John Creasey: The Toff And The Stolen Tresses

* * *

Rollison spoke quietly into the telephone in the kiosk.

“Ada, answer me one question.”

“I don’t see what good more talking will do,” said Ada.

“I’d like to know why you’ve cooled off the inquiry,” said Rollison, and went on abruptly:

“Have Jepsons bought a controlling interest in Bishopps of Penn Street?”

Jepsons haven’t. Reggie and I bought it under a nominee company.”

“Are you on that company’s board?”

“No,” said Ada.

“Why so shy?”

“If it suits our business to keep our deals quiet for as long as we can, that’s up to us,” Ada said.

“Just business reasons,” Rollison said.

“Yes.”

“Any word from Reggie?”

“No,” Ada said, and rang off.

* * *

Rollison saw the old T-Model Ford chugging its way along the embankment towards Westminster Bridge, as he went up the steps of the Yard. The sergeant on duty was expecting him, and waved him towards the lift. Rollison nodded his thanks, and went on. Few people were about this evening, it was a kind of no man’s hour at the Yard. He was taken up by the liftman who looked tired already, and walked on his own to Grice’s office. He still hadn’t made up his mind how much to tell Grice, and couldn’t be sure what tactics would pay off best. Ebbutt was seriously worried, and that meant that there was good reason for anxiety.

Rollison tapped.

“Come in.” Grice was standing behind his desk. “You’re the nearest thing to a ghost I’ll ever set eyes on. Sit down.” As Rollison took an armchair that was already in position, Grice studied him carefully. “Well, you don’t look as if you’ve got one foot out of the grave!”

Rollison had never felt more wary. This was an overtone of friendliness, too sugary to be genuine. Grice wanted something: so away with recriminations, away with taunts of folly, away with the line that but for the police he, Rollison, would probably be dead.

“Half a foot,” Rollison mumbled. “Thanks to you and all policemen. I’ve never been so glad to hear the word “cops”. How did you do it?” Grice pushed cigarettes across the desk, and said expansively:

“We’d virtually asked you to have a crack at this, and it was our fault that you did. Partly ours, anyhow. When we discovered that it was going to be really ugly, we decided that we ought to keep an eye on you. The attack on Jolly was the deciding factor.” Grice leaned back, pressing the tips of his fingers together, positively airy in manner. “We had each of the Wallis victims watched. When Wallis was seen going into Jackson’s house half an hour before you arrived, we laid on reinforcements. We had to have some kind of a schedule knowing that you might find a way of getting out and bringing a lot of information with you, so we gave you half an hour. Then we raided.”

“If I had a whisky and soda,” said Rollison, “I would lift my glass to the C.I.D.”

Grice bent down and produced a bottle of whisky and two glasses; he was virtually a teetotaller, and now poured whisky and soda for Rollison, and plain soda water with a splash for himself.

“Health,” he said.

“To all policemen,” said Rollison, and drank deeply. “I’m glad you didn’t allow me thirty-one minutes. Thanks.”

“Get anything out of Wallis?”

“The questions were the other way about,” Rollison said. “Let me come clean, Bill. Wallis to imply that Ada Jepson was somehow involved. I don’t know whether it was all a big bluff, even to the threat to kill me, whether it was staged to plant the suspicion about Ada, or whether it was genuine. Have you anything new about the Jepsons?”

Grice was watching him levelly, and didn’t reply at once; when he did, he shuffled some documents off his desk, as if to refresh his memory, and then said abruptly:

“I’ve some negative news. Reginald Jepson did not go to Ibiza. I’ve checked with the Spanish consulate, and he didn’t get a visa. But he could have gone to any country in Europe where there’s no visa required. Any reason to think his sister lied about him?”

“No reason, just a hunch. Why should she have lied?”

“I don’t know,” Grice said. “I do know that I’ve got a call out for Reggie Jepson.”

“I’d like to know more about Reggie, too,” murmured Rollison. “What charge have you got against Wallis?”

“None, unless you lay one,” Grice was emphatic. “His statement says that he went to see Jackson, an old acquaintance, and was there when you came. He says that he opened the door for Jackson, and that you immediately threatened him with a gun—the gun which the Divisional people found on the floor of the cellar. He says that he knocked the gun out of your hand, then put you down in the cellar to cool off. He was trying to find out why you’d pulled the gun when we arrived. As a story it’s hard to break. Wallis has a genius for the alibi or the phoney defence. I don’t think it would be wise to charge him, because I can’t see the magistrate giving even an eight-day remand in custody.”

Rollison felt edgy, but said briskly enough: “No charge, then. Can you hold him overnight?”

“Yes.”

“It’ll give us a little time to work in. Did you I know that Jepsons now virtually controlled Bishopps?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know that at least one of the men attacked by Wallis questioned Bishopps’ salesman about goods being sold at special discount?”

Grice said sharply: “No, I didn’t. Who—well, never mind who. You positive?”

“As sure as I can be,” said Rollison. “And add the others together, Bill. One was a carrier who handled these goods, another worked for Bishopps, two bought from the wholesaler. Supposing each knew that he was dealing in stolen goods, and was going to talk when Wallis paid his visit.”

Grice was making notes swiftly.

“It’s a new angle. It could be robbery from Jepsons on a big scale, with Bishopps as the distributors of the goods. Then if a Jepson nominee company bought Bishopps and found out—”

“Bill,” said Rollison, “there’s a curious parallel here. Jepsons, always big and getting bigger, buying up all the opposition they can. And Donny Sampson, a big landowner, once small but getting much bigger and buying up all the opposition he can. Has Donny been charged?”

“Yes,” Grice said. “With being in possession of human hair, knowing it to have been stolen.”

“Think you’ll ever prove that against him?” Rollison asked.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Invitation

“I think we can prove it,” Grice answered. “One or two of his staff say he knew the hair was stolen. But if you ask me if it makes sense, that’s a different matter. Apart from anything else, there’s the obvious objection that Donny wouldn’t deal in his own daughter’s hair.”

“Think he’s being framed?” Rollison asked brusquely.

“It wouldn’t surprise me.”

“And blackmailed into saying nothing?”

“Could be.”

“Either Donny’s a victim or he’s a cleverer crook than we want to think,” Rollison said abruptly. “If he’s a victim, he’s scared of saying so, and Wallis is an expert at scaring people. Ada Jepson won’t tell me what she knows, either. I fancy she’s scared, and she takes a lot of scaring.”

“Think her trouble is Wallis or someone else?” asked Grice. “Or just the fear of being found out?”

“That’s the million dollar question,” said Rollison. He put his hands on the arms of his chair, and sprang up. “Bill, you’re a genius. You’ve given me the glimmering of a new idea. Like to hear it in confidence?”

“Yes.”

“And no reminder that you’re a policeman,” marvelled Rollison, sitting on the corner of the big desk. “Wallis is the key. Wallis takes orders and payment and hands out punishment. You can hold him overnight, and he needn’t be in dock until eleven in the morning. We suspect that Donny Sampson and Ada Jepson are being forced to take what’s coming to them. We think they know who’s behind Wallis, and what it’s all about, but dare not disclose the name. Right?”