by John Creasey
‘Well, yes, although he did find out that I was following him rather quickly. It was an unlucky chance, really, sir. He was calling at one street door, and I was outside the range of light from that, when another opened and the hall lamp shone fully on my face. He guessed why I was there and I admitted he was right. I thought it better not to pretend.’
‘He told me about it.’
‘I have no doubt that he took it philosophically.’
‘He did,’ said Rollison. ‘He said he’d made four calls in the wake of Lenwell, not Mrs Lenwell. Is that right?’
‘Yes, sir. He learned that Mrs Lenwell was out – I overheard his conversation with the husband – and he waited, quite properly, in the street, as Mr Lenwell had said that she might be back at any time. When Lenwell left, he followed him. I think that was natural enough in the circumstances, if a little divergent from his instructions. I think I would have done the same, sir.’
‘Probably,’ said Rollison, gravely.
‘And at one place, where he went in, he learned that the people on whom Lenwell was calling were the subscribers to Horniman’s new company. Further – and I have checked this, sir – Lenwell seems greatly alarmed lest the money should be lost, and he made the calls to enlist the support of the others in a demand that it be made a first charge on Horniman’s estate. So the night was not entirely unproductive, sir, and one call did strike me as being a little odd.’
‘Where was that?’ asked Rollison.
‘The Hammer Club, sir,’ said Jolly, ‘off Shepherd’s Market. It is a comparatively new club. Lenwell was there only for half an hour. I was not able to get in, but he came away looking rather troubled, I thought, sir. From there he went straight to his home, and his wife let him in. I wonder if the name of the club is a coincidence, sir?’
‘So do I,’ said Rollison. He threw back the bedclothes and went into the hall, lifting up the telephone and dialling Scotland Yard, explaining, while he waited for the call, enough to enable Jolly to understand why he was so interested.
A bright-voiced man at the other end said that if Mr Rollison recommended it, he had no doubt that the Hammer Club would be given special attention. All he knew about it was that it had only recently been opened. Inspector Ridgley, who handled the clubs, was not in; would Mr Rollison like him to ring back?
‘In the morning will do,’ Rollison said, ‘provided you give me the credit for prompt information.’
‘You needn’t worry about that, sir!’
‘Thanks,’ said Rollison, ‘Good night.’ He replaced the receiver and smiled at Jolly. ‘Bed seems a good idea,’ he said. ‘We’ll hammer it out in the morning!’
Jolly smiled, only faintly approving.
Rollison was astir early next morning when Snub arrived, complete with sheaves of paper on which were typed Rollison’s notes of the previous night.
‘He’s trying to make himself indispensable,’ Rollison thought. ‘I wish that pillar box—’
The front-door bell rang.
Rollison finished his coffee as Grice came in.
‘Why, good morning, to you,’ said Rollison, standing up, ‘Breakfast? Or, for friendship’s sake, a cup of fresh coffee?’ Grice accepted a cigarette.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘What’s the trouble? – for there appears to be one.’
Grice gave a short laugh. ‘I’ve just had an interview with Meredith. Be warned, Rolly. A specially dictated memo is going to all ranks and all divisional stations. General line of the memo: “Beware all amateurs in detection from the highest to the lowest”. The only thing left out is your name.’
‘And after all I’ve done,’ mourned Rollison. ‘I even made you a present of Ethel Kent and her story. Would you have got as far as that so soon, by yourselves?’
‘I doubt it. And I told Meredith so.’ He looked at Snub. ‘Barrow came to see you last night, didn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ said Snub shortly.
‘One day I will break that man’s neck,’ said Grice, with such feeling that Rollison laughed. ‘No, it isn’t funny. He should have been out doing something else, not wasting his time here. His trouble is that he’s had so many lucky breaks that he thinks he can do no wrong. I’ve caught him out in three deliberate omissions: three orders he just hasn’t carried out because he considered he had something better to do. I’ve had an interview with him, too,’ he added, darkly.
‘My turn now,’ murmured Snub.
Grice said: ‘I’ve never made a secret of the fact that I think it was ill-advised of Mr Rollison to employ you in the middle of this affair,’ he said, ‘and you know that I have been making inquiries about you. They’re all answered now. There are no grounds for suspicion.’
Snub put a hand on his heart. ‘A guaranteed blameless life!’ he cried. ‘An unsolicited gift from Scotland Yard! Just think of that! If I can ever do the same for you, just say the word.’
Rollison said: ‘This is all very encouraging, Bill. What’s opened your heart to Snub?’
‘I think you and he ought to know where he stands,’ said Grice. ‘At the same time, both of you must realise that after today’s memo, you won’t get any co-operation from anyone at the Yard or at the divisional stations. They can’t disobey orders. You’ll have to watch your step,’ he added, ‘and this at a time when you, Rolly, could be more useful than you’ve ever been before.’
‘And that’s saying something,’ said Snub, feelingly.
Grice laughed. ‘I’m worried to death about the Hammer. Conflicting stories still continue to pour in. He’s Santa Claus, he’s a murderer; he won’t touch violence, he uses his hammer ad lib; he only carries a hammer with him, he carries a gun and a knife. The only things on which everyone is agreed are his cleverness and the excellence of his organisation. I’ve been reading the most up-to-date report on the gentleman. Apparently he hides somewhere in the East End, and most of his messages are carried by children still of school age. Now and again he uses people like Ethel Kent, always when he has something on them, but that only started twelve months ago. He began with the children.’
Grice paused, and Snub rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
‘We just can’t get a line on him. And when the East End decides to act like an oyster, I only know one person who might prise it open.’ He paused. ‘And that’s you, Rolly. You’ve more friends there than all the police put together. Will you have a shot at it?’
‘Yes,’ said Rollison, promptly.
‘Knowing that you’ll be watched with suspicion by our people?’
‘That has happened before, you know! I have even known the great Superintendent Grice to cast aspersions. I’ll gladly have a go. In fact, it’s on the agenda for the day. But before I do …’
‘Yes?’
‘Ethel Kent?’ murmured Rollison.
‘Personally, I don’t think she killed Finnigan,’ said Grice, ‘but that doesn’t rule out the possibility. She had no poison and no hypo on her person, in her flat, or at any of the places where she goes regularly. Nor had the man who did the shooting in Bray Street, more’s the pity. He won’t talk at all,’ Grice added. ‘There was none of the stuff in the surgery. If Ethel Kent didn’t kill him, then someone else was there last night. The best bet seemed Dr Smith, his partner, but Smith was with friends all the evening. The murder was done only a little while before you got there, and after Ethel Kent had left, if she is telling the truth. Did you see anyone else go in, Higginbottom?’
‘No, but there’s a back door.’
‘Yes, there is indeed. One of Meredith’s complaints is that you went there without first telling us, Rolly. Had we known, he says, the place would have been watched back and front.’
‘It’s more than evident that Meredith’s getting under your skin, Bill,’ Rollison said with a grin. ‘He’s got reason for being uppish, you know. If I’d given you Ethel Kent’s name and address, she might never have gone to Finnigan’s last night. I feel some responsibility for the girl. I’ve e
ven got some ideas about her.’
‘Such as?’
Rollison half-closed his eyes. ‘She came here, under instructions, and I talked to her, and obviously the Hammer’s people knew that she had had time to talk to me. I think, once they knew that, they intended to incriminate her. Her husband too. Further, Finnigan was probably making trouble, and they wanted him out of the way. All a bit wholesale, I admit, but I think these are probabilities. A nice neat job would be: kill Finnigan, send Ethel to the place to quarrel with him first, establishing a motive against her. Send the man who won’t give his name, the gunman, to make sure it all happened to order. Give him instructions to prevent Kent from getting away alive. Oh, and Kent had to be sent there, to spy on his wife. He’d go if a rumour were passed on to him. Am I clear?’
‘No,’ said Grice, ‘but I see what you’re driving at. It suggests that Kent knows something.’
Rollison murmured: ‘Yes. What’s his record?’
‘Good. Steady fellow, a waiter at the Hammer Club. The Club’s about the average for a London night club, run by a man named Benson. Horniman knew Benson, who put five thousand pounds into the new company, but Benson seems all right. I know what you’re going to say,’ went on Grice. ‘There’s an obvious connection, as Kent works there, but I can’t see how it ties up with an attempt to kill.’
‘Easy,’ said Rollison.
‘Go on,’ said Grice, grimly.
‘My dear chap, what worries the Hammer most of all? What is the one thing which shows his weakness? His extreme caution. He always wears a mask. He sends little children or blackmailed victims to run his messages. He covers himself very cleverly indeed, but someone must have seen him as he is. If he patronises the Hammer Club, who would be most likely to see him? The staff. Hence, Kent, Q.E.D.,’ he added, gently.
Snub whispered: ‘Of course!’
‘There’s probably something in that,’ admitted Grice, ‘although I hadn’t seen it before. Kent swears that he knows nothing.’
‘He may not know that he knows, and still be dangerous,’ Rollison paused, then went on: ‘The same thing happened with Susan Lancaster, you know. Why did they try to kill her? The reasonable supposition is that she knows something vital to them without realising the significance. And like it or not, these things are all connected.’
Grice shrugged. ‘You may be right, you probably are, but meanwhile what did Mrs Willis have to say last night?’
Rollison looked at Snub. ‘This isn’t for your tender ears, I’m afraid, and I don’t think it directly affects the case. Fade out.’
When Snub had left the room Rollison told Grice what Mrs Willis had told him, and Grice promised to get the story checked at once; if Mrs Willis was accurate in every detail, there would be no need for any official action, he said. Grice left the flat soon afterwards, leaving Rollison with one major question in his mind.
Why had Grice been so frank with Snub?
Had he felt so angry with Meredith and Barrow that he had decided to take an opposite line? Or had he wanted to disarm Snub, and by so doing give him a spurious sense of security?
Whitechapel Road was thronged on that bright September morning. Costers’ barrows were doing a thriving trade, while the pavements were thronged with those of every class and nationality.
Rollison felt as if he had come home.
All his early adventures had been in this part of London. The dirt and squalor, the flashy brightness, the more than a suspicion that every other man he passed was a law-breaker, had exerted a fascination which had never really left him. Rollison smiled at himself at this last youthful misconception. Then an ugly face or a stealthy movement had seemed to spell ‘crime’ but he had soon realised that the majority of these people were as honest, as straightforward, as any in London. The difficulty had been in getting them to trust him.
That there were more petty criminals here than in other districts had soon become established. But there was crime and crime. The East End paid tribute to a distinct set of morals, a definite code in which violence, and crimes of meanness, held little part. Few would betray such criminals but none would actively help them.
After a while it had been borne upon them that Rollison, nicknamed the Toff, whom many had sneered at as an interfering, sensation-seeker, was prepared to ignore the petty crimes, the book-maker’s tout, the men who served a few drinks after hours. Gradually, after many misunderstandings, a new respect had crept into their voices when discussing the Toff. So his reputation had been built up, grudgingly at first, then with a certain admiration. If rogues of high order – blackmailers, murderers and their like – were the Toff’s quarry, so be it. They not only heaved sighs of relief but were, on occasion, prepared to give him a hint here and there. There came a time when many had cause to be grateful to him. One of those was Bill Ebbutt, who kept the Lion in the Whitechapel Road. The corrugated-iron gymnasium behind it had been the chopping block for many a hapless but hopeful boxer, and the training ground for many who had championships in their fists.
It was to this gymnasium Rollison was driving, and as he sighted the painted board marked: ‘BILL’S BOXING ACADEMY’, he drew up his car with a chuckle of satisfaction. The doors were open, and he could hear the thud of gloves on unyielding bodies, and a monotonous voice chanting: ‘Mind yer chin—mind yer belly—use yer left—wotjer fink yer’ve got a right ’and for?’
An old warrior, with wrinkled face and cauliflower ears wearing a choker, and a narrow-brimmed bowler on the back of his head, looked out. He stared without enthusiasm at the car.
Rollison called out: ‘Is Bill inside?’
The answer came back grudgingly: ‘Wotjer want ’im for?’
‘Oh, just a chat,’ said Rollison. ‘How are you keeping, Flatty?’
Flatty came up to the car and peered short-sightedly into Rollison’s face. Then a grin seemed to spread from ear to ear, and a misshapen hand shot out.
‘Strike me pink, if it isn’t Mr Ar!’
‘I’m glad I’m not forgotten,’ said Rollison, with real pleasure.
‘Take an ’ell of a long time ter forget you, Mr Ar!’ declared Flatty. ‘Bill won’t arf be glad ter see yer. I’ll go an’ tell ’im yer’ve come.’
‘Let me spring it on him,’ pleaded Rollison.
‘Okey-doke. But I’ll come wiv’ yer.’
The outside of the Lion was freshly painted. Inside the walls were hung with sporting prints. A young woman with peroxided hair built up into a pyramid of brassy contortions was leaning against the bar.
‘Where’s Bill?’ Flatty demanded.
‘Busy,’ said the barmaid, shortly.
‘’E ain’t so busy as all that,’ declared Flatty. ‘Get a move on, Marlene, an’ tell ’im a gent wants ter see ’im.’ He chuckled throatily, ‘Tell ’im I say ’e’s got to come.’
‘Fancy yourself, don’t you?’ demanded Marlene.
‘Any more lip fiom you, me gal, an’ I’ll do wot yer muvver ought’ve done wen you was a nipper,’ declared Flatty. ‘Saucy bit o’ stuff,’ he growled, as the girl flounced off. ‘Fings ’ave changed, Mr Ar, and not for the better.’
The girl came back and settled down to polishing her nails. Behind her loomed the fattest man Rollison had ever remembered seeing.
‘Nar wot—’ he began, and then he saw Rollison. He paused. He gulped. He gasped: ‘Gor Blimey if it isn’t Mr Ar! Well, I never did!’ He stretched out a mighty hand which easily engulfed Rollison’s. ‘It warms the cockles of me ’eart ter see yer, Mr Ar,’ declared Bill Ebbutt. ‘Where’d yer spring from? I fought yer’d given us up, dropped us like an ’ot potato.’
‘Is it as long as that since I’ve been here, Bill?’
‘It’s too long by ’alf, but come in, Mr Ar, come in … Marlene, draw three pints. No, I’m jiggered if I won’t draw ’em meself!’
In high delight, he drew the three pints and carried them into the back parlour, a small, dark, spotless room, hung with enlarged photographs of boxers
and wedding groups.
Bill seemed unable to stop talking. Rollison slipped in a few questions: how was Mrs Ebbutt, how were ‘the boys’ getting along, what champions had Bill got up his sleeve. To all of these Bill returned enthusiastic answers, and promised that his wife should be fetched before the Toff had gone.
‘She’s abaht the same,’ he declared. ‘Still singing ’er ’ymns, but she ain’t got me ter put on “Harmy” uniform yet, Mr Ar.’ And he enlarged upon the religious activities of his spouse while Flatty sat back in a corner and drank deeply.
At last Ebbutt stopped his flow of reminiscences and grinned with a set of teeth of such startling whiteness that would put to shame the snowy wastes of the frozen north.
‘Well, Mr Ar, yer don’t ’ave to tell me yer want somefink. Anyfink I can do to ’elp, yer’ve only got to say the word, but yer oughter know that.’
‘I do,’ said Rollison, who was really affected by the warmth of this welcome, and more than a little shame-faced, because Bill Ebbutt knew that he had come only for help and information. ‘A gentle whisper’s reached me, Bill, about a man called the Hammer. Do you know him?’
Flatty put down his glass very quietly, while an extraordinary change came over Ebbutt’s face.
Chapter Fifteen
Talk of the Hammer
Bill Ebbutt said that he would like to tell Mr Rollison a story. Was Mr Rollison in a hurry? The fact that he used the Toff’s full name was indicative of his frame of mind. He was preparing the way to say ‘no’. That in itself was surprising, for Bill was not a man to refuse information, even to the police, about the more violent type of criminal; and it appeared that the Hammer was violent enough, or he would not have travelled armed.
‘No, I’m not in a hurry,’ Rollison said.
‘Tell yer wot,’ said Bill, ‘we’ll ’ave a bite to eat. We still manige a rahnd o’ roast beef and two veg, Mr Ar. Okay by you?’
‘Just right,’ agreed Rollison.
Flatty went off to give the order, and while he was gone, Bill began to talk. He did so in a roundabout fashion, obviously not happy about the impending refusal. He talked of criminals who were worth a stretch or even longer, and of those who were not. He reminded Rollison that sometimes in the past he had deliberately withheld information from the police, because he had thought that a man was more sinned against than sinning. He was still on that theme when his wife, a little, bony, red-faced woman, came bustling in, carrying a tray. She greeted the Toff with delight, and talked for so long that Bill told her jestingly that they might as well have their dinner out of the frig.