by John Creasey
Rollison still held the woman’s arm. They were on a path leading towards the offices and the main buildings.
‘What is it?’
‘They’ve—kidnapped him.’
It wasn’t a surprise, now; it wasn’t even a shock. He had sensed it from the moment he had seen her expression. He felt curiously flat; cool; determined. Here was something which could bring unparalleled disaster. Twenty-one years of service, loyalty, counsel, and friendship were vital things; they had great depth and significance. If one individual in the whole world mattered more to Rollison than any others, it was Jolly. He was part of life; it was unthinkable that he should need help and it should not be given.
And Rollison could blame himself for dallying too long, leaving Beck alone too long. Beck had believed himself to be in the ascendency; now he was.
‘How?’ Rollison asked abruptly.
‘He’d had an idea, and wanted to ask me something about it. He telephoned and said he was coming. He didn’t arrive. I was getting worried when a man—’
‘Beck?’
‘No.’
‘Who?’
‘I’ve never noticed him before. Just a man—rather young, hard-looking.’ Her voice was unsteady. ‘He said that Jolly wouldn’t be coming back until you’d had another talk with Beck.’
Rollison said: ‘Where?’
‘Beck will tell you.’
‘So he gives orders.’ Rollison lit a cigarette – then thought to offer her one. She wouldn’t smoke. ‘What was Jolly’s idea?’
‘He didn’t say much—he didn’t want to, on the telephone. He asked me for time-tables of any regular service out of the Camp passing the spot where—where all three disappeared. I was getting them ready—’
‘Is it easy?’
‘Fairly, there aren’t many regular services.’
‘Only one that matters,’ Rollison said.
They were outside the offices, now. He knew that many more people had followed them; including policemen. He knew that Davies wasn’t satisfied.
Until he knew what Beck wanted, Rollison wasn’t going to do any deal with Davies, with anyone.
In the big reception hall a youngish, shortish man, with sparse black hair brushed straight back from his forehead, thin features, and a nasty thin mouth, sat near the desk. He grinned crookedly at Rollison.
‘That’s him,’ the woman said. ‘Do you know what Jolly—’
‘I’ve an idea.’
‘What?’
‘I’ll keep it to myself,’ Rollison told her. He felt her take his arm, as if appealingly. She was fifty, perhaps fifty-five; but she had a charm which was given to few women, and was so very nice to look at. ‘No,’ he said, ‘that doesn’t mean that I don’t trust you. It simply means that I can’t take the risk of you knowing. You might disappear, too.’
‘That’s right,’ said the man.
He stood up, and sauntered towards Rollison. He was insolent – his movements, the twist of his lips, everything was a calculated insult.
‘Beck wants you,’ he said.
‘Where?’
‘Viennese Ballroom.’
‘When?’
‘Now.’
‘I’ve a job to do first,’ Rollison said. ‘I’ll be ten minutes or so.’ He turned to the woman, and gripped her hands. ‘Stay within sight of other people all the time. Don’t take any chances.’
‘I—won’t.’ She had fine eyes; they could be radiant. ‘Save him, won’t you,’ she said. ‘He—’
She didn’t finish.
The hard man sneered.
Rollison went out of the reception hall, with Beck’s man on his heels.
Chapter Twenty-One
Save Jolly
Outside, the man from Beck followed him. There were few people about; but there would soon be more when the theatres would be emptied and the bars closed. In the distance, Rollison heard the booming of a drum; then someone began to sing, near by.
‘Will you please put a penny on the drum,
Will you please put a penny on the drum,
We only want a tanner
To buy a new piano,
So please put a penny on the drum.’
Just a nonsense doggerel; nightly, highly-spirited nonsense.
Others took it up; in the distance drums were beating time. One drew near. Round the corner came a Redcoat beating a drum, and behind him a laughing crocodile of people, mostly young, clinging to one another, shouting, singing:
‘Come and join us, come and join us,
Come and join our happy party.
Come and join us, come and join us,
Come and join our happy throng.’
They marched past, noisy, swift.
Other drums were leading other crocodiles towards the main ballroom, where they would all converge.
The hard man, close to Rollison, said: ‘Only your man Jolly isn’t so happy. Don’t waste any time. When Beck sends for a man, he wants him quick.’
‘Will you please put a penny on the drum …’
‘Boom, boom, boom, boom,’ went the drums.
‘So forget where you were going,’ the hard-faced man said.
Rollison had to lose him; had to see Ebbutt first. Ebbutt might still be waiting at the church; he was patient by nature, and he had faith. The crocodile was nearly past, but others were coming – all heading fast towards the Viennese Ballroom.
‘Soon,’ Rollison said.
He joined a crocodile. A plump girl was just in front of him, holding the waist of the man ahead; a man behind gripped Rollison’s waist, Beck’s envoy was squeezed out. They went on wildly, surging, as they would in the Conga.
‘Boom, boom, boom, boom!
Come and join us, come and join us,
Come and join …’
They turned a corner, and Beck’s man wasn’t in sight. Rollison slipped away, and the girl cried: ‘Oh, spoil sport!’ He ran ahead of the crocodile, and in front of the Redcoat who was beating the drum at the head of it. Beck’s man didn’t show up. A huge crowd had gathered near the entrance to the ballroom, and some of the crocodiles were already inside. The ballroom would soon be a swarming mass, all fears and uncertainty forgotten in the wild exhilaration of the nightly ceremony.
‘Come and join our happy throng!’
Only Jolly wasn’t so happy.
Rollison didn’t run; too many people were coming towards the ballroom, in his way. But he bored a way through, elbowing some, jostling others. He would be able to pick out the hard-faced man if he saw him; he didn’t see him.
Beck might have others here.
This was big. That had been clear from the beginning; big; worth taking desperate risks for; worth murder, if you were of the type who could kill without remorse or compunction. Was Davies right?
‘… our happy throng.’
Jolly, three missing Redcoats, and Elizabeth Cherrell weren’t very happy. He felt happier about Liz. Had she known about those buried jewels, her chalet would have been too obvious a hiding-place.
The drumbeats stopped; the singing and the shouting died.
Few people were about when Rollison reached the church. Outside, the only indication that it was a church was the arched doorway, and the notice-boards outside. Light shone inside. He went in. Here were the pews, there was the altar, facing him; and candles on it; and dim lighting. There was the cross. There, standing against the wall, was Ebbutt – the massive Ebbutt. Chewing. He looked bored to distraction until he saw Rollison, then he beamed. His red, rosy face could light up marvellously.
‘Why, Mr. Ar, fought you was never comin’.’ His voice was muted.
‘Sorry, Bill, I—’
‘Gotta story to tell my ole gel,’ beamed Ebbutt with child-like delight. ‘I bet she never expected me to ’ang arahnd inside a church for over a ’nour, up ’ere at Butlin’s “You keep away from those young hussies up there, and as soon’s Mr. Ars finish wiv’ yer, you come back,” she said. Them’s ’er orders! S’f
act. Still trying ta make me join the Harmy, she is. I suppose it’s okay for those as like it, but I never did like brass bands. I—’
He stopped.
His voice had been low-pitched all the time, as if in a kind of intuitive reverence. He was bursting with words because of his boredom; and in his way he was looking forward to telling his Salvation Army wife a thing she would find it hard to believe. But now he saw the look in Rollison’s eyes, and his voice tapered off.
‘Bill,’ Rollison said, ‘there’s been a lot of kidnapping. Three officials from here, a girl, and now Jolly. And some murder.’
‘Jolly,’ breathed Ebbutt.
Those who knew him and Jolly also knew that when they had first met they had disliked each other with the fierce antipathy of extreme opposites. The one thing they had in common was devotion to the Toff, and even that had been for different reasons. But the years had mellowed them – and now, Ebbutt’s little pale-blue eyes showed shock and alarm at the news.
‘Yes, Bill. Listen. I’m going to the Viennese Ballroom, and want you to follow me. I’ll touch at least two people, perhaps three, with my fingers—this way.’ He put the first two fingers of his right hand together, and tapped Ebbutt on the shoulder with them. ‘See that?’
‘Okay.’
‘Follow them,’ Rollison said. ‘Have all your boys with you, to follow the men I touch. You, yourself, follow me.’ He demonstrated again. ‘Don’t waste any time, but send for the police. You’ll find them at the offices.’
‘Okeydoke,’ Bill said.
‘And if I vanish,’ Rollison said, ‘don’t lose any time either. Tell the police to get to the aerodrome in a hurry. It’s so near Ireland it’s perfect for smuggling. There’s a lot of traffic, some charter flying, nothing likely to cause suspicion. Say I’m almost certainly on it or near it, and the police must stop any plane taking off. I—’
He stopped.
He heard the droning of an aeroplane high in the star-decked sky. It wasn’t unusual. It might not be one of the See the Camp by Night flights; but probably it was.
Jolly might be up there.
He and Jolly had seen all the available evidence and added it together and come to the same conclusion. One easy way to get the Redcoats and anyone out of the Camp was through the regular ‘free transport’ to the airport. The one thing which would hardly be noticed leaving was that old Army truck which did its journey a dozen times a day. The easy way to make people vanish into thin air was to take them up in the air.
And drop them?
‘Okay,’ Ebbutt said. ‘Gimme five minutes to line up the ovvers, Mr. Ar. Brought five, arter all—couple more couldn’t resist a bit of a spree at Billy B’s.’ He winked as he crept out of the church door. ‘They’re in the cycle store. I’ll tell yer when it’s okay.’
It was quiet in the church. Rollison’s mind was not quiet, yet he seemed to gain confidence here.
The engine of the aeroplane droned high above his head as Rollison walked towards the ballroom.
Crowds of people were gathered outside, bright lights shone, the steady beat of the dance band came faintly.
Behind Rollison was Ebbutt; and behind Ebbutt, the five men who had come with him from the East End of London. They owed the Toff much; he owed them plenty, too. But he wasn’t thinking of them. He was thinking of the aeroplane and the probability that the missing men and others had been taken out of the district in a ’plane. He was thinking of Susan Dell’s bashed and battered body – dropped from a height, remember. He was thinking of a crude drawing and red throats – and the news that Clark had been found with his throat cut.
He was thinking of Elizabeth Cherrell’s fears; and Rosa Beck’s fears – and of Cyrus Beck, with those piercing dark eyes and the influence which they seemed to hold.
He went into the ballroom.
The hard-faced man, standing just inside, straightened up as Rollison appeared. He looked past Rollison, obviously expecting to see the police; fear changed to puzzlement. He drew nearer. Pushed against him by the crowd, Rollison laid two fingers on his shoulder; that made him a marked man.
‘Where’ve you been?’
‘Trying to forget you.’
‘If you’ve told the police—’
‘My poor fool, I don’t need any help from the police.’ Rollison beamed.
The man led the way round the walls of the ballroom. At one point they were raised in four tiers, rising up from the dance floor. Hundreds of Campers, mostly the middle-aged and elderly ones, sat on brightly painted chairs and watched the dancing. At any other time Rollison would have been awed by the sight. The huge floor was crammed so tightly with people that there wasn’t a spare inch of space. Two thousand people must have been on it. The band, on its raised dais, was playing a Square dance; a caller was yelling his head off through the microphone.
‘Honour your partners,
Honour your corners,
Set your square and here we go.
Ladies to the centre …’
The dancers were following his instructions, everyone was moving at the same moment. The seething mass was like the waves of a tumultuous sea. On nearly every face was a set smile. Those who did not know the calling and the steps tried to follow; those who knew tried to guide willing or giggling partners.
The hard-faced man led Rollison towards another door, near a licensed bar.
Beck sat against the ballroom wall, with Rickett on one side of him and Rickett’s loose-mouthed wife on the other side. Crowding the bar doorway to watch the dancing were Campers and Redcoats – at least a dozen Redcoats men and women. They saw Rollison, and nudged one another. Some Campers saw him, too, and the mood of unease touched them all.
Rickett stood up.
Rollison touched him.
Ebbutt and his men, apparently part of a flowing tide of people, walked along the gangways between rows of chairs, and saw that. They also saw Rollison stumble, touch Beck and the woman, then recover.
‘Sorry,’ he said, poker-faced.
‘I’d like to — you,’ Rickett’s wife said viciously.
‘Be quiet,’ Beck told her. ‘Sit down,’ he said to Rollison.
Rollison sat down in the chair which Rickett had left vacant. Rickett didn’t go far away; he pretended to watch the dancing.
‘Ladies to the centre, back to the Bar,
Gents to the centre with a right-hand star.’
‘Listen,’ Beck said, ‘I’ve got Jolly, I’ve got the girl, I’ve got the other three. They’re alive. They don’t have to stay that way. Take it from me, if I don’t leave this Camp the way I want to, they won’t stay alive. I’m working with others. They’ve killed twice, and they’ll kill again if necessary. Don’t make any mistake about that.’
Rollison said: ‘So what?’
‘You keep away from the police,’ Beck ordered flatly. ‘See? Keep right away from them.’
Rollison said: ‘I can’t keep them away from you.’
‘You’d better try,’ Beck growled. ‘And listen—you’d better talk. What do you know about dollars?’
Rollison didn’t answer.
‘You’ll talk,’ Beck said, ‘or else—’
He didn’t finish; but he told Rollison one thing, clearly; he was still nervous.
The dancing was going on wildly, men and women were kicking out, prancing, whirling, sweating, gasping; and the caller bellowed and the music boomed, and Beck’s voice was like venom in Rollison’s ear, audible because it was so close: ‘You’ve got to talk to me and hold the police off, or Jolly and all the others—’
Beck didn’t make the gesture of cutting his throat; he did mimic a death rattle. It sounded above the music, the thud of feet, the hoarse calling over the microphone.
The dance was nearing its climax; dancers looked frenzied and near the point of exhaustion.
‘See,’ Beck said. ‘I’ve other legmen here. If anything goes wrong, that’s it and all about it. Not one of the five prisoners will live.
You’re going to stall the police and come with me—and talk.’
Yes, he was jittery. He wanted to get away and was frightened in case the police should stop him. He could be followed; he had to be. He and his men would recognize the police, but wouldn’t guess that Ebbutt and the East Enders were after them.
Then Beck looked away – and stiffened.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Police Cordon
The police stood at the door.
When he looked across the ballroom through the grey mist of smoke, Rollison saw more uniformed figures at each door. Davies wasn’t in sight, but he probably wasn’t far away.
‘He said he didn’t talk to the dicks,’ the messenger muttered, leaning forward, ‘he said—’
‘Shut up, Jake.’ Beck’s voice sizzled.
‘I didn’t,’ Rollison said. ‘Police are funny people. They do what they like.’ But now they could kill all hope.
‘This time they don’t,’ said Beck. ‘If they come and get me, they’ll wish they hadn’t, and so will you. Okay, Jake,’ he said, ‘get going. You wait, Rollison.’
Jake moved away, swiftly.
The dance was still on, the caller was yelling, men and women were flinging themselves about with such wild abandon that collapse seemed only seconds away. One of Ebbutt’s men, a tall and melancholy looking Cockney wearing a brown jacket, went after Jake. Two others were in the bar doorway, two behind Ebbutt near one of the square pillars and watching the fantastic scene.
The police didn’t move.
Davies appeared with a sergeant, and made his way slowly towards Rollison and Beck. Beck’s tension showed. One boney hand clutched his knee; the fingers of the other tightened on Rollison’s left wrist.
‘Tell Davies to lay off,’ he said. ‘If he doesn’t, I’ll start so much trouble he’ll wish he’d never been born. I’ll turn this crowd into a panic-stricken mob. A couple of shots, a couple of slashes with a knife, and a bit of shouting—don’t make any mistake, Rollison. Jake’s gone to give the signal—if it’s needed.’
He stared at Davies. And there wasn’t much he hadn’t planned.