John Creasey - The Toff In Town

“You just let her suffer in misery and fear, and hoped for the best. You forgot too many things while you were in Burma. You’ve got to start learning all over again.”

“Why don’t you shut up?” Allen asked wearily. “I’ve had a hell of a time. I—I’m sorry about Bar, I thought she’d be all right, but she isn’t badly hurt. And Blane had to go.”

Barbara came in, carrying a tray; she had made a jugful of coffee and brought three cups and some biscuits. She put the tray on the bedside table and began to pour out. She put a spoonful of sugar into Allen’s cup; Rollison added three more and stirred it slowly.

Since she had entered the room not a word had been spoken, but Allen looked at her, and Rollison read something in his expression which Allen probably didn’t know was there.

“Now drink this while it’s hot,” Rollison said.

Allen sipped.

Rollison drank also . . .

“Now,” he said briskly, “you ought to take some aspirins and get a good night’s sleep. If your tummy’s painful in the morning—more painful that you’d expect from a bruise—send for a doctor. Probably I shall come over myself and give you a once-over,” he added. “You ought to take some to steady you, too, Mrs. Allen; there won’t be any more trouble to-night.”

“How can you be sure of that?” asked Barbara.

“I’ll make sure,” said Rollison.

“You mean—you’ll send for the police? Please don’t——”

Rollison said: “See, Allen? You just don’t deserve it. No, not the police, Mrs. Allen, some other friends of mine. May I use the telephone?”

“Of course,” said Barbara, jumping up, and her eyes were much brighter.

“I know where it is,” said Rollison.

He went out, closing the door behind him.

His last glimpse of the couple then, was of Barbara standing by the side of the bed and Allen, his eyes closed and his face set.

He lifted the telephone and dialled an Aldgate number.

For many years Bill Ebbutt had been a prize-fighter; for many more he had been the owner of the Blue Dog, in the Mile End Road. During most of this period he had known Rollison, whom he sometimes called “Mr. Ar” and sometimes “The Torf” and occasionally something meaty and to the point. He was inordinately fond of Rollison, who was persona grata in Bill’s flat above the Blue Dog, and also at the gymnasium. Bill was passionately devoted to the fistic art, and it was his dream not only that England should win world championships again, but that the world-beaters should receive their early training “in the gym”. Ebbutt lavished as much care and attention, devotion and selflessness on the gym and his “boys” as his wife did on the Salvation Army; and her devotion to that was so great that she had once persuaded Bill to be “saved”. She had even tried to interest Mr. Ar.

Rollison knew the gymnasium, which was in its way a club, very well. He frequently stepped in for a word with Ebbutt and a bout with a young hope who stroked him gently round the ring, afraid of releasing a real punch, because of Bill’s watchful eye.

Although Bill Ebbutt did not keep early hours, he slept heavily, and he was asleep when the telephone bell rang at nearly one o’clock that morning.

His wife did not stir.

The telephone bell kept ringing.

With a gargantuan sigh, Ebutt heaved his seventeen stone off the massive iron bedstead. He kicked his foot on a chair, swore and crept to the door. The bell kept on and on, sounding much louder when he opened the door.

He crept on to the small landing.

“William!” called his wife.

“S’orl right, telephone,” growled Ebbutt

“Never you mind the telephone,” said Mrs. Ebbutt, “using language what you ought to be ashamed of in the middle of the night, you ought to be ashamed of——”

“For Pete’s sake shut your mouth,” said Ebbutt, with some impatience.

When he reached the hall-passage, the bell stopped. He switched on a light and blinked in the glare, his good humour spent. In a pair of vividly-striped red-and-blue pyjamas, his wispy grey hair standing on end and his calloused feet bare, he was a remarkable sight

“Come orn, if you’re going to,” he growled, and put out his hand to switch off the light. Immediately darkness fell, the bell began to ring again. “Cor!” he exploded. When at last he lifted the receiver, he barked: “ ‘Oo in perishin’ ‘ell is it? . . . Oo? . . . I can’t ‘ear . . . Mr. Ar!” he breathed as if syrup had poured into his mouth. “Strike a light I never thought it was you! . . . S’orl right, Mr. Ar, I wasn’t asleep . . .What?”

He listened attentively, closing one eye and staring at the ceiling. He nodded, as if Rollison could see him. He grunted and finally said:

“ ‘Ow many? . . . Two enough? . . . Okay, Mr. Ar, you just leave it ter me . . . sure, right away, I ‘eard you say it ‘ad to be right away. Take me abaht three-quarters of a n’our—they’ll be there all right, Mr. Ar. Anyfink up?”

And what Rollison said then made him shake with gusty laughter.

A little more than three-quarters of an hour later Rollison left Byngham Court Mansions. He ,had with him all the contents of Blane’s pockets and the knife, which was wrapped in a serviette, to preserve the finger-prints.

In the doorway of a house near-by was a shadowy figure, who emerged from the gloom and called to him in a hoarse whisper.

“It’s me. Mr. Ar.”

“Hallo, Sam,” greeted Rollison, making out the tall figure of one of Bill’s one-time “white hopes”. “Nice night, isn’t it?”

“Loverly. Any special orders, Mr. Ar?”

“Top landing, Sam. There’s a chair outside, I’ve fixed it, and the people there know you’re going to be around. Who’s at the back?”

“Bert Dann,” said Sam. “Bill fought you’d better ‘ave a little ‘un for the back, ‘e can nip up the fire-escape pretty quick.”

“Wonderful!” praised Rollison. “If the couple in Flat 31 ask for help, get cracking. If nothing happens, Bill’s going to send someone to relieve you in the morning. Don’t let the police see you if you can help it, but if you get in a jam, blame me for it—that’ll get you out!”

“You needn’t worry abaht me,” declared Sam confidently, ‘or abaht Bert, Mr. Ar.”

“I know I needn’t,” said Rollison.

He walked to the entrance to the next block of flats, where he had left his Sunbeam-Talbot. He drove swiftly through the deserted streets, thinking a little about Bill Ebbutt and his boys, more about Barbara Allen, much about Allen himself— and the diamonds. He had no doubt that they existed, but Allen had refused to admit it, saying that he knew nothing about any precious stones, and had maintained that attitude no matter how Rollison had tried to shift him or his wife cajoled.

Rollison put the car away in a garage near Gresham Terrace, slipped the key into his pocket and walked into the street. A clock struck two. Ebbutt had wasted no time, and if the Aliens did get more visitors that night, the visitors would have a rude shock. He hurried up two flights of stairs to his flat, and as he neared the top of the second flight, still thinking about the diamonds, he thought he saw something move.

He missed a step, deliberately.

It was dark up here, but a faint light came from the hall below, where a dim bulb burned all night. He couldn’t be sure whether he had seen the movement, but now, as he went up more quietly, he smelt tobacco smoke. He hummed softly, as if he hadn’t a suspicion, took his key and slipped it into the lock. Deliberately he fumbled with it. He was sure now that someone moved. He opened the door a few inches but stopped to take the key from the lock—and as he did so something hard was jammed into his ribs and a man hissed:

“Don’t make a sound!”

Slowly, Rollison put up his hands.

CHAPTER SIX

WARNING

“KEEP still,” ordered the man behind Rollison. It wasn’t Blane; Rollison would have recognised the voice. “Listen to me, and don’t make any mistake about it. Leave the Aliens alone.”

“The Aliens?” Rollison pretended surprise—in fact, there was not much need to pretend. The “something” was pressed harder into his ribs.

“You know who I mean,” the man said. It was pitch dark. They were half inside the hall of the flat, and there was no glimmer of light here; the radiance from downstairs didn’t spread as far as this. Rollison could feel the man’s breath on the back of his neck, so he was tall.

“Keep out of the Aliens’ affairs, see. You saw Allen tonight, didn’t you?”

“Yes. I saw the wreck.”

“That’s nothing to what will happen to you if you poke your nose in,” growled the unknown. “You won’t know whether you’re coming or going.”

“But I’m,” said Rollison, “I’m staying here.”

“You’d better stick right here,” the man said. “This is something you can’t tackle. It’s too big for you or anyone else. You won’t heip the Aliens by going to the police, and you’ll only get bashed if you try anything yourself. Got me?”

“You’ve made it all very clear,” said Rollison.

The man pushed him forward, sending him staggering into the hall, and slammed the door. Rollison came up against the wall as a light went on in Jolly’s room, and Jolly’s door burst open. Jolly gave the Toff one glance and rushed to the front door, a vision in yellow.

“Careful !” called Rollison.

“I will be, sir.” Jolly opened the door an inch and peered on to the landing “I don’t think——” he began.

The street door slammed.

“You can relax,” said Rollison, moving from the wall and brushing his hair out of his eyes. Dishevelled, there was a ruggedness about him that had not been noticeable before. “I think he had a gun, but it may have been a bit of wood.”

“Shall I——” began Jolly.

“You will not go out the back way and trail him,” said Rollison firmly. “He’s almost certainly haring along the street by now. It’s a night for letting bad men get away, so we may as well keep in the fashion. Sorry you were disturbed, Jolly.”

“I’m sorry you were roughly handled, sir,” said Jolly.

“He could have been much rougher,” Rollison confided. “He was waiting on the landing and had one fixed idea. To put the fear of death into me.”

Then he could not have known you very well,” observed Jolly.

Rollison chuckled.

“Nicely said I On the other hand, he knew me and he knew that I’d been to see the Aliens. The position is this: Mrs. Allen is distressed because her husband is in a spot, and he . . .”

There were few gaps left in the story five minutes later, and Jolly, whose ability to grasp quickly the essentials of such a recital was unrivalled, forbore to ask questions, although he looked very thoughtful. He was lukewarm about Ebbutt’s men but he accepted them philosophically.

Ten minutes after the door had slammed on Rollison, they went to their rooms. Almost immediately afterwards, Rollison came out of his and went to the front door.

He opened the door, as Jolly called:

“Have I forgotten anything, sir?”

“No, I had. A pity the key was in the lock.”

“Was, sir?”

“Was.”

“Then I will arrange for a new lock to be put on to-morrow morning,” said Jolly. “I think that would be wisest, don’t you?”

Rollison considered.

“Yes,” he agreed, “and then again, no. If they’ve a key and want to get in, why not let them? We could prepare a petting party for prying prodnoses.”

“With respect,” said Jolly, “I think you have taken too many risks already. The risk with Mrs. Allen and the man Blane was, perhaps, justified, although you would have felt very badly, very badly indeed, sir, had Blane been there with the express purpose of murdering Mrs. Allen.”

“I would, but it wasn’t likely,” Rollison said.

“It was possible,” said Jolly firmly. “And I think you were ill-advised to allow this man to hold you up, sir, since you had warning of his presence, he might also have been here with homicidal intent——”

“Pessimistic to-night, aren’t you?” asked Rollison.

“I see no reason why you should risk being murdered, sir. There are risks and risks——”

“You have a Johnsonian profundity at times,” said Rollison solemnly. Yes, Jolly, I will have a care.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Jolly. “Good-night again.”

“Good-night,” said Rollison gravely.

Rollison closed his door behind him, smoothed down his hair, exuded a long breath, and sat down on the foot of the bed to take off his shoes. He undressed slowly, thinking of diamonds—chloroform—a terrified man—a distressed wife—a knife—fear of the police—and violent gentlemen who acted with quite remarkable speed. This, then, was no ordinary affair of crime. Of course not. Allen’s fear and consequent wildness; his wife’s misery; these things were damnable.

He was tired; he must get to sleep, and in the morning bring a clear mind to bear upon events. He was already drowsy, and all was well for to-night To-morrow

He slept

He stirred, because of a sound in the flat. He tried to ignore it, but the sound was too insistent A bell was ringing.

He woke up reluctantly.

The bell kept ringing.

Bill Ebbutt must have felt something like this when he had been disturbed. Who on earth was calling at this time of the night? The Aliens? He flung back the bed-clothes, suddenly wide awake and alarmed. The main telephone was in the hall, and there was an extension to the study, but not to any of the bedrooms. He switched on the bedside light and hurried across the room—and as he opened the door, Jolly entered the hall, blinking.

“Yes, sir,” said Jolly.

Rollison lifted the receiver, now convinced that it was the Aliens. He said: “Rollison speaking,” and heard a sound—as if Button A were being pressed. He was prepared to hear Barbara’s voice, not the pleasant, mellow voice of a man.

“Is that Mr. Richard Rollison?”

“Yes, speaking.”

“I’m so sorry to disturb you at this hour,” said the caller, “but I think it better that you should be disturbed like this than — be hurt, don’t you?”

Rollison said slowly: “I don’t quite understand.”

“It’s a shame when you’re not yet fully awake,” said the other, with a laugh in his voice. “You remember the man who called to see you about an hour ago?”

Rollison said: “Vaguely.”

“Oh, it will soon be clearer,” the other assured him. “I just want you to know that he was serious. I should hate to have any misunderstanding.”

“Oh, there’s no fear of that,” said Rollison. “Which of your boy friends learned my name?”

“I have an envelope addressed to you in my hand this very moment,” said the caller. “It was in the dashboard pocket of your car. And my messenger remembers—vaguely—what a pity people are vague!—that you have something of a reputation for helping lame dogs over stiles. Allen isn’t a lame dog.”