John Creasey - Kill The Toff

“I think you’re lying but I don’t really mind,” said Clarissa. “You’ve done me a world of good. Thank you, Richard.”

She kissed him, full on the lips—a lingering kiss with more than a hint of passion—and the soft warmth of her body was close against him.

“Why don’t you stay?”

“I’d rather find you new sensations,” Rollison said dryly. “Good night, Clarissa.”

She laughed and turned away—and the telephone bell rang, startling them both.

*     *     *

“It’s Jolly,” said Clarissa.

Rollison took the telephone. Jolly would not have called here unless with tidings of trouble.

Judith?

“Yes, Jolly?”

“I’ve just had a message from Dr Willerby, sir,” said Jolly. “Will you please go there at once?”

*     *     *

Earlier that night Snub drove a tradesman’s van past the clinic, waved to Doc Willerby who was talking to a woman on the steps of his Nissen hut, and stopped at a garage not far away. He drove the van in, poked his head inside the back, rubbed his hands joyously and locked the door. It was dark; the gas street lamps gave only a dim glow. When he reached the clinic again, the woman had gone and the door was closed.

He did not go in at once.

He had no idea where Rollison was but wished vaguely that his own job was different. Being nursemaid to Mellor wasn’t likely to offer much excitement. But Rollison’s training and his own instinct made him careful. He made a complete circuit of the outside of the clinic but saw no lurking figures, nothing to suggest that anything was wrong.

He wished he had a gun; or any weapon.

A light glowed at one end of the Nissen hut.

He rang the bell and Mrs Willerby, a much younger woman than her husband, opened the door.

“Not another emergency, just an extra mouth to feed,” said Snub. “Hope I’m not too late.”

“No, we seldom get to bed before midnight.” She stepped inside and the light from a room beyond fell on her fluffy hair and round, ruddy, friendly face. “The doctor is expecting you.”

“And wishing he wasn’t,” called Willerby from the lighted room.

But when Snub entered he put down a book and offered cigarettes. It was a small, comfortable, homely room and a radio stood in the corner, soft chamber music coming from it. Snub dropped into an easy-chair and clapped his hands boisterously.

“I’ve found just what the doctor ordered, Doc! A tradesman’s van, nicely sprung, used for long distances and fragile merchandise, as they say. Borrowed a divan and fastened it inside the van. Mellor will hardly know he’s on the road. How is he?”

“All right.”

“Did the Boss say why he wanted me to come along here?”

“No. He probably realises by now that Mellor isn’t the most popular man in the East End. I’ve pushed the second bed in the ward near the window and there’s a good lock on the door.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“I’m not exactly expecting trouble,” said the doctor, “but I’ll be glad when you’ve taken

Mellor away.”

“You were a fool to let him stay here,” said Mrs Willerby, coming in with a tray on which were three steaming cups of cocoa. “Can you drink some of this, Mr Higginbottom?”

“My dream of a night-cap,” said Snub. “Thanks, ma’am. Don’t blame the Doc, blame the Toff—he’s at the root of all the trouble.”

“Do you think I need telling that?” asked Mrs Willerby.

It was half-past twelve when Snub went into the ward. There was a tiny electric light on in one corner. Mellor was lying on his back and appeared to be in a natural sleep. The window was open at the top and Snub made a face.

“Must have fresh air,” whispered Willerby.

“Oh, yes. I’ll rig up a booby trap and if anyone comes in they’ll make a hell of a clatter.” Snub looked round the room, brought two chairs to the window and placed a glass tumbler on top of the erection he built up. No one reaching through the open window could fail to knock the glass off. “All will be well if it doesn’t fall of its own volition,” Snub said. “ “Night—” night.”

He kicked off his shoes, took off his collar and tie and lay down; ten minutes later, he was asleep.

*     *     *

He didn’t know what time it was when the tumbler crashed to the floor but it woke him out of a deep sleep. He sprang up—and the glass of the window fell in. He saw the shadowy figures of two men outside.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Night Attack

Snub muttered: “Here it comes!”

He was conscious of three things at the same time. Mellor had woken up at the crash and was leaning on his elbow, staring towards the window; a man, head protected by his arm, was climbing in; and the dim electric light was just good enough for Snub to see the second man, outside the window, threatening him with a gun.

Snub said: “Good evening,” squirmed round and grabbed a pillow and flung it at the first man who fell back outside, arms waving; and who caught his wrist on a jagged piece of glass. Snub rolled off the bed and, as he touched the floor, heard a soft, coughing sound, as ominous as the report of a shot; it was either from an air-pistol which carried a lethal slug or a silenced automatic; and silencers weren’t as good as all that.

He shouted: “Doc!”

For a moment he knelt behind the bed, safe  from a second shot—but he heard the “cough” again, swung his head round and saw Mellor clutch his shoulder. Mellor’s unshaven face and wild eyes were livid with fear. He was in line with the window, an easy target.

Snub yelled: “Doc!” again and sprang across the room, putting himself between Mellor and the assailant.

He felt a sharp pain at the top of his left arm but it didn’t stop him. He grabbed the side of Mellor’s bed and tipped it up. Mellor slid to the floor; blankets and sheets toppled on to him, the bedside table crashed.

A door banged.

Snub ducked; another slug went over his head. He made for the door at a crouching sprint, changed his mind and his direction and joined Mellor behind the bed. As he flung himself on the floor he saw the first man climbing in again; blood showed crimson on the man’s wrist. Mrs Willerby called out: “Be careful!” The door began to open.

“Careful, Doc!” called Snub. “They’re armed. Haven’t got a shotgun handy, have you?”

Mellor was lying in a huddled heap, not moving but gasping for breath and the top of his head stuck out from the bedclothes. The wounded assailant was now in the room. He wasn’t badly hurt for, in his injured hand, he held a knife as if he meant business.

The other man began to climb in.

The door opened wide, the doctor’s arm appeared as he tossed something into the room. It struck the first attacker on the chest and broke. Snub, peering above the upturned bed, saw a cloud of vapour billow up and heard the door slam. Next moment the first assailant began to splutter and cough, the second gave an explosive sneeze—and gas bit sharply at Snub’s eyes and mouth, a gas with a powerful smell: ammonia.

Snub stood up, holding his breath. The two men were beating the air, the knife curving wild arcs through the vapour cloud.

Snub pulled the bed-clothes off Mellor, bent down and lifted him, grunting. His eyes began to water and he wanted to cough. Holding his breath, he staggered to the door as it opened wide. He didn’t see Willerby but heard his calm voice.

“That’s right—this way.”

He felt a steady hand on his shoulder, banged against the open door, then reached the passage. Glass crashed at the window: one of the men was climbing out. Snub wanted to get at them both but had to look after Mellor and his eyes were blinded with tears. He saw a pale shape—Mrs Willerby, in a filmy nightdress—and heard her call urgently:

“Darling, be careful!”

“He’s-all-right,” gasped Snub. “Where can—”

“This way.” Snub couldn’t see the woman’s expression but felt her clutch at his arm. He followed her blindly and knocked against  another door. Tut him on the floor,” said Mrs Willerby and there was no hint of alarm in her voice now./

More glass smashed in the other room. There’d be no hope of catching the attackers.

Snub put Mellor down gently and reeled away.

“Just keep your eyes closed; you’ll feel better in a minute,” said Mrs Willerby and hurried out.

*     *     *

Mellor, thanks to the muffling bedclothes, was hardly affected by the ammonia gas and a flesh wound in his shoulder was much less serious than the shock symptoms.

Snub telephoned the Gresham Terrace flat, bathed his sore eyes, then his own wound; it was no more than a scratch.

*     *     *

“I was afraid of it but didn’t really expect it,” Rollison said. “Sorry, Doc. And thanks. Did you recognise either of the beggars?”

Willerby said: “No.”

“I think I’d know ‘em if I saw them again,” said Snub. “The lamp gave enough light for that.”

“It might help.” Rollison, looking as wide awake as if it were three o’clock in the afternoon and not the early hours of the morning, bent over Mellor. “Has it set him back far?”

“He’ll need careful nursing.”

“Dangerous to move him?”

“Not if he’s warm and comfortable. You’ll have to get him away from here, Roily; I can’t risk any further trouble. Either that or send for the police. Are you still sure that you’re right?”

“Yes. Snub, go and get that van you’ve been boasting about and keep your eyes open. Our pals might have withdrawn to regroup their forces. Better have this.” He handed Snub an automatic. “Carry one until this show’s over or I’ll be attending your last rites. Doc, I’m really sorry.”

“So you should be,” said Mrs Willerby. She was more jumpy now than she had been when the fight was going on. “I always said that it’s never safe to help Mr Rollison, Tim; you mustn’t do it again. I can’t stand any more of it. Especially for Mellor.” She looked angrily at the sleeping man—Willerby had given him a narcotic injection—and then at Rollison. “We have enough to do without looking after swine.”

“That’s enough, Peggy,” Willerby said gently.

Rollison smiled. “I know, Mrs Willerby. I’ll make amends and I’ll have Mellor out of here in half an hour.”

“It’s all very well to talk.” Mrs Willerby clutched her dressing-gown tightly, glared at the bed again and gulped. “But—but ought he to be moved, Tim?”

The doctor laughed . . .

Mrs Willerby had three rubber hot-water bottles ready by the time the van arrived. Snub backed it into the clinic grounds, then came hurrying in to say that no one was about. No alarm had been raised in a district where strange noises were often heard at night and the wise course was to pretend not to have heard them.

The doors of the van were open.

They carried Mellor in and put him on the divan bed where Mrs Willerby tucked him in with the hot-water bottles. There was something furtive about the operation, carried out in the darkness and in a hush which was somehow ominous. The purring of the engine seemed very loud; the roar as Snub revved it up was shattering.

Rollison sat in the back with the doors closed.

Through a circular hole at the back of the driver’s cabin he could see the shape of Snub’s head. Now that he was inside and they had started off, he wondered whether it would have been wiser to sit next to Snub. He would go there as soon as they were safely away from the clinic; but this was the danger area. There were no windows at the sides so he couldn’t look out except through two small windows in the doors. He stood up, held on to the side of the van and watched the mean, dark streets and the gas-lamps disappearing, only to be replaced by others. Snub drove fast on the straight and slowed down carefully as he approached the corners.

Rollison thought: “We should be all right now.”

He actually moved to speak to Snub when he saw a car swing out of a side turning and come in their wake. Brilliant headlights shone out, dazzling him. He backed quickly away and dropped his hand to his pocket—but he probably wouldn’t need a gun; this was more likely a police car than one of Waleski’s.

Snub called: “What’s up? Trailed?”

“Yes.”

“Is Mellor snug and tight?”

“Yes. I’ll keep him steady; you shake ‘em off if you can.”

“Right.”

Rollison knelt down by the side of the unconscious man, putting his arms across the divan to make sure that Mellor couldn’t roll off. Snub swung round a corner and the divan shifted; another and it swayed the other way.

Mellor didn’t stir beneath the bedclothes.

The bright light still shone into the back of the van. It disappeared as they swung round another corner then appeared again, casting grotesque shadows.

“They’re clinging,” Snub said. “Police?”

“Afraid so.”

“Have to see it through now. Hold tight.”

They swung right, then sharp left. The divan skidded and would have tilted badly had Rollison not been holding it. He wished he could stand up, to judge the distance between van and car. It wasn’t easy to think and he’d never needed to think faster. If this were a police car, it was probably equipped with radio. Radio patrol cars throughout London and the Home Counties might soon be on the look-out for the van; the call had probably gone out. The chances of escaping were negligible, unless they went to earth somewhere near, stranded the van and hid Mellor.

With anyone else that would have been easy: Ebbutt’s flat, the gymnasium, one of a dozen pubs or Bert’s garage would all have offered sanctuary. But no one would willingly help Mellor against the police.

He heard a splintering sound and glanced round. The glass of the left side window crashed in.

Snub whistled. “That’s Waleski! Hold tight!”

A second shot struck the wing of the van as they turned another corner.

Rollison called: “Get on to a straight road and keep there for a bit.”

“Aye, aye, cappen—we’re on one now.”

“Go as fast as you like,” said Rollison.

He stood up and went to the smashed window. The blinding glare of the following car’s headlights made him narrow his eyes. All he could see was the sheet of light and the twin orbs of the lamps themselves; there was no dark shape behind. He stood to one side and poked his gun out of the window.

He fired, blind. Nothing happened. He raised the gun a shade and fired again. Still no result. The roar of the shot inside the van was deafening, high above the sound of the engine and the rattling of the chassis.

He fired a third time. One of the lights went out and the car swerved. He moved in front of the window and saw the dark outline of the car which was nearly broadside-on. He fired twice towards the driving-seat and heard the squeal of brakes as the report of the shots died down. “Twist and turn about now,” he ordered. “Nice work,” breathed Snub. The van swung round another corner as

Rollison bent over Mellor.