by John Creasey
“No,” said Rollison, softly.
“I’m glad I don’t have to open your eyes all the way. Now take another look at Ebbutt. He’s been carving a niche for himself for a long time. He’s the big shot around there, because of the boxing and the gymnasium. He commands a great deal of loyalty. He may have started off with the idea of running a good show for boxers, but the power he got through it may have gone to his head. Once a man’s had a taste of power, especially a strong-willed man like Ebbutt, you can’t be sure how far it will go. Ebbutt’s persuaded you that he’s being victimised by the Doc, but—is he? Supposing he is the Doc?”
Rollison’s lean hands were on the desk, and they were very still. His eyes were narrowed, and his face set. He didn’t speak, and he didn’t move.
“If he is, he’d want to put you on the wrong track, wouldn’t he? He would want to make it look as if he was being victimised. And he would want to keep friendly with you. Remember you, as the Toff, have given Ebbutt a lot of protection for years. You’ve always trusted him. Whenever you’ve wanted an under-cover job done, a job that the police wouldn’t do, whenever you’ve wanted strong arm help, you’ve called on Ebbutt. He’s given it to you, and he’s established himself as a buddy of the Toff, and therefore he must be trustworthy. Supposing he isn’t, Rolly. Supposing the gymnasium and the Blue Dog together make up the clearing house for the Doc’s messages. How would that fit in with the general scheme of things—including the fact that Mrs. Rickett says she was being held at a pub, or where there was a smell of beer?”
Rollison stirred. “It would fit in,” he conceded.
“Some other things would, too,” went on Grice. “We’ve been watching for a long time, you know that. We thought that we could catch the Doc before he did any real harm—that he was doing more good than harm by setting the crooks and the fences against one another, but that doesn’t mean that we haven’t kept our eyes open. And most leads we’ve got have taken us to the Blue Dog and Ebbutt, not to Marling.”
Rollison put his hand to his pocket, took out his cigarettes, and proffered the case to Grice. Grice seldom smoked, but he seemed glad of a cigarette now. Rollison flicked his lighter, and they lit up; everything was done with great deliberation.
“What is your brief for Marling?” Rollison asked, at last.
“I’ve no brief for him, but surely you can see—”
“The obvious,” Rollison interrupted, and he smiled but could not command the wanted lightness of tone or of expression. “That it would pay the Doc to allow false rumours to spread. As you’ve said. That it is much more likely that a man of Ebbutt’s dominating personality and his intricate knowledge of the East End would lead this business, than would a youngish doctor who’s only recently gone to live in the place. Yes, I can see all that. I can’t see Ebbutt as a king pin in this, though. I can only see Ebbutt as an honest man.”
“Paying out two hundred pounds a month in wages which you might almost call pensions.”
“Yes,” said Rollison, “I know.”
“Where do you think he gets his money from?”
“I think Ebbutt’s been a careful business man all his life, and that he’s comfortably off,” Rollison said. “And if he pays these wages, he doesn’t pay tax on the money.
But all right, Bill. Ebbutt is your Suspect Number I. I haven’t one yet—Marling is only an outsider.”
He didn’t think that this was the moment to tell Grice that Marling’s photograph had been in Maggie’s apartment, or that Esmeralda Gale was also involved with Marling. Grice would not have taken this anti-Ebbutt line unless he felt that it was essential, and it had to be probed, deeply.
“What are you going to do?” Grice asked.
“I’m going to see Marling first, and then I’m going to look for Esmeralda,” Rollison said, “but I’m not going to find her—not yet. The Doc will tell me where to find her, soon enough.”
Grice said: “I don’t follow.” The look of strain had gone, obviously he was relieved that Rollison accepted even the possibility that Ebbutt was the Doc. “Why should the Doc tell you—”
“He’ll get word to me that Esmeralda is in a certain place,” said Rollison, “and he’ll say that if I go there he might make terms. He’ll take a chance on my known reputation for preferring to work with Ebbutt and his cronies than the police. He’ll bait his trap with Esmeralda, and I—”
Grice said sharply: “What will you do?”
“Walk into it.”
“Don’t be a fool! If ever there was a case for working along with us, this is it. We’ll give you all the protection you need, and you—”
“You’ve plenty of people to look after,” Rollison said mildly. “I’ll look after myself.”
Grice drew in a deep breath, but didn’t attempt to persuade him.
Grice had gone.
Jolly came in from the kitchen, where he had undoubtedly been waiting and listening, with the door ajar. He looked as sedate as ever, and gave no inkling of his thoughts until Rollison said: “How far do you go along with Grice, Jolly?”
“If Ebbutt is the—ah—person known as the Doc,” said Jolly, very softly, “it will be the great surprise of my life, and I would immediately advise you to withdraw from all contact with the East End of London and with all investigation of crime. If you—if we could be so wrong—”
“We shall retire together,” declared Rollison, “and take a pub in the country.” He paused. “Jolly, I visited Ebbutt last night. I interrupted a conversation between him and Liz. I heard him as dispirited as a man could be. He talked of selling up and going to live in the country. At the time, I thought he was down in the dumps, because obviously he’d been under pressure, but could he have known that I was in the pub? Could he have heard me getting in, guessed who it was, and timed his little chat with his wife?”
Jolly eased his position.
“I suppose it is conceivable, sir,” he said, “and if there is any justification at all for Mr. Grice’s allegations, then there is at least one supporting factor which I’m sure you have already seen.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I was very puzzled indeed when Ebbutt said that he would not come to your assistance the other night,” elaborated Jolly, “and in the light of what we have now been given to understand, it is at least possible that he was pretending to be frightened, but that in fact—”
“If a man’s wife and grandchild are threatened with injury and perhaps torture, I think most men can be frightened.”
“No doubt, sir,” conceded Jolly, “but Ebbutt is a very strong character indeed. He has always been strong-willed, obstinate, and aggressive, and—but I think it would be better to try to judge by results, sir, don’t you?”
“I do,” agreed Rollison, “and now I’m really going to see Marling.”
“May I ask which suit you require, sir?” asked Jolly.
Before he left, Rollison looked in to see Evie Rickett.
She was in a drugged sleep; and all the injuries showed up on her tired face. Rollison seemed to see another face; Esmeralda Gale’s.
There was no sign of the struggle outside the doctor’s house in the Mile End Road, when Rollison arrived there. He had parked a hired car, a cream-coloured Jaguar, right opposite the front door, in full view of everyone passing. Traffic was thick and fast, but the wide road allowed plenty of room for parking. The red lamp was not alight. The grass looked very green and beautifully trimmed. The house itself was no thing of beauty, being of yellow brick which had not lost its harsh newness, but it had a spaciousness and a solidity which most of the buildings in the vicinity lacked.
A middle-aged woman with dark hair and the colouring of a Southern European, opened the door.
“Is Dr. Marling in, please?” Rollison said, as she smiled a welcome.
“Ple
ase, who wishes him?”
“Will you take in this card?”
“Immediately, sir.” Her accent was attractive. She moved to one side of the hall and tapped at a door and went straight in; it was the door of the surgery.
She came out almost at once.
“Please, wiz me,” she said. She did not lead the way to the surgery, but to the room where Rollison had found the picture of Maggie Jeffson. She closed the door on him, and the carpet which covered rooms and passages from wall to wall muffled all her footsteps. Rollison waited until she had had time to go, and then opened the door a crack, and listened; Marling might be on the telephone, might be sending for – whom?
There was no sound of a voice, and in a moment the surgery door opened. Rollison backed away, without closing his door. Marling’s footsteps grew firmer and heavier; he was approaching, and could hardly have had time to telephone or to speak to anyone else.
He pushed the door wide open and came in.
Rollison’s impression of the night before was strengthened. Here was a tall, good-looking man, with a strong face, an easy, self-confident smile, black, curly hair. He wore a beautifully cut suit of navy blue, and looked immaculate; the East End practice didn’t pull him down at all. He had lithe, easy movements, too. Rollison noticed all these things, and yet the thing that impressed him most was the look in Marling’s eyes; a smile that couldn’t be mistaken.
“Mr. Rollison?”
“Yes.”
Marling held out his hand; the grip was firm and the hand cool.
“I nearly called you the Toff,” he confided. “I don’t know of a man I’ve heard more about—mostly to your credit!” He motioned to a chair and took out cigarettes. “I don’t think we’d met until last night, had we?” he added, and the smile was gay in his eyes and the lighter steady in his hand.
Rollison said mildly: “I don’t even remember meeting last night.” He gave Marling a chance to come back at that, but the doctor let it pass. They sat down. “Dr. Marling, I know you’re a busy man and I won’t waste your time. Will you answer a few questions?”
“If I can, and if they don’t incriminate me!”
Rollison studied, liked and even admired him; and that was a great deal to have decided in a few minutes. It wasn’t just because of the man’s appearance or his smile, it was his poise and self-confidence too.
“I don’t think I want you to incriminate yourself,” said Rollison, “all I want is to find out if you have any idea who the Doc is. The Doc,” he repeated, “and I’m not thinking medically, it’s just a nickname.”
“I know which Doc you mean,” said Marling, without a moment’s hesitation. “Whether I suspect who he is—” he shrugged. “I don’t like guessing, especially on such a subject, and in any case so much of what I hear comes by way of professional confidence that it isn’t easy to answer everything I’m asked. But you know that.”
Rollison said mildly: “Yes, I know. Have you read the newspapers this morning?”
“Several of them.”
“Did any of them have a photograph of Miss Jeffson, who was shot and murdered yesterday?”
“No.” Marling looked puzzled but not uneasy.
“I didn’t see her picture in the newspapers either,” said Rollison, “but I came across one, and you might be interested in it.” He took out the photograph he had taken last night.
Marling took one look, and his whole manner seemed to change. The smile faded from his eyes, and shocked horror replaced it. His lithe body lost its suppleness, and he seemed to be rigid, as if there had been some physical transformation.
He stared down at the picture, his jaws working.
Then, he looked up.
Chapter Twenty
Whispers
Rollison thought that the other man would strike him. What relationship had there been to cause such an effect as this – relationship with a woman whose name he did not know.
Name, or alias?
The glitter in Marling’s eyes held a kind of menace, and his hands clenched by his sides. Something stopped him from speaking; perhaps it was the shock, coming right out of the blue.
Then, he said harshly: “You sure?”
“I was with her when she died,” Rollison said.
“Why?”
“I’d discovered that she worked for the Doc.”
“Meg did that,” said Marling, and closed his eyes. After a moment he turned round abruptly and pressed a button in one of the bookcases; a small cupboard swung open, and inside there were glasses, whisky, brandy, gin, soda, vermouth. Marling poured himself a brandy, and drank it too fast. Then he waved towards the drinks.
“You?”
“Not now, thanks. Who was she?”
“Meg,” said Marling, and gave a laugh that was almost a cry. “My sister. My twin sister. Oh, my God! You— listen to me, Rollison. You must be mistaken. I just don’t believe it!”
“Her face isn’t badly scarred, and they will let you see her,” Rollison said gently. “She was taken to the morgue at Cannon Row, close to the Yard. But don’t deceive yourself, Marling. She worked for the Doc, and he killed her.” He paused, but Marling didn’t speak, seemed to be fighting to regain his self-control, so he went on: “I’ll tell you some other things. I’ve been trying to find out who the Doc is. I’ve heard whispers, and they’re all the same. That you’re the Doc. The Doc.”
Marling growled: “That’s why you came here last night.”
“Never mind last night.”
“Whoever says it is lying and I’ll ram the words down his throat.”
“Let’s go on from there. You keep talking about last night. I know what happened then, and I know you had another man here, a man useful with his fists. Who is he?”
“Luke Dalton? He’s odd job man here, I’ve just taken him on. Chauffeur, mechanic, general worker. In fact he’s a damned good middleweight boxer.” Marling looked pointedly at Rollison’s chin. “He’s training now, and spends part time with me. He heard you about last night, and decided to teach you a lesson.”
Marling seemed to believe that.
“Who is he training with?” Rollison asked.
“Your friend Ebbutt. Your friend Ebbutt,” Marling repeated. He snatched a glance at the photograph of Meg, his sister, then went on savagely: “You talk about whispers, naming me. Why don’t you keep your ear to the ground? Why don’t you hear what they’re saying about Ebbutt?”
Rollison thought, coldly, miserably: ‘The only whispers I pick up about the East End come from Ebbutt.’ But he didn’t say that. “Well, let’s have it,” he said.
“They’re saying that Ebbutt has fooled you for years,” Marling told him, and there was bitterness but no malice in his voice. “Let me be perfectly frank, Rollison. I’m prejudiced in your favour. I’ve read and heard about you for years—I’ve a young brother who hero-worships you. I’ve followed your career very closely, partly because the East End of London had always fascinated me. I like the Cockneys, I think they’re the salt of the earth. That’s why I took over this practice, right in the heart of the East End. I was looking forward to hearing more about you from the East Enders who were supposed to rate you high.”
‘Supposed’.
Rollison’s expression did not change.
Marling smacked a clenched fist into the palm of his other hand.
“When I first arrived there wasn’t a word raised against you, you were just the hero that my young brother always thought. A few months ago, there was a change in sentiment. You’d left for New York, and rumours started to circulate about Ebbutt, and the way he’d fooled you. You were said to have run away from the Doc, anyhow. It didn’t need much to take that a step further—people who’d looked up to you began laughing at you. Ebbutt had taken you in for years, and you didn
’t know it.”
Marling stopped.
Rollison smiled, as if this was the easiest thing to sit and listen to, and he hoped that Marling took due notice as he asked: “Tell me one thing. How was it you got the ear of the people so quickly?”
“For two reasons,” Marling answered promptly. “Just after I came there was a nasty outbreak of typhoid, and with luck and quick work, we got it under control quickly. That broke the ice. The other is that I’ve always led the conversation round to you when I could. I didn’t like what I was hearing—and I still don’t like it. Sick people drop their defences much more quickly than most, and—well, I picked up all the gossip I could, simply because I was interested. Now I’m telling you what’s being said about Ebbutt. And Ebbutt, apparently, is focussing attention on me.”
Rollison nodded.
“If what I hear about him is right, he’s probably very edgy just now,” Marling said. “It’s said that he made hay while you were away, but hoped to get most of his work done before you came back. You returned too soon, and he had to draw you into trouble quickly.” Marling sipped the brandy again, and then added with a twisted smile: “So as to get rid of you.”
He stopped.
Rollison had waited, until now, to spring his next question: about Esmeralda and this man. Marling looked as if he had recovered from the worst impact of the first shock, and Rollison said: “How well do you know Esmeralda Gale?”
“Not well enough,” Marling said abruptly. “She—she was a friend of my sister. Only a casual friend, I think. Maggie introduced—” he broke off, frowned, and went on abruptly: “It’s none of your business.”
He closed his eyes, and looked away from the Toff towards the other photograph that was on a small table by his side. It seemed as if talking had taken his mind off the tragedy of his sister; but that the moment he had stopped, his thoughts had flashed to her. It was easy to judge from the tautness of his expression, and from the bleakness of his eyes, just how deeply he was hurt.