John Creasey - Kill The Toff

“Hmm!” There was a ghost of a twinkle in the keen grey eyes. “You don’t change much. Did he do this gassing job himself?”

“I don’t know and you don’t know.”

“Who does know anything?” asked the doctor.

He was fitting a stethoscope to his ears and bending over Mellor’s bare pink chest.

“No one who’ll talk, as far as I can judge. If anyone does talk, I’ll confess I hoodwinked you and keep you in the clear.”

“That’s what you think. Don’t forget I’m not the free agent I used to be. I’m a servant of the Government and so a servant of the State, who run the police.”

“That man’s a human being, in a nasty spot of trouble.”

The doctor shrugged his shoulders and turned his full attention on to the patient. He kept frowning as he shifted the stethoscope, finally shook his head, stood up, let the listening piece fall against his chest and opened a drawer in a small table. He took out a hypodermic syringe and selected a tiny glass phial. The care with which he prepared it all fascinated Rollison.

“I’m going to give him an intravenous injection,” the doctor said. “Then we’d better see how much saturation there is. Any idea how long he’s been unconscious?”

“No.”

“Pity. Shift him a bit, will you? and take care not to let the mask slip. Then see if you can get his left arm out of his coat sleeve and roll the shirt sleeve up.” The doctor worked all the time and went on talking in the same unflurried voice. “The trouble with you, Rollison, is that you’re always a man with a mission. Nothing matters but getting results. You’d have made a good pirate—you’ve the buccaneering way with you. Yes, you were born three hundred years too late. As it is, this is a disciplined and orderly world.”

“Really,” said Rollison sardonically.

“And you’re always kicking against the discipline,” said the doctor. He glowered up at Rollison who had Mellor’s arm out of his coat and was rolling up a grubby shirt sleeve. The arm was limp and pink. “You always have. The police have never been quick enough or thorough enough for you—you’ve always had to get a step in front of them and show them the way. Or think you’re showing them the way. I doubt if they agree. Why not let the police know all about this young man and save yourself a lot of bother?”

“It’s the buccaneer in me.”

“I’m serious.”

“I’ll be serious. Ninety-nine times in a hundred the police do a good job—a much more effective job than I could hope to do. But every now and again a peculiar case crops up. This is one. Apply rules and regulations to this and you’ll be in danger of reaching what the world thinks is a right and proper verdict; in fact it would be a travesty. Give rules and regulations the go-by for a bit and you’ll get justice.”

“And you’re all for justice!”

“Who’s been giving you a pep talk?” asked

Rollison.

The doctor was rubbing spirit into the crook of Mellor’s elbow and the faint, sharp smell was refreshing.

“I’m giving you the pep,” said the doctor. “Hold his arm out, will you? Keep it limp.” He picked up the hypodermic syringe. “Can you honestly tell me that if you keep Mellor away from the police it will help him—and help to find Galloway’s murderer?” He smiled again at Rollison’s startled expression and said with gentle reproof: “Keep his arm still—I’ve got to get this into the vein slowly. Well, can you?”

“So you know who he is,” murmured Rollison slowly.

“Even doctors have eyes and he’s been on the wanted list for weeks. I don’t have to talk about it but before I help I want to be fairly sure that this isn’t one of your crazy revolts against an orderly society—that it will be a wise thing to hide him from the police for a little longer. Convince me and I’ll do what I can.”

The doctor began to press the plunger, gently, and kept his eye on a large clock which ticked away the seconds as he made the injection.

CHAPTER SIX

Bill Ebbutt

The hypodermic syringe was empty before Rollison spoke. The doctor drew the needle out gently, wiped it on a piece of cotton wool and stood back to survey the patient. Footsteps sounded outside and there was a tap at the door. The doctor turned to open it and Snub came in with two cups of steaming coffee on a tray, some milk, sugar and biscuits. He flashed an inquiring glance at Rollison who showed no expression.

Anything else?” asked Snub.

“Yes,” said Rollison. “Telephone Bill Ebbutt and tell him I want a room for a stranger— probably for a couple of weeks. The stranger will want nursing for the first few days.”

“Nice work. Thanks, Doc.” Snub went out.

The doctor rubbed the side of his face. He had a broad nose, a full mouth, a squarish chin which seemed to be a little on one side. His white collar was a shade too tight but that didn’t seem to trouble him.

“That young man isn’t the only one who jumped to conclusions,” he said.

“You said you’d play if I could convince you,” said Rollison. “I can—you’ll play. Mellor is the illegitimate son of an extremely wealthy old man. The old man has been suffering from heart trouble for some years. Recently, in spite of strict obedience to doctor’s orders, he has become much worse. The doctors say they’re puzzled. I’m not. He’s worse because someone is working on him. I suspected jiggery-pokery shortly after he asked me to look for his son. There is quite a story behind this. He also had a legitimate son, Geoffrey, a year younger than Mellor. The younger son was burned to death, supposedly by accident, nearly a year ago. The fire was in a summer-house where Geoffrey slept in warm weather. He would have inherited the bulk of a substantial fortune. After his death, conscience set to work in the old man who decided that if he could find his first son, he would do right by him. As they say.” Rollison’s expression didn’t change and he looked at the doctor through the haze of steam rising from the coffee. “That’s the story as I know it.”

“Go on.”

“Inquiries were made discreetly. Mellor had no idea that he was a rich man’s son, no idea that the rich man was waiting to present him with a fortune. But someone knew. The someone framed Mellor for Galloway’s murder. I’ve been through the evidence thoroughly and had counsel’s opinion and counsel’s opinion is that nothing except fresh evidence can prevent Mellor from being hanged. I’ve some fresh evidence but it isn’t complete yet. If the police get it, there’s a grave risk that they’ll let whoever is behind the crimes know that they’re on a new trail. Two possibilities arise from that, Doc. Either the crooks will get a move on and the old man will die very quickly—an attempt at a coup d’etat, as it were. Or else they’ll lie low, covering up their tracks, let justice take its course with Mellor—great joke, isn’t it?—and nature take its course with the old man. Eventually, whoever wants the fortune will probably get it. It’s certainly someone who’s in line for it. The chance of finding the whole truth will be very slim. Or it would have been but for a thing that happened to-day. The crooks clearly wanted to get a move on, something worried them into making a mistake. Mind if I go all egotistic?”

“You worried them—I’ll believe that!”

Thanks. I think they discovered that I’d discovered that Mellor was this long-lost son. So they made a hasty move and also their first major mistake. I think I can now prove that they were prepared to murder Mellor and that alone would cast some doubt and bring new evidence. But they also showed something else. This is not what it looked like in the first place—simply a nasty domestic business with an avaricious next-but-one-of-kin getting rid of the but-one. I won’t say this is gangster stuff hut some pretty hardened bad men are involved. If the police take Mellor these gentlemen will know exactly where they stand. If Mellor disappears again they’ll be at sixes and sevens and they’ll do more desperate things to find him.”

“Hmm,” grunted the doctor. “And you’ll stick your neck right out.”

“That’s it.”

“Well, if the police don’t ask me whether I’ve seen Mellor, I won’t tell them,” said the doctor. “If they ask whether I’ve seen you, I shall tell them all about it.”

“I hope they don’t ask until I’ve got Mellor away from here. When can he be moved?”

“To-morrow, at the earliest. You’ll have to arrange for an ambulance or a shooting-brake—I don’t want him jolted about too much, even to-morrow. And of course he may not pull through,” added the doctor. “In that case—”

“The show’s over,” said Rollison. “But he’ll pull through. Thank you, Doc.”

“No one can help being born a fool,” said the doctor. “I’ll give him another quarter of an hour and if he isn’t showing signs of improvement by then I’ll have to do a blood test. There’s no need for you to wait. I’ll telephone you when I can be sure which way he’ll turn. Get my wife to dress that bite in your hand before you go and give my love to the other buccaneer.”

Rollison looked puzzled. “The other one?”

The doctor chuckled, and said: “Bill Ebbutt.

Who else? Tell him I said so, won’t you?”

*     *     *

To the stranger passing through there is only a drab greyness in the East of London, relieved here and there by garish brightness in the shops, at the cinemas and the more prosperous public-houses. Rollison, who knew the district well, saw beyond the surface to the heart of the East End, knew its colour and gaiety, its careless generosity, its pulsating life.

The district had grown upon him over the years until it was to him the real heart of London and the West End was a city apart. When he had first come he had been full of the impetuosity of youth, a born adventurer seeking adventure and seeking criminals at the same time. Then he had believed the East End to be a haunt of vice, had seen almost every man as a potential criminal. He had discovered that the East Enders presented a solid front against the police, an iron curtain behind which lawlessness prevailed. But even that was false. The curtain was there, thick, almost impenetrable. There remained parts of the East End where policemen always went in pairs because it was dangerous for them to patrol the streets alone. But the great majority of the people had no more to do with crime than the great masses in the dormitory suburbs; less than many in the West End.

Their distrust of the police was born of what they considered injustice; from the days when the police had harassed and pestered them about petty, insignificant misdemeanours; from the days, in fact, when a man could be hanged for stealing a lamb and when sheep had grazed within easy distance of the East End, easy for the taking by hungry folk.

Over the years a kind of wary armistice had sprung up between the East Enders and the police. The curtain remained but was less thick, less formidable.

Rollison had penetrated beyond the curtain when it had been discovered that he bore no malice against small-part crooks but had a burning hatred for murderers, blackmailers, white-slavers, dope-runners—the motley collection of rogues who gathered for their own protection behind the curtain, emerging only to raid the West End or the provinces, then sneaking back. There was no love lost between the average Cockney and these parasites; nor was there betrayal for they had a common enemy: the law.

After a while Rollison had made friends with many East Enders and among the first was Bill Ebbutt. It was said that Ebbutt had first nicknamed him “The Toff.” Whoever it had been, the soubriquet had stuck. Many people would look blank if they heard the name Rollison but would relax and nod genially when “The Toff” was mentioned. For he did much for them quietly, often anonymously, and did not hesitate to take up their cause even if it were unpopular. So he was accepted by most and hated by some—the real criminals, the gang-leaders, the vice kings.

Sometimes fear of what the Toff might do led to a widespread campaign to discredit him in the East End; once or twice it had come near to success. It might happen again but, as he drove from the clinic to Bill Ebbutt’s place, Rollison did not think it would happen for a long time.

He did know that already the whisper of his latest visit was spreading, in rooms, houses, pubs, billiards-saloons, doss-houses, warehouses, shops and factories, throughout the docks and along the Thames and the Thames-side. A simple, good-humoured whisper, creating the same kind of feeling that came when you went to bed with the knowledge that you would awaken to a fine, bright day. He would have been less than human had it not pleased him.

*     *     *

Bill Ebbutt was a massive man, getting on in years and showing it physically but with a mind as keen and alert as it had ever been. He was a connoisseur of beers and ales; of boxing; and of invective. Of these three, he loved boxing most. That was why he, some years earlier, from the high state of landlord of the Blue Dog, had become the sole owner of Bill Ebbutt’s Gymnasium. This was behind the pub—a large, square wooden building with a corrugated-iron roof and it looked rather like the clinic. The entrance faced a side street. There were always several old men standing about, smoking their pipes or chewing their Old Nod, waiting for opening time when they could wet their whistles on beer which had to be good to be sold in the Blue Dog.

Inside the wooden building a huge room was fitted up as a gymnasium which would not have disgraced a public school or a leading professional football club. Parallel bars, ropes, vaulting-horses, punch-balls, chest-expanders, locked rowing machines—all the impedimenta of a gymnasium were there. In addition there were two rings, one at each end—the second ring was a recent installation, Bill’s latest pride. In the farthest corner from the door a little room was partitioned off and outside was a single word: Office, printed badly and fading. Bill was the most approachable man in the world when outside but, ensconced in the tiny, over-crowded and over-heated office, the walls of which were covered with photographs of his young hopes or his champions wearing prize belts, he was as difficult of access as a dictator.

At nearly half-past six that day he was alone in the office, poring over a copy of Sporting

Life. He was wearing glasses and was still ashamed of it—that was one of the reasons why he hated anyone to come in. They were large and horn-rimmed and gave his ugly, battered face with its one cauliflower ear and its flattened nose the look of a professorial chimpanzee. His lips were pursed. Occasionally he parted them to emit a slow, deliberate term of abuse. Sometimes he would start and peer closer at the tiny print, as if he could not believe what was written there. Occasionally, too, he clenched his massive fist and thumped the table which served as his desk.

“The blistering son of a festering father,” he breathed and thumped. “The pig-eyed baboon. I’ll turn ‘is ‘ead rahnd so ‘e don’t know wevver ‘c’s comin’ or goin’. The flickin’ fraud, I’ll burn ‘im.”