John Creasey - Kill The Toff

“Can you give me one good reason why he should?”

“Yes,” said Rollison. “But you have to know your East End so as to understand it. You have to know your crooks, your gangs, the mentality of the leaders. You have to know that the one besetting sin of them all is vanity. Mellor’s gone all out to make himself a Big Boss. We’ve had few others in London but none has lasted so long. Every now and again someone who thinks he’s cleverer than the rest has a cut at running the East End with all its profitable rackets. There are two ways to do it. One to work well in with everyone, be friendly, bribe your way. That takes a long time. The other way is to build yourself up a reputation for terrorising everyone else. Mellor’s done that. He had two big plans; one has gone sour on him but the second might work because he still has his reputation. He hates my guts because I killed Waleski and saved “my” Mellor. That gives him one good reason for wanting me out of the way. There’s a stranger reason still. Jolly should really tell you about it. I’m fairly well known in the East End. By a mixture of luck and judgment I’ve slapped down several of these would-be Big Boys. Now, if Mellor can slap me down— follow me?”

Clarissa actually laughed.

“That would set the seal to his fame?”

“He’s crazy enough to think so, which makes us both crazy.” Rollison stood up.

“One more question,” said Clarissa. “Why do you want me to come with you?”

“Why did you destroy those letters?”

“I think we’d better go.” Clarissa put out her cigarette as Jolly came in to say that it was four minutes past nine and that the car was waiting.

“Good,” said Rollison to Jolly. “I’ll be back late.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jolly did not say another word but, as the car moved off, Rollison saw him standing at the window of the sitting-room, looking out.

No police car followed them through the West or the East End; but Rollison knew that the police were on the look-out and reports of his progress were flashed back to the Yard and the Division by every policeman who saw the car.

* * *

By half-past nine the East End of London seethed with the news of the coming confrontation. Everyone in or on the fringe of the so-called underworld was agog with the story. Discussion in pubs and dives waxed hot, bookmakers did a brisk trade; and the betting was even, slightly in favour of the Toff, for purely sentimental reasons. A curious phenomenon became apparent as the hours passed. Men who hated the Toff as much as they feared him, and who hated and feared the police, hoped that he would win. Now and again a copper’s nark slipped out of a pub and passed this information on to a detective; and it was sent back to Grice who was at

Divisional Headquarters. Excitement and disquiet bubbled everywhere but few knew where the meeting was to take place, although many guessed. No rumour that it was to be at Old Nob’s reached Grice, who concentrated men near all known danger-spots and knew that nothing he could do would be in time to prevent trouble—only to clear up after it. When Mellor struck—and he would strike—it would be swift and merciless. Grice did not think Rollison had one chance in ten.

Probably the most worried man in the East End was Bill Ebbutt. He had given instructions to his countless cronies and had two or three reliable men at Old Nob’s, where the dancing had started at half-past eight and by now was working itself up to its nightly, furious climax. He also had three men at the Lion, a dockside pub a few hundred yards away from the dance-hall.

One of them was Charlie who sported his canary polo sweater and a light brown cap and, for once, drank whisky: he needed something to keep his nerves steady. The Lion wasn’t crowded: few pubs were that night. There were even fewer than usual at Old Nob’s for many preferred to keep out of trouble, both for its own sake and because the lurking police would certainly raid as soon as the outbreak started.

No one doubted that the outbreak would come.

At twenty minutes to ten the door of the Lion swung open and a little man rushed into the smelly, smoky public bar.

“Charlie! Where’s Charlie? Charlie, ‘e’s comin’! Car just turned the corner—’ear it?”

The gentle purr of Rollison’s car sounded clearly through the hush which fell upon the room. Three men finished their beer and went out quickly, anxious to be clear of trouble; for the attack might come here. The car stopped and the twenty people in the room stood and watched the door; there was no pretence at normality. The barmaid, a middle-aged, tight-lipped woman, stood with her hand resting on her husband’s big arm, also watching. No one drank; no one moved until Rollison stepped in and held the door open for Clarissa.

A gasp went up.

Rollison raised his silver-handled stick and said.

“Hallo, folks! Not drinking?”

No one answered but two or three people stirred. Eyes switched to Clarissa. Rollison laid his hand on her arm and led the way to the bar.

“Whisky, I think. Singles, Mrs Morley.”

The tight-lipped woman moved to the row of gleaming colourful bottles behind her and her hand shook as she measured out the whisky. Her husband put a jug of water and a bottle of soda-water on the bar. Charlie sidled up to Rollison and said:

“Bill says it’s not too late to change yer mind, Mr Ar; an’ no one will think any the worse of yer if you go back right now.”

“I’ve a call to make before I go home,” Rollison said. “What’ll you have, Charlie?”

“Double. The trap-door’s fixed.”

“Good. Any police about?”

“Well, there is and there ain’t,” said Charlie. “They don’t know where it’s comin’ off, so they’ve split up. “Arf-a-dozen ‘ere, ‘arf-a-dozen there. You know ‘ow it is.” He lowered his voice. “You ain’t takin’ ‘er, are you?”

“We’re sight-seeing, Charlie.”

Charlie gulped. A low murmur of conversation buzzed, eyes turned from Rollison and Clarissa towards the clock which was five minutes fast. Clarissa seemed fascinated by the company, looked about her and said little to Rollison. She stood out among the cheaply-dressed women like a lily in a pond full of weeds. Her cheeks were slightly flushed and her eyes bright with excitement as much as nervousness.

The click ticked loudly.

Rollison finished his drink.

“I think we’ll take a walk,” he said. “Good night, all!” He took Clarissa’s arm as the hands of the clock pointed to ten and Charlie slipped ahead and opened the door. He didn’t speak again. They stepped out into the darkness of the street and the door closed behind them. At intervals gas-lamps broke the gloom; there was hardly a sound.

They turned right.

“If we have to run for it, we shan’t have time to start the car. They’ll probably slash the tyres to ribbons if we take it too near Old Nob’s, anyhow.”

“You ought to know.”

“I’ve a feeling that Mellor will be there,” Rollison said. But he said it largely to reassure her and with his free hand gripped the sword-stick lightly. The hand on Clarissa’s arm was ready to move away in a flash at the first sign of trouble. The quietness of the night was sinister, secretive. Here and there were lighted windows and at most of the windows shadows of men and women. Sometimes they saw a couple standing against a door— watching. Everyone watched; no one spoke. Clarissa’s footsteps rang out clearly as she kept pace with Rollison. A car passed the end of the road, headlights making a brilliant blaze.

“We turn left here,” said Rollison. “Now listen carefully. When I shout “now!” scramble up on to the stage near the piano. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”