The Toff And The Stolen Tresses t-38

by John Creasey

  * * *

  “If I knew anything I’d tell you,” Lila said brokenly, tut I just don’t know a thing.”

  * * *

  Rollison went to his car and drove to Mission Street, about half a mile away. There was a corner café, patronised by dockers and labourers, and even now he could hear the throbbing heartbeat of the docks as he drew near. The owner, a man named Rickett, had been the first to suffer from Wallis’s brutality. He wasn’t in a big way of business, and for the most part was handy for emergency stores, such as canned and packaged foods for ships sailing earlier than expected. Night workers and the crews of ships which docked during the

  night found him useful, too.

  Rollison pulled up outside the shop.

  Even before he stepped from the car, he saw the corner of the window, dressed much more attractively than the rest, with Jepsons’ goods of many kinds—their toothpaste, hair creams, cigarettes, pens and pencils, Jepsons’ writing paper, postcards, envelopes, Jepsons’ brushes and their polishes for shoes and furniture.

  A woman was watching Rollison from inside the shop, and he saw her dart through a doorway leading to a room at the back the moment he opened the front door. Its bell clanged noisily. The shop was small and the shelves crowded. There was much more of Jepsons’ stocks here—pots and pans and gadgets, soaps and soap powders, canned foods, everything for the kitchen or the galley.

  Out of sight a woman said urgently: “It’s lunacy, Tom, that’s what it is, sheer lunacy. Haven’t you had enough?”

  A man answered in a quiet voice, and spoke very slowly.

  “Becky, if you’re right, and this is the Toff, I’m going to see what he wants. It’s true that I

  “I tell you it’s crazy! Look what happened when he went to see Donny! Everyone knows about it, and who can say where it will stop? They can have my hair for nothing, but they might kill you next time. Isn’t it bad enough to be crippled for life?”

  “I can get along,” the man said, in the same deliberate voice. “You only see one side of it, Becky, you don’t see the important one. What’s going to happen if this doesn’t stop? No one will be safe anywhere. If the Toff can do anything to stop it now, then we ought to help him.”

  “What kind of a chance has he got if the police couldn’t do a thing?” the woman almost sobbed. “And what about me? You may not care whether you have another beating up, but what happens if they go for me?”

  There was a moment of silence.

  “If you’re so nervy, Becky, you’d better go and stay with your mother for a week or two. I can manage here all right. Please don’t make it more difficult than it is already.”

  The woman said hoarsely: “I think you’re a crazy fool!”

  Then the man appeared in the doorway, and at first sight Rollison thought that he was old. His hair was grey, and his eyes were tired. He was quite short, his nose was broken, and there was an ugly scar over his right eye. But the most noticeable thing was the way he walked: carrying a stick and bent a little from the waist; but he walked firmly.

  He looked into Rollison’s face, and smiled in a strangely contented way.

  “You were right, Becky,” he called to the woman behind him, “it’s Mr. Rollison. Have you come about the way Wallis and his men attacked me, sir?”

  Rollison found himself warming to this man as he had warmed to very few.

  “Yes, Rickett,” he said, and looked over the man’s shoulder into the woman’s eyes. She was no more than thirty-five or forty, and attractive in a gipsy way; she had thick, dark hair of which she was undoubtedly proud. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Rickett, I’ll spread it around that neither of you would say a word, and I’ll see that you get some protection, too—protection that won’t be noticeable.” Here at last was a job for Ebbutt’s men. “Just one thing. Have you thought of any reason at all for the beating up, Rickett?”

  “Of course he hasn’t!” Mrs. Rickett cried. “He told the police he didn’t know why.”

  “The police needn’t know what he’s going to tell me,” Rollison said.

  “We’re honest people and there’s nothing,” Mrs. Rickett shrilled. “Yes, Mr. Rollison,” Rickett said, “I think I know why I was attacked.” He moved round I awkwardly, and put his arm round his wife’s shoulders; and she was near to tears. “I didn’t tell the police because I was frightened of what might happen if I did. I wasn’t absolutely sure, either. But the situation’s got much worse since I was questioned. I’m not really positive now of I my facts, but I’ve given it a lot of thought since I came out of hospital. I think I know why it was.”

  For a moment he seemed to have real difficulty in making himself go on, for his wife was crying openly, so great was her fear.

  “I think that I’d been buying stolen goods from a wholesaler,” Rickett said deliberately, and his grey eyes met Rollison’s frankly and unafraid. “I’d been getting a little extra discount for some time, but that didn’t surprise me, because Jepsons’ stuff is usually sold pretty fine, and I thought they were behind it. Then I discovered, quite by chance, that one of the other dealers in the district wasn’t getting the same discount from his wholesaler, and it wasn’t a Jepsons’ special price offer. It was the wholesaler’s. I knew from experience that this particular wholesaler didn’t often sell at cut price, so I asked their representative how it was that they could offer the discount when others couldn’t.

  “That night Wallis and the other man came,” Rickett went on, steadily. “I couldn’t swear who they were. They had scarves over their faces, and cloth caps pulled low down. It wasn’t for over a month after I came out of hospital that I tied the two things up, Mr. Rollison. My memory wasn’t too good when I first came out, but now I’m seeing things straight, and I’ve heard about the other people who’ve suffered in the same way. If anything I say to you will help to put an end to it, then you’re welcome. I hope you won’t have to go to the police, but—”

  “No police,” said Rollison quietly. Not about this. Who is the wholesaler?”

  “Tom, don’t tell him!” Mrs. Rickett clutched her husband’s arm. “If you tell them they’ll know it was you, they’re bound to.”

  “It’s Bishopps, of Penn Street,” Rickett said. His wife turned away, and covered her face with her hands.

  “You won’t suffer for this,” Rollison promised Rickett, and prayed that he could make the promise good. “The first job I’m going to do is find some other lead to Bishopps and tell the world how I got on to them. It won’t bring reprisals on you.”

  “Oh, you can talk,” the woman said drably.

  “Do whatever you think is best,” said Rickett. “Someone had to start this, sooner or later.”

  Rollison said: “Yes, someone had to.” He took Rickett’s hand, gripped hard, and then turned and went outside. He wasn’t surprised to see two youths standing at the corner across the road. They were staring insolently, and there was little doubt that they would report where Rollison had been and how long he had stayed. He drove off, watching them in the driving mirror, and telephoned Ebbutt’s gymnasium from the first telephone kiosk he saw.

  “I’ll make sure the Ricketts are okay, Mr. Ar,” said Ebbutt, “you needn’t worry at all about that. Anyfink else?”

  “Not yet but soon,” said Rollison, hopefully.

  * * *

  The second on the list of victims was a Herbert Smith, of Docksy Street. Rollison did not waste much time studying the board outside Smith’s small house, or the board over the big yard next to it.

  BERT SMITH

  Carrier Express Delivery Service

  Anywhere in London

  Two small vans carrying the same wording were in the yard and as Rollison went in, he saw a stocky man get out of one of the vans, obviously with an effort; and when the man came towards him, it was apparent that he limped. He was bigger than Rickett, a tough-looking customer, but he stopped abruptly when he saw who it was.

  In a flash, he said: “Don’t stay here, Mr. Rol
lison, I don’t want any more trouble. Last time they broke my leg in three places, that was bad enough.”

  “One question,” said Rollison. “All you have to say is yes or no. Do you handle deliveries or do any work for Bishopps of Penn Street?”

  “No harm in answering that,” Bert Smith said. “I’ve been their main delivery for fifteen years. But that’s all I’m going to tell you, don’t waste your time.”

  “That’s all I wanted,” Rollison said, and turned and went away.

  Would the other five victims be associated with Bishopps too?

  It shouldn’t take long to find out.

  * * *

  Rollison made three more calls in the next hour, and the pattern was already clear; once one knew what the connection might be, it was obvious. One of the three had a shop, like Rickett; Rollison didn’t go in there, but telephoned from a nearby kiosk and asked if the man dealt with Bishopps; and was told yes. Jepson goods were in his window, too. The second man’s connection wasn’t so easy to find, but his wife did most of the talking, and revealed it without realising that she did.

  “We haven’t the faintest idea why it happened, there wasn’t any reason at all as far as I could see. My husband’s led a good, honest sober life—why, he wouldn’t have kept the same job for twenty-three years if he hadn’t, would he?”

  Rollison looked at the man; a frightened man, who undoubtedly knew more than he had told his wife.

  And Rollison smiled.

  “Twenty-three years with whom, Mr. Smart?”

  “Why, Bishopps,” his wife answered, and Smart seemed to wince.

  The next man was a warehouseman from Jepsons’ East End Warehouse.

  The barber victim had often had Jepson goods delivered by Bishopps, too. The Blakes’ only association with either firm seemed to be through their lodger, Jones.

  Next there was a man named Joseph Jackson, with an address in Aldgate. Rollison pulled up round the corner from his house and walked briskly towards it, with a dozen or so other people, all hurrying home from their work. No one took any notice of him. This was a better class street than most along here, and there was none of the poverty so prevalent nearer the docks.

  Jackson lived at Number 17.

  It was a three-storied house, freshly painted, with clean lace curtains at the window, deep cream in colour, and with a truly magnificent aspidistra in the window, next to a huge china cat won from some fair ground. Rollison stood facing the door so that no one passing by was likely to recognise him. Foot-steps, heavy and deliberate, came immediately upon his knock at the door.

  Was this another cripple?

  The door began to open, very slowly; and then it moved swift as a flash, and Tiny Wallis lunged forward to grab at Rollison’s wrist.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  No Chance

  Rollison had a split second to jump back, and tried to; but he was too late. Wallis caught his right wrist and twisted, pain shot up his arm, and he was jolted forward. He could not save himself, and collided with Wallis, who stood like a rock. And as Rollison dropped back, Wallis kicked the door to with his foot, then struck Rollison twice, once beneath the chin, once in the stomach with such power that Rollison went dizzy.

  He felt himself grabbed and dragged along the narrow, dark passage. A light came on, dazzling him. His head was muzzy and he had no control of his legs or arms, the blows had been calculated to paralyse him. With one part of his mind he realised this, and also realised that he hadn’t a chance: with the other, he tried to make out where they were taking him.

  Men spoke, roughly. Two of them held Rollison upright. A bright light was just above his head, and it hurt his eyes. He could see the men with strange, shimmery, blurred faces. Then he was pushed round. Beneath him there stretched a staircase, and it seemed a vast distance to the bottom, not just a flight of stairs but steps leading down into the unknown.

  A man pushed, another kicked him behind the knees. He pitched downwards, thrusting out his hands against the wall to try to save himself. He failed. He felt great fear rising in him as he struck a stair with his head, but he didn’t lose consciousness. He fell from step to step, each bump painful but none agonising. Then he felt himself lying on the floor without moving; at the foot of the stairs, of course. He closed his eyes for a moment. All he wanted to do was lie there; but suddenly he realised that they would come down after him, and a kind of terror caught him as he tried to scramble to his feet and look up the stairs at the same time. Wallis was walking down.

  Rollison felt even more like panic.

  He warned himself: “Don’t lose your head, don’t let him see how you feel,” and that helped. He stopped scrambling and trying so desperately, his movements were calmer as he got to his feet, although he had to pull himself up with the help of a handrail. Wallis was the man who could strike terror into so many, who had broken bodies and minds, who had ruined lives. He was halfway down the stairs, stepping on each tread deliberately, as if he knew that the longer he took, the worse Rollison would feel. Rollison stood swaying. There was another door, to the right, and he could smell coal and oil, but all he could see through the doorway was a black void.

  If he backed even a pace, he would turn and try to run, and Wallis would gloat.

  If he could gain even a few minutes, he might have a chance to hit back. He had the automatic in his pocket and the two knives: two minutes to steady himself would help, even one. The sight of the gun might hold Wallis off, anyhow. Rollison gritted his teeth painfully because of the blow he’d received, and moved his right hand to his pocket for the gun.

  It wasn’t there.

  Wallis thrust his great left hand forward, and the small gun rested on it like a fat grey slug.

  “This what you’re looking for?”

  Rollison moistened his lips, but didn’t speak.

  “I didn’t think it would take long to make you shut your trap,” Wallis growled. “You’ve done all the talking you’re going to do, to the cops or to Ebbutt or to anyone at all. You’re as good as a dead man.”

  Rollison thought: “And he believes it.”

  Rollison could believe it, too.

  There were still the knives, one clasped with a steel band round his right forearm, the other round his left calf; it was not the first time that those hidden weapons had stood between him and disaster. If he could shift the one on his arm so that he could grip it, one thrust would settle Wallis, and the men upstairs would not expect to see him appear, with or without a knife.

  “Let me tell you something,” Wallis said. “You’re one of the best-known men in London. I’ve made quite a study of you. So’ve a lot of other people. There isn’t anything important about you that we don’t know.”

  He was on the bottom step now. The inches beneath him made him seem enormous, and helped him to tower over the Toff. He was still beyond striking distance, although one lunge would bring him within it. Rollison began to flex the muscles of his right arm to work the clasp down. He had done this a dozen times before, and it was almost possible to guarantee that within fifteen or twenty seconds the knife handle would rest against the palm of his hand.

  He could feel it coming down; feel the wooden handle on his flesh, the cold blade also.

  Wallis sneered: “You can’t get away with a thing,” and as he said that, there was a swift movement behind Rollison, hands gripped him, two men appeared from the dark void. One held his right arm outwards while the other pulled back the sleeve.

  There was the knife.

  Now get the one off his leg,” Wallis said. He stared at Rollison with his eyes glittering, in his way a handsome devil.

  But the key word for Wallis was powerful. A man pulled up Rollison’s trouser leg, and found the knife.

  “You can keep them as a souvenir,” Wallis told them. “Take him in the cellar.”

  One man switched on a light which came from an unshaded electric bulb hanging from the ceiling of the cellar. Beneath a small coal hole, or iron grid
, was a heap of coal for the fires; there were also two or three cans of petrol and paraffin, explaining the oily smell, and some wooden boxes piled on top of one another. Several of these boxes had printing on them but Rollison did not notice the word Jepson on any.

  Along one wall was a bench with a few tools on it, including a cobbler’s last and some rubbery soles and heels. On another side was a similar bench, thick with cobwebs and dust. An electric train set stood on this, the rails loosely fitted, the train itself half covered with a piece of cloth.

  The two men stayed behind Rollison.

  The worst thing was that he did not know what Wallis would do; every moment was an ordeal by waiting. He could see hatred in the man’s eyes, could even understand it. What he could not understand was the delay: did Wallis realise that every second of delay was torture, worse in some ways than an attack itself ?

  At least Rollison was standing on his own two feet, and no longer swaying. The light shining upon Wallis’s face cast shadows which made the man look horrific. That might be intended to add to the menace, but in a queer way it struck Rollison as funny; the overloading of a situation, so that the sinister could become almost ludicrous. It was not so marked as that, but it eased Rollison’s tension slightly. If Wallis had intended to attack as he had attacked so many others would he have waited? None of the stories of what had happened suggested that he would.

  Why the delay?

  “You’ve seen some friends of mine,” Wallis said, with sardonic humour. “Any of them talk?”

  “None of them talked,” Rollison answered. “Some of them talked,” said Wallis. “I was just asking a rhetorical question. Rickett talk?” Rhetorical was a good word for Wallis. “Nobody talked,” Rollison insisted.

  “They name me?”

  “I named you, and they wouldn’t confirm or deny it. That was good enough for me, but it wouldn’t be any good in court.”

  “No one’s ever going to get me into court,” Wallis said. “You’re lying. Rickett talked. Rickett told you about Bishopps. You want to know how I found that out? I talked to Bert Smith. The only question you asked was whether he did any work for Bishopps. Think that was smart, Rollison? Because I don’t. It proves to me how much wind you are. If you’d been smart you’d have asked a dozen questions.”