John Creasey: The Toff And The Stolen Tresses

Behind the bar was an enormous man wearing pincenez, serving pints of beer in pewter tankards and half pints in glasses, while a youth and a little man with a twisted nose served drinks at the other end; and with the drinks, pork pies, cheese rolls and sandwiches. Everything was normal and everyone seemed to be talking at once when the door opened to admit Rollison. From the moment he entered, the silence was so complete that the big man, Bill Ebbutt, looked up to see what it was all about. He was near-sighted, and peered intently before recognising Rollison. Then he gave an expansive grin, and rumbled:

“Always a pleasure to see you, Mr. Ar! Come on private business or a snifter?” He would drop his work behind the bar and give all his time to Rollison, if it were necessary.

“Later, Bill,” said Rollison, reaching the bar; and they shook hands. “I happened to be passing, and felt like some of your pork pies.”

“Help yourself,” said Ebbutt. “What are you going to wash ‘em down with?”

“Still keep that 4 X?”

“Don’t be daft,” said Ebbutt, “arf me business is with 4 X.” He took down a tankard, pulled a handle, and placed a foaming head of the beer in front of Rollison. Then he turned to a small man who had been waiting patiently for several minutes. “Your turn now, Charlie, and give Mr. Ar elbow room, there’s a good little boy.”

He served and wheezed and sweated, the saloon bar became more crowded and the smell of beer became much more pronounced. Then he said in a whisper which only Rollison could hear:

“Anyfink you want?”

“Bill,” said Rollison, in a loud, clear voice, “I am interested in a gentleman named Tiny Wallis and another named Mick Clay.”

For the second time in the past twenty minutes a hush fell upon all the people present, and into the hush a worried Bill Ebbutt said:

“You be careful, Mr. Ar, that Wallis is a killer, and Clay ain’t far behind.”

“Oh, they’re just a couple of blowhards,” said Rollison casually, and bit into a pie from which the jelly oozed enticingly. “Liz still make these with her own fair hands, Bill?”

“Never mind the pies,” Ebbutt said urgently, “Don’t you go and take chances with that pair, and whatever you do, don’t under-rate them, Mr. Ar. I’m see-rious.” He looked not only serious but solemn, and lowered his voice for greater effect. “You watch your step and don’t go an’ forget it.”

Rollison looked at him straightly, and when no one else could possibly see, gave the plainest of winks.

“. . . and from what the police have told me, I can’t understand why you let them worry you,” he went on, quite regardless. “Wallis is the big shot and Clay’s his yes-man, isn’t that the set-up? Can you tell me where to find the pair?”

“No, Mr. Ar, I can’t, and that’s flat.”

“Can but won’t,” mused Rollison, and finished the pie and quaffed his beer, took another pie and completely changed the subject. “Why don’t you bring Liz over for an hour or so this weekend, Bill? It’s a good time. Jolly will be away and I’m on my own. Don’t know of a really good daily, do you?”

Ebbutt said huskily: “No, Mr. Ar, not one who’d come as far as your place every day. I’ll ask Liz, and if she can come it’ll be a pleasure. Friday’s the best day for me.”

“Day after tomorrow,” said Rollison blandly, and looked about him, as if he was completely at peace with the world and thoroughly enjoying life. He leaned forward so that his ear was close to Ebbutt, and he heard the big man whisper:

“Now you’ve done it, Mr. Ar, nothing will keep ‘em away. Would you like a couple of my chaps?”

“No, Bill,” Rollison said. “If I get any visitors, I’d like to welcome them myself.” He beamed and winked again, looked longingly at another pie, but slowly shook his head. Then with great precision he spoke so that only Ebbutt could hear. “You and your boys keep out of it for the time being, Bill. I’ll telephone if I want any help.”

“I dunno that I like it,” Ebbutt grumbled, “but I suppose you know what you’re doing.

Another “arf o’ mild, Charlie? Okay. “Am sandwich, yessir.” He toiled and drew the beer and watched over his customers, knowing which were aching to carry the news of the Toffs braggadocio to Tiny Wallis and Micky Clay.

It would not be long before the couple heard of it.

“Going straight back after this, Mr. Ar?” asked Ebbutt, into a lull.

“One or two calls to make first,” said Rollison. “I’ll be back home by about four.” He grinned at Ebbutt, paid his dues and then strolled out, nodding right and left and lording it much more than anyone here had known the Toff lord it before. Many were his friends and most respected him, but there was an uneasy silence while he went out. As soon as the doors swung to behind him, they all began to talk so fast that Ebbutt could not hear the orders.

Every man there believed that the Toff, having asked for trouble, would get it very soon.

* * *

Rollison strolled across to his car, where the youngsters still stood, mostly in awe, but from which the youths had gone. That was surprising. He went to have a word with an old acquaintance at a corner shop; when he came back two men whom he had not noticed before were standing near the car. He took the wheel and started the engine, doing everything with great deliberation, and then moved off slowly towards the docks and the small mean streets, where a Rolls-Royce or a Rolls-Bentley were like red rags to a bull. For here was poverty, even in this age of the welfare state; here was envy, too, and greed and malice—as well as friends, because many people here owed a great deal to the Toff.

He was followed by one of the two men on a motor-bicycle, which kept about fifty yards behind. He could see the man in his driving mirror all the time. He still drove slowly, and was very watchful, for although he had asked for trouble, he did not know which way it was likely to come.

Then he heard the sound of a powerful truck engine, not far away. He peered along the narrow, drab street, and saw two youths at a corner. He could not be sure, but believed that these were the youths who had been outside the Blue Dog, showing such interest in the car.

One of the youths disappeared, waving to someone who was out of sight.

The motor-cyclist put on a burst of speed, so as to draw level with the Rolls-Bentley, and roared past without a glance at Rollison; but as soon as he was ahead, he swung across the big car.

Rollison had to jam on his brakes.

The roar of the unseen truck engine was deafening.

Rollison was within ten yards of the corner and there was little room in the narrow road. He saw the front of a huge lorry sweep round the corner on the wrong side of the road; and fear welled up in him, because death was so near.

In a vivid moment of understanding, he knew that the motor-cyclist was in his way to prevent him from putting his foot down, and hurtling the car out of danger. The lorry was so far over that it left no room for him to pull up to safety; and if he stopped he would be crushed to death.

He saw the driver at the lorry cabin, high above him, the huge wheels, the quivery bonnet; it was like the mouth of a great beast eager to snatch and mangle him. The motor-cyclist was looking over his shoulder, grinning, so sure he had played his part. He was right in Rollison’s path, in the way of deliverance.

Rollison’s body was at a great tension as he accelerated. Even the Rolls-Bentley engine roared, and the grin was wiped off the motor-cyclist’s face. The truck driver vanished from Rollison’s sight, only his hands could be seen, twisting at the wheel as if determined to smash the sleek beauty of the car’s lines.