by John Creasey
She had been watching Jolly as if fascinated, but answered at once.
“It might for a barber,” she said. “Like to know where the best wigs come from around here?”
“You’re going to say Donny Sampson’s.”
“It must be wonderful to have second sight,” Stella Wallis gibed. “Donny’s own daughter had her hair cut off today.”
“Really.”
“And Donny’s a cunning old so-and-so,” the woman went on. “He gets the names and addresses of girls with lovely hair from his competition, and sooner or later they lose their hair—if it’s the best for making wigs. He owns dozens of barber’s shops in London, and this Hair Stylists’ Association is just a name for them, although he keeps in the background. He has those leaflets distributed and advertises where it’ll do most good, in local newspapers and shop windows, and gets more silly little fools to go to his places. He must have pulled in thousands of customers! They can only enter if they go to a shop he owns, whether his name’s on the front or not. He gets hundreds of heads of hair for his wigs that way.”
“Very interesting,” said Rollison gratefully. “We’ll have to check on Donny. Thanks, Stella. Another gin? Right then, off you go! Don’t try any tricks now. Jolly, if Mrs. Wallis should fall asleep in the car, don’t be too surprised,” he added quite unexpectedly. “She’s had a strenuous day.”
“Sleep? I never get tired until after midnight, you’re talking through your—” began Stella Wallis, and then her eyes rounded, she broke off, and her hands raised to her breast. “What was in that drink? Come on, tell me, you beast, what was in it?”
“Good night,” said Rollison, sweetly. “You’ll be all right, as far as I know no one has any quarrel with you.”
She looked as if she could have struck him, but did not try, just followed Jolly out of the room, through the kitchen and down the fire escape to the car which was waiting in a street near Gresham Terrace. As she went, Rollison stood by the window of his large room, with the trophies behind him and the wide street below.
It was probably five minutes after Jolly and the woman had gone that a youth appeared, strolling casually along the street; soon there were three.
“Casing the joint,” Rollison murmured. He grinned, stepped to the telephone, and dialled Scotland Yard. This time Grice was in.
“Bill,” said Rollison quickly, “Jolly’s out, and I’m going out in fifteen minutes. Soon after that I think some gentlemen of the Edwardian period will pay me a visit. I’d hate to have my flat wrecked. If you happened to have a squad car or a Q car nearby—”
Grice was sharp. “Sure about this?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll fix it.”
“Don’t jump down my throat if I ask your chaps to make sure these Teddies have time to break in, will you? The redder the hand the tighter the handcuff, if you know what I mean.”
“They won’t act too soon,” Grice said gruffly. “What’s this about you knocking a motor¬cyclist off his machine in Rockham Street?”
“I did. A lorry chased me. The motor-cyclist was a decoy. How is he?”
“Dead,” said Grice.
“Oh,” said Rollison, very quietly. “Bill, I’m sorry. But it gives you a chance to probe deep. He was one of Tiny Wallis’s men. I don’t know much about Wallis, but in a funny way he’s good. Either he’s one of the ablest crooks I’ve ever come across, with brilliant staff work, or he’s got a clever man behind him.”
“What’s this story that you’ve kidnapped his wife?” Grice interrupted.
Rollison came nearer to making an admission of a felony than he had ever done in his life: Grice had never caught him so deftly on the wrong leg. He took a few seconds to answer, and Grice went on gruffly:
“Let’s have the truth.”
“Don’t tell me that Tiny’s lodged a complaint with the police,” said Rollison, and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.
“A complaint was lodged.”
“Well, well,” said Rollison meekly, “I didn’t think he would have it in him. She came of her own free will, Bill.” When Grice didn’t answer, he went on: “And I think I can produce satisfactory evidence of that.”
“Jolly, I suppose.”
“Jolly.”
“Rolly,” said Grice, suddenly very earnest, “I know that I practically asked you to see what you could find out about Wallis and Clay, but I didn’t expect you to go racing about the East End like a maniac, and as for making Wallis’s wife go off with you—it’s absolutely crazy. Apart from the possibility of a charge of abduction, you’re asking for serious trouble. After this, Wallis will be—”
“Cross, I suppose,” interpolated Rollison mildly. “On the abduction matter Bill, see my solicitor.” He drew his hand across his forehead again. Did you find out anything about the hooligans who cut off Leah Sampson’s hair?”
“Not a thing,” said Grice. “The Division handled it, we kept out as you seemed so anxious that we should. Everyone named has an alibi.”
“I’m told there’s a plague of hair-shearing in London,” Rollison observed.
“There’s a lot more than usual, but we always have some,” Grice said. “Why were you anxious we shouldn’t make too much fuss over Leah’s?”
“The coincidence was remarkable. I called on Donny, and while I was there young Leah came rushing in, so shorn that she’ll have to wear a wig for several weeks. I wondered if it was to show me how little Wallis cares.”
“Could be,” conceded Grice, very slowly. “How well do you know Donny?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Did you know that he’s become one of the biggest land-owners in his part of London?” Rollison said blankly: “Fact?”
“Positive fact. He began by buying up the small shops he had rented for years, then buying up other shops—all barbers’—and in the past year or two he’s bought up shops of all kinds. He’s a really big land-owner.”
“Kindly landlord?” inquired Rollison, as if hopefully.
“We’ve never heard anything different,”
Grice said, “but it’s a trend I don’t much like.”
“How’d he get the money to go into the estate business?”
“He did it by extending his shops, setting the expenses against taxation, and keeping strictly within the law,” Grice answered. “No doubt about that. He works mostly with his own family, although he has a fairly big staff outside the family.”
“The hairdressers’ millionaire.”
“Wealthy, anyhow,” Grice conceded. “What made you go to see him?”
“I was told that he’d put Wallis and Clay on to a job.”
Did you tell him that to his face?”
“Yes, and he didn’t deny it.” Rollison waited, but Grice had nothing to say, so Rollison went on: “You’ll lay that car on, won’t you?”
“I just scribbled a note and the order’s gone out on the other telephone,” Grice said. “And listen—if Wallis presses his charge, we can’t stall him. At the moment I’m told that he looks as if a steam-hammer hit him.”
“Oh, no,” said Rollison, “just a little fist or two. Thanks, Bill.”
He rang off.
He lit a cigarette and poured himself another drink, then glanced out of the window and saw that several of the youths were there now; he had never seen so many people lounging about Gresham Terrace. Possibly they were there to try to make sure that Wallis’s wife was not taken away; as likely that they were coming to get her, and were waiting for a signal. Rollison let thoughts trickle through his mind. Perhaps the most puzzling one was Wallis’s action; for Wallis to complain to the police was remarkable, unless—
He’d been ordered to complain.
Who paid Wallis? Who was his “brain’?
“When we know that we’ll know most of the rest,” said Rollison to himself, then finished his drink and went into the kitchen. Jolly had prepared everything for a mixed grill, and there was a note saying:
Chipped potatoes, white and fresh, were in a basket next to a saucepan of fat, there were some frozen vegetables standing ready for the pot. Rollison shook his head in regretful self-denial, and went out of the kitchen door and down the fire escape; that kitchen door was self-locking, so that no one could tell whether it had been closed from the inside or the outside. His footsteps clanged a little on the iron as he went down, but none of the youths was in the yard.
Rollison crossed this, and went to the corner of Gresham Terrace. A police patrol car with men in plain-clothes was crawling by, and two of the youths moved smartly across Gresham Terrace towards Number 22.
“I hope they don’t have time to do much damage,” Rollison said with feeling, and winked at the driver of the patrol car. Then he walked rapidly towards Piccadilly, and took a taxi to Middleton Street, Chelsea. He had not yet seen the Blakes, who as far as he knew were the only people who might be able to explain the attack on Jimmy Jones.
He knocked at the door of Number 24, and immediately there was a response, but no elderly person opened the door; instead a solid-looking man, obviously a Yard man in plain clothes, barred Rollison’s path. Then he recognised the visitor, and sprang almost to attention.
“Thanks,” said Rollison, and smiled. “Old folk at home?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“How are they?”
“Oh, they’re much better now,” said the plainclothes man. “Nearest thing to a miracle I’ve ever seen.”
“Miracle?” echoed Rollison, blankly.
“That’s the word, sir! When I first saw them they looked ready to pass out, they hadn’t a stick left whole, and the fact that the neighbours were very kind didn’t make all that difference. Of course it helped, but—well, then this morning the new furniture and everything arrived. Wonderful lot of stuff, sir, and a bigger and better television set. Wonderful people, those Jepsons.”
“So the Jepsons did that,” said Rollison, and had a mental image of Ada, so dumb-blondish and yet so shrewd. “Bless their hearts. Ask the Blakes if they can spare me five minutes, will you?”
“I’m sure they’ll be glad to,” the plainclothes man said. “Mr. Blake’s in the kitchen, Mrs. Blake’s upstairs with Jimmy Jones and Miss Jepson. Didn’t you know Jones was back?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Transformation
In the small house there was transformation. Rollison could tell this as he entered the narrow hallway, saw the front room on the right filled with new furniture, a new carpet; everything a home needed. He could see the rough to the kitchen, and a small room also on the right; there was bright newness everywhere. An elderly grey-haired man stood up from a chair, and revealed a television set; it was as if he had been watching the blank screen.
He came forward.
“Mr. Blake, this is Mr. Rollison,” the plainclothes man said. The grey-haired man, with his clear skin and steady blue eyes, looked puzzled for a moment, and then exclaimed:
“The Mr. Rollison? The one they call the Toff?”
The Yard man chuckled.
“That’s him, Mr. Blake.”
“This really is an honour,” Blake said eagerly, and put out his hand, as if not certain that the Toff would take it; his grip was firm, his eyes told of his delight. “Martha will be delighted, she really will. Why, I must have been reading about you for twenty years!” He pumped Rollison’s hand again, and called: “Martha, Martha dear! Come on down at once, we’ve a visitor, you’d never believe . . .”
His wife was small, plump, comely and grey-haired; and obviously a little overwhelmed by the transformation and the generosity of the Jepsons. The Toff was gentle and understanding; and it was Blake who led him upstairs. He could hear Ada talking, in a quick, light voice, which suggested that she hadn’t a serious thought in her head; just prattle. Then Blake opened the door, and said:
“Jimmy, do you think you could stand another visitor for ten minutes?”
Ada jumped up.
“It’s past time I left, I didn’t realise I’d stayed so long, please don’t let me keep anyone away. I—” she looked past Blake at Rollison, and broke off, her eyes widening and her lips pursed in a little O as if of astonishment; that was the way she looked whenever she was really surprised. Then, swiftly and lightly, she went on: “But it’s Rolly! Rolly dear, how nice of you to come as soon as you heard Jimmy was out of hospital. Jimmy, this is Mr. Richard Rollison.”
“The Toff,” whispered Blake, as an echo.
Rollison looked at James Matthison Jones, and greatly liked what he saw, although much of Jones’s head was bandaged, and there was a plastered pad beneath his jaw on the right side. It was only a few days after the attack. There were bruises on his hands and his face which were not bandaged, but his mouth had not suffered, and his eyes were as clear and direct as a man’s could be.
“Hallo,” said Rollison, and took Jones’s hand. “Throw me out if you’re tired of talking, won’t you? Hallo, Ada, nice to see you.”
Jones seemed to find it difficult to make up his mind whether to look at Ada or at his new visitor. He compromised, smiling quickly at the Toff and then turning to the girl and saying: “Please don’t go. I’m perfectly all right now, and company’s good for me.”
“No, really, I must fly,” said Ada, “I’ve promised to see a friend before dinner.” She raised a hand to Jones, and turned and hurried out of the room, casting a swift sideways glance at Rollison. Blake went downstairs with her, and she chattered brightly all the way down, as if she could never be solemn and earnest.
Rollison stood by the open door and watched the man on the bed, who was now looking steadily at him, but his mind wasn’t on that job; it was on the girl, her lilting voice, perhaps on all that she had already done.
The front door opened and closed.
Rollison closed the door, and moved forward, and Jones said hastily.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Please sit down.”
“Thanks,” said Rollison. “Are you as well as you look?”
“Oh, I’m all right now,” said Jones. A new expression surged into his eyes, his jaw seemed to thrust itself forward, and he went on in a hard voice: “All I want is to catch up with those swine. That’s all.”
“I’d leave it for a few days,” advised Rollison lightly. “You wouldn’t like to hit a man when he’s down, would you?”
“I’d gladly knock the living daylights out of them, standing up, sitting up or lying down,” said Jones, in the same hard voice. “I wouldn’t worry about sentiment or the Queensberry Rules. They—” he broke off, and his voice squeaked. “Do you mean that the police have caught them?”
“No, but they ran into some trouble they weren’t expecting,” Rollison said. He let that sink in, enjoying the glint which sprang to Jones’s eyes, and went on before Jones could comment. “You must be sick of questions, and I haven’t come to worry you with many.”
“Ask anything you like,” said Jones, looking at him with a kind of admiration which could not be mistaken. “Did you actually catch up with them?”
“It was an accident,” Rollison assured him earnestly. “Does Villiers Street mean anything to you on the day of the attack?”
“Oh, yes,” said Jones. “I told the police about that.”
“They’re never sure that they ought to tell me that kind of thing,” said Rollison, sadly. “Mind repeating it?”
“Of course not. I first saw these two fellows in Villiers Street.”
“Do you always go that way home?”
“Usually.”
“They followed you from there, did they?”
“They must have done.”
“Had you seen either of them before?”
“No.”
“No threats or menaces?”
“No.”
“Any idea at all why they should set upon you?”
“Mr. Rollison,” said Jones, leaning forward to add vehemence to his words, “I�
��ve told the police and I’ll tell you now that I haven’t the faintest idea what it was all about. As far as I know, I’ve no enemies. As far as I know none of my friends is associated with brutes of that kind. I can only believe that I was mistaken for someone else.”
Rollison put his head on one side.
“You look moderately individualistic to me.” Jones grinned.
“You know what I mean!”
“Yes, I think so. Could this have anything to do with your work?”
“I don’t see how it possibly could,” answered Jones, thoughtfully. “The police asked me that. As far as I can tell, everything at the office is perfectly straightforward. My money’s on a case of mistaken identity, Mr. Rollison, although I know you’ll probably say that it’s the easy way out.”
“Could be,” conceded Rollison. “Where did you see these men in Villiers Street?”
“About half-way up—near Lytton Street and the barber’s.”
Rollison felt the sharp impact of that remark, but hoped that he had not allowed Jones to see that it startled him.
“Your regular barber’s?”
“No. It’s a bigger salon than several of them around there, and more expensive. I’d been there for a haircut only that day, and can remember every incident clearly. The chap who’d cut my hair was on the corner as I went by in the evening, and nodded to me. Italian type. I went straight up towards the Strand. I passed a small fellow, and there was a bigger chap a little way ahead. I saw him again at a bus stop, and he got off at the same stop as I did. He was the fellow who really began to knock me about,” Jones said feelingly. “And one of these days—”
“I know. Was there anything special about the day’s haircut?”
Jones looked puzzled. “What can be special about a haircut?”
Rollison chuckled.
“I know what you mean! Did anything unusual happen? Did you see anything change hands, for instance, or hear a conversation that might be private?”
“The only unusual thing was that I picked up a leaflet giving details of a beautiful hair competition,” Jones said. “There’s a girl in the office with lovely hair, and I thought it would interest her. So I took one of the leaflets away with me.”