John Creasey - The Toff And The Stolen Tresses

Rollison said bitterly: “Does he protect them from the police, too?”

Grice didn’t answer.

Rollison put his foot down and the speedometer needle touched eighty along the bypass. Grice stared grimly ahead. As they neared Richmond Park, Rollison slowed down.

“Sorry if I’m rough,” he said. “I blame myself for what happened to Jolly, and it’s hard to take.”

“Don’t I know?” Grice asked. “We’ve been after Wallis for months. Every job he does seems my fault.”

A grin forced Rollison’s lips apart.

“If we can’t stop him between us, we ought to retire. Bill.” The last word was a sharp interrogation.

“Yes.”

“Suspect the Jepsons?”

“I’ve only one reason to.”

“What’s that?”

“Some of Wallis’s victims are indirectly associated with Jepsons.”

“The family or the business?”

“The business.”

“Any idea why their place was attacked last night?”

“I hoped you’d know,” Grice said.

“I think Ada does, but she hasn’t talked, and she isn’t friendly with me any more.” Rollison was trying to get himself into a less savage mood. “Check her, Bill, and check her brother Reginald, who decided to give himself a holiday in Ibiza. That’s about as difficult a place to get to as he could find.”

“Think he knew this was coming?”

“I think he might.”

“Get anything out of the man Jones?” Grice asked abruptly.

“No. There’s a thing I’d like to know more about, all the people who’ve been victimised, Bill. What’s the link?”

“Association with Jepsons or customers of Jepsons,” Grice said, “but as one person in four seems to fit that bill, it doesn’t get us anywhere. The victims won’t talk, I’ve tried each one myself.”

“I can try, too,” Rollison said dryly.

They were at the top of Putney High Street, a quarter of an hour’s drive away from Scotland Yard. It was warm enough to drive with both windows down, and Rollison felt sticky round the neck. A big lorry loomed up in the mirror behind him, and there was a small car in front of him, the driver of which seemed to be nervous; his brake light kept going on and off. Rollison changed gear on the steep hill, and the lorry loomed closer behind them, its driver pulling out to pass.

Rollison saw the red light of the little car in front of him go on again as if the driver had jumped on his brakes. Rollison braked sharply, glanced in the mirror, and felt his heart beat violently in fear.

The lorry was just behind him, getting nearer and there was no driver at the wheel. It was out of control, and Rollison couldn’t go fast enough to avoid it because of the little car in front.

Grice began: “What the devil?” Then turned round, and gasped: “My God!”

“Jump for it,” Rollison said with fierce urgency. “Open that door and jump for it.”

He turned his wheel sharply, to pull out beyond the little car. In a split second he could be sandwiched between it and the lorry, and this car could be crushed like a concertina.

There was just room to squeeze through. The little car turned out, and baulked him.

Grice drew in a sharp, hissing voice.

“All right,” Rollison said, tautly. “Hold tight, we’ll have to let it hit us.” The front of the lorry was no more than a yard behind, and the driving wheel without its driver seemed to mock at him.

Then another car drew alongside the lorry, and a man actually stood by the open door.

It was Grice’s car.

A Yard man was clinging to the door, one arm and hand outstretched and one hand groping for the cabin window of the lorry. If he could get into the cabin and at the brake he might save them from disaster. Below Rollison was the crowded High Street, twenty or thirty cars drawn up at the nearest red stop light, and if he and the lorry crashed into them, there would be death and maiming and horror.

They were only a hundred yards away.

The Yard man leapt.

Rollison thought: “He’s missed!”

But the man clung to the open cabin’s window, then leaned forward and reached for the brake. Praise his cold courage.

The lorry began to jolt to a standstill.

“All right,” Rollison said to Grice, who couldn’t see in the mirror and was twisting round in his seat. “A George Medal for that chap, and I hope you promote him, too.” He saw the lorry falling away behind him as the red light changed to green. The little car which had baulked him suddenly shot forward, and merged with the traffic, but was being stopped by a policeman. The driver was probably old or very young. Rollison pulled into the kerb, then took out his handkerchief and dabbed his cold, damp forehead.

“They mean it, don’t they?”

“I’ll find out who’s behind Wallis if we have to put every man in the C.I.D. on the job,” Grice said savagely. “I’ve never had the wind up so badly.”

“Me too.” Rollison opened the driving door, watching the wing mirror carefully; it had suddenly become essential to behave as if everyone else on the road was mad. “I want a word with that hero, and I’d like to know what happened to the driver.” He got out, and saw the lorry drawn up, the other police car just in front of it. A crowd gathered, and a little woman was standing on tip-toe and patting the Yard hero on the back. The man looked flushed, flustered and embarrassed.

Then Rollison saw the side of the lorry.

JEPSONS

it read:

Everything for the Needs of

the People

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A Job For Ebbutt

“That may be the van which nearly ran into you before,” Grice suggested. “I’ll contact Jepsons, and find out all I can.” He was still shaken, but pushed through the crowd to the Yard man who’d jumped and said:

“Coolest job I’ve ever seen, Morris. Thank you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Morris was tall, lean, youthful-looking, and smiling nervously.

“He ought to have the George Medal, at once,” breathed a woman standing by.

Rollison shook Morris’s hand.

“We’re going to fix it somehow,” he said. “When did you see that the driver had vanished?”

“Well, sir, I saw him get out of the cabin and climb into the back of the lorry itself—there are glass doors, you can see right through. There’s a hole at the back of the cabin, too. He just hurried to the tail board, swung himself over, dropped down and ran. Must have done it plenty of times before, he was like India rubber. We had to go after him or else try and stop that lorry, and we thought we ought to have a cut at the lorry.”

We!

“If that lorry had crashed goodness knows how many would have been killed and injured,” the woman said.

Two uniformed police came hurrying.

“Ah,” said Grice, and smiled at the woman. “I wonder if you will make a report and any recommendation you feel wise to one of these officers. Thank you, madam. Morris, get to your radio, will you, and ask Information to flash a call to Division to find out from Jepsons which of their vans is out and unaccounted for. Did you get a good look at the lorry driver?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Give his description and put out a call for him. Then go straight to the Yard, and wait for me. Tell whoever is on duty that I don’t want you out on patrol until I’ve seen you. If you feel a bit shaky, get yourself a nip. Right! I’ll be seeing you.”

Grice’s crispness and control of the situation worked wonders. The woman began to talk to the uniformed men. The driver of the little car was elderly, in fact, had obviously not realized what had happened. He was allowed to go on, while Morris and his driver went back to Grice’s own car.

“We’d better get on,” Grice said to Rollison. They got back into the car, and started off. “That lorry which nearly caught you the other day was dark green, too. Could be that Wallis has a Jepson lorry at his disposal,” Grice said. “I know, I know. It could have been stolen. Anyhow, it’s time I saw Miss Jepson myself.”