John Creasey - The Toff In Town

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.”

“Dunno that I want ‘em to,” said Ebbutt, sagely, “big believer in bluff, I am—you know me. Put a coupla toughs outside the flat an’ anyone who comes rahnd looking for trouble, beats it. You know me.”

“My good luck,” said Rollison.

“What’s it all abaht, Mr. Ar?” asked Ebbutt

“A young couple are having a rough time but are scared stiff of asking help from the police. I won’t let it go too far, and if the situation gets out of hand, tell your boys to call the police.”

“Dunno that they want anyfink to do with the busies,” said Bill, frowning, “But Okay, Mr. Ar.”

“And I’ll tell you the whole story one day,” promised Rollison. “Bill.”

“Ess?”

“Is Perky Lowe still about?”

“Cor strike a perishin’ light, o’ course ‘e is. On arternoon and evenin’ shift. If yer want him yer’ll probably find ‘im in the Blue Dog. But ‘e may be at the Crown, always shiftin’ arahnd, Perky is. Makes a fortune aht’ve that cab, ‘e does. Bought ‘is own, did yer know?”

“I didn’t I haven’t time to see him now, Bill, but if he can be at Gresham Terrace—near the Piccadilly corner—by one o’clock, I might find him useful.”

“Call it done,” said Bill. “You know me.”

“That’s wonderful,” said Rollison. “The man who never fails.”

He regretfully refused to go into the Blue Dog and have one, inquired after Bill’s wife, listened patiently to a story about the Salvation Army, and went out, watched by the same two little old men sucking clay pipes.

The taxi was round the corner, in the main road, and it followed him back to the West End.

Rollison parked his car near Blott ’ s, in Coventry Street, and the girl paid off the taxi and went into the famous restaurant some five minutes after him.

CHAPTER SEVEN

BRIGHT YOUNG LADY

SHE sat at a table near him, so that he could only see her profile, and was given prompt and eager attention. She wore a bottle-green suit with a long coat, and a wide-brimmed, white hat with the curling brim swept upwards off her face and cherries glistening on the crown. Her hair was golden in colour and, even in the comparative gloom that was Blotts in time of austerity, the lights shone in her hair and her eyes were bright.

A cluster diamond ring sparkled on her engagement finger, a diamond clasp was at the neck of her white blouse. Her gloves and handbag and her shoes were white, and she had most attractive ankles.

Rollison studied the menu.

“If I were you, Mr. Rollison,” murmured the headwaiter, “I would try the game pie to-day.”

“Game pie,” said Rollison, and considered. “Henri, I think you’re right.”

Thank you,” said Henri, whose accent suggested that his name should be spelt Henry. “We haven’t had the pleasure of seeing you here for some little time.”

“I’ve been out of town,” said Rollison. “Henri.”

“Sir?”

“The young lady on my left.”

Henri’s eyes twinkled.

“Yes, Mr. Rollison.”

“How well do you know her?”

“To the best of my knowledge I have never seen her before,” said Henri.

“Oh,” said Rollison, “that’s a pity.”

“It would perhaps be possible for me to tell her that her table has been reserved, it was a mistake to put her there, to ask her if she would object to sharing a table, perhaps?” Henri had known Rollison for a long time.