by John Creasey
He had plenty to think about.
The grey-haired man, as far as he knew, was a stranger in the affair – a stranger to him, that was. The description and photograph that he had of Chamberlain was entirely different from the man who had been with Hi Ling and Dougall, and there was not the slightest reason why he should associate them. But: He had contrived to frighten the trio.
And the grey-haired man knew Chamberlain.
He was in no two minds about the likely result of his interview. Hi Ling would not take the insult lying down, and Dougall was the type who would take some restraining. He realised that they would come for him, and quickly – it behoved him to be very careful. Up to a point they were unknown qualities, although he held no illusions about their dangerousness.
But – they were hired men.
So much was obvious, and he had to decide who had hired them.
He was reflecting thus when the swing-doors of the saloon bar opened and a young man entered.
There was one thing about him that engaged the Toff ’s interest immediately: he was well-dressed, and his clothes had come not far from Savile Row. A pleasant-looking but also angry-looking youth, and right out of place in the ‘Steam Packet’.
His eyes were bright as though with anger, and his lips were tightly set. He ordered a beer and drank it down at a stretch, then glared about him.
‘Gentleman spoiling for a fight,’ murmured the Toff to himself, ‘and he’s looking for it in the right place; he wouldn’t be popular here. Odd business.’
It was odd, and it attracted the Toff ’s immediate interest although there was not the slightest reason for him to consider the youth concerned with the trio upstairs. Another beer went the way of the first, and as the newcomer put his glass down on the bar the door opened and a second man came through.
He was under-sized, amply pock-marked, and not a creature to trust. And: ‘Possessed of a squint,’ said the Toff sotto voce.
He was alert on the instant. Here was a little man with a squint, and on the previous day he had heard of such a man who had followed him from Chamberlain’s Oxford Street establishment. Squinting was no man’s copyright, but at least it rang a bell of warning.
The little man stood at the door, surveying the dozen loungers with some truculence. He saw the well-dressed youth, whose back was towards him, and moving so quickly that even the Toff was surprised, he reached the other’s side. His voice was illiterate but pitched low, and the Toff only just caught his words.
‘I told you to git art of ’ere an’ keep art. ‘Ow many more times d’yer want tellin’?’
The youngster turned quickly, making no effort to keep his voice low nor to conceal his anger.
‘Keep your hands off me or I’ll break your blasted neck!’
He looked capable of doing it as the man with the squint swore. Two large roughnecks leaning against the bar took little interest, and Tommy the barman ignored the quarrel. Squint-Eye was well known at the ‘Steam Packet’, thought the Toff, and his interest quickened.
‘You’d do what?’ Squint-Eye’s voice rose. ‘You ain’t wanted rahnd ’ere, if—’
The youngster acted with a speed and effectiveness which earned the Toff ’s approval, even though it was unwise. He grabbed his glass of beer and flung the dregs into Squint-Eye’s face. The little man staggered back, taken completely by surprise. There was an ugly murmur from the two roughnecks, while two others, anticipating a rough-house, went out of the bar with celerity. The youngster faced those remaining with a spirit also earning the Toff ’s admiration.
‘If you want trouble, I’m ready for it, I—’
The words had hardly left his mouth when the two men rushed at him. There was a sudden scurry, an oath that was not nice, and one of the toughs staggered back, blood streaming from his nose. The second gasped as suddenly and doubled up with pain from a stomach-punch, while the well-dressed youth glared round at the remaining occupants – including the Toff and Tommy – as though prepared for a concerted rush.
‘The next one’ll get hurt. Who’s for it?’
Silently the Toff applauded. The voice, he fancied, was more Canadian than English, but the pugnacious one was certainly not from the United States.
There was a momentary lull.
One roughneck was still groaning, but the other was preparing for a second rush. The youngster decided to take the offensive and stepped towards him; at which moment the barman snatched a bottle from beneath the bar.
The youth’s fist shot out, but his opponent was prepared this time and side-stepped. The youth went past him, carried by the force of his blow, and the barman’s hand was raised with the bottle poised. The lough feinted with his right, and then let fly with his hobnailed boot for the attacker’s knee. Luck saved him from the kick, but it needed more than luck to save him from the bottle.
The Toff, until that moment an apparently startled spectator, picked up an empty glass and threw it into the barman’s face. It struck the man’s nose, bottom first, and he gasped with pain, letting the bottle thud on to the floor.
Squint-Eye, one hand in his pocket, swung round towards the interrupter.
‘You keep out o’ this!’
The Toff saw him slide from his pocket something which gleamed very bright. Squint-Eye was near the impetuous stranger, who was mixing it good and proper with the only other one of his adversaries in action – he seemed more intent on any old fight than in forcing his quarrel with Squint-Eye to a conclusion. Squint-Eye went forward, apparently considering the man in the corner satisfactorily dealt with, and in his hand was a knife.
‘You dirty sticker!’ growled the Toff. He was a picture of an honest but outraged English working-man, his voice quivering with indignation. ‘Drop it, or I’ll break yer ruddy neck …’
As he spoke he moved forward, gripping the man’s knife arm in a half-nelson. Squint-Eye swore with sudden pain, and the knife clattered to the floor. The Toff stamped his heel on the blade, snapping it in two, and tightened his hold on the man who might know Chamberlain.
And then a door leading from the back of the room burst open.
The Toff saw the gigantic figure of Dougall and the impassive face of Hi Ling. Just then the Toff had no desire to try conclusions with them, and he badly wanted to talk with the hot-headed youth. In that rough-house nothing could be guaranteed, and he did not want it known that the Toff was there.
Sweat was beading Squint-Eye’s forehead, for the Toff was forcing him towards the bar, maintaining his hold. They reached the struggling couple near the bar, and with his free right hand the Toff swung a pile-driver into the rough’s neck. The man fell back beneath this fresh attack with the youth still clinging to him.
The Toff dropped Squint-Eye’s arm but, before the man could dart away, grabbed him by the neck and ankles. He swung him twice, rejoicing in the ease of it, but maintaining his poise of outraged sense of what was done.
‘I’ll teach yer to use a knife, yer little swipe!’
With the ‘swipe’ he flung the little man bodily towards the advancing negro and Chinaman. Squint-Eye’s head caught the black man in the stomach and Dougall shouted and fell back, forcing Hi Ling against the wall. Dougall’s stomach was not having a nice night.
For a split second the Toff was close to the youth, who was still ready for the fight and apparently annoyed that no one else was waiting.
‘Run for it,’ whispered the Toff. ‘They’re all armed and we can’t last any longer. Aldgate Pump in an hour’s time. Got that?’
The youth hesitated, and for a fraction of a second seemed about to refuse. Then he saw the grey eyes of the man who was dressed like an out-of-work stevedore, and something in those eyes made him change his mind.
‘Aldgate Pump it is.’
Together they moved for the door. Rollison reached it a foot ahead of one of the bruisers, who had recovered enough to want his own back, and sent the man sprawling with a short-arm jab to the jaw. He opened the door and the
youngster slipped out as Hi Ling recovered from Nigger’s fall.
The Toff followed, and then began to run, wondering whether the men at the ‘Steam Packet’ would try any funny business outside.
The door opened behind him. He heard a bottle crash on to the pavement at his side, and heard the heavy thud of footsteps. Immediately outside the ‘Steam Packet’ the Streets were ill lit, and he knew that many grim things could happen.
He could hear the youngster’s footsteps, ten yards or so ahead of him. They paused, and he caught up with the stranger as a second bottle broke against the wall of the house where they were standing.
‘Run for it,’ snapped the Toff; ‘I’m all right.’
‘But—’
‘To hell with buts, I can dodge them. Get going, and take the second right, it’ll bring you to the High Street.’
There was little or no lighting even where he was, but he contrived to impress the other, who took to his heels and showed a nice turn of speed. From behind them – they had paused only for a moment – the heavy tread of at least three men was nearer. The Toff cut across the road to make sure the youngster was not followed, and looked over his shoulder. Against the light coming from the ‘Steam Packet’ he saw the two roughnecks and the man with the squint. Neither Dougall nor Hi Ling were taking part in the chase.
Rollison reached the other side of the road.
They were half-way across by the time he reached an alley that ran alongside warehouses towering towards the star-decked sky. He went into it, and then waited. The men came up, one muttering: ‘Darn Baker’s Lane—’
He turned into the alley, leading the way – and the Toff ’s leg shot out, tripping him up. A second followed before the warning cry reached him. Two roughnecks, unaccustomed to such cavalier treatment, sprawled into each other, while the man with the squint suddenly found himself gripped by a pair of hands that threatened to squeeze the life out of him.
The Toff had a clear plan of action in mind.
If this was the same man with the squint, Bill of Putney would identify him – and help to make him talk. It was worth the effort to get him away, and there were friends enough at hand to look after him for an hour or two.
He used a cosh to knock the man out.
Squint-Eye grunted, and dropped. The Toff turned to keep the others busy for a moment, rightly unworried by the opposition they were likely to offer, when a shrill whistle sounded above the heavy breathing.
The police!
He stopped, and stepped into the wider thoroughfare.
From two directions policemen were coming at the double, and one man’s whistle was still blasting. There was no chance at all of getting away with Squint-Eye.
Rollison returned to the shadows of the alley.
‘The cops,’ he snapped. ‘Scram!’
His attackers were united with him against the common enemy. They swung round, racing along the alley, while the Toff followed at a more leisurely gait. Twenty yards along he found what he wanted – a lower stretch of wall, surrounding the yard of a warehouse. He jumped for it, found purchase with his hands, and swung himself up. In the shadows he could see the police turning into the alley, one of them bending over Squint-Eye’s outstretched form. In something under twenty seconds one Robert had hurried beneath the Toff, who then dropped to the other side of the wall and by devious ways crossed the courtyard and reached Aldgate High Street.
In five minutes he was entering a small house, one of a long, begrimed row of terraced workmen’s homes. A dim gaslight showed at the end of the narrow passage, and a wireless blared forth, more tinny than most and giving evidence of old age.
A middle-aged woman was sitting at a scrubbed kitchen table, darning socks, and a young couple were sitting in close proximity on a couch from which the hair stuffing, in places, was protruding. All of them jumped.
‘Well, bless me,’ exclaimed the woman, ‘if it ain’t the Torf!’
He had pushed back his cap and his face was visible, but her immediate recognition gave her credit. The couple were on their feet, too startled to be annoyed at the abrupt interruption.
‘Always around,’ smiled Rollison. ‘Ma, my clothes are over at Danny Slow’s, and I don’t want to go back there, a policeman might recognise me. Get them, will you?’
‘Ernie’ll go,’ decided Ma, rising and revealing a stoutly corsetted torso mostly covered by a long, blue knitted cardigan, despite the warmth of the June evening. ‘Aggie, make a cupper tea, an’ look sharp about it.’
Ernie grinned and slipped out for the clothes which the Toff had changed for those of his second visit to the ‘Steam Packet’, Aggie – pretty in a tinsel fashion and with a light summer frock, hennaed and permanently waved hair, and reddened lips that were startlingly out of place in the small kitchen – went into the scullery to make tea. Ma sat down again and proceeded with her darning.
There was a husband, at that moment in gaol, but there on a short sentence when – but for the Toff ’s intervention – he might have been up for a stretch. A cheerful, happy-go-lucky soul who had meant no serious harm and, if Ma had her way, would go straight in future. By such contacts the Toff endeared himself to the majority of those who lived East of Aldgate Pump.
‘I never noo you was workin’,’ Ma said.
‘I was somewhat surprised myself,’ admitted the Toff. ‘Heard from Sam lately?’
‘’Im? ’E won’t write, ’e’s too lazy to lick the pencil. After anyone?’
‘Curiosity mustn’t kill the cats,’ said Rollison, sprawling back in the remnants of an easy chair, and as much at home here as he had been at his flat. ‘Any rumours of snow, Ma?’
‘There’s allus too much o’ that filthy stuff around. But I ain’t heard nuthin’ special. After some, are you?’
‘I’m hoping to find it,’ admitted the Toff. ‘Keep your ears open, will you? Ah—Aggie, as always beautiful, and the best maker of tea in Aldgate!’ He smiled at the girl, who preened herself.
The Toff drank hot and nearly black tea, to be joined shortly by Ernie, with his clothes. Fifteen minutes later, as the Hon. Richard Rollison, he took his leave after shaking hands all round. No money passed, for Ma would have been more hurt than offended at the suggestion of reward.
And she, like Bill of Putney, would keep her ear to the ground.
Chapter Nine
Frank Brendon
Some minutes after eleven o’clock a taxi drew up alongside Aldgate Pump, that landmark separating East from West in the sprawling metropolis which – the Toff was apt to say – had started from wattle huts but had not necessarily improved except in appearance, and the cabby descended and approached a square-shouldered, frowning young man who looked older than he had done in the ‘Steam Packet’.
He had washed and straightened his clothes, but could do nothing to hide an embryo black eye, nor a scratch on his upper lip at which he dabbed occasionally with a handkerchief. He was fair, brown-skinned from an out-of-door life, and his general bearing impressed the Toff favourably. He stood under a street lamp, and started when the cabby reached him.
‘Gennulman asked me to ’and yer this, sir.’
‘This’ was an unsealed envelope and the youngster glanced towards the cab before he opened it. Then he erinned, another thing that favourably impressed the Toff.
The note read:
I’m in the cab. Better meet me here. ‘Steam Packet’.
He pushed the note into his pocket and followed the cabby to the taxi. Rollison opened the door and the youngster stepped in, at first seeing little, for the interior of the cab was dark.
‘Regulation C—never enter a cab without seeing who’s in it first,’ said the Toff gently.
The other stopped short, and stared at the Toff ’s corner. He was sent off his balance as the cab started, steadied himself and, as the light shone into the interior, stared in unaffected astonishment.
‘Who the blazes are you?’
‘Same man, different trousers,’ s
aid the Toff.
‘I don’t believe—’
‘Oh, come,’ said the Toff, offering cigarettes as the other sat gingerly in the opposite corner. ‘It only needed a quick change, and the voice should make you know it’s the only difference.’
‘Too right it should,’ said the other with a quick grin. ‘But when you say quick change you mean it. Did you get away all right?’
‘It looks like it.’
‘Yes, but I mean without any bother.’
‘None to worry about,’ said Rollison easily. ‘You haven’t done so badly, but I suppose you managed a wash-and-brush-up at the station. Fed lately?’
‘Well, no—’
‘Chiro’s can feed a hungry man,’ the Toff assured him, ‘and afford us some kind of privacy. But I hope you won’t be as abrupt with the customer at the next table as you were with our man with the squint. You could get thrown out properly there.’
A quick, cheerful grin greeted the sally.
‘Oh, I can behave myself, but I didn’t like that little runt, and—look here, who are you?’
‘That can wait,’ said Rollison. ‘Are you sure you weren’t followed?’
‘Not much doubt about that; no one threw anything for a long time.’
The Toff chuckled, but watched through the rear window, making sure that there was no other cab or private car on their heels. Satisfied, he sat back and deliberately avoided conversation. He wanted to judge the stranger, and a man’s reaction to silence when he was bursting to talk was one of the surer signs of reliability or otherwise. His companion smoked and made no attempt at breaking the silence, although he glanced at the Toff several times and grinned.
The square line of his jaw suggested obstinacy, and his eyes suggested a quick temper, although his manner now created the impression that he could hold temper as well as curiosity in check. Adding to the boyishness of his appearance were a number of freckles on his cheeks and at his chin.