by John Creasey
Rollison saw the magnitude of that mistake, and prayed that Ebbutt had sent help to Rickett quickly. He had been too keyed up, too viciously angry about what had been done to Jolly, and emotion had overcome logic.
“All right,” he said, “it wasn’t smart.”
“You aren’t so good at anything,” Wallis sneered. “How much do you know about Bishopps?”
“All I know is that everyone except Jones and the Blakes had some association with them,” Rollison said.
“What else?”
“What else is there?”
“There is another thing,” Wallis said heavily.
“You may as well talk.”
Rollison said abruptly: “There’s no other thing, Wallis, and I’ve talked enough.”
Wallis could have struck at him then, and actually fondled the knuckle duster on his right fist, but he did not strike. The cellar was quiet but for the breathing of the four men, although there were sounds from outside: not loud, all muffled but unmistakable. There were people walking, and now and again an extra clang on the iron cover of the coal hole told of someone who actually stepped on to it. Now and again, also a car horn sounded in a strangely subdued note. There was no sound of voices, but the little noise that did come through made Rollison wonder what would happen if he shouted.
They would only let him shout once.
Wallis did not attempt to strike him, and now one thing was clear; he was after information. He would count on the unspoken threat, the fondling of that brass weapon, the presence of the two men behind, to break down Rollison’s resistance and refusal to answer questions.
It was clear now that he was no kind of fool, and could think for himself; but it wasn’t yet clear what information he wanted.
He said: “Rollison, I don’t have to tell you what I can do for you, and I don’t have to tell you I don’t like your face. I’d prefer to see it looking different. Just now I told you I don’t intend to let you go, and that still goes with me. But a lot of things can happen between now and the time you die, and that’s up to you.”
It would make no difference, Rollison knew.
“You wanted to know one thing when you came to my place,” Wallis went on. “You wanted to know who was backing me on these jobs. That right?”
It’s right,” Rollison agreed.
“You found out yet?” Wallis demanded.
* * *
If the Toff said “no’ and so told the truth, he wouldn’t have any kind of chance, and this would soon be over.
If he said ‘yes’, Wallis would want him to prove it, and would want him alive so that he could talk.
And he could prove nothing.
* * *
Rollison said: “I haven’t got any further than Bishopps, and I don’t know much about the firm. They’re big wholesalers who supply a lot of goods to smaller sea-going vessels which are fitted out and provisioned from the docks. That’s as far as I’ve got.”
“Rollison,” Wallis said, raising both hands and nursing the knuckle duster, “you’ve got to think again. You know what happens when I get mad. Don’t get anything wrong: the way you talk will make the difference between dying the hard way or the easy way. You’ve been seeing Ada Jepson.”
“We’re old friends.”
“She went to see the man Jones, and she refurnished that house of the Blakes.”
“There isn’t much wrong with Ada,” Rollison said.
Then Wallis grinned.
It was only the slightest of grins, and vanished almost at once, as if Wallis knew that it was the wrong moment to show that he was amused. But what caused the grin? The simple statement that there wasn’t much wrong with Ada?
Why had she gone to such trouble to recoup the Blakes? Had it been conscience money?
Wallis said more savagely: “Okay, let’s get on with it. Why’ve you been seeing her?” When Rollison didn’t answer, he motioned to the men. Rollison felt his arms gripped from behind, so that he couldn’t move and couldn’t strike out. Wallis drew nearer, all his brutality naked in his face.
“Come on, let’s have it. Why’ve you been seeing her? She under suspicion?”
Rollison managed to say: “You must be crazy.”
“We’ll see if I’m crazy,” Wallis said. He thrust his left hand out, the fingers crooked, and clutched Rollison’s neck with such force that he almost cut off his breathing, and actually made him choke. “You think she’s my sponsor?”
“She can’t be,” Rollison exclaimed. “She can’t—” he broke off again as that hand clutched more tightly, and while the men behind him gripped his arms with fingers like steel bands. “I’ve told you all I know.”
“Okay, Mr. Ruddy Toff, we’ll see if we can’t loosen your tongue a bit more.”
Wallis let Rollison go, and again he stood swaying and helpless. The next few minutes would be the worst.
Then he heard creaking noises somewhere above his head, and a clatter of footsteps, enough to make Wallis turn round to see what was happening.
A woman stumbled into the cellar.
“It’s the cops,” she gasped. “They’re at the front door, three of them. I see them come.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Cops
Rollison could only just see her, over Wallis’s shoulder, but the shrill note of fear in her voice told Rollison that this was true. He felt a quiver run through the arm of the man on his right, and the grip slackened; the other man’s grip tightened.
One moment, there had been dreadful danger.
Now there could be safety, or there could be death.
“. . . I see them come,” seemed to echo about the cellar.
Then there came a different sound, of hammering on a door above.
Wallis and the others seemed paralysed.
Rollison snatched his right arm free from one man and swung round to strike the other as the second man’s grip slackened and fell away. But out of the corner of his eye Rollison saw the blade of his own knife glint as it was driven towards him.
Then Wallis swung round.
“Don’t do that!” he roared, and leapt at the man with the knife. Rollison felt the prick of the needle point, then a slight scratch as Wallis pushed his man’s arm downwards. Then Wallis struck at him, caught him on the side of the head, and sent him staggering. The other man, still behind Rollison, tripped him up.
The hammering on the door was still loud, the woman looked frightened out of her wits.
A crash above them shook the ceiling.
The woman gasped: “They’ve smashed the door down.”
Rollison kept very still, watching Wallis and the others, who had knives and guns and who could still kill; judging from their expressions wanted to. But footsteps were now loud above their heads, and a man said:
“Here’s the cellar. Rollison! You there?”
“There are three armed men down here!” Rollison cried.
Wallis had his left hand in his pocket, undoubtedly holding the gun. Would hatred conquer reason? Any crime committed now would be the easiest thing to prove.
He took the gun out and tossed it at Rollison, and it struck sparks off the cement floor.
“Drop those knives,” he ordered his men, and slapped the woman roughly on the bottom. “Shut your trap. We’ve got every right to be here, they can’t pin anything onto us.” He shot a sneering sideways glance at Rollison. “It’s only his word against ours, one against the four of us, and we didn’t bring him here, he came of his own accord. So shut your trap.”
Then two Divisional men came in sight, one carrying a policeman’s truncheon, the other unarmed.
In a moment, handcuffs clicked.
* * *
Rollison felt as if he had been through an earthquake; but there was a kind of exhilaration about the feeling. He didn’t yet know what had brought the police, but he I would soon, because he was on his way to see
Grice. He had made a statement to the Divisional men, and kept it factual: Wal
lis and the others were on the way to the Divisional police station and the cells.
Rollison was driving through the nearly deserted city. It was a little after half past six, and the main crowds had gone, but he noticed nothing except the traffic ahead. He had been close to death and closer to maiming, and the exhilaration was due to the simple fact that he was alive.
So was Jolly; Grice had told him so by telephone at Divisional H.Q.
So was Rickett: Ebbutt’s men had covered Rickett’s shop.
Rollison thought over everything that had happened, trying to assess its significance, to see anything he had missed. He wasn’t finding it easy. Wallis had almost certainly been trying to mislead him with the talk about Ada. Had that quick smile been deliberate?
Ada?
It was impossible!
Wasn’t it?
If not Ada, then Reggie.
Where was Reggie Jepson? How true was the story that he had gone to Ibiza?
What was it all about?
There were other questions, some of little importance and some vital; perhaps the most vital was to decide how much to tell the police.
Rollison drove past St. Paul’s without glancing up at it, turned down towards Blackfriars Bridge, then right along the Embankment; and every light was green for him. Good omen? He put his foot down, and exceeded the thirty mile limit by at least fifteen; the road was almost empty. He saw the traffic lights at Horseguards Avenue turn red, and slowed down; this would break the succession of greens. He shrugged, then saw something else: a sky-blue T-Model Ford which was drawn up on the side of the road a little way past the traffic lights. It was Ebbutt’s antique.
Ebbutt was standing by the side of the car and peering anxiously towards the cars drawn up by the lights. Rollison pulled over, and stopped just in front of the Model-T. Ebbutt’s face lit up, and he came striding forward, massive and powerful, his great paunch steady.
“Hallo, Bill.”
“Thank Gawd I found you,” Ebbutt said. “Thought you was bahnd to come this way if you was going to see old Gricey. Proper sense of ‘tuition, I ‘ave. That true they’ve picked up Wallis?”
“Yes.”
“You laid a charge?” Ebbutt demanded.
“No. The police have charged him with uttering threats and menaces. I haven’t weighed in yet.”
“Mr. Ar,” said Ebbutt, earnestly, “I don’t want to interfere no more’n I must, and you know how much I want to see the perisher in clink. If I “ad my way I’d see ‘im strung up. But I’ve been thinking a lot abaht this job, and I know Wallis. You’ve got to admit ‘e’s tough. Even if me and a dozen of the boys set on ‘im, I dunno if ‘e’d talk. I’m darn sure that he won’t talk to the police. The important thing is to find aht who’s behind him, Mr. Ar, you agree about that?”
Rollison studied the ugly, earnest features, and the narrowed almost pleading eyes; seeing behind them the smooth Thames bright in the evening sunlight. Not far away was the outline of the buildings of Scotland Yard.
“You do agree, doncher?” Ebbutt insisted. “Go on, Bill,” said Rollison.
“Well, there’s a lot to be said for putting Wallis away, and if you could be sure ‘e’d stay away for a few years that’d be okay. But can you? The buzz has gone rahnd that you attacked ‘im.”
“If the police haven’t anything else against him, they can’t make this one stick,” Rollison agreed.
“That’s wot’s going the rahnds,” said Ebbutt, and it made the Toff marvel that news could spread so quickly throughout the East End. “Well, wot I say is, if you managed to get ‘im sent down for a few weeks, that’s the most that would ‘appen, and when he come out he’d be worse than ever. What I think is that we don’t want to take any chances, we want to put ‘im away for good. And you’ve got to find aht who’s behind him, because there are a lot of ovver brutes nearly as bad as Wallis.”
“The Divisional police wouldn’t tell me much, but Grice will,” said Rollison. “I’ll soon know if they’ve anything else to use against Wallis. If they haven’t, we won’t have any say in it: he’ll be freed. They might have him up before the court if I lay a charge, they might even get an eight-day remand, but that’s the most. Grice might want to get that, too; he could dig a lot in eight days.”
“And anyone who squealed while Wallis was on remand would wish they’d been born dumb,” Ebbutt said, putting a great hand on Rollison’s arm. “I don’t want to persuade you, Mr. Ar, but now this thing’s gone so far, it would be better to try and get right to the bottom of it. Wallis won’t grass, you know that, but he might not feel so good now he’s on the run, and might lead you where you want to go. That’s the way I see it.”
Rollison said slowly: “You could be right, Bill. Anything else new?”
“No.”
“Any word gone round that Bishopps of Penn Street are concerned in this?”
Ebbutt looked astonished. “No, Mr. Ar, not a whisper. You sure abaht that?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but went on thoughtfully: “They’re big people, Bishopps are, biggest wholesalers anywhere near, got a very big business. But you know about Bishopps, don’t you?”
“Tell me, Bill.”
“Dunno’ that I’m exactly a business man,” Ebbutt said, shrugging those great shoulders, “but I get arhand, and I keep my ears to the ground. Old Bishopp’s been retired over a year, now, ‘is son’s still officially the boss, but Bishopps belongs to Jepsons. They bought it—that’s if rumour’s right, Mr. Ar.”
* * *
Rollison spoke quietly into the telephone in the kiosk.
“Ada, answer me one question.”
“I don’t see what good more talking will do,” said Ada.
“I’d like to know why you’ve cooled off the inquiry,” said Rollison, and went on abruptly:
“Have Jepsons bought a controlling interest in Bishopps of Penn Street?”
Jepsons haven’t. Reggie and I bought it under a nominee company.”
“Are you on that company’s board?”
“No,” said Ada.
“Why so shy?”
“If it suits our business to keep our deals quiet for as long as we can, that’s up to us,” Ada said.
“Just business reasons,” Rollison said.
“Yes.”
“Any word from Reggie?”
“No,” Ada said, and rang off.
* * *
Rollison saw the old T-Model Ford chugging its way along the embankment towards Westminster Bridge, as he went up the steps of the Yard. The sergeant on duty was expecting him, and waved him towards the lift. Rollison nodded his thanks, and went on. Few people were about this evening, it was a kind of no man’s hour at the Yard. He was taken up by the liftman who looked tired already, and walked on his own to Grice’s office. He still hadn’t made up his mind how much to tell Grice, and couldn’t be sure what tactics would pay off best. Ebbutt was seriously worried, and that meant that there was good reason for anxiety.
Rollison tapped.
“Come in.” Grice was standing behind his desk. “You’re the nearest thing to a ghost I’ll ever set eyes on. Sit down.” As Rollison took an armchair that was already in position, Grice studied him carefully. “Well, you don’t look as if you’ve got one foot out of the grave!”
Rollison had never felt more wary. This was an overtone of friendliness, too sugary to be genuine. Grice wanted something: so away with recriminations, away with taunts of folly, away with the line that but for the police he, Rollison, would probably be dead.
“Half a foot,” Rollison mumbled. “Thanks to you and all policemen. I’ve never been so glad to hear the word “cops”. How did you do it?” Grice pushed cigarettes across the desk, and said expansively:
“We’d virtually asked you to have a crack at this, and it was our fault that you did. Partly ours, anyhow. When we discovered that it was going to be really ugly, we decided that we ought to keep an eye on you. The attack on Jolly was the deciding factor.” Grice l
eaned back, pressing the tips of his fingers together, positively airy in manner. “We had each of the Wallis victims watched. When Wallis was seen going into Jackson’s house half an hour before you arrived, we laid on reinforcements. We had to have some kind of a schedule knowing that you might find a way of getting out and bringing a lot of information with you, so we gave you half an hour. Then we raided.”
“If I had a whisky and soda,” said Rollison, “I would lift my glass to the C.I.D.”
Grice bent down and produced a bottle of whisky and two glasses; he was virtually a teetotaller, and now poured whisky and soda for Rollison, and plain soda water with a splash for himself.
“Health,” he said.
“To all policemen,” said Rollison, and drank deeply. “I’m glad you didn’t allow me thirty-one minutes. Thanks.”
“Get anything out of Wallis?”
“The questions were the other way about,” Rollison said. “Let me come clean, Bill. Wallis to imply that Ada Jepson was somehow involved. I don’t know whether it was all a big bluff, even to the threat to kill me, whether it was staged to plant the suspicion about Ada, or whether it was genuine. Have you anything new about the Jepsons?”
Grice was watching him levelly, and didn’t reply at once; when he did, he shuffled some documents off his desk, as if to refresh his memory, and then said abruptly:
“I’ve some negative news. Reginald Jepson did not go to Ibiza. I’ve checked with the Spanish consulate, and he didn’t get a visa. But he could have gone to any country in Europe where there’s no visa required. Any reason to think his sister lied about him?”
“No reason, just a hunch. Why should she have lied?”
“I don’t know,” Grice said. “I do know that I’ve got a call out for Reggie Jepson.”
“I’d like to know more about Reggie, too,” murmured Rollison. “What charge have you got against Wallis?”
“None, unless you lay one,” Grice was emphatic. “His statement says that he went to see Jackson, an old acquaintance, and was there when you came. He says that he opened the door for Jackson, and that you immediately threatened him with a gun—the gun which the Divisional people found on the floor of the cellar. He says that he knocked the gun out of your hand, then put you down in the cellar to cool off. He was trying to find out why you’d pulled the gun when we arrived. As a story it’s hard to break. Wallis has a genius for the alibi or the phoney defence. I don’t think it would be wise to charge him, because I can’t see the magistrate giving even an eight-day remand in custody.”