John Creasey - The Toff In Town
“He’s a lame man.”
The other laughed.
“Yes, isn’t he? He broke his leg doing something he shouldn’t have done, it isn’t true that he broke it when his plane crashed. But don’t take me too literally and don’t be persuaded by an attractive young woman that you ought to become a modern Don Quixote. This is an age of selfishness.”
“You’re quite a philosopher,” remarked Rollison.
“I am many things,” said the caller, “and particularly a man of my word. Don’t come into this affair, Mr. Rollison. Be advised. Keep out——”
The sound of the receiver being hung up crackled in Rollison’s ear. He turned and contemplated his man, no longer the slightest bit drowsy. The caller’s mellow voice had held a quality of menace, not wholly hidden by the note of laughter. According to Barbara, Allen was terrified by a man with such a voice and a man who knew exactly what he aimed to do, and was extremely self-confident
A sound disturbed Rollison again, the ringing of a bell, at first far away and then much nearer, until it seemed to be almost in his ear. The fumes of sleep receded slightly. Confound it, this was too bad; it was still pitch-dark. Jolly could—no, it wasn’t fair on Jolly. He got out of bed. The bell kept ringing. Perhaps the Aliens—but he didn’t worry about the Aliens, Bill’s men were there. Good old Sam and Bert.
He reached the telephone.
Jolly spoke from his door, a bleary-eyed figure.
“Can I help, sir?” he asked glumly.
“Sorry about this,” said Rollison, stifling a yawn. “Hallo, Rollison speaking,” he said into the telephone.
“Oh, Mr. Rollison!” It was a girl—fresh, eager, almost excited. “That is the Mr. Rollison, isn’t it?”
“I hope it’s the Rollison you want,” said Rollison, signalling wildly; Jolly turned into the study, to listen-in on the call. “Who is that?”
“My name doesn’t matter, Mr. Rollison,” said the girl, “but a friend of mine spoke to you a little while ago, didn’t he? He just asked me to ring up—to tell you not to forget.”
“Oh,” said Rollison heavily. “Just that?”
“Yes, you won’t forget, will you?” asked the girl brightly.
“I shall not forget——”
“I’m so glad,” said the girl, “and I know he’ll be delighted. Good-night——”
When next Rollison woke, it was daylight. By his side was morning tea, the newspapers and the post. Among the post was a card from Snub Higginbottom, depicting the belles of Blackpool. This focused Rollison’s thoughts on the Aliens, and he dwelt on the young couple as he bathed, shaved and breakfasted; later when he went into the study to answer urgent correspondence, Jolly followed.
Jolly by day was a funereal figure, partly because of the clothes of convention, partly because his habitual expression was one of unrelieved gloom. This morning, he looked tired; and, consequently, more glum than ever.
“Dark depressed thoughts, Jolly?” asked Rollison. “Before we have ‘em, send a telegram to Snub, will you, and ask him to catch the first train back.”
“The telegram has already been sent, sir,” said Jolly. “Here is an affair of violence, which might be construed into attempted murder—not an isolated case, but a series of calculated assaults and a man, or men, who appear to work with complete disregard for the law. Do you agree with that assessment of the situation, sir?”
“Yes,” said Rollison, “but need you be so aggressive about it?”
“I apologise if I appear to be over-emphatic, sir, but the picture you have drawn of Mr. Allen does not show him in a particularly pleasing light. He is not a nice young man.”
“He was,” said Rollison.
“How can you tell that?” challenged Jolly.
“Because Barbara married him,” said Rollison.
“That may be so, sir,” said Jolly, “but I have known very nice young women marry—bounders, sir. We have no real infor-mation about Mr. Allen, and yet we are considering humouring him by withholding information about these crimes from the police. That is a serious offence, sir.”
“Very,” agreed Rollison.
“And unwise, indiscreet, capable of being misunderstood, and possibly leading to considerable disunity between you, and die police,” said Jolly. “My opinion, sir, is that neither Mr. Allen nor Mrs. Allen is worth taking such risks for.”
“Oh,” murmured Rollison blankly.
“Further, sir,” continued Jolly remorselessly, “we have obtained assistance from Mr. Ebbutt and some of his friends. You know that Mr. Ebbutt’s friends are not always reliable, in so far as they allow their natural exuberance and aggressiveness to override considerations of diplomacy, and they are not always persona grata with the police. It is quite possible that the police will discover that they are taking sides in an affair of violence at your request. If that were to happen, possibly something more grave would follow.”
“Jolly,” said Rollison, “I quite agree.”
Then may I hope you—we will advise the police immediately?” asked Jolly.
“No,” said Rollison.
“I hope we won’t regret it, sir.”
“But we will protect our flanks,” said Rollison, obligingly. “Have you seen the oddments I brought back from the Aliens last night?”
“Yes, sir, I have seen them—as well as the knife which was wrapped in a table-napkin. I have not touched the handle.”
“Good. You can spend an interesting morning pretending to be a detective,” said Rollison. Test that handle for prints, photograph any prints you find, run through the contents of the pockets, find out if there’s anything to show us for whom Blane works. Summarise the details on a single sheet of paper, typewritten for preference, and have them ready by midday.”
“Very good, sir,” said Jolly. “You will be going out this morning?”
“Yes. I’m going to find out all that I can about young Allen —what he was before the war, what really happened to him in Burma, whether he’s interested in precious stones, whether events have made him what he is to-day. All these and other things, Jolly, including—why was he asked to broadcast in In Town To-night?”
“Many people who appear fleetingly in the public eye broadcast in that programme, sir,” remarked Jolly.
“Oh, yes. But Allen’s been home for several weeks. The B.B.C., whatever may be its shortcomings, is never weeks behind with the news. Allen was news a little while ago—I dimly remember reading something about him in the Morning Cry— but he isn’t news now. Yet suddenly the B.B.C. wakes up to the fact that he has a story which will probably interest the three or four million listeners who switch on at 6.15 every Saturday night.”
Ten million, I understand,” corrected Jolly dimly.
“Well, all the great British public doesn’t want the Third Programme,” remarked Rollison, “we can’t all be like you, Jolly. Anything else?”
“I would like to ask one further question, sir, if I may.”
“You may.”
“Why do you think it unnecessary to inform the police of what has been happening?” pleaded Jolly. “It occurs to me that you must have some special reason.”
“I have,” said Rollison, quietly. “The look in Barbara Allen’s eyes.”
Rollison was still thoughtful when he dialled a Mayfair number. Soon an old friend, named Wardle, was on the line. His voice portrayed the man—a well-modulated B.B.C. voice from which one deduced striped trousers and a black jacket.
“Hallo, Roily,” said Wardle, “what are you up to now? You wouldn’t telephone me at this hour of the morning unless you wanted something.”
“I do. Information about In Town To-night.”
“Want to broadcast?” inquired Wardle.
“Heaven forbid!” shuddered Rollison. “I’m interested in the way the show works—how they pick on the people in town, all that kind of thing. Can you take me along to Broadcasting House and let me have a word with——”
“In Town To-night is done from Aeolian Hall,” interrupted Wardle, with the tone of a man who knew that he was talking to an ignoramus. “I can’t manage it this morning or early this afternoon. Conferences. About five o’clock this evening, if I can—I assume that it isn’t just idle curiosity?”
“Oh, no. Real live interest. Five o’clock, then, at the Aeolian. Thanks Freddie.”
“Pleasure,” said Wardle. “Good-bye.”
At half-past eleven that morning Rollison turned his M.G. towards the East End. He drove through the hustle of the West End and the comparative calm of the City, reached Aldgate and, in the space of a few yards, moved from one world to another. Gone were the tall, grey, sombre buildings and the polished brass plates and frosted glass windows, gone were commissionaires and porters in top-hats, those last relics of the days of Dickens, gone were the pale-faced juniors hurrying about their masters’ business, and the middle-aged and elderly men who appeared to carry the weight of the world on their shoulders. In their place were the ordinary, humble, humdrum people of the East End. Costers, gentiles, Jews, dark skins and white, barrows, touts outside the windows of the fur salons, clattering trams, rows upon rows of little shops.
At a traffic block at the junction of the Mile End Road and Whitechapel Road Rollison first really noticed the taxi with one blue painted wing and one black. He noticed it partly because he was thinking of taxis that morning, and partly because the driver had paused, further back, for an altercation with the chauffeur of a Rolls-Royce. That incident had taken place near St. Paul’s, and the taxi was still only a little way behind him.
He kept an eye on it in the driving mirror as he drove along the Mile End Road.
He had dug into Allen’s past, largely because he knew an official at the Air Ministry who remembered a great deal about Allen since he had become a sensation.
Allen’s record in the R.A.F. had been exemplary; his promotion rapid—and not just because of the war-time gaps made in the ranks of the Wincos. He had been on a special mission when he had been lost. Allen, according to Rollison’s informant had combined steadiness with dare-devilry; absolutely nothing was known against him. He had a flair for the theatre and had been in several R.A.F. shows.
Rollison’s next call had been to the offices of the Morning Cry in Fleet Street, because he remembered that the Morning Cry had starred the story of the man who had returned from the dead. Also, he knew Barry Grey, the oldest reporter on the staff—perhaps also the oldest, and certainly the most knowledgeable in Fleet Street. Barry had written up Allen’s story, and Rollison had left the office with a firm impression of a steady, likeable young man. Apparently Allen was an architect; his hobby had been amateur theatricals; he was thirty-one; he had been educated at one of the lesser public schools and his father was a clergyman. The amount of irrelevant information which the Morning Cry reporter had unearthed and remembered was astonishing, and Rollison felt that he knew everything he needed to know about Bob Allen.
He felt sure now, that Allen had never dealt in precious stones, and had never been wealthy enough to own a collection of them. If Blane had told the truth when he spoke of diamonds, that meant that Allen’s interest in them had been comparatively recent.
Rollison drew near a huge cinema which stood out above the low buildings on either side, and looked clean and fresh against the drabness of this part of East London. Near it was a public house which hadn’t been painted for decades—but above the front door was fastened a newly-painted sign.
Rollison did not turn into the street near-by, but went on a few hundred yards at a slow pace. Except for two rattling trams, there was no other traffic apart from the M.G. and the taxi with the odd-coloured wings. Rollison kept peering out of the window, as if he had lost his way, and then suddenly swung across the bows of the taxi. The driver braked and bellowed. The solitary passenger was thrown forward and Rollison caught sight of an attractive young woman.
He remembered the voice of the woman who had telephoned him.
When he reached the corner of Derrick Street, where the gymnasium was situated, the taxi was turning round in the main road.
Rollison went on, apparently oblivious, to Bill Ebbutt’s gymnasium, behind the Blue Dog.
He left the car outside and, watched by two old men sucking at clay pipes, went into the gloomy interior. The only light was in a corner, where a boxing ring was fitted up. Half a dozen men in short pants and singlets were watching a bout, two or three were doing peculiar and violent things with parallel bars and skipping-ropes.
Leaning against a corner post was the mountainous figure of Bill Ebbutt. The light shone on a cauliflower ear, a broad, flat nose and part of his bull-shaped neck. Bill was as nearly shapeless as a human being could be. His coat was too long, reaching half-way down his thighs, and he wore a white choker.
He did not look round as Rollison approached, but occasionally called out in a squeaky voice:
“Use yer right—what yer gotta left for—feet, you elephants, use yer feet.”
These, and sundry other comments, came with split-second timing.
Rollison stood behind Ebbutt and watched the boxers. One was an old, battered, hairy prize-fighter, like Sam. The other was young, powerful, white-skinned, with little or no hair on his chest; the little was golden. This young man boxed with fierce determination and was getting the better of his hit-and-hope opponent.
At last, Ebbutt bellowed: “Stop!”
The boxers dropped their hands as if they were worked by machines, and Bill, climbing laboriously into the ring, took hold of the young man’s arm and lectured him in a voice which carried to every corner of the huge room. Soon the discomfited youth slunk off to the dressing-room, accompanied by his sparring partner.
Ebbutt squeezed through the rope and pricked up a bottle of beer which stood in the corner. He drank from the bottle. And as he drank and, consequently squinted, he caught sight of Rollison. He spluttered, coughed, snatched the bottle away and, having considerable difficulty with his larynx, approached him.
“You mighta told me——” he began reproachfully.
“I was watching the youngster. Useful, isn’t he?”
Bill lowered his voice to a confidential whisper and looked across at the dressing-rooms.
“Useful!” he said. “That boy’s a world-beater. Got a punch that will knock Joe Louis silly. S’trew. But never mind that now, Mr. Ar, ‘ow are you?”
And he extended a massive hand.
Rollison shook it warmly.
“I’m all right, Bill—and getting about a bit again. Your fellows have had a dull time at Byngham Court Mansions, I’m afraid, but things might wake up.”
