by John Creasey
The springs creaked more until, with a final groaning sound, there was a pause, followed by a thud; Ebbutt was out of bed. Quickly, he rounded the bed and Rollison saw the handle of the door turn and the door open. The light shone out, past the huge ex-boxer, who stood with his hands raised a little in front of him, his mouth open, his eyes rounded with disbelief.
“It is,” he gasped. “In the flesh, it is.”
“Why don’t you tell me who it is instead—” his wife shrilled.
“It’s Mr. Ar,” Ebbutt breathed, “it’s the old Torf in person. Streuth, Mr. Ar, you dunno ’ow much good this does me. I thought I’d crorsed myself orf the list, I did, strike me pink if I’m not telling the truth. Gorblimey O’Reilly—”
“Hallo, Bill,” greeted Rollison mildly.
“Don’t you come in here for a minute,” called Mrs. Ebbutt hastily.
“All right, Liz,” Rollison said, reassuringly. “Bill and I will—”
“And don’t you say a word until I’m presentable; I want to hear everything,” Liz said firmly. There had been a time when she would have refused even to consider talking to him in her bedroom; obviously anxiety had softened her attitude towards him.
Ebbutt was moving forward now. Rollison’s hand went out and Ebbutt gripped it tightly enough to hurt; Rollison just grinned. Ebbutt freed him, gulped, ran his hand over his bald head, pulled at his dewlaps, and then gulped again; as full of embarrassment as a child who had been forgiven some major offence.
“There’s a cove watching, Mr. Ar, did you—”
“He didn’t see me, Bill.”
“Then that’s okay. Mr. Ar—after I come to see you something—something ’appened. I ’ad to—”
“You can come in,” Liz Ebbutt called.
“Mr. Ar,” said Ebbutt, in a hoarse whisper, “I ’ope you won’t be offended, but the old woman finks as much of you as I do, reelly, so if you wouldn’t mind—”
“And stop that whispering!”
Ebbutt pushed the door wider open and Rollison went into the bedroom. It was large as rooms went in the East End, and the dark oak furniture was of a quality which showed that the Blue Dog was a paying proposition. The wall-paper and the colour scheme of wine red and pale blue showed that Liz Ebbutt knew exactly what she wanted, and had sound taste. She was sitting up in the middle of a huge bed – its vastness needed for Ebbutt’s size – a woman in the late fifties, wearing a pink bed jacket with a fluffy collar of angora wool, a pink night cap adjusted so that only a little of her grey hair showed, and with the wine red eiderdown smoothed out in front of her as if the bed had just been made.
Her dark, beady brown eyes were very bright.
“Glad to see you home again, Mr. Rollison.”
“Liz, you get younger every time I go away,” said Rollison.
She gave a quick smile. “Well, I don’t wonder at it either!”
Rollison chuckled, Ebbutt gasped – and his wife drew back in alarm as Rollison moved swiftly towards her, put his hands on her shoulders, and planted a kiss on either cheek. When he moved away, she had flushed almost as pink as her bed jacket.
“And I’ve got to say you don’t improve any,” she declared, “but it’s certainly time you got back.”
“You mean, it’s just what the doctor ordered,” murmured Rollison.
She stared, tensely; and then her face puckered into a grin. Ebbutt gave a snort of sound, and suddenly began to laugh; and his laugh came from deep down. Rollison glanced at the window and saw that it was closed; there was no danger of this uproariousness being heard outside. He waited until the outburst subsided, and it took a long time; when it was over, Ebbutt took a handkerchief from the pocket of his pyjama jacket, and dabbed at his eyes.
“That’s the first time I’ve seen him give a real belly laugh in months,” said Mrs. Ebbutt flatly. “You’ve done him a world o’ good already.”
“Liz,” said Ebbutt, squeakily, “this is one time when I agree wiv you. A proper universe o’ good, Mr. Ar, but—”
His expression changed, he became grave; and so did his wife. The excitement was over, and cold reason had taken its place, and it wasn’t easy to talk about. “Well, I know that’s wot you’ve come to talk abaht, Mr. Ar.” He licked his lips, and then said pleadingly: “Caw, couldn’t I do wiv a wet!”
“Bear” scoffed his wife. “That’s all you men ever think of, beer; it’s a pity you don’t join the Harmy, but I suppose it’s too late to be mended now. If you really can’t live without it, you’d better go and get yourself a pint. Only one, mind you, I don’t mind how much Mr. Rollison has, but only one for you. I,” she went on devastatingly, “have got to sleep with you, and I hates beery breath.”
“Pint’ll do me nicely,” said Ebbutt gratefully; “won’t be two shakes of a lamb’s tail.” He hurried out, and moved as quietly as a man could, with a ringcraft which had made him famous in his fighting days.
He made hardly a sound as he went downstairs.
“Mr. Rollison,” Liz said quickly and very earnestly, “I got rid of him for a minute because I wanted a word in your ear. Come nearer.” She took his hand. “The situation’s very bad, believe me, I ain’t ever known it worse. I don’t know what’s come over things, but this Doc, he’s a real menace. Got people planted neely ev’rywhere, that’s how he works. Cells. Like the Commies. First Bill knew of it, there was a couple of middleweights, seemed good lads to Bill, but you know what they was doing? Spying on him Then the Doc sent a messenger to Bill, told him he didn’t know you any more. Bill sent back a message—”
“Told him to go and fry his flipping face,” Ebbutt said, and startled Liz into jumping wildly. Her husband came in carrying a tray with four bottles of beer and two glasses; and a bottle of milk and cup and saucer. Liz faded out of the conversation and Ebbutt took over, while he poured the beer, drank to Rollison’s health, and then tipped the milk into a small saucepan and lit the gas at a ring in the fireplace.
“Next day, I was set on. I was, Mr. Ar! Caw, they didn’t arf smash me up; ’orspitable case I was. The damage was done while I was in the ’orspital, reelly, they got at the boys, scared the lights out of ’em, and scared the lights out of Liz, too. But I wouldn’t ’ave given in, Mr. Ar, but for little Lucy—you know, our Maisie’s kid. You was at the christening, you remember ’er, she—”
“Three years old with fair curls and a smile like Marilyn Monroe’s,” Rollison said.
Liz snorted.
“That’s her,” agreed Ebbutt, and added simply: “She was picked up orf the street this arternoon when I come to see you, Mr. Ar. Neely went mad, Maisie did, and me and Liz—well, what could we do? I ’ad a message that I wasn’t to see you no more, or the kid would be a proper mess. I just couldn’t take the chance, Mr. Ar, that’s the sober truth, I couldn’t take it.”
“You’d have been wrong to take it,” Rollison said quietly.
Ebbutt looked eager.
“You really mean that?”
“Of course I do, Bill. You’re to keep out of this—on the surface, anyhow. You don’t mind doing a bit of guerrilla work, do you?”
“Anyfink, Mr. Ar, anyfink at all!”
Ebbutt meant exactly what he said, and his wife supported him; but in fact there was nothing that he must do, after tonight. Rollison was sure of that. If the Doc found out that Ebbutt was helping the Toff, he would act swiftly and viciously, and there would be terrible anguish in this family and greater fear among others. Bill Ebbutt was ‘out’. And because of that, Rollison understood more clearly the kind of stranglehold that the Doc had. It was easy to see the pattern; the Doc attacking men who refused, on principle, to go to the police for help, until he had such a hold that they dare not go to the police.
“When did this begin?” Rollison asked.
“Few weeks ago, when the n
ewspapers said you was coming ’ome,” Ebbutt told him. “Said you’d leave Noo York in the Queen ’Liz, didn’t it? Day after, I discovered them two middleweights were the Doc’s spies. I put two and two together, Mr. Ar, and guessed the Doc didn’t want you to upset ‘is arrangements, so to speak. I tried to get in touch with Mr. Jolly, but ’e was out—and after that, when you got back, I just didn’t ’ave the ’eart to try to do anyfink.”
“You had the good sense not to, Bill. But listen.” Rollison drank more beer and leaned back in his chair, while Liz Ebbutt studied him with her beady eyes, and nodded with approval from time to time. “Do you know Dan Rickett?”
Ebbutt was puzzled.
“Well, yus, I know ’im. ’E’s not a buddy, but ’e’s often come in for a pint.”
“Did you know that the Doc snatched his baby?”
Ebbutt didn’t speak, but he turned pale. His wife drew in a sharp breath. They hadn’t known, but they knew exactly what it meant. Everything they did, almost every word they said, made the ascendancy of the Doc’s position more clear.
“Wot ’appened then?” asked Ebbutt, painfully.
“Rickett left the baby at my place,” Rollison said.
“Then—” it didn’t take long to outline the story, and the touching thing was Mrs. Ebbutt’s expression when she heard that the child was safe. Rollison stopped talking only long enough to finish his tankard, and to have it refilled, and to light a cigarette. Then he went on: “Any idea why the Doc would try to put pressure on Rickett?”
Ebbutt nodded his great head. “Yus.”
“Why?”
“Flyest boy there is in the East End, in the country if it comes to that,” said Ebbutt. “He can open anything with a lock, just seems to wave his hands and say abracadabra, and the can falls apart. Don’t even need a tin-opener! ’Ad a kid brother neely as good, but the kid ’ad trouble with the Doc. He got killed—they said it was an accident. All I know is that Rickett said he wouldn’t sell to the Doc if he was starving, and he meant it; he hates the Doc. Don’t arst me where ’e sold ’is stuff, it wasn’t frew any of the reg’lars as far as I know. I got the whisper, you know ’ow it is, everyone talks to everyone dahnstairs over a glass o’ beer. There’s anuwer whisper, too—did you ’ear abaht the big jewel job in New Bond Street, couple munce ago?”
“No.”
“Thief lifted a ’undred thahsand nickers’ worth,” Ebbutt said flatly. “The Yard didn’t ’ave a smell, but I ’eard it was Dan Rickett. Now if the Doc noo it was Rickett and wanted Rickett to sell the stuff to ’im—”
“That’s about the size of it,” Liz said, quietly, “you don’t have to look any further.”
Ebbutt said: “What a ruddy swine, I—”
“You may be drinking beer in my bedroom but I’ll thank you to mind your language,” Liz said tartly.
“Sure, okay, Liz.”
“Bill,” said Rollison quietly, “I want you to do just one thing. Pass on to me as much gossip about the Doc as you can, and give me a list of all his known contact men. I know there’s no direct line to him, but—”
“I can name twenty or more contacts,” Ebbutt said.
“Will you make out a list of them? Now?”
“Glad to,” said Ebbutt, “won’t take two shakes of a lamb’s tail, either.” He got up from a chair which was much too small for him, and then added almost absently: “You wouldn’t like to tell me why you want it, would you?”
“No.”
“Quite right, too,” said Liz, “the less you know the less you’ve got to worry about.”
“You wouldn’t like to tell me something, Bill, would you?” asked Rollison.
“Try me.”
Rollison said, very quietly: “I will. Who is the Doc, Bill? Do you know?”
There was a long pause, and a quietness in the room, before Ebbutt said very softly: “No, I don’t know ’oo it is, Mr. Ar, but I’ve got ideas. Lot of uwer people ’ave, too, but you won’t get them to talk. Remember, I’m only guessing, but—well, there’s a young doctor, come to practise in Mile End a year ago. The Doc wasn’t ’eard of until three or four munce after that. It might be just a coincidence, but—well, I’d take a look at Dr. Jonathan Marling, if I was you. Nice chap to look at, but—well, it’s a chance, anyway.”
“Thanks, Bill,” said Rollison. “Now, write that list out for me, will you?”
“Sure,” Ebbutt said, “but arf a mo’, take a dekko at a picture of Dr. Marling—in the Gazette the other night, he was, in the Local Personalities Column. You know.”
The Gazette was a local newspaper, chatty and discursive and popular. A copy was folded up and tucked in a magazine stand near the bed, and Ebbutt took it out, unfolded it, and pointed to a man’s photograph.
“That’s ’im,” he said. “Looks okay, but ’oo can tell?”
The Toff certainly couldn’t tell.
But he felt his heart begin to pound, for this was the man whose photograph had been in poor, dead Maggie’s room, and in Esmeralda’s handbag.
Soon, he would see Dr. Marling.
Chapter Fifteen
Night Work
It was half-past two when Rollison left the Blue Dog, by the same way as he had entered. It was cold, and he shivered in a blustery gust of wind. He went straight to the Mile End Road, and then turned the corner and walked past the gymnasium; he saw the watcher still there, and the light of a street lamp showed him to be in a little porch, where he was sheltered from the wind and where he could sit down. Rollison hunched his shoulders and walked past him.
Half-way along this street was the home of the first man on Ebbutt’s list.
Rollison did a simple thing.
He went to the front door, and slipped one of his visiting cards through the letter box, flicking it so that it went a long way into the hall. He let the letter box fall with hardly a sound, and then walked on, whistling under his breath. He went along to the next address, ten minutes’ walk away, and as Ebbutt had warned him, found this a builder’s home and yard; and in the yard was a bicycle. He borrowed the bicycle, after putting a card into this house, too.
Ebbutt had listed men who lived within a mile or two of the Blue Dog. On a bicycle, Rollison was able to cover them all, and he knew the district as well as he knew the West End of London. He passed one or two night birds, and two policemen, talking at a corner. They didn’t ask him what he was doing out so late.
The task took him just over an hour.
The last call was near the Mile End Road, half a mile away from the Blue Dog, and was a hundred yards away from that rarity in the East End, a detached house. This house was on the corner of the main road and a narrower one, and had been built on a spot where four small, terraced houses had been demolished by bombing. In their wisdom the local planning authorities had declared that this was a good position for a doctor to live, and they were truly wise. Rollison knew that an elderly doctor, named Grayson, had lived for years in cramped quarters and with nothing like enough facilities to look after his patients properly. The old doctor’s new house had been fully equipped, and two years afterwards, he had taken on a partner – this Dr. Marling.
Dr. Grayson was now dead.
His partner was still there, however, a man of about thirty or thirty-five. Ebbutt had said little but while the list was being prepared Liz Ebbutt had said a lot about Dr. Jonathan Marling. Rollison felt that he almost knew the man, who had certainly known Maggie Jeffson.
Most of what Liz had said was in Dr. Marling’s favour.
Rollison pushed open the letter box of the last house on his list, flicked his card in, grinned, stretched himself, and yawned. Then he lifted the bicycle over the wall at the back of the house, and slipped a card between the two halves of the bell. That done, he walked along the Mile End Road.
A r
ed light shone outside the doctor’s house.
Rollison reached it.
No lights showed at the windows. A front window was open a few inches at the top, which suggested that Dr. Marling did not fear burglars. There was a low brick wall, a lawn in front and, probably, a vegetable garden at the back of the house.
Rollison vaulted over the wall.
Two cars raced each other along the Mile End Road, going much too fast, headlights swaying up and down. It sounded almost as if it was a police chase. Headlights shone on the house, on the smaller ones nearby, on to the plate glass window of a shop. When the light faded and the engines died away, Rollison was on his own again.
He pulled on some old kid gloves, then examined the back door, very carefully. It looked simple to open, but that would depend on whether the bolts were shot or not. Rollison couldn’t tell without forcing the lock. He turned away and examined the window, using the hooded torch. The stillness of the night lent stealth to his movements. The latch did not seem to be fastened, and he put the blade of his knife beneath the bottom window, and pushed; the window went up far enough for him to get a grip.
The window squeaked as it went up.
Rollison waited, listening, heard nothing, and climbed into the kitchen.
The Ebbutts had told him that a middle-aged man and woman looked after Dr. Marling, who was a bachelor; a bachelor doctor on his own was likely to arouse comment in the East End. Only the three slept in the house, as far as the Ebbutts knew.
Now that Rollison was inside, the risk he took was very much greater. If Marling was an honest man and the rumours against him had no foundation, the fact that the Toff was the Toff, a highly respected citizen, would make little difference in the eyes of the law; unless it made the crime seem worse.
All Grice’s influence could do nothing to help him if he were caught.
He went out of the kitchen, walking quietly and slowly. Soon, he had the plan of the ground floor in his mind. The consulting room was at the front on one side, the waiting room across the hall – it was also the dining-room, judging from the furniture. Leading from the consulting room was a little store room and dispensary, where the drugs were kept, some surgical instruments, everything that a doctor and nurse were likely to need.