The Toff And The Stolen Tresses

by John Creasey

  “Was the girl interested?” Rollison asked, as if this meant absolutely nothing, and the competition was quite new to him:

  “Yes.” Jones looked rueful, but didn’t explain why. “That can’t possibly have anything to do with the attack on me, though. I simply took this leaflet and gave it to Goldilocks. And she—”

  “Goldilocks?”

  Jones grinned.

  “If you ever meet her, don’t call her that or she’ll probably slap your face. She has wonderful golden hair, and everyone calls her Goldilocks except to her face. For some reason she hates it.”

  “What’s her real name?” asked Rollison, and tried to make that question seem casual, too.

  He did not succeed. This young man was as sharp as they came, and would not easily be persuaded that Rollison would ask questions for the sake of them. He could see that Rollison’s interest in the girl Goldilocks was deeper than that in the rest of the story. He did not answer for some seconds, then said very quietly:

  “She’s Evelyn Day, who works in the Buying Office at Jepsons. She couldn’t possibly know anything about this business.” He was almost too emphatic, but did not volunteer any more information. Although he had answered all the questions quickly, and although his mind obviously worked at speed, he was looking pale and tired.

  “Of course she can’t,” Rollison said soothingly, “but unless I see the whole picture I can’t hope to get any results.” He stood up. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”

  Jones said quietly: “No, Mr. Rollison, but there’s one thing you can do for me.”

  “What’s that?” Rollison expected some plea for the name and address of the assailants.

  “If you see Miss Jepson, or her brother for that matter, tell them how warmly I appreciate what they’ve done, will you?” said Jones. “It was magnificent. They’re always very generous, everyone who works for Jepsons is devoted to them, but this—” Jones sounded choked and looked about the room. “I know some people would say that it didn’t cost them much, Jepsons could furnish a dozen homes from stock and not notice it, but that isn’t the point. Will you tell Miss Jepson?”

  “I certainly will,” promised Rollison.

  * * *

  He left soon afterwards, drove to his club in Pall Mall, had a hurried dinner, and then telephoned Scotland Yard. Grice wasn’t there, but a superintendent on duty said:

  “Yes, Mr. Rollison. Four youths broke into your flat, and we caught them red-handed. Said they were looking for Mrs. Wallis. We got ‘em before they did any damage at all. In fact the only breakage was a glass, one of them had helped himself to a whisky and soda, and threw the glass at our chaps. It broke against the door. They’re being held at Great Marlborough Street, and they’ll be up for a hearing in the morning.”

  If the magistrate remanded ‘em for eight days, that would be four of the enemy out of the firing line,” said Rollison hopefully.

  “Wouldn’t surprise me if Grice is planning just that,” the superintendent said. “Or you are!” He gave a throaty chuckle.

  Rollison rang off, then dialled a Mayfair number, and was answered by a man with a deep and resonant voice, the voice of a gentleman’s gentleman, a butler beyond all reasonable doubt. His name was Forbes, and he had served the Jepson family for nearly half a century.

  “One moment, sir, I will find out if Miss Ada is in.”

  Rollison held on, staring along the marble passage of this club, with its statues and its oil paintings of past members, its marble columns, its decorated ceiling, and its reminder of a dying age, for two women came walking along the passage with a man, quite animatedly.

  “Mr. Rollison, sir,” the voice said. “Miss Ada is in and will be glad to see you if you call.”

  * * *

  The Jepsons lived at Maybury Square, one of the smaller squares which was still mainly residential. For a London house of the late Regency period it was not large, but it had much charm. The hall, the staircase and the rooms were furnished as they had been sixty or seventy years ago, and there was an air of good taste and yet a hint of opulence in the manservant—not Forbes—who opened the door. Rollison caught a glimpse of a dining-room with great Waterford glass chandeliers hanging low over a table which could seat a dozen on either side.

  Ada came hurrying down the stairs, bright-faced and eager.

  “Rolly, darling, how sweet of you to come! I called your flat several times but there was no answer, so I supposed you were out after all these bad men again. Have you got any results yet?”

  “Give me time,” pleaded Rollison.

  “Well, it’s your own fault if I expect miracles, you’re always performing them.” Ada put a cool hand on his arm and led him along a quiet passage to a small room, of much charm, with its green and gold, its books and pictures, and the tapestry stretched over a frame with wools of a hundred colours and shades in a box divided into tiny sections. Half-a-dozen needles, all threaded, were stuck in the tapestry, and a picture of a woman’s face was already half-formed. Over the mantelpiece was an oil painting of the same woman; Rollison knew that this was Ada’s mother who had died several years ago.

  “Do sit down, and tell me what you’ll have,” said Ada. “Brandy or a liqueur, and a cigar . . .”

  So, she fussed; and when liqueur and a cigar were at Rollison’s side, she went on: “Isn’t Jimmy Jones a pet?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me if the last thing in the world he’d want to be is a pet,” said Rollison.

  “Oh, not that kind of pet! I’ve always thought he was one of the most promising of the new people we’re training, and Reggie thinks so too. He’s only in the Buying Office getting experience, you know. Or did I tell you that? I suppose you wouldn’t consider a place on the board, Rolly, would you, just as a kind of ideas man. The director’s fees would be . . . No? . . . Well, think about it. What I was going to say was that good does sometimes come out of evil, I don’t care what you say.” She gave her bright, puckish smile, and her eyes were glowing. “Jimmy Jones has been infatuated by one of the girls in his office, a pretty little thing whose chief claim to fame would be as Lady Godiva. I must admit her hair is wonderful! But apparently she only just looked in at the hospital, and hasn’t written to him, and I think he’s cured of that piece of nonsense. He . . .”

  Ada talked too much, as if to cover emotion.

  Sitting and listening to her, Rollison reflected: “She’s in love with this Jimmy Jones.”

  He was mildly surprised by the discovery, and could not be sure whether Ada was trying to conceal it, or whether this was her way of telling him why she was so anxious to find out why Jimmy Jones had been attacked.

  “. . . I mean, it could happen again, I suppose, and I’m positive that Jimmy himself knows no reason for it. Reggie agreed with me before he left—”

  “Left?”

  “Yes, he’s gone to Ibiza for a week or two, the poor dear didn’t have much of a holiday this year.”

  “Lucky him,” Rollison said.

  “Everything that happened to Jimmy Jones is so puzzling and worrying,” Ada went on hurriedly, and then paused.

  Rollison leaned forward and said:

  “Ada, I’m doing all I can to find out what’s behind it all. One obvious possibility is that it’s to do with Jimmy’s job.”

  “Oh, that’s absurd!”

  “The whole thing is absurd,” said Rollison lazily, “but facts are facts. He was attacked. He was one of eight different people who have been attacked as savagely and ruthlessly and by the same men. We only know the reason for one of the attacks, so far. We do know that the men who do the strong arm work are well paid—extremely well paid—and we won’t get anywhere until we find out who’s paying them.”

  “Well,” said Ada, downrightly, “don’t look at me. I’m not.”

  Rollison grinned.

  “I think I’ll believe that!” he said.

  As he finished, he turned his head swiftly, and Ada gave a little g
asp and jumped up from her chair. At the window there was a crash of breaking glass. Something heavy struck the curtains and then fell to the ground; a moment later a second missile hit another pane of glass and that smashed too.

  Two halves of a brick were on the floor, and tied to each was a tress of lovely hair, one black and shiny as a raven’s wing, the other like spun gold.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Tresses

  After the second crash, there was silence.

  No wind stirred the curtains when they had settled again. No footsteps sounded in the square or in the house itself. Ada, standing by her chair and touching the arms, stared at the bricks and the tresses of hair, as if she would not believe that they were there. Then she moved quickly towards them, until Rollison said sharply:

  “Stand still.”

  “But—”

  “Just stay there,” said Rollison, and put an arm round her shoulders. “Listen.”

  A long way off, there was traffic; that was all. No aeroplane droned, no one walked or drove or cycled past here, as far as they could tell.

  “They must still be outside,” Ada breathed.

  “That’s it,” said Rollison, “and they’re probably hoping we’ll put our heads out of the window, and have other bricks at hand. Is there a room immediately above this?”

  “Yes, the music room. Why?”

  “I remember it,” said Rollison, and then heard hurrying footsteps. When he reached and opened the door, white-haired Forbes appeared, looking anxious and alarmed. Behind him was the footman.

  “Sir—”

  “Stay here and look after Miss Ada,” Rollison ordered. “Someone may try to get in at this window, but I don’t think it’s likely. They might smash another window and try to get in that way, though.” He turned swiftly to the footman. “You go to the back, will you, and keep watch.”

  “But the police—” Forbes began.

  “Keep near a telephone, and dial 999 if you must.” Rollison turned and hurried towards the stairs. He heard footsteps behind him. Ada was there, refusing to be left with Forbes, undoubtedly scared but her eyes very bright; she was prettier when she was excited.

  “What do you think they’re doing?” she asked urgently.

  “Scaring the wits out of us,” said Rollison, and raced up the stairs with hardly a sound, heading for the music room. He recognised it from past visits; a long, narrow room with a grand piano, music stands, many instruments in their cases along one wall, and two violins, each a Stradivarius, also there; priceless things some of these, and irreplaceable.

  The window was undraped.

  Rollison opened it very cautiously; it was of the sash-cord type, and there was at least a possibility that this window was being watched. When it was open three or four inches so that he could hear as well as see outside, he crouched down and looked out onto the lamplit square, the few parked cars with their lights on and now, two cars which were driving past at speed. In the middle of the square was a fenced-off patch of grass and some plane trees.

  “Anyone there?” breathed Ada.

  “Can’t be sure,” whispered Rollison. “If that was just to show that they mean business there wasn’t much point in it. They may expect someone to rush and open the front door, and if they do—”

  He broke off.

  “Seen someone?” hissed Ada.

  “Yes,” said Rollison, very softly. “There are several people by the fence, gathered round a tree, and crouching behind the parked cars.” He could just make out the dark shrouded figures: there were seven or eight people in all, like attendants at a ghostly meeting. “One’s standing by the front gate, too, they’re ready to rush if the front door’s open.”

  “But what on earth are they up to?”

  “They’re probably after my blood, and if they are we haven’t much to worry about,” Rollison said. “If they’re after yours, and want to wreck this place—”

  “Oh, no!”

  “. . . we’ll need the police to stop them,” Rollison finished. He watched the silent group, most of whom would have been hidden from people walking along the street; he saw them only because he was looking down on them. “But if we send for the police and squad men are rushed here, these chaps are as safe as houses. It’s no offence to stand about in a group unless there’s evidence of felonious intent.”

  “Oh, stop talking like a policeman,” breathed Ada. “What are we going to do?”

  Rollison looked down at her in the dark, and grinned.

  “How important is your hall carpet?”

  “It isn’t important at all. Why?”

  “You’re bound to have some household sprays and some liquid ammonia in the house,” Rollison said, hopefully. “How long will it take to get two or three sprays loaded?”

  “Oh, only a few minutes,” Ada looked up at him intently, and the light from the lamps outside put an added sparkle into her eyes. “You mean, let them rush in and then have the sprays ready to greet them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, goody!” Ada exclaimed, and swung round; her voice came from the doorway, a wraith of sound, “I’ll fix it.”

  Rollison did not move at once, but saw two of the men move from the back of the car, and approach the house. He wondered if they were losing patience, and were going to force their way in. They disappeared. He heard a whisper of voices, and some words came clearly.

  “. . . couldn’t’ve heard it.”

  “They were in the room, weren’t they?”

  “Saw their shadows,” a man said.

  “They might’ve gone out, might be another door,” the first man guessed. “Give ‘em two or three minutes, and we’ll chuck another couple’ve bricks. I—what’s that?”

  A car had turned into the square, and headlights raked the roadway and the pavement, then flashed past.

  “There’s a rozzer,” one of the men breathed. “Wait till he’s past.”

  “Okay, Walk round the square.”

  “Okay.”

  Rollison saw two of them appear again, and knew that they were as nervous as they could be in case they ran into the police. He could not see the policeman they had noticed, but silently blessed him as he made his rounds. The shadowy figures were lost against the darkness between the lamps, except for two youths whom Rollison saw clearly for the first time. They were probably in their late teens. This wasn’t the time to think about it, but Wallis and Clay had shown much cleverness by marshalling the Teddy Boys behind them; making use of hooligans who were always spoiling for a fight.

  Or someone had been clever.

  Rollison heard the policeman walking stolidly, and saw him draw close to the house. It was possible that he would notice the broken windows, and if he did—

  He stopped.

  His torchlight pointed towards the windows, and Rollison could see the glow but not the man himself.

  If he had spotted that broken glass, he would go straight to the front door to make inquiries, and it didn’t seem possible that he could miss it.

  He might even blow his whistle.

  Rollison saw one of the crouching youths straighten up. Before he could shout a warning, the youth flung a missile at the constable. There was a thud and a cry. The policeman swung round as the two youths leapt at him.

  Shouting wouldn’t help now, and might do harm. The policeman went down with the youths on top of him, and as they went Ada whispered from the doorway:

  “We’re ready.”

  “All right,” said Rollison. “They’ve just attacked a policeman, I want to go down and look after him.” He hurried past Ada towards the landing and the stairs. Forbes, the footman and a third, older man, were standing at the foot of the stairs. Two were armed with garden syringes, one with an insect sprayer. “As soon as I open the door, they’ll swarm in,” Rollison warned. “Let ‘em have it full in the face. Ada, dial 999 and ask for the police. They’ll get here just about the right moment.”

  He watched her turn towards a teleph
one in an alcove in the wall as he went to the big front door.

  He was not sure what the waiting youths wanted.

  They may have trailed him cleverly, and waited until now to attack. If they were working under Wallis’s orders, they might have come to kill, almost certainly to maim. Or they might have come to kidnap him, and take him to some quiet place where they could make him talk.

  He heard Ada speak into the telephone.

  He opened the front door.

  He saw the hall light stream out on to the faces of three youths who were crouching on the porch, and on others in the road. All of them broke into a run the moment the door opened.

  If they’d come for him, he would soon know.

  They came swiftly, eight young brutes, each carrying a heavy hammer or an axe. Two struck at Rollison as they passed, but that was only to drive him aside so that they could get in.

  These were wreckers; and inside was the house of such grace, and the furniture of such antiquity and beauty.

  Rollison shot out a leg, tripped one man up and dug an elbow into another’s waist so that he went staggering. Then he reached the porch. Two more youths were on the pavement, keeping a look-out, and the constable was still on the ground. He was grunting, and trying to get up. One of the two look-outs stepped towards him, foot drawn back to kick.

  “I shouldn’t,” said Rollison, in the softest of soft voices. The youth spun round, hammer raised in his hand. The other, guarding the approach from the right, also turned round, and for a moment Rollison was between them. They began to approach stealthily, menacingly.

  Then wild screams began to come from the hall.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Flight

  Ada Jepson put down the telephone as Rollison stepped out of the house, and stood watching as the youths streamed in. She wasn’t sure how many were there. They were all young, their hair was beautifully waved and groomed, they wore the narrow trousers and the wide shouldered coats of their kind—and their faces were savagely intent, their weapons were raised as if all they wanted to do was to find something to smash, and to smash it. They had come in with such a rush that they hadn’t seen the three men standing to receive them; but suddenly the liquid ammonia hissed out from the syringes and the sprays, striking at eyes and mouths and noses. One moment it looked as if the house would be wrecked by the attacking brutes; then they began to stagger and to fall and to squeal and to scream. Their weapons dropped, they put their hands to their eyes to try to stop the pain of the ammonia as it bit at them. One raised his voice to such a screaming pitch that it drowned all other sound.