by John Creasey
Beyond this was a small room, which was book-lined from floor to ceiling; a study.
Rollison drew the curtains, after checking that they were not likely to show much light through, closed the door, and then switched on the light of this room. The books seemed to spring at him from the walls. The armchairs were large and comfortable. A bottle of whisky, a siphon and a jar of tobacco were on a small table, next to a copy of the Times and one of the popular dailies. Nothing could have seemed more normal.
The books were in great variety. Medical text books filled one wall, classics most of another, translations from the French, German and Italian as well as Spanish, filled two shelves. Marling had a catholic taste in reading. There was a small pedestal desk in one corner, and Rollison sat at this. He hesitated, then stood up and went to the door, listening but hearing no sound.
He put out the light, and opened the door an inch.
No; there was nothing.
He closed the door again, and then went back to the desk. On it was a photograph of a pleasant-faced elderly woman. Marling’s mother?
And there was a framed photograph of Esmeralda Gale.
Rollison did not spend much time looking at Esmeralda, but it was difficult to get her out of his mind. There were a lot of questions he wanted to ask Esmeralda—
Later.
The drawer of the desk was locked, but a skeleton key had it open in a few seconds. Rollison opened the other drawers, once this control was free. There was little here. A few letters, some from abroad; pens, pencils, all the oddments a man might have in his desk. There was a folder of bank statements, showing that at the end of June, Marling had had a fairly comfortable bank balance of a little over four hundred pounds. There were some receipts for stock and share certificates, all the investments rather conservative; judging from these, the man was worth about fifteen thousand pounds.
In the bottom drawer were some more photographs; the elderly woman again, this time with an elderly man; two men, youngish and cheerful when the picture was taken; on the back were the words: “George and me, Buxton Conference.” There was a family portrait, and several other pictures, mostly of young women – all heads or head and shoulders, all pleasant – all unknown to the Toff.
Except one.
Here was a picture of Margaret Jeffson, otherwise Maggie.
Esmeralda and Maggie, both friends of Marling.
Nothing on the photograph told Rollison why it was here; there was no name, no date, no photographer’s stamp. He studied it closely, then looked through and found two others of the same woman. He put one in his pocket, then closed the drawer.
There was nothing else here, no records of names and addresses of the men whom Ebbutt had pinpointed, for instance, nothing to suggest that Marling was leader of the organization which had a stranglehold on part of the East End. There might be something upstairs – or there might be something in the green steel filing cabinet in the office next to the surgery.
Rollison tip-toed to the door again, switched off this light, and opened the door. There was still no sound, and the only light came faintly through a frosted panel of the door; there was a street lamp just outside.
He turned into the office. The window here had a blind, which was down; and he knew that the window faced the garage, so there was less chance of it being noticed. He closed this door, which was facing the foot of the stairs, and opened the cabinet.
The drawer squeaked.
He checked, quickly, and found that the drawer was filled with files dealing with patients; and that it also contained a part of the file of Medical Cards belonging to those patients registered with Dr. Marling under the National Health scheme. The other sections were in the drawer below. Rollison scanned them, picked up the filing system quickly, and then began to check the names on Ebbutt’s list. After five minutes, he began to feel a real excitement, for the first seven names of people to whom he had delivered his billets doux that night were registered here.
He checked the rest.
His excitement mounted as each one appeared, and by the time he had finished, he found that the twenty-seven people whom Ebbutt knew worked with the Doc were registered with Dr. Marling.
Coincidence?
“Not likely,” Rollison murmured, and sat back for a moment, to savour what he had discovered; and to think about it. The one thing he had learned was to take nothing for granted. This might point a finger at Marling, but—
He closed the drawers, one after the other, after making sure that there was nothing else to interest him. He hadn’t done too badly, and it might help to find out what kind of reaction there was to the distribution of the cards.
He could come and see Marling tomorrow.
He went cautiously towards the door, listened, heard nothing and opened it. Except for the moment of breaking in, and the visit to Ebbutt, it had been as uneventful a night as he could remember. And welcome. He switched off the light and stepped into the passage. There was just the haze of light against the frosted glass of the door. He might as well go out the front way, it would save climbing a wall at the back, and he would be nearer the main road. He need not walk straight out, but could make sure no police were passing. He had more to worry about from the police now than from anyone else.
He opened the front door a fraction; it wasn’t bolted. Most people in Marling’s position would have felt safer if the doors were locked and bolted.
He stepped on to the porch, and looked up and down, but saw no sign of the police, no traffic, nothing at all except the shapes of the houses and, a long way down the road, a lighted window and a neon sign. In the distance there was the rumble of heavy traffic, as if several lorries were on the way here. He closed the door with hardly a sound, and stepped out of the porch.
A man, standing close to the wall, struck at him savagely.
Rollison saw the shadowy figure and the upraised arm. He had been so sure that there was nothing to fear that he hadn’t a moment’s warning. He tried to dodge back, but couldn’t. He felt the blow on the side of his head, and it sent him staggering sideways. Before he could recover, the man was on him, smashing blows at his face, his stomach, his chest. And they were powerful, paralysing blows. Vaguely, Rollison realised that he was being attacked by a man who knew where to strike, and how to hurt – a man who seemed intent on hurting more than anything else, because he could have put his victim out in the first few blows.
Why didn’t he?
Rollison gasping for breath, covering up as well as he could, felt the blood trickle from a cut in his lips, was vaguely aware of other sounds; and then the rain of blows stopped, and he heard a man’s heavy breathing. He himself was crouching against the wall of the house, his hands still covering his face. His right forearm was numb from the blows he had taken on it, his mouth was very sore, and one eye seemed to be swelling.
Then a man said: “Stop that, you ruddy fool! Stop it!”
There was a scuffle, and then the blows stopped and Rollison was aware of two men where there had been one.
“What do you want to do? Kill him?” The newcomer asked roughly.
“He asked for what he got, breaking in here, and—”
“Ever seen him before?”
“Can’t say I have, Doc.” Rollison’s assailant admitted. “If we get him inside we could have a better look at him. Or would you rather call the rozzers?”
The man called ‘Doc’ had a deep, pleasant voice.
“He’s had enough punishment to be getting on with. But I’d like to find out what he was after—my money, or something out of the dispensary. Let’s have him in.”
“Okay,” the other man said.
Rollison knew that if they took him inside and shone a bright light upon him, it would be fatal. This young doctor might be the Doc, and if the Doc knew that Rollison was so near, it wou
ldn’t be difficult to get rid of him. He had stopped the other’s onslaught, but at a word it could start again, and if a man was killed in a fight when he’d been caught breaking into a house, then—
Marling, who was standing on the porch, was looking at Rollison. Rollison saw a tall, well-built man with dark, curly hair and the face he knew from photographs.
“Come on, get a move on,” said the man who had mauled Rollison, “the Doc wants a little talk with you.”
“I—I’m coming,” Rollison muttered.
“And keep your hands out of your pockets.”
“Okay.”
The only chance was to fool them; to make them feel that he was finished and there was no fight left in him. He moved away from the door, and then groaned convincingly, and sagged back again, lifting his right leg off the ground. His assailant glanced down.
“Didn’t break his leg, did you?” asked Marling abruptly.
“Not me,” the boxer said. “Here, stop foxing and take a walk.” He pulled at Rollison’s right arm.
He was not prepared for any reprisals.
Rollison moved his hand, gripped the other’s wrist, and twisted. The man screamed; it was a high-pitched, cut-off sound. Then he crashed against the wall. Half-way down from the porch step, Marling hesitated just long enough to give Rollison a chance to go for him – but Marling was fresh and he’d had warning.
“Don’t try to run,” he said sharply. “If you do I’ll send for—”
Rollison pulled the gas pistol out of his pocket. He was near enough to squirt the gas into Marling’s face, to start him coughing and gasping. Marling began to sway as ammonia stung his eyes and nostrils.
The boxer, getting to his feet, unsteadily, gave one long gasp when Rollison fired another pellet close to his nostrils. Then he began to groan.
Rollison drew back, also gasping.
He saw headlights coming along the road, swaying up and down, the lights of a private car. The beams shone on to the doctor’s house and the garden, and would soon shine upon him. He was already clearly visible in the light which came from the hall. He drew back hastily into shadow at the side of the house, but before he reached the corner the car came into sight, and on top of it was the blue and white sign: Police.
Police car drivers didn’t miss much. They would see the light here, and if they saw either of the staggering men they would come to investigate.
The car slowed down.
Rollison turned the corner of the house, then began to move across the back garden, but his head was throbbing, and he was still out of breath. A whiff or two of the ammonia had blown back at him, his eyes were smarting, and he could feel the gas biting at his nostrils and his mouth; yet he had to keep his mouth open to breathe.
He heard the car engine stop, a door slam, and footsteps. In a few seconds they would see the men on the ground, in a few seconds a police whistle would shrill out.
What chance would he have of getting away?
Chapter Sixteen
Esmeralda Again
If he turned and ran, where would he go?
He had no reliable friends nearby; none who would not be too nervous of the police or of the Doc to give him sanctuary. He had the wall to jump, but was in no state to do much running. On this dark night there were police in a hundred places, in doorways, at corners, in cars, waiting and prowling, ready to catch any man who was on the run.
Rollison knew that if he cut and run for it, the odds would be heavily against him.
The two men came running from the police car. He stood close to the corner, peering round, and saw that one was a youthful-looking man, the other a middle-aged Divisional officer whom he knew slightly.
Once that whistle shrilled—
They were only a few feet away from Dr. Marling, who was leaning against the wall, Ms face buried in his hands, and from the other man on the ground, writhing and pretending to much more pain than he felt.
One of the policemen said sharply: “That’s Dr. Marling.”
“Better nip back to the car and—”
They had no time.
Rollison came hurtling from the corner, gun in hand. Each man saw it. For a moment they were petrified with a fear which it was easy to understand, for all they knew this gun was loaded with bullets. One of them flung up his hands, and said harshly:
“Put that gun down!”
Rollison fired a burst at each man’s face, then ran on towards the main road and the police car. He could hear them staggering about on the gravel of the path. Once one of them got his breath back he could use his whistle, but that wouldn’t be for a few minutes.
Rollison reached the gate.
A big lorry was a few hundred yards down the right road, coming this way.
Rollison said: “Bill Grice, forgive me,” and slid into the driving seat. If his luck held, a key was still in the ignition. He felt for it, and found it. His laughter was almost shrill as he eased off the brakes. The engine roared. He drove past a lorry as it came towards him, and watched in his rear mirror once it was past. The driver showed no interest in what was going on outside Dr. Marling’s house.
Rollison drove fast, beneath the safety badge of the police sign on the car roof.
A voice came into the car, out of silence.
“Calling Car 39, calling Car 39.” There was a pause, and then again: “Calling Car 39, for position and report. Calling Car 39—”
Just visible in the windscreen was the little label, marked 39. The Yard Information Room was calling, and the live radio suggested that the driver had called the Yard, and perhaps reported seeing the scuffle. And there would be several other patrol cars in the vicinity; the quicker he got out of this the better.
“Calling Car 39—”
He knew exactly how the transmission was worked, was almost as familiar with this as with his own Bristol. He flicked the control, and said in a rather hoarse voice: “This is Car 39, this is Car 39 reporting. Investigating burglary at house of Dr. Marling, Mile End Road, near Rex Cinema. Please send supporting cars. This is Car 39—”
“Calling Car 39,” the response came back. “Message received, supporting cars being sent to Dr. Marling’s house, Mile End Road. End of message, message ends.”
The radio fell silent except for subdued crackling. Rollison drove on, grinning broadly and finding it difficult not to laugh aloud. He was going in one direction, the new cars would be going in the other. Things could only go wrong now if a second car came along this road towards him.
He sobered up.
He saw what he had not noticed before; a faint greyness in the sky. This was the second morning that he had been up to greet the dawn. Buses would soon be running, perhaps they were on the road already. Trains would be running on the tube. He saw three people come out of a street, coats buttoned up against the wind, and turn towards the nearest station – Aldgate East. He turned the car off the main road, and then down a little cul de sac where there were half a dozen small houses. Lights shone from the windows of three of them, but no one was about. He got out, left the car lights on and hurried away from the spot. The footsteps of several people were audible now, and he could hear the whirr of bicycle tyres, as someone came towards him. He had a moment’s dread; that this might be a policeman on a bicycle, but he saw that it was someone in a uniformed cap, not a helmet.
He dabbed his cut lip dry, pulled his cap low, and walked off.
He reached Aldgate Station with a little crowd of others. They were shivering in the cold east wind, but he wasn’t cold, he was almost too hot. He still wanted to laugh. He could picture Grice’s face when Grice learned what had happened; he could imagine Grice jumping quickly to the conclusion that it had been the Toff, but—
Forget it.
He bought a newspaper, glanced at the headlines, a
nd then stopped so abruptly that a man behind cannoned into him. The man grumbled. “Sorry,” said Rollison, gruffly, but didn’t look up from the Daily Globe. There was the whole story of the fire at the hotel and the murder of Maggie Jeffson. The police had kept nothing back; this was one of the few occasions when they had given all known details to the Press, and had obviously asked them to beat the big drum.
The Globe had.
So had four other newspapers that Rollison bought, tossing a shilling to the old man at the stall and waiting for his change. A train rumbled nearby, there was a rush from behind him, and he joined in. The train roared into the station and he was half pushed into it. Yet there was plenty of room. He found a corner seat, began to look through the newspapers, and, conscious of the ever-curious eyes of other passengers, he looked at the sporting pages first. He didn’t linger on them long.
Four of the front pages starred the Toff, and three carried photographs of him. But the thing which really took him off his balance were the photographs of Esmeralda.
She was as photogenic as a Hollywood star, and she smiled up at him with that demure look which somehow wasn’t really demure; as if she was intent on making the world think she was.
Rollison put the newspapers down as the train drew into Temple Station. He would get out at Charing Cross, the next stop, and take a taxi. He had not yet fully absorbed the story about the Doc’s reign of terror in the East End; and there was the story of the kidnapped baby, of the unnamed thief who had taken it to the Toff for sanctuary. It was all cleverly and smoothly done, and Esmeralda was there because—as she had clearly stated to the newspapers —she had been at Gresham Terrace when the baby had been discovered.
How had the newspapermen got on to her? And what had persuaded her to talk so freely?
“She probably likes seeing her picture in the paper,” Rollison said, and made a neighbouring passenger glance at him curiously; the train was now nearly full. Rollison gave a vacant smile, and then glanced at the Stop Press items. Three didn’t interest him, but the fourth gave a few more details.