by John Creasey
Then, he said huskily: “Are you quite sure that the Doc killed her?”
“Yes,” said Rollison, and watched the other man narrowly as he went on: “I’m also sure that the Doc has kidnapped Esmeralda Gale.”
Marling exclaimed: “Good God! She—” he seemed to catch his breath, and then went on harshly: “Why the hell should he?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps to exert pressure, perhaps part of a kind of reign of terror, perhaps because he’s some special reason. The fact remains that he kidnapped her.”
There was a pause. Then: “Now I’ve a double personal interest in this business,” Marling said roughly. “I tried to keep aloof from it, both sides get sick and I didn’t want to keep any patient away. Now, I think it’s past time I went to see Ebbutt.”
There was murder in his eyes.
“If you see Ebbutt or anyone else until you’re back on an even keel, you’ll be crazy,” Rollison said. “At least wait until tomorrow. If I were you I’d wait until you’ve heard from me again, I might be able to dig deeper than you.”
Marling said, more evenly: “I suppose I’d better not start anything yet, but don’t get the idea that this is your job alone.”
“Our job,” Rollison said, and smiled gently, and stood up. “Mind telling me one other thing?”
“What’s that?”
“What made you think I called on you last night?”
Marling’s expression eased, and he went to the other side of the desk and picked up a visiting card. It was the familiar faceless man, jaunty and somehow challenging – and one of the cards which Rollison had dropped into the houses the previous night.
“Luke brought this in this morning,” he said. “He found a kiddie playing with it in the street. Then he did a bit of snooping, he knows I like the chit-chat, and he came here full of the story. In fact you almost staged a comeback, Rollison—it’s the first time anyone has laughed at the Doc since he came on the scene, but there’s a lot of tittering this morning. Luke said that he’d heard of eight or nine of these being found, all with people who work for the Doc. You can take it from me that the man in the street would like nothing better than to think you’re back in form—without Ebbutt.”
“Or with Ebbutt cleared?”
Marling said: “That might take a lot more doing than you think, Rollison. There’s one thing I haven’t told you. The Blue Dog is believed to be the place where many of the messages to the Doc are passed on—through there, and Ebbutt’s gymnasium. And there couldn’t be a better place.”
“No,” agreed the Toff, “there couldn’t be.”
Now he knew exactly what he had to do; and that it must be done at once. He had to force a showdown, and he had to do it alone, or all the respect the East End had for him would be buried in the past.
So might he.
He left Marling five minutes later, feeling quite sure that Marling would return to his study, and pick up that photograph. He did not believe that Marling had lied, and did not think that Marling was the Doc.
But Marling might work for the Doc.
He drove a few hundred yards along the road, and then stopped outside a telephone kiosk. As he went, he was aware of something he hadn’t noticed before, but it proved his need to act now. No one nodded, smiled or greeted him in any way, although there were many whom he knew, and who knew him. It was almost as if the people were afraid to admit that they knew the Toff.
He telephoned Grice.
“… and Bill,” he asked, “have you picked up any more information about the woman Jeffson?”
“Yes,” Grice answered promptly. “She was the sister of Dr. Marling, a widow who has been living at the Lancing Hotel for about two years under an assumed name. She had a regular allowance, always paid into her account in cash, and obviously she was the mistress of a pretty wealthy man. We’re trying to find out who. That what you want to know?”
“Yes, that’s fine,” Rollison said. “Any other news in?”
“Nothing at all.”
“You haven’t picked up Dan Rickett?”
“No, but I’m sure he didn’t leave the country,” said Grice. “We haven’t found his motor-cycle, either.”
“Esmeralda?”
“Nothing,” Grice said, gruffly, “and that’s going to raise the biggest storm yet. Sir John Wylie has a lot of influence in Government circles, and he’s beginning to raise Cain. His wife’s almost distraught. How well do you know the family?”
“No more than I know Esmeralda.”
“You can’t persuade Wylie to stop throwing his weight about, can you?”
“I can try,” said Rollison, cryptically. “Nothing guaranteed.”
He rang off, but immediately dialled his own number. Jolly answered almost at once – and something in his man’s tone made Rollison pause in what he was going to say.
“What’s the excitement, Jolly?”
“If that is the right word, sir,” Jolly said. “There was a note from Miss Gale, sir, which arrived by the last post—she had put her name on the back of the envelope, and I thought I would be wise to open it.”
“You were. What does she say?”
“That she thinks she knows who the Doc is,” breathed Jolly.
If Esmeralda knew that, no wonder she had been kidnapped.
Would she still be alive?
Rollison told Jolly what he planned to do, rang off, and went back to the Jaguar. Two small boys were studying it closely, but Rollison was less interested in the children than in three men on the other side of the road, who were standing and watching. They were men who might once have patronised Ebbutt’s gymnasium; powerful and tough. They waited until he was at the wheel of the car, and then climbed into their own, and drove after him. He watched them in the driving-mirror; they kept just behind, there was no doubt that they were shadowing him.
The Doc probably wanted a showdown, too.
Rollison turned off the main road, and the other car followed.
There had been a time when to drive through here would be to stage a kind of triumphal procession, but today only a few people took the slightest notice of him – and most of those were policemen, who patrolled in pairs. It was a long time since that had been necessary by day.
The other car still followed him.
He turned into the street where the Blue Dog stood at the Mile End Road corner, with the gymnasium just behind it. Half a dozen men lounged about outside the gymnasium, not inside; usually only youngsters who weren’t allowed in stayed outside. Rollison pulled up, across the road from the entrance to the big, low-roofed building, and the other car pulled up behind.
He got out.
He was aware of many people watching him from behind their curtains. He caught a glimpse of Liz Ebbutt, at the window of her bedroom. He saw the group of men draw up outside the doorway of the gymnasium. He took out a cigarette as he stepped towards that doorway. The three men followed him, and he knew that they were spreading out, so that he couldn’t get away.
The window squealed.
“Mr. Rollison!” Liz Ebbutt screamed at him. “Don’t come here, they’re waiting for you. Get away!”
He looked up at the window, and grinned and waved. Then he lit the cigarette, and surveyed the five men who were lined up in front of the gymnasium doorway. Inside, he knew, there were several men stripped to the waist, in the middle of training and working out, but stilled, now, with the tension which his coming had brought.
“They’ll tear you to bits!” Liz screamed. “Go away, Mr. Rollison, go away!”
This time, Rollison ignored her.
None of the men facing him was familiar, but several of those inside the big shed were cronies of Ebbutt, and once friends of the Toff’s. Now, they hung back, as if they were reluctant to show themselves; but
none of them made the slightest move to help the Toff.
He put his hand to his pocket.
One of the men said: “Get him,” and he heard those behind move towards him, saw those from the doorway crouch, ready to stop him whichever way he tried to go. They were afraid that he had a gun, but all he took from his pocket were his visiting cards. He tossed these into the air so that they billowed out and then began to fall like huge snowflakes – and then he took a running leap towards the doorway. One man dodged. Two drew closer, to stop him. The men from behind were within a yard or two, if they once caught him Liz would be proved right; they would tear him to pieces.
He swerved past the couple, handed another man off, and saw two more blocking the doorway. He had just enough space to take a running leap, and he made for them at speed. As he leapt, they swayed to one side, afraid of being smashed down by his full weight.
He landed just inside the gymnasium, and turned round swiftly; now, his gun was in his hand.
“After all, it’s in self defence,” he said mildly. “Anyone want to come any further?”
He was not afraid that the men outside would take any chances. His fears were of the men behind, of Ebbutt’s men, who should be on his side.
Then, he heard Ebbutt’s voice, as the ex-boxer came from the little office in a corner of the shed.
Chapter Twenty-One
Solo Effort
The Toff stood with his back to Ebbutt and the men inside the gym, and watched the crowd outside. There were nearly a dozen men, now – and, some distance away, many people watching as if they sensed that this was a moment of great decision. The Toff held the automatic lightly in his right hand, watching the Doc’s men as they stood still, and then edged away.
“No one coming?” he inquired as if sadly. “That’s a pity.”
Ebbutt had stopped speaking, and appeared to have stopped moving. No one behind Rollison was nearer than three yards, but that was very near. If they wanted to bring him down, they could do it easily; they could toss Indian clubs at him, or dumb-bells, they could do whatever they liked – if they chose to.
Ebbutt would be forced into the open.
A tall, lean-faced man came up the street, hurrying. Someone in the little group outside the gymnasium called: “Here’s Vic!”
Rollison had never heard of Vic …
He didn’t like the sneery twist to the man’s lips, or the nasty expression in his eyes, or the way his hand was deep in his pocket. He came striding, and the man who had called his name moved towards him.
“What’s this all about?” Vic asked, sharply.
“It’s the ruddy Torf—”
“I thought I said he wasn’t to go inside.”
“That’s right, that’s what you said,” the man agreed, “but it’s like trying to stop a jet.”
Vic sneered: “It’s like working with a lot of halfwits.”
He kept his right hand in his pocket as he drew nearer the entrance, and as he eyed Rollison, Ebbutt began to speak. Ebbutt’s voice was pitched so low that the words only just reached Rollison’s ears, and he could imagine that Ebbutt was speaking without moving his lips; so that no one could see that he was talking.
“Mr. Ar,” he muttered, “you never should’ve come, it was askin’ fer trouble. Pack it in, woncha? Tell Vic you’ll get aht of ’ere quick.”
He stopped.
The man named Vic stood two yards from Rollison; if sight of the gun made him uneasy, he didn’t show it.
“Just tell ’im you won’t make any trouble, Mr. Ar,” Ebbutt muttered miserably, “we don’t want—”
Vic said flatly: “Take his gun away, Ebbutt.”
Ebbutt drew in a sharp breath.
“You heard me,” Vic ordered, “take his gun away, we’ll teach him whether he wants to come poking his nose into our front door again. Take that gun.”
“Mr. Ar,” breathed Ebbutt, “drop the gun, and then make a run for it.”
“Take it!” rasped Vic.
There was no shadow of doubt what was happening, now. No man behind Rollison would move or speak for him; the friends of yesterday were the neutrals of today, and some might even be enemies. There was bitterness in that, but much of it was caused by fear of what reprisals the Doc might take. Ebbutt might be governed by the same fear, but he was coming down on the Doc’s side in the showdown.
“Mr. Ar—”
“No, Bill,” said Rollison mildly, “I’m not going to drop the gun or give it to you. I’ve come here because I’ve a job to do. I want to go down into your cellar.”
“Look, that mob out there—”
“I want to have a look round in the cellar,” Rollison insisted, “that’s what I came for and what I’m going to do.”
“Mr. Ar, if you don’t drop that gun and talk turkey, there’s no knowing wot they’ll do. I warned you—”
Rollison spun round.
As he moved, he fired two bullets through the open, sliding door, over the head of Vic and his friends, smacking them into the walls of small houses opposite. Then he drove his right fist into Ebbutt’s stomach, and as the big man folded up, staggering and gasping, Rollison jumped towards the sliding door and pulled at it with all his strength, to keep Vic and the others out. He saw Vic dart forward, other men with him. He saw the shiny black cosh in Vic’s hand, the ugly weapons in the hands of the others. Vic reached the door and shot out a hand to try to stop it from closing, but Rollison slammed it hard. It crashed into Vic’s fingers, and he heard the man’s squeal. The door slid back a fraction, Vic’s hand dropped out of sight, and Rollison pushed the door right home and dropped the bar across so that it couldn’t easily be forced.
Then, he swung round.
A dozen or more men were in here, some with big sweaters, some stripped. Ebbutt was still backing away, but his hands were at his stomach now, and he was breathing heavily.
Heavy thuds shook the sliding door.
“Mind if I look in the cellar, Bill?” Rollison asked politely. He put his gun back into his pocket, as if to suggest that he now knew that he was among friends, and smiled as if there was no hostile crowd outside. He knew that the crowd wouldn’t be there long, for the shots would have echoed far and wide – and news of them and news of the assault on the doorway would soon reach the ears of the police. It wouldn’t be long before the mob was dispersed, but – it might be too long.
Ebbutt spoke heavily, painfully.
“Mr. Ar, I can’t give you no more protection. I told you that, didn’t I? I can’t take no chances. If I do anyfink to ’elp you, Gawd knows wot’ll ’appen to Liz and my daughter and ’er kid.”
He stopped, standing squarely in front of Rollison. Men moved behind him, like a solid phalanx, as if to make sure that Rollison couldn’t get away. The thudding on the door was thunderous, now. Soon, men would come to the other doorways – those doorways which led to the garden of the Blue Dog, and to the cellar beneath the pub, the cellar where Evie Rickett might have been kept prisoner.
“I just want to go down into the cellar, Bill.” Rollison’s voice was quite normal. “Give me the keys, will you?”
“Mr. Ar, don’t make me—”
“Bill,” said Rollison lightly, “while I live, nothing and no one is going to stop me from going down into the cellar. Do you want it the hard way?”
“’Ard way,” said Ebbutt, and seemed to sigh. “You’re the one wot’s makin’ it ’ard. Listen to that banging, Mr. Ar, that will tell you ’ow mad they are. You’ve been away too long, you don’t know how—”
There was a splintering noise, behind Rollison; an axe, through the door. Two more thuds followed, and then another menacing crack, as wood splintered. It was only a matter of minutes, now, and the police hadn’t arrived; they were probably on the way in force, but they might arrive
too late. Ebbutt stood as solid as an oak door, with his men behind him, and others now sidling along the sides.
There was no doubt that Ebbutt was prepared to throw him to the wolves, but – why?
The little door in the corner opened, leading to the garden and the cellar.
It might be one of Vic’s men, it might be another of Ebbutt’s. Rollison didn’t know, and didn’t care. He moved very swiftly, taking the gun from his pocket. That made the men behind Ebbutt sway back, as if before a high wind; but Ebbutt stood his ground.
“Bill,” said Rollison, “I’m coming.”
“For Gawd’s sake—” Ebbutt was sweating, there was a beading on his forehead and face, a beading on his upper lip. “Don’t make it any worse, Mr. Ar, if you get down into that cellar my Liz an’ Maisie an’ ner kid—”
Rollison squeezed the trigger.
He fired at Ebbutt’s fleshy thigh, but aimed to frighten, not to wound. The roar of the shot sounded loud in the confined space, and the corrugated iron clanged under the explosive sound; and under the smashing blows of the axe. Then Rollison thrust Ebbutt aside, and he staggered back, the sweat dripping from his forehead, one hand clutching his leg. The other men, nervous of the gun, moved away – but before Rollison was half-way along the gymnasium, a man picked up an Indian club and flung it at him. It passed in front of his eyes. Another caught him on the back, a third brushed the side of his head. But the threat of the gun cleared a path ahead, and he was within a yard of the door when he saw who had opened it.
It was Liz Ebbutt, in her Salvation Army uniform.
She stood just outside the door, and something shimmered in her hand. A knife? Liz? Rollison couldn’t believe it. A dumb-bell struck him a glancing blow on the back of the head, and it wouldn’t be long before the other door crashed in. If Vic and the mob caught up with him, he would probably be beaten to death before the police arrived.
But he couldn’t strike Liz.
He saw her lips move, and saw her hold out the ‘thing’ which shimmered in her hand.