John Creasey - Kill The Toff
There was a tap at the door.
“Go a-way!” he roared without lifting his head. “The perishin’, lyin’, ‘alf-baked son’ve a nape. No boy o’ mine ever won a fairer fight. To say ‘e won on a foul—”
There was another tap.
“I told yer to ‘op it! “Op it, or I’ll slit yer gizzard, yer mangy ape. Look wot ‘e says abaht the ref Strike a light! I’ll tear ‘im to pieces. I—”
The man outside was persistent but the third lap had a lighter sound, as if timidity had intervened.
“Go an’ fry yerself!” Bill slid off his chair. “Why, if I ‘ave ter tell yer again—”
“Bill, look aht,” came a plaintive whisper. “She’s just comin’ in. Don’t say I didn’t warn yer.”
“I’ll break ‘im up inter small pieces an roast ‘im. The ruddy, lyin’, effin’—”
The door swung open and a diminutive woman dressed in tight, old-fashioned clothes with a flowering skirt which almost reached her ankles and a wide-brimmed straw hat in which two feathers, scarlet and yellow, bobbed fiercely, entered the office. Bill started and snatched off his glasses.
“So you’re still at it,” said the woman, her mouth closing like a trap as she finished the sentence. “You know where you’ll end up, don’t yer? You’ll end up in ‘ell.”
“I don’t want none of your fire-an’-brimstone talk, Lil,” growled Ebbutt. “If you’d seen the way they’ve torn the Kid apart, you’d want ter tear a strip orf ‘em yerself.” His tone was conciliatory and his manner almost as timid as the third warning tap. “Wotjer want?”
“I thought you would like to know, Mr Ebbutt, that a certain gentleman is going to pay us a visit,” said Bill’s wife, in a tone of practised refinement.
“I don’t want ter see no one, unless it’s that perishin’ boxing correspondent. Then I’d—”
“I will tell Mr Rollison,” said Lil, and turned on her high heels.
Ebbutt blinked. “ ‘Oo? ‘Ere! Come orf it, Lil; ‘ave a n’eart, duck. Is Mr Ar arahnd?”
“I thought you was only interested in boxers,” said Lil with a sniff.
Ebbutt slipped his arm round her waist. Standing together, his mountainous figure dwarfed her lath-like slimness. They were in the open doorway. A few youngsters were training, one smiting a punch-ball as if it were a mortal enemy and another doing a series of somersaults. Round the walls lounged men in shabby clothes and no one appeared to take any notice of the Ebbutts.
“Take it easy, Lil. Do me a power of good, Mr Ar would. No one I’d rather ‘ave a chat wiv.”
“And I suppose I ought to feel honoured,” snapped Lil.
“Come orf it.” Ebbutt squeezed her waist and she looked up at him with a quick, teasing smile.
“That ‘Igginbottom rang up,” she told him. “You was engaged at the office, so he got through to the pub apartment. Mr Rollison’s coming to see you and he wants a room ready for a stranger.”
“Gor blimey! Wot’s ‘e up to?”
“I expect he’ll tell you, when it suits him,” said Lil. “Wants a nurse, too. It looks as if someone’s in trouble. I told Mr ‘Igginbottom I would arrange all that was necessary, I was sure you wouldn’t have no time. Annie will take him in.”
Ebbutt scratched his chin.
“Annie’s okay. Not a bad idea, Lil, ta. Where are you goin’, all toffed up?”
Lil drew herself from his grasp, gave her coat a pat and bobbed her feathers.
“You can find me at the Harmy Social,” she said. “And I don’t want to find you drunk when I get home.”
Ebbutt didn’t wait to see her royal progress across the gymnasium, passing the men who stopped what they were doing and touched their forelocks or smiled and, according to their social status, called her Lil or Mrs Ebbutt. Nor did he wait to see the amused grins which followed her into the street. He went back into the small office, folded up Sporting Life, forgetful of his rage against the boxing correspondent, and sat down to wonder what the Toff wanted now. He was fiddling with his glasses when a diminutive man wearing a grey polo sweater and a pair of razor-creased yellow trousers sidled into the room and coughed.
Ebbutt looked down at him amiably.
“Mr Ar’s comin’ to ‘ave a look rahnd, Charlie. Git everyfing nice an’ tidy, woncha?”
“Okay,” said Charlie. “Proper day for visitors, ain’t it, Bill? First the missus, then Mr Ar and now the busies.”
Ebbutt started. “Busies? “Oo said so?”
“I say so. Gricey’s just coming in.”
With the door open, it was possible to see the entrance to the gymnasium and on the wall opposite the door was a mirror, placed askew and apparently without any significance. Ebbutt glanced into it; the gymnasium entrance was reflected there. He saw a man’s shadow, then the man himself. It was Superintendent Grice of New Scotland Yard.
He said in a whisper: “Send some boys aht, Charlie. Tell Mr Ar ‘oo’s ‘ere, quick. It wouldn’t s’prise me if they ain’t arter the same fing and I wouldn’t like the Torf to run inter Gricey if ‘e don’t wanter see ‘im. Look slippy!”
“Oke.” Charlie slid out of the office. Grice caught sight of him and shook his fist playfully. Charlie said: “Nice ter see yer, Mr Grice,” and went past him.
Grice, a tall, spare man, dressed in brown with brown hair and a sallow skin stretched tightly across his face, making the bridge of his nose seem white, reached the office door while Ebbutt was ostensibly studying a racing-form chart. Grice tapped heavily on the wall and Ebbutt started.
“Why, if it ain’t Mr Grice!”
“Isn’t this a nice surprise?” asked Grice, coming in. “I suppose you’ve sent Charlie out for some ice-cream.” He hitched up a leather-topped stool and sat on it. “Or has he gone out to warn Rollison?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Friendly Advice
“Don’t look now,” said Snub, “but I think that chap with the battered titfer has recognised you.”
A little man wearing a trilby with a shapeless brim stood at the side of the road, waving wildly towards the car. Rollison slowed down and pulled towards him. They were a few minutes away from the gymnasium and not far from the Mile End Road. The hum of traffic was loud, the street was crowded.
“Hallo, Percy,” greeted Rollison.
“Nice ter see yer, Mr Ar. Bill told me ter keep a look aht for yer.”
“Why?”
“Gricey’s just gone inter see ‘im.”
“Oh,” said Rollison. “Grice hasn’t lost much time.”
“Bill thought yer might prefer not to run inter ‘im,” said Percy, a man with an ugly face, a friendly smile and teeth stained through chewing tobacco. “Gricey was on ‘is own; it ain’t often ‘e runs arahnd wivvout a bodyguard, is it?”
“This must be just a social call,” said Rollison. “Going back to the gym, Percy?”
“Yeh!”
“Hop in the back. Snub” —Rollison touched the youngster’s arm— “I think you’d better scram. Go to Knoll Road and, if Judith’s still there, take her to the flat as soon as you can. If there’s any reason why she has to stay at her own place, stay with her.”
“Suits me,” said Snub.
“That’s nice for you,” Rollison said and, as Snub jumped out, drove off again.
Percy sat perched forward on the seat so that every passer-by could see that he was riding in state. Rollison drove swiftly to the gymnasium where many more than the usual dozen or so loungers were waiting. He knew that every one of them was aware that the great Grice was in the East End.
Grice, one of the Big Five at the Yard, knew the East End well; all the East End knew him. He had spent years at AZ Division, had been a terror in his youth—but fair in all he did. If a single policeman was liked in this district, it was Grice; but even he was regarded with suspicion. Usually he came to the East End with Divisional men because he wouldn’t break the unwritten police law and come alone on real business; so this was an unofficial call.
A dozen men called out cheerfully to Rollison as he left the car. He smiled right and left, feeling curiously at home in spite of the contrast between the luxury of the car and the dinginess of the district and between his clothes and theirs. He stepped into the gloomy gymnasium and saw the office door wide open. Charlie stood outside one of the rings where two light-weights pranced about.
Charlie jerked his head towards the office.
“Thanks,” said Rollison.
He knew why the mirror was in that particular place and that Grice was also aware of it. So he made no attempt to take the Yard man by surprise. Grice, still sitting on the stool with his hands in his pockets, looked round with a grin. Ebbutt took off his glasses.
“Why, fancy seein’ you, Mr Ar!”
“Yes, fancy,” said Grice. “Hallo, Roily.”
Rollison gravely shook hands with Ebbutt. Grice kept his hands in his pockets. The flapping sound of gloves hitting gloves stopped and they knew that the far doorway was crowded, everyone was trying to see what was happening in the office.
“On holiday?” Rollison asked Grice.
“Just taking an hour off.”
“And hundreds of bad men are running around London doing what they like,” reproached Rollison. “Give the ratepayer a square deal, old chap.”
“Cor!” choked Ebbutt. “Cor, that’s a good one, that is!” He was doubled up, not altogether with mirth but to hide his confusion, for he was on edge and embarrassed. “Cor, that’s wunnerful, Mr Ar!”
“Yes, isn’t he good?” asked Grice dryly. “You on holiday, Roily, or just looking for trouble?”
“Your guess,” said Rollison.
Grice shrugged. “I don’t have to guess; I know. [ thought I’d probably find you here and I’ve come on a mission of good will.”
“The improbable policeman,” murmured Rollison.
“Did you find Mellor?” asked Grice and leaned back on the stool, looking at Rollison through his lashes.
Ebbutt grunted as if something had struck him in the stomach and shot a glance at Rollison, whose poker-face gave nothing away.
“It’s still your guess,” he said.
“I don’t want to waste time guessing. Roily, I know you’re full of good intentions and we’ve done some useful work together but be careful. Mellor is a killer.”
“So you say.”
“I know he’s a killer. There isn’t any argument about it. He’s not worth your attention.”
“Judge and jury both, are you?” asked Rollison.
“Where is he?” demanded Grice.
“You’ve been after him for a month. Don’t you know?”
Grice frowned. “So it’s like that? I was afraid of it when I heard you’d been to see Judith Lorne. She’s a nice kid and I know you’ve a soft spot for damsels in distress but you’d be wise to convince her gently that she got tied up with a bad ‘un and she ought to forget him. That’s the simple truth of it. Why didn’t you come and see me if you thought you had something on Mellor?”
“I didn’t think we’d see eye to eye.”
“If you’re going to campaign for Mellor, we won’t.”
“That’s too bad because I’m campaigning for him. But we don’t have to quarrel.”
“I think we shall have to if you’re awkward.” Grice didn’t shift his position. His manner was still friendly for, unlike many officers at Scotland Yard, he was well disposed towards Rollison. “I haven’t been to Knoll Road but I’ve heard what happened there. We picked up a man named Waleski who’s charged you with common assault. His story is that you forced him out of his car at the point of a gun, made him go to Miss Lome’s flat and there knocked him about to get information from him. He says he hadn’t any information he could give you, that he’d never heard of you or Miss Lome before and he swears he’ll see you in jug for this.”
Rollison laughed. “Nice chap! Did he also mention that I held him up with his own gun and acted in self-defence?”
“Can you prove it?”
“Yes. Did he tell you that his buddy nearly killed the landlady? And is Waleski known?”
“I haven’t checked very far but I don’t think so,” Grice said. “Roily, I’m serious—and you’d better listen to this, Ebbutt, because if you’re not careful, Rollison will get you into trouble. The moment I knew that you’d been to see Judith Lome I realised you were on the Mellor case. You’ve a clear duty. Tell us anything you may know and which we don’t— I don’t say there is anything but there might be—and then get out of it. It’s an ugly business. Mellor may seem to you a victimised young fool but he’s bad, Roily—as bad as they come. There aren’t many gangs but there are one or two bad ones. Ask Ebbutt, he’ll bring you up to date. Mellor’s in one of them. He’s a killer. We’re after him and we’d have got him if he hadn’t been under cover with everyone lying themselves sick to keep him there. We’re going to get Mellor eventually and we don’t mind who gets hurt in the process—even if you’re one of them. That’s friendly advice, Roily, and this time I think you ought to take it. Don’t you, Ebbutt?”
Ebbutt grunted unintelligibly.
“He says yes,” said Grice and stood up. “I didn’t lose any time because I thought you ought to know where you stand from the beginning. You can’t do anything on your own, you’ll have to get the help of a lot of other people and you’ll land them in a mess as well as yourself. Don’t do it.” He looked down at his shoes. “Now and again you forget what you’re up against with us, you know. This ought to be an eye-opener. Fifteen minutes after my men reached Knoll Road I was talking to the AZ Division. Half an hour after that I was told you were in the East End. You can’t compete with it, Roily. If there’s any way you can help us, fine—we’ll be glad to listen. But if you start the lone-wolf act—”
“Heaven help me,” murmured Rollison.
“That’s about it.”
“Spend another hour checking up,” advised Rollison, “and if you can give me chapter and verse for my movements since I left Knoll Road I’ll hand it to you. If you can’t—lone-wolfing might have its points.”
“So it might,” agreed Grice, smiling at Ebbutt. “He’s a tough customer, isn’t he? You might warn him that we could stop his act by holding him on Waleski’s charge, Ebbutt. The warrant’s probably been sworn. Tell him what it’s like to spend a night in the cooler.”
He nodded casually and went out and the crowd near the entrance to the gymnasium broke up into ones and twos, suddenly interested only in themselves, while Bill Ebbutt fiddled with his glasses and looked like a bewildered bull. Neither he nor Rollison spoke. After Grice had driven off the flapping and punching re-started, skipping-ropes whirled, a man began to speak in short, snappy sentences, giving advice to the boys in the ring.
Then Ebbutt squared his great shoulders.
