?”

“Yes, Jolly,” Rollison said. “What about the back?”

“The situation is quite under control,” Jolly assured him. “We need the telephone repaired of course, but apart from that all is well. Good morning, Mr. Ebbutt.”

“Hallo, Jolly me old cock,” wheezed Ebbutt, squeezing Jolly’s hand in turn. “I might have guessed. Mr. Ar had torn a strip off them before we got here. Came the minute we learned—” He broke off, as the others stared at Rollison and Rollison looked as if he was appalled. “What’s up, Mr. Ar? What’s the matter?”

“You were to have been at Smith Hall,” Rollison said in a hoarse voice. “Those girls—”

“Oh, don’t you worry about those little angels,” said Ebbutt, bluffly. “Old Bill Grice isn’t so bad when you get used to him. There was a demolition charge under the house, all set to go off at seven ack emma, but Grice had the place combed. Found the charge underneath the kitchen, the whole place would have been wrecked, Gawd knows what we could have done to help the little loves. But it’s okay. Caught a couple of chaps, too. They say it was done by Guy Slatter or whatever his name is. Was, I mean. But one of them had a sledge hammer in his sack, and the hammer was the one used to crown Guy. Grice will sew it all up now, Mr. Ar, don’t you worry.”

“What brought you here?” asked Rollison.

“Well as a matter of fact, Mr. Ar, we caught one of the slickers when he was sneaking away.” Ebbutt raised and clenched his first, and it looked like a small ham. “I persuaded him to talk a bit, and he said they was going to blow your place up. Said something about you finding out who was behind it and they were going to shut your trap. Mr. Grice and the cops were busy, so we got a move on here. But I should’ve known,” he went on with that enormous grin. “You didn’t need us.”

“I never needed you so much,” said Rollison. He gripped Bill Ebbutt’s shoulder for what seemed a long time, and then turned to Angela. “Why don’t you stay and help Jolly clear up?” he suggested. “I’ve got to see Grice but I don’t think you’ll find it very interesting.”

“Roily,” said Angela, in a small voice, “I don’t want to be a detective any more. But you—you were wonderful. You—” She stood on tiptoe and kissed him. “You really were!”

“What I don’t understand,” said Grice, half-an-hour later, “is why you were so sure there was to be an attack on Smith Hall.”

“I didn’t see how it could be avoided,” Rollison replied. He was standing in the cellar of the house, where the charge of dynamite had been discovered. “Savage murders galore, and millions obviously at stake. They had done their absolute damnedest to get everyone out of the house, and they weren’t going to stop at anything. When they had reason to believe that Slatter would relent, they had to make a final grand slam, and we knew life didn’t mean anything to them—other people’s, that is. I didn’t know what they would do but I was sure it would be something disastrous and final.”

Grice, looking saturnine in the dimly-lit cellar, nodded for him to continue.

“It was pretty clear that they would need a scapegoat, a man who would take the blame,” Rollison went on. “Guy Slatter was the obvious one. He had been involved: he may or may not have committed the murders, but they could certainly be traced to him.”

“And what motive could he have?” asked Grice. “It would have to be a big one, to be convincing.”

“Oh, that was simple enough,” said Rollison. “He was the heir to Sir Douglas Slatter, who was holding out on the sale of this house and the one next door. Bensoni and Tilford had bought every other piece of property on this block. Once they had the lot, they could sell it for millions—but Sir Douglas had enough millions and didn’t want any more.”

“Very interesting,” said Grice. “But if Guy were going to inherit his uncle’s millions anyway, why should he help Bensoni and Tilford—or whoever was involved?”

“Sir Douglas had strong views about young people who had children without first getting married,” answered Rollison. “Guy’s view was far less rigid—so much so that the evidence of it could have caused his uncle to leave his money elsewhere. One of Guy’s girls was Winifred de Vaux, and I don’t doubt she’d told Webberson. I can only guess that Webberson tried to make Guy influence his uncle. I imagine that was how Webberson and gentle Dr. Brown became involved, and thus, a danger to Guy, who feared disinheritance if the truth came out. Remember how Naomi Smith was so sure their troubles were over—before the murders. Keith may well have told her he could and would bring pressure to bear on Sir Douglas Slatter.”

“Yes,” agreed Grice, hesitantly. “Yes, I suppose it all fits in. You can fill in gaps with your imagination which I can’t fill in without evidence. But there is one piece of evidence which you’ll find very interesting.”