John Creasey - The Toff In Town

A curious gleam sprang into Allen’s eyes.

“Go on, finish it,” he sneered.

“You can finish it yourself,” said Rollison. “Maybe if you tried to forget your own troubles and think of your wife’s, you’d improve, but there doesn’t seem much chance of that She was nearly murdered this afternoon.”

“That’s a lie!”

“That’s the truth,” said Rollison. “She was attacked by two friends of Blane—friends of the man you helped to escape. They chloroformed her. But she’s so loyal to you that she didn’t send for the police because that might come back on you. But I’m not interested in your safety, Allen.”

Allen took the cigarette from his lips, and mocked:

“You seem pretty interested in something.”

“I’m interested in a friend of Snub,” said Rollison. “Still glad you let Blane go?”

“I—I had to let him go.”

“Because you’ve lost everything, even the will to make a fight of it,” said Rollison bitingly.

“What’s the use of fighting?” asked Allen. He drew on the cigarette again, and stared at the glowing tip. “You’re right, I’m a heel—I told Bar so this morning. She’s a fool to stay with me. I didn’t know—anything had happened to her, or would happen.”

“You must have known there was a risk.”

“I wouldn’t tell her anything, in case the others tried—tried to find out what she knew.”

“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.”