John Creasey - Kill The Toff
Then Ebbutt squared his great shoulders.
“Are you arter Mellor, Mr Ar? Is ‘e the stranger? I don’t mind sayin’ I ‘ope Gricey’s got it all wrong. That Mellor’s a bad lot, a real bad lot, Mr Ar.”
* * *
“Yes, Bill,” said Rollison. “It’s Mellor.”
Bill said awkwardly: “I’m sorry abaht that; I am, reely.”
“Don’t you feel you can hide him?”
“I don’t fink I oughta, Mr Ar, that’s a fack.”
“So Grice is right and I’m wrong this time.” Rollison spoke quietly without any hint of reproach.
“It ain’t a question of Grice bein’ right, it’s wot we know abaht Mellor. If you’d ‘ad a word wiv me before, Mr Ar, I could’ve put yer wise. That Mellor—strewth, they don’t grow any worse. Anuvver of these Commando boys wot went wrong. It ain’t that I blame ‘em, Mr Ar, you know me; but they was brought up in a tough school, wasn’t they? Taught all kinds of dirty tricks. Most of them forgot all abaht it but there’s some ‘oo can’t forget an’ like to make their money the easy way. Why didn’t you arst me?” Ebbutt was almost pleading. “I could’ve told yer that Mellor’s a killer, Gricey’s right enough abaht that. I don’t ‘ave to tell yer abaht Flash Dimond, do I?” He paused and, when Rollison held his peace, went on slowly: “Now I never ‘ad no time for Flash. ‘E was a gangster an’ ‘e didn’t mind killin’ but ‘e wasn’t all bad. “Is gang was tough but they never went aht to kill.”
Rollison said; “I thought Flash was dead.”
“S’right. Mellor cut ‘is throat.”
“Oh,” said Rollison heavily. “I certainly should have come to see you before, Bill; I’ve been away from here for too long. Are you trying to tell me that Mellor murdered Flash and took over the gang?”
“S’right.”
“And the gang’s got worse?”
Ebbutt shifted his bulk from one foot to the other.
“I got to say yes, Mr Ar, I’ve got to say the gang’s got worse. Mind yer, it ain’t done so much—you never ‘ear a lot abaht it. Mellor’s clever. “E pushed ‘arf the gang orf. They wasn’t unscrooperlous enough for him. There’s abaht a dozen of them left—the worst gang in London. They don’t work like a gang no longer. They do their own jobs separate but they’re organised orl right. I’m telling you Gawd’s trufe, Mr Ar. Remember that Kent job when the old gent got ‘is ‘ead bashed in and they got away wiv nine tharsand pounds worf o’ sparklers? That was a Mellor job. Remember that rozzer that got ‘is—shot in the guts when he questioned a coupla boys ahtside a big ‘ouse? That was a Mellor job. There’s been plenty an’ one is worse than all the others put togewer.” Ebbutt’s voice was hoarse and in his earnestness he put a hand on Rollison’s shoulder and pressed hard. “There was that job at Epping. Remember? Coupla boys broke into a n’ouse where there was only a girl of twelve at ‘ome. Woke ‘er up an’ when she started to scream, croaked ‘er. That was a Mellor job. Mellor’s aht to become the big boss. Maybe ‘e’ll make it. An’ that’s a good reason why you didn’t oughter ‘elp him. Sooner or later you’ll come up against ‘im. You always ‘ave a go at gang leaders if they git too powerful. For your own sake, cut it aht, Mr Ar.”
Rollison said: “I can’t, Bill.”
Ebbutt shrugged his shoulders.
“Well, I’m afraid I can’t ‘elp Mellor, Mr Ar. You know wot I mean, don’tcher? It isn’t anyfink against you but you ain’t bin arahnd much lately, you’ve got a bit be’ind wiv’ the news.”
Rollison said: “So it seems. You may have got hold of the wrong end of the stick, Bill.”
Ebbutt shrugged, as if to say that he was little certain of his facts.
“Is Mellor the kind to commit suicide?” asked Rollison.
“Nark it, Mr Ar.”
“Well, I found him, dying in front of a gas-lire that wasn’t alight, Bill. I don’t think it was attempted murder; I think he tried to do himself in. He may die. If he doesn’t he’ll be a pretty sick man and can’t do any harm. And if he’s the man you think he is then he’s better under cover than running around loose.”
Ebbutt looked uneasy.
“If you’ve got Mellor, you ought ter turn ‘im in,” he said. “Sorry, Mr Ar, but that’s the way I feel abaht it.”
“All right, Bill, that’s the way it is.” Rollison was brisk. “You may be right and you’re certainly wise.”
“Now come orf it, Mr Ar! I’m not scared o’ the dicks. If I fought there was a chance to do some good, I’d cover ‘im; but—well, it’s Mellor. If there’s anyfink else I can do, I’m all for you, Mr Ar. Anyfink.”
Rollison smiled and clapped the old prizefighter on the shoulder.
“I’ll keep you so busy you’ll feel like a spinning top. Find out if anyone has ever heard of a man named Waleski and let me know, will you? I’ll write the name down.” He pulled the Sporting Life towards him and printed the name STANISLAS WALESKI. “And then find out if any of the Mellor gang have turned against Mellor. Whatever he’s done in the past, he’s having a rough time now and he’s been on the run from someone. Have you heard anything about him for the past month?”
“Not since ‘e ducked,” admitted Ebbutt. “I got to say it’s a funny fing, Mr Ar. I thought ‘e was sittin’ pretty, waitin’ for the flap to blow over.”
“He’s been hard on the run and he’s dead beat.”
“You know what these gangs are,” said Ebbutt with a shrug. “ ‘E bumped Flash off; now someone else comes along an’ ‘as it in for ‘im. Flash ‘ad a lot o’ friends. If you arst me, Mellor killed Galloway and the boys knew ‘e’d never get away wiv it, so they turned ‘im aht. That’s abaht the size of it, Mr Ar. I don’t mind admitting I feel bad, but—well, if the missus noo it was Mellor—”
“Don’t tell her,” advised Rollison. “Just say that the stranger isn’t coming and look after the other job for me. Waleski is important. He’s been staying at the Oxford Palace Hotel so he may be a newcomer. He’s about five feet six, Block Jensen’s build, with black eyelashes that look as if they’ve been stuck on. Black, heavily oiled hair with a bald patch about the size of a tea-cup. Got all that?”
“If I get a whisper you’ll know abaht it, Mr Ar.”
“Thanks,” said Rollison. “Now I’d better be off, there’s a lot to do.”
* * *
With the police and the voice of the East End calling the same tune about Jim Mellor, it was going to be hard going. When Rollison got into the car, the group of people watching him were puzzled and silent. He looked much as he had when he had tackled Waleski at Judith’s flat: bleak, uncompromising, aggressive, even angry. There was a rustle of comment when he drove off, for Bill Ebbutt came to the door and watched him, but Rollison didn’t glance round. So the whisper spread that there had been trouble between the Toff and Bill Ebbutt.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Neat Trick
Policemen whom Rollison passed did not salute or smile but just watched him. The change in their demeanour was so marked that he knew that word had already been spread among them, that he was to be watched and his movements reported—and that the official attitude was hostile. He drew up outside Aldgate Station, between two barrow-boys with their barrows piled up with fruit, and walked to the station entrance, making for a telephone booth. A constable saw him but took no notice until he was inside the box; then the man made a note on a pad which he took from his breast pocket.
Rollison dropped in his two pennies and dialled Doc Willerby’s number. Willerby answered himself.
“How’s the patient?” asked Rollison.
“He’ll do,” said the doctor.
“I’ve heard a lot more about him than I knew before.”
“I wondered when you’d get round to that. Changed your mind?”
“No. But if you’d rather be shot of him right away, just say the word.”
“He mustn’t be moved again to-night,” said Willerby. if the police get round to me they’ll have to take over. If they don’t—I don’t know who the man is.”
“That’s sweeter music than you know.”
“I didn’t think you’d cut much ice with Mellor in the East End; Ebbutt was your only chance. Doesn’t he feel buccaneer enough?”
Rollison laughed. “Don’t forget he’s reformed. What’s the best time to collect Mellor in the morning?”
“Before nine o’clock.”
“Right, thanks,” said Rollison. “I’ll be seeing you.”
He rang off, nodded at the constable as he stepped from the box and went more cheerfully towards his car. The interview with Ebbutt had shaken him: he had taken Ebbutt’s aid for granted. He was dissatisfied with himself. He had heard of the trouble in the Dimond gang but not the name of the new leader. He had traced Mellor through his Army record and his foster-parents and had only made cursory inquiries into his post-war record. He knew that Mellor had his own small flat, played a lot of tennis and was a go-ahead manager of a small printing firm in the North-West of London.
The new information couldn’t be ignored, though the Mellor he had traced seemed to be a completely different man from the Mellor Ebbutt knew. Had he stumbled upon a new Jekyll and Hyde?
When he turned into Gresham Terrace a heavily-built man was opposite Number 22g where he had his flat; the man was from the Yard although Rollison couldn’t recall his name. Rollison nodded and received a blank stare in return. He let himself into the house and then went back to the pavement to survey the street and find out whether there was another Yard man about. He didn’t see one.
Gresham Terrace, near Piccadilly, was a wide road with stately terraced houses on either side—a sharp contrast to the mean streets from which he had just come. The house was near a corner. Three shallow stone steps led up to a small porch. The entrance hall was long and narrow and carpeted from wall to wall. The first flight of stairs was also carpeted—the higher flights were of bare stone. He walked up thoughtfully and, when he reached the top landing which served only his flat, the door opened and Jolly appeared.
“Good evening, sir.”
“Hallo, Jolly. Everyone here?”
“Yes, sir, if you mean Miss Lome and Mr Higginbottom.”
“I do.”
Rollison passed into the square hall, off which led all five rooms of the flat. Immediately opposite the landing was the living-room and he heard voices as that door opened and Snub beamed at him.
“All in one piece?”
“So far.”
“I say, you look a bit grimmish about the gills,” said Snub.
“Just thoughtful,” said Rollison. “Something to drink, Jolly.”
He went into the room and saw Judith standing by an armchair near the window.
He was struck by her pale face and troubled eyes and wondered just how much she knew about Mellor’s reputation, whether he had been wrong in his first good opinion of her. She wore a black two-piece suit with a plain white blouse; it would serve as mourning. When he smiled at her she raised her hands, as if to ward off an impending blow. Immediately he was angry with himself, for he had forgotten the anxiety which she must be feeling. Snub must have told her something of the truth.
“Is he—” she began but couldn’t go on.
“He’ll pull through,” said Rollison.
She caught her breath. “Are you sure?”
“I’m quite sure; I’ve just telephoned the doctor.”
“Oh,” she said.
She put her hands behind her, groping for the chair, and Snub slipped quickly across the room and helped her to sit down. She leaned back, her eyes closed, and Rollison knew that she was fighting against tears. He knew more than that: she believed in Mellor and she had told the truth as she knew it. He did not doubt that again throughout the case.
“Whisky for the lady,” Snub said and came close to Rollison. “Her nerves have been stretched as tight as a drum. You haven’t just tried to cheer her up, have you?”
“No, Mellor will pull through.”
“Fine! A very lucky young man, in my opinion,” said Snub. “How’s everything?”
“Bad.” Rollison took a whisky-and-soda from the tray which Jolly held in front of him, Snub took another and carried it to the girl. “I want you a minute,” Rollison added and went with Jolly into the kitchen.
It was small, spotless, white-tiled; the pans shone, everything was in its appointed place.
Jolly closed the door.
“I hope there has been no trouble, sir.”
“We’re in a jam but we’ll get out of it,” Rollison said. “Nothing really serious. How did you get on with the police? Did they learn anything about Asham Street?”
“Not from us, sir.”
“Good! Were they difficult?”
“Insistent but I think they believed all that we told them.”
“They won’t in future. Grice is on the warpath and there is a general feeling that Mellor is a real bad hat. What’s all this about Waleski?”
Jolly said solemnly: it was really somewhat ridiculous, sir. The man was still in the kitchen when the police arrived and he offered no violence. He accused you of assaulting him and even preferred a charge. I made no comment, thinking you would best be able to deal with the situation. The police took the gun which was found in the flat—his gun, I believe. Miss Lome told them about the man who had attacked her and also about the note which she received. There was some annoyance displayed when the note could not be found.”
Rollison laughed. “They can have it; run it over for prints first, Jolly, and see whether we’ve anything in our private collection. Then ring Grice up and apologise because I absent-mindedly slipped it into my pocket.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And test this other note for prints, too.” Rollison pulled out of his pocket the letter he had picked up in Mellor’s room. “But don’t let the police have that. It’s Exhibit A for the private collection. Very likely you’ll find no prints except Mellor’s and mine. If there are any others, they’ll probably be the same on each.”
“I’ll see to it,” promised Jolly.
“Thanks.”
“I hope the situation isn’t really grave,” said Jolly earnestly, it has already become a very different affair from what we first anticipated. I suppose—” Jolly paused, as if diffident, but actually to give greater emphasis to what he had to say and Rollison eyed him expectantly. “I suppose there is no doubt at all, sir, that James Mellor is Sir Frederick Arden’s son? Because if you are wrong in that assumption then it would greatly alter the complexion of the case, wouldn’t it?”
“No.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Jolly, startled.
“The complexion of the case is the same— Judith Lome having a rough time, funny business in one of the East End gangs and a warning-off both by Grice and Bill Ebbutt. If you mean it’s no longer a gentle inquiry to soothe Sir Frederick Arden’s feelings, you’re right; but that changed when we knew Mellor was wanted for Galloway’s murder, didn’t it?”
