John Creasey - The Toff And The Stolen Tresses

Rollison went downstairs again.

He listened at the front and back door, but heard nothing. It wasn’t yet five o’clock. He went into the living-room, and picked up a large book which he’d seen before, but hadn’t looked at. He wasn’t surprised when he saw that it was a press-cuttings book, and that here was a record of the newspaper reports of police court inquiries and accounts of people who had suffered like poor Jimmy Jones.

Then Rollison heard a sound along the passage; a moment later, the front door opened.

He stepped swiftly to the passage door as the shadow of a big man appeared.

The front door closed.

CHAPTER NINE

Bad Man

The closing of the front door was very soft. Rollison felt quite sure that this was Wallis, and that he had been told who was here. The first footsteps were very soft and light, too; furtive and stealthy. Rollison stood close to the wall.

Wallis came in sight.

He was tougher-looking than Rollison remembered; not huge, but massive with a short neck on his broad, thick shoulders. He wasn’t bad-looking, especially side face, but Rollison could see that his nose had been broken years ago. He was staring straight ahead, towards the kitchen door, but would soon look in here.

His right hand was held a little in front of him, and on it the brass of a knuckle duster gleamed dully.

Rollison felt his heart begin to thump.

Wallis took another step forward, and it looked almost as if he was going straight past; hut he didn’t. He spun round towards the living-room door, very quickly for a big man, his right hand raised ready to strike. It was easy believe that one blow from that armoured list would fell the strongest man alive.

Rollison stood quite still.

Wallis said, in a rough but high-pitched voice: “So you’re still here.”

He certainly wasn’t ugly, but there was an animal look about him, a kind of rawness suggesting that he lived by the law of the jungle. It was easy to picture this man as ruthless, heartless, savage; easy to believe that lie could wreck a home built up over half a century with a calculated thoroughness which was entirely free from passion.

He showed his very strong, white teeth in a smile which was also a leer.

“Now I’m going to smash you to pulp,” he said, and showed his other hand; in this he held a shiny black leather cosh, a twin to Rollison’s. I’m going to smash you up so that—”

“Tiny,” Rollison interrupted, “Stella’s a nice girl.”

Wallis stopped in the doorway, eyes narrowing. He had a puzzled look; it would be easy to believe he was very slow thinking.

Was he?

“You leave Stella out of this,” he said. “Where is she?”

“I sent her out on a little errand.”

“I know that’s a lie. Stella wouldn’t do what you told her.”

“She had no choice.”

Wallis said in his slow way: “You’re lying. I’ll look after Stella afterwards.” He raised the cosh. Any moment now he would smash it at Rollison, and if he landed the first blow, that would be the end of this day’s work.

Rollison said: “If you touch me, you can say good-bye to your wife.”

The narrowed eyes were angry now, but they were still puzzled, and the blow didn’t fall. Wallis stood there for at least half a minute, only an inch or two taller than Rollison and only an inch or two broader, with his jaw thrust forward and his mouth set tightly, and the questions in his eyes making a kind of torment.

“You’re crazy,” he said.

Rollison said: “When I’m fighting a wild animal, I fight like a wild animal. I’ve put your wife in a place where no one will find her unless I do. Keep back.”

“Why, if you don’t tell me where—” Wallis began, and did the obvious thing: he smashed with cosh and knuckle duster at Rollison, flinging his whole weight into the blows, sure that he could break resistance and spirit, and compel his victim to tell him where to find his wife. He attacked without any thought of defence, and left himself wide open. Rollison whipped the cosh out of his pocket and struck him across the side of the head.

Wallis gasped, and fell back, as if he had not dreamed there would be danger.

Rollison snatched at his right wrist, gripped, twisted, and almost casually sent Wallis thudding back against the passage wall. Before he had reeled away, Rollison was after him, first snatching Wallis’s cosh away, then holding his right wrist and pulling the knuckle duster off with the other hand. He got it free. It fell to the carpet with a dull sound, and Rollison bent down, picked it up, and backed away.

He tossed the knuckle-duster into one of the easy chairs, and slid the coshes into his own pocket. Then he took out the packet which the Austin driver had given him, opened it, and with all the casualness in the world, revealed a small automatic.

“I wasn’t worried by you on your own,” he said off-handedly, “but I thought I’d better be prepared to welcome your friends. How many are outside?”

Wallis looked sick and hurt and dazed. He was standing upright, but his head was bowed, and his arms hung rather loosely by his side. There was no mark on him, but it was a long time since he had been hurt at all. His fair hair, which looked as if it had been marcel-waved at Donny’s, was too immaculate to be true. He kept blinking, and Rollison doubted whether he heard the question. Rollison moved forward and asked more sharply:

“How many men outside?”

Wallis licked his lips.

“There—there’s no one.”

“Don’t give me that.”

“No one outside,” mumbled Wallis. “Thought I could handle you myself.” He saw the gun. He looked down at his bare right hand, and shrugged, but there was a glint of intelligence in his eyes now. Was he as dull-witted as he appeared to be? Or still suffering from shock? “One day I will,” he added, as if in afterthought.

“I don’t believe you’d come here and tackle me by yourself,” Rollison said. “How many men outside?”

“Why don’t you go and look?” Wallis said that as if it was a brilliant sally.

“All right,” Rollison said. “If you’re lying don’t blame me if you get killed. The police wouldn’t worry if they found your body, I’d probably get a medal for doing it.”

Wallis stared with that dull, puzzled look, as if he didn’t really understand what this was all about.

“Where’s Stella?” he mumbled. “Don’t hurt Stella.”

“She’ll be all right if you do what you’re told,” Rollison said sharply. “Who paid you for the Middleton Street job?”

Wallis echoed: “The Middleton Street job?” as if he hadn’t heard aright.

“That’s what I said.”

Wallis closed his eyes, then cautiously put a hand to his pocket and drew out a handkerchief; it hadn’t been unfolded, and was snow white and perfectly ironed. He dabbed at his lips.

“No one paid me,” he announced at last. “Try telling the truth.”

“No one paid me,” repeated Wallis, and something like a grin twisted his lips. “I did it for love.” He moved so that he could sit down on the arm of a chair, and it would not have surprised Rollison if he had made a dart for the gun. “If you think you can make me talk, you’re crazy.”

“Forgotten your wife?”

“No,” said Wallis, more deliberately, “I haven’t forgotten Stella, but I know all about you. You wouldn’t do anything to a woman.” There was a bravado in his manner now. “You’re too much of a gentleman, that’s what you are. Forget it, Rollison, you won’t get a squeak out of me.”

“Won’t I?” said Rollison, softly.

Not now, or for the next hundred years,” Wallis said. “You might as well save your breath.”

He meant it.