John Creasey: The Toff And The Stolen Tresses

“Right.”

“Let’s bring them together,” suggested Rollison softly. “Let’s invite Ada to Wallis’s place, and Donny as well. Let them receive a message supposed to be from Wallis, to go to the house in Dirk Street. If they’re really under his thumb, they’ll go.”

“What good will it do?”

“When they get there, let’s try to force a showdown while Wallis is still in the cooler. Was Mick Clay picked up this afternoon?”

“Yes. He had some jewellery in his pockets which might have been hot, so they held him.”

“So he’s out of the way, as well. If Ada and Donny jump to an order from Wallis, there’ll be one big happy family at Wallis’s house, a kind of welcome-home party. Right?”

“What you really mean is that you want to set them at each other’s throats,” Grice said.

“That’s it.”

“I don’t see that it would do any harm,” Grice conceded. “We’re holding Wallis, we can get a search warrant for his place now.”

“Oh, no, William,” said Rollison, briskly. “The police must keep right out of this. I’ll get inside while it’s dark, rig up a tape recorder, and have it running while the talk goes on. I’ll be there myself to prod them into talking.”

“You’re asking for too much trouble,” Grice objected. “The house will be watched, and everything that happens will be reported to Wallis before he gets home. He’ll know you’re there. If you’ve forced your way in and planted a tape recorder, he would have every excuse to smash you to pulp. We can’t give you authority to break into a man’s house even if we know the man is a dangerous criminal. You’ll have no protection, and Wallis might not wait like he did tonight.”

“You’ve pointed out the one reason why the police can’t be in on this,” argued Rollison earnestly. “That way, Wallis would have plenty of warning. The police mustn’t be within a mile of the place, but we might lay on one or two of Ebbutt’s men in case I need help again, but this time I shouldn’t. This afternoon I walked into it with my eyes shut, tomorrow morning they’ll be very wide open.”

Grice said slowly: “I suppose if you’re set on it, I can’t stop you. But now we’ve got the Bishopps and Jepsons angle—”

“Donny and Ada won’t talk,” Rollison reminded him. “One of them must be made to. They will certainly talk to Wallis. All I’m saying is that we’ve got to get them talking, and make a record.”

“You’re sticking your neck right out,” Grice said, and added craftily. “Think that’s what Jolly would like?”

“You might not believe it but I’m thinking more about Tom Rickett,” Rollison said with steely quiet. “Tom and his wife and the dozens of others who might suffer. Donny Sampson’s daughters. Ada Jepson, too.”

“All right,” said Grice in a clipped voice. “Anything else you plan to do?”

“I think I’ll take an hour or two off,” said Rollison. “Will you lay on the tape recorder? Make it one I can fix easily, I’m no mechanic.”

“You’d better get Ebbutt onto that, he’s got a good radio man.”

So Grice knew more than he often pretended.

“I will,” said Rollison. “May I see Wallis when you charge him?”

* * *

Wallis flatly denied the charge of uttering threats and menaces, and there was cold hatred in the way he looked at Rollison. When they were outside the cell, Grice said with absolute conviction:

“If he ever gets at you again, he’ll kill you.”

* * *

Rollison reached Gresham Terrace a little after eight-thirty. Two of Ebbutt’s men were there, both professional boxers. Ebbutt had supplied them with beer and sandwiches and they were playing with great intentness. Rollison telephoned Ebbutt, laid on the tape recorder, and asked in a voice which the two men couldn’t hear:

“Think you could find me one or two little bits of hot jewellery, Bill? Something I could plant so that a chap we know would have a job to explain them away?”

“I’ll ‘ave a damn’ good try!”

“Thanks,” said Rollison. Now I’m going to send your two chaps home, I don’t need a night shift.”

“Please yourself,” Ebbutt said.

The pair went off as soon as their game was over, each richer by five pounds.

Rollison raided the larder, found ham on the bone, bread and cheese, felt the need for a good hot meal, and told himself that he could worry about that when this was over. He telephoned the hospital again; there was no change in Jolly’s condition, which meant that he had a better chance than ever.

At half past nine, Rollison left the flat again. A Yard man was on duty outside, but no one else was in sight. No one followed him. He did not go by car, but first on foot, then on a bus, finally in a taxi to Middleton Road, near Sloane Square. He made quite sure that no one was watching him, then went briskly along the ill-lit street towards Number 24. There was a light on in the fanlight. He pressed the bell, then looked about him, surprised that Mrs. Blake opened the door; the light behind her in the kitchen seemed wispy. A Yard man came hurrying down the stairs, saying:

“You shouldn’t do that, I told you I would open the door to any callers, Mrs. Blake. Who—oh, it’s you sir.”

Mrs. Blake said: “Dear me, I quite forgot, I was watching the television. Do you want me, or—?”

“Just a word with Mr. Jones,” said Rollison. “That’s all right, then I’ll go back. I’ll soon be able to pick up the threads again.” Mrs. Blake bustled off, and the Yard man grinned.

“She’s tougher than she looks. I was just playing a game of draughts with Jones.”

“How is he?”

“He’ll be up and about tomorrow.”

“Miss Jepson been again?”

“No, but she sent about twenty books, and some crystallised fruits. She can’t do enough for him.”

“So it seems,” agreed Rollison. “Mind if I go and have a word with him?”

“Glad if you do, sir. As a matter of fact I wouldn’t mind stretching my legs outside for ten minutes, I was told that would be okay provided Jones and the house weren’t left unguarded. Ten minutes be long enough?”

“Fifteen.”

“Just time for a pint at the corner,” the Yard man said, and grinned. “See you later, sir.”

Rollison watched him go out, then listened to the drone of voices on the television, sounding clear although the kitchen door was closed. He went quietly upstairs, reminding himself again that he now knew pretty well why the other victims had been attacked, but didn’t know the secret of James Matthison Jones.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Burglary

Jimmy Jones was certainly looking much better. He sat up on his pillows, smoking a cigarette, and by the side of the bed was the draughts board; obviously the Yard man was winning. A small radio in the corner was on, and swing music came softly into the room. Jones’s eyes were clearer, although the bandages looked as heavy as when Rollison had seen him before.

“Oh, hallo, Mr. Rollison!” He seemed genuinely glad to see his visitor. “Nice of you to look in. Take a pew.” He pointed to another chair, then put his head on one side, and went on in a different tone: “But I should hardly think you’re just sick visiting.”

“Right in one,” Rollison said. “How’s your memory?” He sat down and took out cigarettes. “Pretty good, I think,” said Jones.

“You told me and the police that you hadn’t the faintest idea why you were attacked,” Rollison said.

“And I haven’t.”

“Misplaced loyalty can be a deadly thing,” Rollison remarked, and lit a cigarette.

“Talking in riddles can be a damned silly one,” said Jones. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about. Misplaced loyalty to whom?”