John Creasey - The Toff And The Stolen Tresses

“I’m—I’m Mrs. Wallis.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Wallis,” said Rollison politely. “When is Mr. Wallis likely to be in?”

“He might come in any time, and if he finds you here—” she broke off, still breathing hard, still frightened; but there was a changing look in her eyes. Rollison had often seen a look like it in a woman who had started off by wanting to cut his throat. She was just beginning to forget that he was Richard Rollison, the Toff, and beginning to realise that he was breathtakingly handsome, and had a way with him. “He’ll kill you,” she finished abruptly.

“And that wouldn’t do,” murmured Rollison, and offered her a cigarette. “Sure you don’t know what time he’ll be in?”

She answered almost at once.

“It won’t be later than seven, he always likes the news on the telly.”

“What about Clay?”

“He won’t be back till late,” she said. “He’s gone down to Guildford to see a pal.”

“I’ll find out who he’s beaten up in the morning,” said Rollison dryly. “So Tiny’s the only one to worry about for a while. Anyone else home?”

She shook her head.

“Clay not married?”

“No.”

“Just a friend?”

“He’s my brother.”

“Oh, is he?” said Rollison, more heavily, although he was still smiling. “You really had bad luck. With a brother like that you had to marry a man as bad if not worse. Why do you stand for it?”

She made no attempt to answer.

“Don’t try to tell me you like it,” said Rollison, and took a large envelope from his pocket and opened the flap. “Some women might but I don’t think you’re one of them. Seen these?” He handed her three police photographs of Jimmy Jones, when he had first been seen by the police and before the ambulance had taken him away. “Nice way for your husband to earn a living.”

“It’s none of my business!”

“It’s all your business,” Rollison said softly, “and if you go on shutting your eyes to it, one of these days you’ll find yourself in trouble, because someone will get their own back, and they won’t stop at Tiny. What’s your name?”

She was surprised into answering:

“Stella.”

“Stella,” echoed Rollison, “I’ve stopped reading the Riot Act, and I’m going to have a look round. You can come with me, or I can lock you in a cupboard or tie you up. Take your choice.”

Anger flared in her eyes.

“If you touch anything here, you’ll be crazy! I tell you you don’t know Tiny, he’s strong enough to break you into little pieces.”

Rollison chuckled.

“I can believe it, but I don’t think he will. Tiny is on the way out, Stella, although he probably doesn’t realise it yet. What’s it going to be?”

He didn’t try to rush her. There was plenty of time; even if Wallis came home unexpectedly early, there was time enough.

“You’d better lock me up,” she said at last. “All right, wise Stella,” said Rollison, and grinned. “Which cupboard would you like?” She was bewildered; then unexpectedly she laughed.

“I’ve often heard about you,” she said. “I’m beginning to understand what people mean. The larder’s the best place, there’s a ventilator, and it’s quite big.” She turned towards the kitchen, then stopped abruptly, so that he banged against her. She twisted round, taking his hand, and pressed against him. “Listen to me,” she said urgently. “You’re asking for the worst trouble you’ve ever had. You don’t know how strong Tiny is. When he knows you’ve put a hand on me, he’ll go raving mad. He’s so jealous he’s crazy.”

“Then we mustn’t let him know what we’ve been to each other,” murmured Rollison. “How long have you been married to him?”

“Fifteen years.”

“Enjoyed it?”

She said sharply: “I can’t just think about myself, I’ve got the kids to think about.”

“Kids?”

“We’re human, aren’t we?” Stella Wallis flashed. “We go to bed like anybody else.”

“Boys or girls?”

“One of each.”

“Where are they now?”

“At school,” she said, “they’ll be late home tonight, they’re going to sports practice. They’re my first responsibility.” She led the way across a kitchen which was as spick and span as the kitchen at Gresham Terrace. There was a large refrigerator, the motor humming softly, a stainless steel sink unit, everything a modern kitchen could have. “Besides,” she added, “he’s not mean.”

She opened the door of the larder herself. Rollison looked round in the kitchen and found several yale keys in a drawer. The back door had a yale lock. He tried three keys, found two which fitted, and slipped one into his pocket. Then he went into the front room. He wasn’t surprised to find a kind of Victorian parlour, a faint smell of furniture polish, a mahogany sideboard, and several sepia portraits on the wall. He drew a blank there, and tried a small room next to it. Here was a kind of living room, with a television in one corner, comfortable armchairs, one wall fitted with shelves and loaded with books, mostly war stories, records of the ring, and tales of adventure—and with them a few romances by well-known authors. Dream world for two. Tiny Wallis could escape into a world of vicarious excitements and tales of epic courage and great physical strength and endurance; his wife, into the romance which might have been. In a corner opposite the television was a writing bureau. Rollison found it locked, and took a pen knife out of his pocket; it had one blade of which the police strongly disapproved, for it was a skeleton key. In less than a minute he forced the lock of the writing bureau, and pulled down the top, ready for writing. Inside were opened letters, notepaper, envelopes, everything one would expect to find in neat array.

There was also a cash box, which was locked.

There were a few newspaper cuttings.

And there was a little pile of leaflets like those which had been at Donny’s cashier’s cubicle, announcing the Most Beautiful Hair Competition.

“Well, well,” murmured Rollison, and stared at these for several seconds, then put one more into his pocket, left the others, and completed his search. He found nothing else here except a kind of day book—a large diary with a page for every day. He glanced through this, and his interest quickened, for in it were the names and addresses of people who had been visited by Wallis and Clay.

There was a note dated a week ago, reading: Villiers Street, J. Jones.

Villiers Street?

There was no more recent entry, and Rollison closed the book, glanced through the letters which told him nothing new, then went to the front door and listened. A motor-cycle was outside, its engine beating as if in great haste, but it moved off and the sound gradually faded. Someone walked past, and children were laughing; of course, the youngsters were out of school by now.

Had Stella Wallis told the truth about her two?

Rollison went upstairs.

He found a wall safe hidden behind a picture over the big bed in a double room which faced the street. He made no attempt to force this, but glanced out of the window. A little knot of people was standing and talking and looking this way. That prodded him into searching the room quickly. He found nothing else to help him, but when he opened a long wardrobe which occupied the whole of one wall, he saw a short mink coat, a thousand pounds worth of fur even on a thieves’ market.

Wallis certainly wasn’t mean with money; and obviously he had plenty.

There were two nicely-furnished smaller rooms, obviously the children’s, and a third bedroom: Mick Clay’s. Here the furniture was as good as that in any of the rooms. The decoration was too: but Rollison could not fail to see the difference here compared with the rest of the house. Clay was untidy, he left his clothes in a heap, there were the marks of cigarette burns on the mantelpiece and on two chairs. There was an impression that Mrs. Wallis had given up trying in here; had just closed the door and left her brother to get on with it.