John Creasey: The Toff And The Stolen Tresses

“Jepsons.”

Jones shook his head, leaned over and stubbed out his cigarette, and said:

“I still haven’t the faintest idea what you’re driving at.”

“I’m beginning to believe you,” Rollison said slowly. Will you try to get at it this way? Among the people who have been attacked are . . .” he told Jones of each one, watching the man all the time, and seeing the dawning of understanding come. Jones looked both astonished and bewildered. He waited for Rollison to finish, and then said ruefully:

“I can see what you’re getting at now, and probably what it was all about. I’d been checking Bishopps’ accounts. They weren’t buying anything like so much from us as they used to, and I couldn’t understand why. Then I went out to see their manager, and found the place stacked out with our products. The manager said he’d over-stocked badly, and that seemed reasonable. But if that was really stolen stuff, and he thought I was on the trail—good lord!”

“When did you go to Bishopps?”

“A week before this happened.” Jones drew in a deep breath. “I give you my word, this is the first time I’ve connected the two things!”

“And I’ll take your word,” said Rollison readily. “Did you report this to anyone else?”

“Mr. Jepson, of course.”

“Did you see him personally?”

“Yes.”

“What was his reaction?”

“He told me to keep it to myself, and said he’d have secret inquiries made,” said Jones. “How did he seem?”

“He looked pretty tired, and it didn’t surprise me to hear that he was going off for a week or two.”

“Did you notice anything else about him? Did he seem worried?”

“No. Just tired.”

“Did he tell you that Jepson had acquired Bishopps through a nominee company?”

“Oh, that old rumour! It’s been going the rounds for a long time, but it’s never come to anything. One or two big shareholders have wanted to buy Bishopps, but that’s all. The Jepsons have control with about sixty per cent of the shares.”

“It isn’t a rumour, Bishopps is now owned by Jepsons,” Rollison declared.

James Matthison Jones looked bewildered.

“Well, if they own both places, the stuff at Bishopps could hardly have been stolen could it? What the devil’s going on, Rollison?”

“That’s exactly what we have to find out,” Rollison said very slowly.

* * *

Gresham Terrace was watched still by a Yard man, but the flat was empty. Rollison went straight to his bedroom and took an old suit from the wardrobe; one which looked as if he had slept in it, and which would have been third best even for a man at the docks. He put this on; and there was a smell of coal dust about it, also a smell of oil. He rubbed his hands over his face, without making it look too dirty, tied a choker round his neck and pulled on an old cloth cap, with a ragged peak. Next, he put on a pair of rubber-soled shoes which were solid enough but had seen better days.

He clipped on the knives, put another gun into his pocket, a gas pistol like the one he had first used against Wallis.

He had a queer feeling about Wallis; it was almost as if the man was watching him, although he was in jail, and as though one of the hooligans who would so readily do what he asked was outside.

He waited until there was a knock at the front door, went across, opened the door a fraction, and said:

“Who is it?”

“There’s a packet here from Radio and Recording Supplies, sir.”

“Put it down and leave it, will you?”

“Very good, sir.”

Rollison waited until the man’s footsteps had gone, then opened the door cautiously: Wallis might have powerful friends ready to attack. The landing was empty. The packet, neatly wrapped up in brown paper, looked innocent enough. Rollison took it into the big room, and undid it cautiously. Inside was a small tape recorder, worked from a battery, extremely sensitive and with enough tape to record for nearly an hour.

And it would go into his pocket.

“Thanks, Bill,” said Rollison.

He went out the back way, and was quite sure that no one who saw him knew who he was.

He walked to the nearest Tube station and went to Charing Cross, changed there for the train to Whitechapel. It was a little after eleven o’clock when he arrived, and only a dozen people got off at the station. No one looked at him twice. He walked with a kind of swagger, as if he’d had more than enough to drink and stared down at the ground all the time. Outside, he turned first towards the Blue Dog, passing the gymnasium, where lights were still on.

He headed for Dirk Street and the docks.

No ships were being worked nearby, all the dockside noises came from some distance off; that was a pity. He walked along Dirk Street, and saw lights at several of the houses, including Wallis’s. He went to the back of the house, using a narrow alley, found out which was the rear entrance, and made himself familiar with the little back yard. Then he went back towards the gymnasium, but did not go too close to the lights.

“Want anyfink?” a man asked.

“Ebbutt arahnd?”

“He’s too busy to touch tonight, mate.”

“I got information to sell.”

“Wot abaht?”

“Rollison.”

The name worked like a charm. The man hurried into the gymnasium, and Ebbutt soon came out. He approached Rollison, wheezing in the chilly night air, and as he drew near he flashed a torch into Rollison’s face.

Wot the hell—” he began, and then caught his breath.

“Easy, Bill,” Rollison whispered. “I want a kip for the night, somewhere I can get away from early in the morning. Can I have a camp bed in the gym?”

“It’s all yours, Mr. Ar.”

“Forget the Mr. Ar. Anyone else sleeping there tonight?”

“No.”

“Fine. Any news for me?”

“There are a couple of blokes at Wallis’s place, Wallis ain’t taking no more chances with his wife.”

“We can’t blame him, can we?” Rollison said, and forced a grin, but he did not feel like smiling. “Let me have the gym key, Bill, will you? And any luck with those sparklers?”

“Yeah, to both,” said Ebbutt. “Wouldn’t like to tell me wot you’re up to, would you?”

“No,” Rollison said. He took the key and a small packet which Ebbutt gave him, gripped the huge forearm, said: “Thanks,” and moved off. He reached a telephone kiosk in the Mile End Road, dialled Grice’s home number, and wasn’t surprised to be answered promptly: Grice wasn’t an early-to-bed enthusiast.

“Rollison,” Rollison said.

“Oh, it’s you. Changed your mind?”

“No. Two of Wallis’s friends are on guard at his house tonight. Could you arrange for the Division to send a couple of men to pick them up about four o’clock say?”

Grice hesitated, and then said gruffly: “This is the first time in my life I’ve ever seriously thought of compounding a felony. I’ll try to fix it. But don’t make any mistake, if you get caught, I can’t help you. I’ll say that I know absolutely nothing about it.”

“All you have to do is your duty,” said Rollison solemnly. “Thanks, Bill.”

He went back to the gymnasium, where most of the lights were out, and a camp bed was made up, and a bottle of whisky, soda water, ham sandwiches and some cheese and biscuits were on a table nearby. He ate heartily amid the smell of sawdust and canvas, and then looked at three small diamond rings and two brooches which were in the packet Ebbutt had given him. He put them carefully in his pocket, and at one o’clock, got into bed, taking off his shoes and loosening his choker.

He was asleep within five minutes, and awake at half past three, as if an alarm clock worked inside him.