John Creasey: The Toff And The Stolen Tresses

Except at Donny’s.

Not far away were London’s docks. Along this very street came lascars and sailors from the four corners of the earth, some drunk, some perverts, some broke, some with money spilling out of their pockets. From the thousands of little houses which rose like mushrooms made of bricks, the stevedores left for their daily work, rough, hardy men whose labour made them dirty and whose wives were often hard put to keep their homes and their families clean. Their only sight of luxury was through a television set and visits to the pictures—except at Donny’s.

It was like stepping out of a coaling barge into a first class liner.

Coming out of a doorway on the right was a little woman with a flushed face, her flowered cotton frock obviously Sunday best, high heeled brown shoes which needed mending, and the look of a poor man’s wife. Her greying hair was a mass of lustrous curls, and a glow in her eyes told of a woman who had realised a dream. She went to a small office with two windows, like a cinema’s cash desk. There a young woman with auburn hair and wearing a pale pink smock sat like a queen.

“Well, ‘ow do I look, dearie?” the flushed-faced woman said.

“You look very nice indeed, Mrs. Taylor,” said the queen behind the desk. “I haven’t seen you looking any better.”

“I will say this,” said the happy-looking woman, “Donny’s boys and girls know their job! Lemme see, two pun fifteen shillings, ain’t it?”

“That’s right, Mrs. Taylor.” The queen spoke like one, too, and contrived to conceal from her customer that she was highly intrigued by the man who had just stepped inside the shop, but had not gone straight into the men’s salon through a door clearly marked: Gentlemen’sCoiffeur. This door like all the doors was painted duck egg blue and gold. The carpet was thick and yielding, and also a pale blue. Around the walls were pictures of film stars with remarkable hair styles, most of them from historical pictures.

The queen handed out five shillings change, smiled sweetly, and said:

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Taylor. You will tell your friends about our special sessions, won’t you, and remind them that you save eight shillings on a permanent wave and one and sixpence on a set if you come between ten and twelve and two-fifteen and four-thirty.”

“You bet I will,” said Mrs. Taylor, and bustled past Rollison.

The girl at the cash desk gave him her sweetest smile.

“Good afternoon, sir.”

“Hallo,” said Rollison, and beamed at her. She looked a little dazzled, as most young women would when the Toff smiled quite like that. “Is Mr. Sampson in?”

“I think he is engaged, sir. The manager of the gentlemen’s department will be very glad to see you, though.”

“I’d like to be done by Mr. Sampson in person,” said Rollison, keeping a straight face. “Ask him if he can fit Mr. Rollison in?”

“Mr. Who, sir?”

“Rollison.”

“R-O-Double-L,” began the girl behaving as if she had never heard of Rollison, which was unusual in this part of Whitechapel and did much to suggest that she had been imported from different climes. Her voice was really pleasant, the refinement not really overdone. She lifted a telephone. “I won’t keep you a moment, sir, if you will please sit down.”

“Thank you,” said Rollison.

He sat in a chair more comfortable than the one at his West End barber’s. By his side was a small table with several magazines, including the Society glossies; every one was the current issue. By the side of these a little journal looked almost pathetically out of place, and because of that he picked it up, and read: The Hair Stylist. He glanced through the poor quality paper at the badly printed heads of women, and came to the back page of the cover, with the announcement of a competition. He read with interest, and into a distant corner of his mind there sank a single fact: that the only condition of entry was that you should have your hair dressed by a member of the Hair Stylists’ Association. That sounded fair enough.

The girl had spoken to at least three people on the telephone, keeping her voice low so that Rollison could not hear her words, and Rollison made no attempt to get nearer. Then he saw her smile, put the receiver down, and lean forward; a pretty thing indeed.

“Mr. Sampson will see you in a very few minutes, Mr. Rollison.”

“Thank you,” said Rollison, very politely.

Donny was as good as his word. He appeared through one of the duck egg blue and gold painted doors, and although he was not really a stranger to Rollison he made a considerable impression. He was dressed in a white smock with a high collar, and the close fitting garment would have served a Spanish dancer, so small was Donny’s waist and so elegant his carriage. Yet it was his face and head which impressed one most. He was less handsome than distinguished, his complexion was perfect, and the years had mellowed his features, so that he no longer looked austere. He had beautiful silvery hair which waved a little as it swept back from his forehead; such a man would have held Michelangelo enthralled.

He smiled, courteously.

“Mr. Rollison, this really is a pleasure. It is over a year since I saw you last.” He held out his right hand.

Rollison took it.

“We mustn’t let that happen again,” he murmured. “I’d like to make a fortune, too.”

“Sufficient for the day,” said Donny, and his amber eyes turned towards Rollison so intently that it was hard to see evil here, or even associate with evil. Those eyes suggested too, that his hair had once been golden coloured; and it was still a lion’s mane. “I find it hard to believe you have come simply for a haircut.”

“I’d like a little chat, and know I need a trim,” said Rollison. “Can you and will you?”

“For you, of course,” said Donny. “This way, please.” He turned and glanced out of the front door, and Rollison did also; and what Rollison saw did nothing to reassure him. He might not have been followed, but plenty of people knew where he was. Across the road were several of the youths whom he had already seen once that day. They just lounged about, obviously interested only in Donny’s.

“Friends of yours?” inquired Rollison.

“Not friends, simply customers,” said Donny with a deprecatory shrug and a wave of his pale hands. “It isn’t always possible to pick and choose one’s customers, and you will admit that the young men’s hair looks well cared for.”

“By Donny’s?”

“I imagine so,” said Donny.

He led the way past a line of six barbers, each busy on a man’s hair, to a small room with only one chair. Here were all the appurtenances of a beauty parlour, and it was reserved for men. Here were the pomades and the lotions, the sprays and the powders, the special waves in the hair of unbeautiful would-be beaus. Round the walls were photographs of masculine heads of hair, all magnificently groomed.

“Please sit down,” said Donny, and when Rollison obeyed, went through the customary ritual. Rollison looked at his own reflection, which was rather like a member of the Klu Klux Klan without a witch’s hat. “I see that you have an excellent barber, and that your hair is naturally so good that you hardly need aids,” Donny observed.

“No aids to waves,” agreed Rollison, and saw the scissors glint and then snap in the man’s white fingers; a surgeon’s fingers. There was Donny’s reflection, too. “Donny.”

“Sir.”

“I didn’t know you were a bad man.”

“Perhaps we don’t mean the same thing by that expression,” the hairdresser said. “I didn’t know that I was, either.”

“And it’s unnecessary for a brilliantly successful man like you.”