Kill The Toff

by John Creasey

  “All the other tenants are out during the day.”

  “Who’s the woman in black?”

  “The landlady.”

  Any husband about?”

  “No, she’s a widow. She—Will she get over it?”

  “She hasn’t broken her neck and her pulse is good and strong, so I really don’t think there’s much to worry about.” Rollison glanced at the brass clock and seemed to wince: it said twenty-five minutes past four. “Jolly should be here any minute. I’m going to leave you with him after I’ve telephoned the police. They’ll send a doctor along and look after the landlady and then they’ll ask you a lot of questions. Tell them the truth but don’t mention Asham Street. If they try to make it hot for you, leave them to Jolly. Don’t lie. If they ask a question you don’t want to answer, just keep quiet. I don’t think they’ll be difficult but there are awkward policemen.”

  He smiled and squeezed her arm. Then he dialled Whitehall 1212—and as he held the receiver to his ear a taxi drew up outside.

  A middle-aged man, dressed in black and wearing a bowler hat, paid off the driver and turned towards the front door.

  “That’s Jolly,” said Rollison. “Let him in, will you?”

  Judith went out at once and so did not hear what Rollison said to Scotland Yard. It did not seem to matter. The brief period of exhilaration had been short-lived; she felt far worse than she had before. It wasn’t because of Rollison but because of the evidence she now possessed that this might be—this was— dangerous. She glanced up to the next landing and could just see Mrs Tirrell, who hadn’t moved.

  If she should die—

  Judith opened the door and Jolly removed his hat, revealing thin, grey hair. In a brief glance she studied his face: it was part of her work to study faces and she did so subconsciously. He looked a gloomy man; his pale face was heavily lined and beneath the chin were many sagging wrinkles, as if he had once been much fatter; now he was thin and looked a little frail. He had doe-like brown eyes and when he smiled at her it was with a touch of eagerness merging with anxiety.

  “Miss Lome?”

  “Yes; do come in.”

  He passed her but was facing her as she closed the door. She was used to tension now and recognised it in his manner.

  “There’s been—” she began and then stopped, for “accident” seemed the wrong word.

  He raised a hand, as if to ward off some sudden rush of fear and she added hastily: “It’s all right now, except that—”

  “Is Mr Rollison still here?”

  “Oh, yes!”

  “I shouldn’t worry, Miss Lome, whatever the trouble is,” said Jolly. His voice was soft and reassuring and his smile was friendly and warming; fear had gone. “Mr Rollison will look after everything.”

  “Wrong,” said Rollison, from the front-room door. “You’ll look after everything, Jolly. The police and an ambulance will be here in a few minutes. Miss Lome will tell you what happened. You’ll stay with the injured woman until the police arrive. The moment they come take them up to Miss Lome’s flat and tell them a dangerous customer is in the kitchen— a man who’s lost his gun but might use a kitchen chopper.”

  That was the moment when Jolly said the thing which made Judith gasp—and then laugh. Her reaction was absurd but she couldn’t help herself. She laughed weakly and leaned against the wall while Rollison pressed her hand and Jolly opened the door for him.

  Jolly had said, “Very good, sir.”

  * * *

  It was nearly a quarter to five when Rollison left the house in Knoll Road. As he turned the corner into a long street leading to a main road a police car swung round and Rollison had to pull sharply into the kerb. He smiled sweetly at the police-car driver who ignored him and raced towards Number 23.

  * * *

  “Now,” murmured Rollison: “I must hurry.”

  He spoke to himself as he turned on to the Embankment where traffic was thin but would soon get congested for the roads would be thronged with home-going workers from the City and the West End.

  He ignored the thirty-miles-an-hour limit, cursed at every traffic light that turned red against him, slid past other cars and cut in with an abandon which brought many protests and drew dark scowls from at least two policemen. He drew near the Houses of Parliament and the Abbey, swept along the wide road between them, swung round Parliament Square and was lucky with the traffic. He reached Westminster Bridge, which was already thronged with pedestrians, and was forced to slow down by a line of trams and traffic several cars deep; if the luck went against him, this would become a serious traffic-block. He glanced towards the Thames on the left and saw the two big buildings of Scotland Yard, one white, one red; he smiled. Then the traffic began to move again.

  He had a good run to Cannon Street; then met more dense traffic and felt an increasing sense of frustration as he crawled behind an empty lorry. London’s narrow, twisting streets prevented speed and he was in a desperate hurry, although he did not quite know why. There was nothing tangible in the evidence— except the implication that the message to Judith had been in the form of a suicide note. The note was evidence the police would be sure to find and could easily be accepted as a confession. Already the police and the public believed Mellor to be a murderer; and it had been an ugly, brutal murder. There would be no compassion for the killer once he was found.

  Rollison knew the East End well. He slipped along East Cheap, with broken buildings and empty sites on either side, the pavements thronged with office-workers who had grown used to the desolation of bombing and scurried past to bus and train. At Tower Hill he swung towards the approach to Tower Bridge, was held up for three minutes and felt almost as much on edge as Judith Lome had felt. Then he had a clear run and his knowledge of the mean, twisting streets became important.

  Asham Street was near the river—and near the Red Lion. If you knew your East End, you knew your pubs. This was an old one with a wall shored up by heavy timbers because dozens of houses on one side had been blasted out of existence during the war. He remembered coming here the day after the raid and seeing the “Beer as Usual” sign chalked on a board perched on the rubble. He drove past the red doors of the pub and saw a young man, carrying an attache case, on the other side of the road.

  He pulled up.

  “Hop in,” he said and leaned across and opened the door. “All quiet?”

  Snub Higginbottom got in, jammed the corner of his case against Rollison’s arm, said “Sorry” and grinned. He was a young man to whom smiling came easily. He had a merry face and a snub nose, fair, rather curly hair and a genial ugliness which most men and nearly all women found attractive.

  “No one’s thrown any bombs or broken any windows and I haven’t had my face pushed in. Expecting trouble?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That sounds lovely and ominous,” said Snub and pushed the case over into the back of the car. “That’s just for show,” he said. “If you have a case you presumably have some business in these ‘ere parts. I wouldn’t like to be a rent collector around here, would you? What’s she like?”

  “Too good for you.”

  “All that her photograph promised?”

  “She’s all right,” said Rollison. “She had a note which was phoney and makes me think that Mellor might be about ready for the high jump. He’s at Number 51—or that’s what I’m told.”

  “Might have been sold a pup, eh?”

  “Well, it’s possible. I once gave you a job.”

  Rollison slid the car to a standstill outside Number 43 and climbed out. He glanced up and down the street and, although no one was in sight, knew that he was observed; no one driving this year’s model in Asham Street would be ignored. It was a long, narrow, dreary street with tiny houses packed closely together on either side. All the houses looked exactly the same—a drab grey, like the pavement and the road. At intervals were grey-painted lamp-posts, the only things which broke the dreary line of desolation.

>   Each house had three floors; each front door opened on to the street and led to a narrow passage and a narrow flight of stairs. Most of the small front windows were covered with lace curtains, many frayed, some of them dirty; but here and there the curtains were fresh and bright and in the window of Number 49 was a bowl of blazing scarlet tulips.

  “What have you done to your hand?” asked Snub.

  “I was bitten by a dog.”

  “Mad dog?”

  “At the moment probably insane but with any luck he’s cooling off in a police cell.”

  “You are a one,” said Snub—and when Rollison paused outside the door of Number 51, without a smile enlivening the grimness of his expression, Snub frowned. “Sorry. Expect violence?”

  “I’ve told you I don’t know what to expect. Try the front door, will you?”

  “I could hop round the back,” suggested Snub.

  “Later, maybe.”

  Snub tried the front door and found it locked. At the window of the front room a curtain, more grey than white, moved as if stirred by the wind but the window was tightly closed.

  “Watching eyes,” muttered Snub. “Ought we to be together?”

  Rollison lifted the brass knocker which hadn’t been cleaned for days and was dull and green, spotted with verdigris. The sound of his knocking echoed up and down the street. Two men, one young, one very old, cycled past, staring at both the men and the car.

  Shuffling footsteps sounded inside the hall.

  “Get back a bit,” said Rollison.

  Snub stood three yards away from him, wary and watchful. The lock clicked and the door opened a few inches. Rollison saw a slatternly old woman with thin grey hair in curlers. She clutched the neck of her drab black dress.

  “Yes, wot is it?” Her voice squeaked.

  “I’ve come to see your lodger,” Rollison said. “It’s all right, Ma.” He slipped a pound-note out of his pocket and rustled it. The door opened and a skinny hand shot out. Rollison put his foot against the door, to prevent it from being closed in his face. “A young fellow who hasn’t been here long. Is he in?”

  “You ain’t a copper, are you?”

  “Did you ever know a copper who paid for information in pound notes?”

  “Notes?”

  He laughed, added another pound and held both lightly.

  “Is he in?”

  “Yeh.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yeh.”

  “Which room?”

  “Top, right.”

  He gave her the two pounds and said: “Go back into your room, Ma.”

  She looked at him through thin lashes with watery, bleary eyes and shuffled into the front room. A stale smell of vegetables and dampness met Rollison who thrust the door wide open and looked up the stairs. He paused. Nothing happened, no one appeared. He beckoned Snub who came in and closed the door, making the passage dark. Rollison called:

  “Mellor!”

  A clock with a tinny bell struck the half-hour.

  Rollison reached the foot of the stairs and peered upwards, then began to mount. Snub stayed behind, still watchful but he knew that Rollison did not really expect an attack, was afraid only of what he might find here. The stairs creaked under Rollison’s light tread, the landing boards groaned.

  Rollison went up the next flight and tapped on the door to the right. There was no answer. He tried the handle and pushed the door but it was locked. He pushed it again, frowning. Doors in this type of house were of flimsy wood and shook and rattled under pressure— but this one was curiously tight fitting.

  Snub whispered: “All okay?”

  “Stay there,” Rollison called back.

  He took out a pen-knife, one of the blades of which was a skeleton key, and inserted that blade into the lock. It was an easy lock to pick but his hand was painful and the handkerchief got in the way. He took it off. The teeth marks showed clearly but only the two canine teeth had broken the skin.

  The lock clicked back.

  Rollison pushed but the door stuck. He pushed again, the door swung open and gas rushed out at him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “The Doc”

  Snub came racing up the stairs as Rollison held his breath and rushed into the room. The gas was like an invisible blanket through which he had to force his way. He saw Mellor lying on the floor with his face near the gas-fire and heard the gentle hissing.

  Behind him, Snub started coughing.

  Rollison turned off the gas, reached the window and saw the flock padding round the sides. He bent his elbow and crashed it through the glass. Then he took out his cigarette-case, shielded his face with one hand and smashed the pieces which stuck out round the sides in spiteful, pointed spikes. The splintering of glass merged with Snub’s coughing. The inrush of air made Rollison begin to cough but he finished his job before he gave way to it.

  Snub wasn’t in the room now.

  Rollison leaned against the wall, doubled up with the paroxysm, his eyes streaming. Mellor’s face was blurred but a pinky colour. He lay on his side with a pillow beneath his head, his knees bent naturally; he looked as if he were asleep.

  Snub came in with a handkerchief tied round his mouth and nose, his eyes bright above it. Rollison pointed at Mellor, went to the window and breathed in the clean, fresh air, held his breath and turned round to help. Snub was lifting Mellor but the dead weight was too much for him. Rollison helped and felt as if his chest were bursting but they got the man on to the landing.

  A shrill voice sounded.

  “Wot are you doin’ of? Eh? Wot are you doin’ of?”

  Snub’s voice was muffled beneath the wet handkerchief.

  “Get him on to my shoulder; I can manage.”

  He went down three stairs. Rollison hoisted Mellor up a little, Snub twisted round until the unconscious man was over his shoulder, turned unsteadily and went downstairs. Rollison returned to the room and began to cough again; it would take a long time for the gas to clear. He saw the blue sheet of paper and the screwed-up envelope, put them in his pocket and, coughing painfully, went out.

  “Answer me, can’t yer?”

  “The police will answer you,” Snub said sharply. “Open the door.”

  A draught of air swept upwards as the front door opened. Rollison went down and the old woman stood in the doorway, her fists clenched, eyes glaring with fright. Rollison touched her on the shoulder and she spun round. There was fear in her eyes because she knew what had happened to the pink-faced man who was hanging like a corpse over Snub’s shoulder.

  Rollison said: “If the police come, don’t tell them that the Toff called.”

  “The—torf?” She caught her breath.

  “If they don’t come, just keep your mouth shut about everything,” Rollison said.

  He pushed past her, into the street. Farther along, Snub was lifting Mellor into the back seat of the Rolls-Bentley; by the time Rollison arrived, he was getting into the driving-seat. He had taken off the handkerchief and had it in his hand. Two men and a young woman walked past, eyeing them curiously; two or three children stood and watched; there were faces at many of the windows. The silent spectators heard the engine start up but didn’t hear Snub say:

  “Nearest hospital?”

  “No. The clinic.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  As the car moved off, the children ran towards it and brushed their fingers along the shiny green wings, poking out their tongues at the driver. The old woman at Number 51 slammed the door. They drove swiftly down Asham Street towards the docks. They could see the masts of shipping and the gaunt outline of cranes at the quayside above the countless roof-tops and the pencil-slim chimneys. At the end Snub turned left into another long, narrow road. The same kind of houses were on either side but this road twisted and turned. Farther along great warehouses with grey brick walls rose up against the sky.

  A police constable on a bicycle turned a corner.

  He stared at the car, slowed down—and
then raised his hand in salute. Rollison forced a smile for he had been recognised and if he didn’t acknowledge the salute the constable would wonder why and might ask questions of the local copper’s nark.

  He was still feeling a little sick.

  Snub said: “Think the Doc will play?”

  “Yes.”

  The car purred along the winding street, forced to slow down as two horse-drawn drays came out of the gateway leading to a warehouse. Two turnings to the left and they came to a road along a wharf with ships on one side and a pub, painted bright red, on the corner; above the pub, starkly outlined against the hazy sky, was a huge red lion. Not far along this street was a large, corrugated-iron shed; alongside it several Nissen huts. The whole area had been razed during the bombing and these were temporary buildings. Beyond them row after row of prefabricated houses, like pale white boxes, made a slight change in the drab scene. Dozens of men and women walked or cycled along this road, many more than there had been in Asham Street.

  The tin building and the huts were surrounded by a wire fence and the double gates were open. Snub turned the car into it and pulled up in front of one of the huts. A huge signboard carried the word MEDICAL CLINIC and beneath them the hours of attendance. A nurse in neat uniform came out of the big building and looked curiously at the car.

  “I wish it were dark,” said Rollison.

  “Have a slice of the moon,” Snub said. “We aren’t going to get away with this one; the Doc won’t play.”

  He got out and, as he approached the Nissen hut, the door opened and a middle-aged man appeared. He looked burly in an old tweed suit with baggy trousers and bulging pockets.

  He had a round, ruddy face and a frizzy grey head, bald at the top.

  Rollison called: “Emergency, Doc. You may need oxygen. Coal-gas poisoning.”

  The doctor pursed his lips, as if in disapproval, turned and disappeared.

  Snub had the back of the car open and eased Mellor out. His face was still pink-tinged, his eyes were closed, he didn’t seem to be breathing.