John Creasey - The Toff And The Stolen Tresses

Wallis and the others seemed paralysed.

Rollison snatched his right arm free from one man and swung round to strike the other as the second man’s grip slackened and fell away. But out of the corner of his eye Rollison saw the blade of his own knife glint as it was driven towards him.

Then Wallis swung round.

“Don’t do that!” he roared, and leapt at the man with the knife. Rollison felt the prick of the needle point, then a slight scratch as Wallis pushed his man’s arm downwards. Then Wallis struck at him, caught him on the side of the head, and sent him staggering. The other man, still behind Rollison, tripped him up.

The hammering on the door was still loud, the woman looked frightened out of her wits.

A crash above them shook the ceiling.

The woman gasped: “They’ve smashed the door down.”

Rollison kept very still, watching Wallis and the others, who had knives and guns and who could still kill; judging from their expressions wanted to. But footsteps were now loud above their heads, and a man said:

“Here’s the cellar. Rollison! You there?”

“There are three armed men down here!” Rollison cried.

Wallis had his left hand in his pocket, undoubtedly holding the gun. Would hatred conquer reason? Any crime committed now would be the easiest thing to prove.

He took the gun out and tossed it at Rollison, and it struck sparks off the cement floor.

“Drop those knives,” he ordered his men, and slapped the woman roughly on the bottom. “Shut your trap. We’ve got every right to be here, they can’t pin anything onto us.” He shot a sneering sideways glance at Rollison. “It’s only his word against ours, one against the four of us, and we didn’t bring him here, he came of his own accord. So shut your trap.”

Then two Divisional men came in sight, one carrying a policeman’s truncheon, the other unarmed.

In a moment, handcuffs clicked.

* * *

Rollison felt as if he had been through an earthquake; but there was a kind of exhilaration about the feeling. He didn’t yet know what had brought the police, but he I would soon, because he was on his way to see

Grice. He had made a statement to the Divisional men, and kept it factual: Wallis and the others were on the way to the Divisional police station and the cells.

Rollison was driving through the nearly deserted city. It was a little after half past six, and the main crowds had gone, but he noticed nothing except the traffic ahead. He had been close to death and closer to maiming, and the exhilaration was due to the simple fact that he was alive.

So was Jolly; Grice had told him so by telephone at Divisional H.Q.

So was Rickett: Ebbutt’s men had covered Rickett’s shop.

Rollison thought over everything that had happened, trying to assess its significance, to see anything he had missed. He wasn’t finding it easy. Wallis had almost certainly been trying to mislead him with the talk about Ada. Had that quick smile been deliberate?

Ada?

It was impossible!

Wasn’t it?

If not Ada, then Reggie.

Where was Reggie Jepson? How true was the story that he had gone to Ibiza?

What was it all about?

There were other questions, some of little importance and some vital; perhaps the most vital was to decide how much to tell the police.

Rollison drove past St. Paul’s without glancing up at it, turned down towards Blackfriars Bridge, then right along the Embankment; and every light was green for him. Good omen? He put his foot down, and exceeded the thirty mile limit by at least fifteen; the road was almost empty. He saw the traffic lights at Horseguards Avenue turn red, and slowed down; this would break the succession of greens. He shrugged, then saw something else: a sky-blue T-Model Ford which was drawn up on the side of the road a little way past the traffic lights. It was Ebbutt’s antique.

Ebbutt was standing by the side of the car and peering anxiously towards the cars drawn up by the lights. Rollison pulled over, and stopped just in front of the Model-T. Ebbutt’s face lit up, and he came striding forward, massive and powerful, his great paunch steady.

“Hallo, Bill.”

“Thank Gawd I found you,” Ebbutt said. “Thought you was bahnd to come this way if you was going to see old Gricey. Proper sense of ‘tuition, I ‘ave. That true they’ve picked up Wallis?”

“Yes.”

“You laid a charge?” Ebbutt demanded.

“No. The police have charged him with uttering threats and menaces. I haven’t weighed in yet.”

“Mr. Ar,” said Ebbutt, earnestly, “I don’t want to interfere no more’n I must, and you know how much I want to see the perisher in clink. If I “ad my way I’d see ‘im strung up. But I’ve been thinking a lot abaht this job, and I know Wallis. You’ve got to admit ‘e’s tough. Even if me and a dozen of the boys set on ‘im, I dunno if ‘e’d talk. I’m darn sure that he won’t talk to the police. The important thing is to find aht who’s behind him, Mr. Ar, you agree about that?”

Rollison studied the ugly, earnest features, and the narrowed almost pleading eyes; seeing behind them the smooth Thames bright in the evening sunlight. Not far away was the outline of the buildings of Scotland Yard.

“You do agree, doncher?” Ebbutt insisted. “Go on, Bill,” said Rollison.

“Well, there’s a lot to be said for putting Wallis away, and if you could be sure ‘e’d stay away for a few years that’d be okay. But can you? The buzz has gone rahnd that you attacked ‘im.”

“If the police haven’t anything else against him, they can’t make this one stick,” Rollison agreed.

“That’s wot’s going the rahnds,” said Ebbutt, and it made the Toff marvel that news could spread so quickly throughout the East End. “Well, wot I say is, if you managed to get ‘im sent down for a few weeks, that’s the most that would ‘appen, and when he come out he’d be worse than ever. What I think is that we don’t want to take any chances, we want to put ‘im away for good. And you’ve got to find aht who’s behind him, because there are a lot of ovver brutes nearly as bad as Wallis.”

“The Divisional police wouldn’t tell me much, but Grice will,” said Rollison. “I’ll soon know if they’ve anything else to use against Wallis. If they haven’t, we won’t have any say in it: he’ll be freed. They might have him up before the court if I lay a charge, they might even get an eight-day remand, but that’s the most. Grice might want to get that, too; he could dig a lot in eight days.”

“And anyone who squealed while Wallis was on remand would wish they’d been born dumb,” Ebbutt said, putting a great hand on Rollison’s arm. “I don’t want to persuade you, Mr. Ar, but now this thing’s gone so far, it would be better to try and get right to the bottom of it. Wallis won’t grass, you know that, but he might not feel so good now he’s on the run, and might lead you where you want to go. That’s the way I see it.”

Rollison said slowly: “You could be right, Bill. Anything else new?”

“No.”

“Any word gone round that Bishopps of Penn Street are concerned in this?”

Ebbutt looked astonished. “No, Mr. Ar, not a whisper. You sure abaht that?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but went on thoughtfully: “They’re big people, Bishopps are, biggest wholesalers anywhere near, got a very big business. But you know about Bishopps, don’t you?”

“Tell me, Bill.”

“Dunno’ that I’m exactly a business man,” Ebbutt said, shrugging those great shoulders, “but I get arhand, and I keep my ears to the ground. Old Bishopp’s been retired over a year, now, ‘is son’s still officially the boss, but Bishopps belongs to Jepsons. They bought it—that’s if rumour’s right, Mr. Ar.”