The Toff on Fire

by John Creasey

  “That’s the cellar key,” she said, in a quavering voice, “as God’s my judge I don’t know what’s down there, but there’s the key. Hurry, Mr. Rollison, or else—”

  The door behind them gave way. Rollison heard it crash, then glanced over his shoulder and saw Vic and the others spilling towards him. The ring was in their way, and he had only seconds to spare. He moved swiftly outside and as he did so Liz Ebbutt slammed and locked the small door, and said: “Hurry, won’t you? Please hurry.”

  There were the big wooden gates which led from the back of the Blue Dog to the street – and the gates were being forced open, as men pushed against them. Two men were looking over the wall from the far side, but it wasn’t easy to climb, because Ebbutt had covered it with barbed wire and broken glass. There was the back of the pub, and the steps leading down to the cellar – and the cellar door.

  “There he is!” a man roared.

  Now, they were beating on the back door of the gymnasium. The noise was deafening, and it drowned other sounds, for the corrugated iron walls boomed and clanged as the door shook. Rollison reached the cellar steps and started down them. A man atop the wall flung something at him; iron clanged as it hit the ground. He had to turn his back, and bend down, to thrust the key into the lock. If he’d had to pick the lock, he wouldn’t have had a chance.

  He felt the key turn, and thrust the door open.

  It was dark inside, and the smell of beer was almost overpowering. He didn’t wait, but jumped in and slammed the door behind him. He locked it, then took out his hooded torch and flashed the narrow beam of light round.

  He found the main lights, and switched them on. He heard the sounds, muted now, and fancied that he heard a footstep in the yard. He pushed home the top and bottom bolts of the heavy door, and then turned to look about the cellar. Here, barrels of beer stood on trestles round the walls, each with a wooden bowl beneath it, to catch drops as they dripped. Smaller barrels were on shelves, above the big ones below. At the other side of the cellar was another door, and he knew that this led to the wine bins and the spirit bins and the bottle store. He might need another key for that. He reached the door, hearing the distant sounds but no battering on this one.

  Yet.

  He twisted the handle, and pushed and pulled, but the door wouldn’t open. He tried the key, but it was too big. He was clenching his teeth as he took out a penknife with a picklock blade, and started to work on the lock. He felt it catch, and then slip. He wasn’t as steady as he should be and fought hard for self-control. In the back of his mind was a fear which had been there from the beginning – that he would find Esmeralda, with the evidence that Ebbutt was involved.

  There was another fear, in its way greater.

  That the Doc’s men would throw an ‘egg’; as they had threatened at his flat, as they had done at the hotel.

  The key gripped.

  He turned it slowly and cautiously. Sweat was running down his cheeks and forehead. He felt the lock turning, but if it slipped again he would have to start afresh, and he might not have time. He felt it slip back sharply, and knew that he had won this battle against time, but as he pushed at the door, there was a heavy thudding on the other door which led from the garden.

  Here they came again.

  Torch flashing, he went into the darker cellars beyond this one. He stabbed at the light switch, and lights blazed on as he slammed the door behind him. He shot these bolts, too, then leaned against the door, as if he had to pause to get his breath back.

  There were the long lines of bins, the bottles covered with dust and cobwebs, the whisky and gin and vermouths, the rums and the smaller bottles fairly clean. He saw no one and nothing else, but that wasn’t significant; this part of the cellar was like a rabbit warren, with passages leading off to the right and left. Until he had searched them all, he couldn’t be sure what was here. The bins themselves were open at the sides, here and there bottles had toppled from one bin into another.

  He stopped, abruptly.

  An empty bin was close to the spot where two passages intersected. In this was piled a collection that would not have shamed the Black Museum at Scotland Yard. There were knives and guns, coshes and pieces of lead piping, there was a hangman’s rope, coiled in and out of the other oddments, there were little phials of poison, there was even a broken cuckoo clock and a brim of a top hat, poking out of the heap.

  Here were his trophies, part of the thing he had come to find.

  He did not see the laddered nylon stocking, which had been worn by Jessica Gay, who had sacrificed herself for love of the Doc.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The ‘Egg’

  The thudding on the door sounded further away, but the reverberation made bottles bang slightly against each other, and there was a continual rattling sound. Little pieces of straw fluttered from the bins. There was no other sound, and no threat from the other end of the cellar – with stairs leading from the pub itself. Rollison began to move very fast, trying not to think of all the implications of what he had seen, desperately anxious for Esmeralda, desperately fearful of the possibility of fire.

  Then, he saw the girl.

  She was lying in another empty bin – actually across two of them. Her head was propped up at an awkward angle against bottles of whisky, and her knees were bent. She didn’t seem to be breathing. Rollison reached her, and for a moment was oblivious of everything else. He bent over her, the smell of whisky and of straw strong in his nostrils, and took her hand, feeling for the pulse.

  It was beating.

  He could see no signs of external injury, and he didn’t lose much time, but eased her forward out of the bins, then lifted her. Her head lolled forward helplessly; obviously she was drugged.

  Now, he heard the banging again.

  If he went up the stairs leading into the Blue Dog itself, what chance would he have?

  He put Esmeralda carefully down on a barrel which was upturned at the foot of the stairs, leaned her against a post by the stairs, and went up, pressing against the hatch cover with his hands. He couldn’t move it. The bolts on the outside would be shot, so he couldn’t get out that way. He stopped wasting his breath and his energy, and turned back to Esmeralda. In her unconsciousness, she looked fresh and charming; and there could be no gleam in her eyes to suggest that she was intent on fooling him. Never mind how she looked!

  He could wait here and hope for rescue by the police – but the police might be too late. The most likely danger was an attack with one of the eggs, and if the cellar was fired, from the garden end, he would have no chance at all. It would be all over in a few minutes. The wooden barrels, the spirits, the straw, the shelving, would catch alight, the fire would roar through the cellars, devouring everything. He couldn’t get out through the pub. He picked Esmeralda up and carried her towards the other end, and had to pass his forlorn-looking trophies. He still heard the hammering on this inside door, which must be more solid than the other.

  There were the trophies—

  He stopped short, with Esmeralda cradled in his arms, and he stared at the bin next to the trophies. When he had passed it from the other direction, he had thought that it was empty, but it wasn’t. It looked like a nest in which a chicken had laid large eggs so addled that the shells were discoloured. There were four ‘eggs’ in all, and they were close together on the straw, looking unbelievably innocent. But for the one which had been set at the top of the door at his flat, he would not have given these a second thought, but here were the ‘eggs’.

  He put Esmeralda down, slowly.

  There were heavier noises from the door.

  He picked up one of the eggs, very carefully, then selected a handful of straw from another bin, put this in his left hand, and put the ‘egg’ on that; it was steadier. He glanced at the girl and her pale beauty, then walked steadily towards the
door. He wasn’t surprised to see light through it; they hadn’t been able to force it down, and they were splintering it as they had the gymnasium door.

  He saw the blade of the axe.

  It was wrenched out, and he could imagine the man wielding it drawing back and pausing for breath; there was a moment of quiet. He fancied that he could hear heavy breathing, and he wondered how many men were waiting to rush inside.

  He called, clearly: “That you, Vic?”

  He heard a man gasp.

  “Don’t be shy,” he urged, “if you’re Vic, admit it.”

  “What—” a man began.

  “Listen, Rollison,” broke in the man named Vic. His voice had the unmistakable edge of cruelty. “Nothing can help you now, don’t get any ideas. Before the police can get here you’ll be just a heap of blood and bones. After this—”

  “No armistice terms?” asked Rollison, sweetly.

  There was a pause.

  “You won’t get any terms,” Vic said at last, “you won’t even get a decent burial, there won’t be enough of you left.” He paused again – and soon there came a crashing blow from the axe. Rollison caught sight of the blade shimmering in the electric light. As the wielder tugged to get it out, Vic went on raspingly:

  “Your friends the police can’t get into the street, we’ve got cars across it each end—the riot outside that will last for hours. You wanted a showdown now, you’ve got it. The Doc won’t need any more building up, after this. He’ll have the police so scared—”

  Crash, fell the axe.

  “That they’ll come round here in parties of a dozen, not in pairs,” Vic gibed, “and they won’t have that ruddy stool pigeon called the Toff—”

  Crash.

  Now, the wood split wide open, and for a moment Rollison caught a glimpse of the shaft of the axe and also of Vic’s face; then the blade was withdrawn, and the wood came together again, but it wouldn’t take long to get the door down now; it was all over bar the shouting.

  If the street was barricaded—

  It was.

  Superintendent Grice jumped out of the police car at about the time that Rollison saw the wood of the door split asunder. He could not get nearer than a hundred yards to the Blue Dog, because of the huge crowd. Police were trying to force a line of traffic through, but the crowd was almost out of hand. Over the heads of the people, Grice saw the cars which were drawn across the road near the Blue Dog, their wheels sticking up in the air; they had been turned upside down, so that they couldn’t be easily pushed away.

  He saw bottles flying through the air, and could smell the foul fumes of stink-bombs which kept smacking against the pavement, the roadway and the walls of houses. There was a powerful smell of ammonia, too. Now and again a section of the crowd stampeded, to get out of the way of flying glass or liquid, but most of the crowd was safely out of range. About forty policemen were in the line of fire, and two men were sitting against the wall of a small house, blood streaming down their faces. The windows and the doorways of the Blue Dog were barricaded, and at the top windows men stood hurling missiles at the police, who couldn’t get near.

  With three policemen to clear a path for him, Grice got as near the end of the street as he could. A Divisional Superintendent came up, grimly.

  “Hallo, Bill, glad you’re here to see it with your own eyes. After this, perhaps you’ll wish you’d stopped your pal Rollison from throwing his weight about.”

  “Where is he?”

  “The last anyone saw of him, he was going into the gymnasium. There’s a rumour that he’s in the cellar. All I can tell you is that he fired a couple of shots, probably to make sure we came quick. I sent a couple of cars at the double, but they were overturned as soon as they stopped, the chaps in them were badly beaten up. The Doc’s in earnest.”

  Grice said: “When wasn’t he?” He began to move nearer to the line of overturned cars. A bottle smashed close to his feet, and liquid sprayed from it; he caught his breath as the ammonia bit at him.

  The Divisional man coughed and moved hastily away.

  “Just went mad,” he said hoarsely. “As soon as I heard what was happening I called you, but before we could get enough men here, they’d gone stark raving mad. Know what this is, don’t you?”

  “The Doc would like it to be a final showdown.”

  “If you ask me he’s got a chance to win,” the Divisional man said, almost desperately. “We’ll pick up a few of his legmen when this is over, but I don’t think we’ll get to him—not with any proof of identity anyhow. And if we can’t bring him in, then he’ll be cock of the walk for a hell of a long time. Rollison as the Toff will just be forgotten.”

  Grice said slowly: “He’s pretty tough.”

  “They’re after his blood, and they’re going to get it,” the Divisional man said, “he won’t ever come out of this lot alive.”

  Grice didn’t speak.

  Then he saw Jolly, much nearer the barricade than any other civilian, talking to a C.I.D. man. Jolly’s face was as white as his shirt, and there was a scared look in his eyes as he stared at the Blue Dog and then, espying Grice, came slowly towards him.

  Grice knew that Jolly also feared that there was no chance.

  Rollison waited until the axe blade smacked into the door again. This time the noise was not so loud, and wood splintered loosely. Half a dozen more blows and it would all be over – if Vic had his way. The man’s lean face, with those twisted, thin lips, showed for a moment, and then vanished as the wood closed up.

  “Vic, you couldn’t be making a mistake, could you?” Rollison inquired clearly. “I’ve found the eggs, you see. In fact, I have one in my hand at the moment. Addled, but no doubt capable of bursting. It would probably make quite a noise.”

  Another smashing blow from the axe was due.

  It didn’t come.

  “A little thing and a pretty little thing, although I confess I may be prejudiced in its favour this time,” said Rollison blithely. “It would be a pity if I dropped it, wouldn’t it? Of course, I would roast, but so would you. And the others with you, too. How does the prospect appeal?”

  A man said, hoarsely: “Think he’s got one?”

  Vic didn’t answer.

  “Oh, I have one,” Rollison assured the speaker briskly, “It’s the largest of the four which had been laid in the bin near my trophies of the chase. What shall I use as a souvenir this time, Vic? Eggshell? It will have to be a substitute, I wouldn’t like to use any of the real thing. Shall I open the door?” He paused for a moment, and then added: “Remember, if I were to be shot or knocked down or otherwise shaken, the egg would fall and that would be very much that, wouldn’t it? Forgive me if I sound a little light-headed, it’s simply that I’m really light-hearted for the first time today.”

  He moved cautiously, and pushed back one bolt; pushed back another. He could see through a hole in the door that the other men were still there, but a little further away, and he believed that they were waiting to see the ‘egg’ with their own eyes. He pulled open the door, slowly, and thrust his hand through – so that they could see that he was telling the simple truth.

  “To coin a phrase,” he said, “its mother was some chicken. Who was its mother, Vic? Or did it only have a doc?”

  The door opened wide.

  Vic and half a dozen other men were in the outer cellar, among the big beer barrels, moving slowly away from him. The far door was open, and Rollison could see the steps and the feet of other men atop them. One of the men here started to back up the stairs.

  “I shouldn’t,” chided Rollison, “it isn’t fair on your pals. I mean, if any of you are to be burned to ashes, fair play suggests that all should be.” The man stopped dead, and Rollison smiled at him amiably. “Supposing you do a little job for me. Come back here, go inside and pick
up Esmeralda Gale, and then carry her after me. Be careful you don’t knock against me,” he added solemnly, “we wouldn’t like that, would we, Vic?”

  Vic licked his lips.

  The other man came forward, slowly.

  “By the way, and as a point of interest, who is the Doc?” Rollison asked, as if he was only casually interested. “I have formed my own conclusion, of course, but I’d like to hear it in the form of a statement from one of his men.”

  Vic muttered: “You—you know who he is.”

  “Yes, but do you?”

  “No,” Vic said, “I don’t know him from Adam.”

  He broke off, as if he was choking.

  The other man came just behind Rollison, carrying Esmeralda.

  “On second thoughts, you’d better get in front of me,” said Rollison, “then I can see what you’re doing. Gangway, please. Here, mind my egg!” He started, as if the man had jogged his hand, and there was a frightened gasp from nearly every man there. He covered the ‘egg’ gently with his free hand, and shook his head at it. “We don’t want you hatching yet,” he upbraided. “Forward, please, and give me plenty of elbow room.”

  The man carrying Esmeralda went forward, up the steps, into the yard. There was another crowd; still and silent here, although there was plenty of noise from the street. Bill Ebbutt and Liz were near the gymnasium door, Ebbutt dwarfing his wife, and standing still as death.

  “Pass the word along that I’m coming with enough high explosive to blow everyone here to their Maker,” said Rollison. “Ah, Doctor Ebbutt, I presume, and Doc for short. Not badly hurt, I see. Be kind enough to take Miss Gale from this knight errant, and carry her out yourself, that will be a fitting climax.” He didn’t look at Liz; and Liz was leaning backwards, her hands at her face, as if she could not find the courage to look at any of them. Not even her Army uniform sustained her.

  “Mr. Ar—” Ebbutt said, and gulped, and then tried again: “Mr. Ar, I—I noo they was using the cellar, they—they pinched my gran’child. I—I ’ad to do what they said. They made me give them a set o’ keys, but I didn’t know—”