John Creasey: The Toff And The Stolen Tresses

“He will.”

Will he really be quite all right again?” Ada asked, intently. “Or will it affect him for the rest of his life? I’ve been studying some of the reports of this kind of beating up, and in several cases the victims have become almost simple.”

“I don’t think you need worry about Jones,” said Rollison reassuringly. “I’ve a contact at the hospital who says that he’ll recover completely. His chief trouble will be resisting the desire to get his own back.”

“Well, I wouldn’t blame him,” Ada said, and went on abruptly: “Why didn’t you expect Superintendent Grice to find the two men?”

It was like Ada Jepson to go straight to the heart of a matter, without hesitation and without fencing, to see the significance of every question or comment; one had to get up very early to fool Ada.

Rollison was as frank as she deserved.

“If this had been an ordinary beating up, robbery with violence, Grice wouldn’t have been called in. You at Jepsons might have pulled some strings at the Yard to get a Superintendent, but Grice was on the job before you’d had time to—probably before you knew what had happened. So it wasn’t ordinary robbery with violence. Nor was it the first of its kind. During the past five weeks six other cases of assault have been reported, and no one has yet been arrested. The results have all been the same: a savage attack on an individual in his home, and then the home has been systematically wrecked. In this case, nothing breakable was left. According to one report there wasn’t even a cup and saucer left whole. From television set to a tea plate, everything was smashed to smithereens, and still nobody knows why. But today or tomorrow your Jimmy Jones will be able to make a statement. That may be a starting point.”

Ada contemplated Rollison with great solemnity, and then asked almost humbly:

“ Will you try to find out why it happened?”

“Yes,” said Rollison, smiling. “I can’t think of anything that would keep me away.”

Ada jumped up.

“Oh, bless you!”

“Before you start blessing me or anyone else, tell me this,” said Rollison softly. “Do you know anything more at all—about this man Jones, or what lies behind the trouble?”

“Of course I don’t.”

“Nothing wrong at any of your offices or warehouses?”

Ada looked so taken aback that he believed her when she said no, as far as she was aware there was no trouble at all at Jepsons. She looked as if this was a new idea entirely, and that it worried her. But one could never be sure with Ada.

“I’ve never heard of anything, Rolly, but the truth is that we’ve got too big, you know. That sounds a ridiculous thing to say, but you know we’ve expanded a lot in the last few years, don’t you?”

“Under the direction of our Ada. Jepsons’ Mail Order, the Biggest in Britain. Jepsons’ Manufacturies, making everything from pots and pans to motor-car tyres—there’s a rumour in the city that you’re going to produce a People’s Car. Right?”

“We might, one day,” Ada admitted.

“I want a free sample,” Rollison said.

“Jepsons’ Wholesale—suppliers to retailers all over the world. Yes, you’re pretty big, Ada. Why keep expanding?”

“Well, somehow the business grows,” Ada said. “We’ve some very good directors in all the subsidiary firms. But I’ve never heard of any trouble, Rolly. Oh, my goodness, look at the time! I must fly.”

Rollison watched her leave the house. By pressing close against the window and looking into the street, he saw her step off the pavement and into her high-powered, scarlet sports car. She looked almost childlike as she sat at the wheel; and then, zooooom! and the car roared towards the corner.

She slowed down in good time.

“And no one followed her,” said Rollison to Jolly. “That’s almost a disappointment. Get Grice on the line, will you, and ask him if he can see me in about half an hour. Tell him I’m on my way.”

“Supposing he isn’t free, sir?”

“Don’t tell me you’re slipping,” said Rollison. “Persuade him not to keep me waiting too long.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Gentle Hint

Grice not only received him but was affable; so affable that Rollison began to suspect the reason before he had been in the building for five minutes. It was a pleasant office with a view of the Thames and the Embankment. On this warm morning, the sun was bright, and everything in sight was beautiful when one looked out of the window. Inside, Grice was not exactly a beauty; but he was striking-looking, tall, brown-clad, brown hair turning grey, brown eyes as sharp as they had been in all the years Rollison had known him. The skin showed white where it was stretched tight over the bony bridge of his nose.

,. . . not really surprised you’ve taken an interest in this case,” he said, “and I couldn’t wish you more luck. It’s a brutal business. Apart from the violence, there’s the deliberate wrecking of homes. That old couple in Chelsea probably won’t recover from the shock. They’ve been married forty-one years, and among the things broken were some wedding presents. Everything they’d saved was in that house, and—phutt, they lost it in half an hour.”

“Insured?”

“No.”

Rollison kept quiet for a moment, and then asked:

“How many homes broken up like it?”

“Seven now.”

“So the newspapers got that right,” murmured Rollison. Till, it isn’t often you welcome me with open arms. Were you hoping I might look in about this job?”

“Yes,” said Grice promptly. “In fact, I wanted to call and ask you to look in, but—”

“The boss said no,” suggested Rollison, narrowing his eyes and putting his head on one side. “You want me in, you’ve got six similar cases on the record, you were at Middleton Street yourself within a few hours of the job being done, yet you couldn’t catch anyone. Add all that together, and I suspect you know who’s behind it but can’t pick him up.”

“Unofficially,” said Grice, “you’re right.”

“Sure of him?”

“Them.”

“Who are they?”

“It will interest you to know that we checked up on Tiny Wallis and Mick Clay, but their alibis were so perfect that no one in his right mind would believe it. The court, judge and jury would have to accept it as evidence, though. That hint broad enough for you?”

“So gentle,” mused Rollison. “Any idea why Jones was singled out?”

“No, and he swears he doesn’t know. He has a good reputation, and there’s no reason to think he’s lying.”

“Hm. The other six cases?”

“We’ve checked them all closely but haven’t found any connection, except that they’re indirectly associated with the firm of Jepsons,” said Grice, “although I’m pretty sure there is another link. Every victim says he’s no idea why he was attacked. If they’re lying, we haven’t been able to prove it.” He put his hand on a pile of manilla folders on the desk. “Here is a full account of every one, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t look at them. You could get the information from any newspaper office if you put your mind to it.”

“Thanks for saving me the trouble,” murmured Rollison. “May I . . . ?”

He studied the cases for nearly an hour, and when he left Grice’s office, did not go straight to Gresham Terrace. At the wheel of a demure grey and cream Rolls-Bentley, at that juncture his favourite motor car, he drove along the Embankment, the narrow thronged streets of the City, and through the noisy, bustling brashness of the East End. He attracted more and more attention the poorer the neighbourhood, and was making people gape by the time he reached the Blue Dog, in the Mile End Road. It was nearly one o’clock. When he went into the saloon bar of the pub, leaving the magnificent motor car outside, a throng of boys and youths promptly surrounded it, and a policeman kept a protective eye on it from a corner.