John Creasey - Kill The Toff

“What wine will you drink, sir?” asked Jolly.

“Any choice, Clarissa?” asked Rollison.

“I’ll leave it to you.”

“And I’ll leave it to Jolly.”

“I hope you’ve given him instructions about your funeral,” Clarissa said.

There was iced melon; a meat pate; roast chicken; trifle and Scotch woodcock; and first sherry, then champagne. The sight of the silver ice-bucket made Clarissa raise her eyebrows and she looked at Jolly as if understanding him at last. When he had gone she said: “He has a grisly sense of humour.”

“He likes serving champagne at the end of the hunt.”

“You’re sure it’s over, aren’t you?”

“Bar the last killing,” Rollison declared. They were at the savoury when the telephone bell rang and Rollison betrayed his tension when he half-rose to answer it. Jolly came swiftly from the kitchen. Clarissa watched him intently. Jolly did not hurry, coughed as he put the receiver to his ear and announced solemnly: “This is Mr Rollison’s home.” Rollison put a morsel of Scotch woodcock into his mouth. Clarissa fiddled with the long stem of the champagne glass.

Jolly said: “Very well, Mr Ebbutt, I will tell him.” He put the receiver on the desk and turned; and tension was in him as well as the others, it is Mr Ebbutt, sir. He informs me that Mellor will meet you.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Low Dive

“Mr Ar,” said Ebbutt into the telephone, “if you take my tip, you won’t go. You just won’t go. It’s arskin’ for trouble. I wouldn’t send a rozzer there to meet Mellor. It’ll be your big mistake, Mr Ar, and the last one.”

“Where does he want me to go?” asked Rollison.

“Old Nob’s. It’s a low dive, Mr Ar—abaht the lowest in London. I wouldn’t advise a friend o’ mine to go there even if Mellor wasn’t arahnd. You know the place—cor blimey, you know it, Mr Ar, if anyone does! It’s where they ‘ad that riot coupla’ yers ago. The rozzers closed it up, remember; but it’s opened again. New owner, same low dive. Two blokes neely got rubbed aht there. The dicks keep away from it mostly—never see one nowhere arahnd: they know it’s not safe. You arsk Gricey, ‘e’ll tell yer.” Rollison chuckled.

“He’s told me. Old Nob’s just the place, Bill. When am I to go there?”

“Arter ten o’clock tonight, but—”

“Any conditions?”

“No, Mr Ar. I got the squeak from a kid. Doan know ‘ow Mellor got it to ‘im. You know wot it’s like: you never can trace back when anything comes along the vine. And becos there’s no conditions I say it’s dang’rous, Mr Ar. It’s a trap. What could Mellor wanter see yer for if it wasn’t to rub you aht?”

“No reason at all, Bill.”

“You don’t get any better as you get older,” complained Ebbutt. “Well, I s’pose I’ll ‘ave ter let yer go. But I’ll ‘ave that ‘all packed—”

“Oh, no, you won’t. Have two or three of your tougher boys there, if they volunteer to go—don’t use any pressure on them, Bill. And you can spread your men round the hall outside—not too close. There are plenty of places they can go: all the pubs, Joey’s—I needn’t tell you. I’ll call in at the Lion on my way; if the police are concentrating on the area, you can let me know there.”

“Okay,” said Ebbutt resignedly.

“You know the new owner at the place, don’t you?”

“Yes. “E don’t want no trouble, neiver.”

“Tell him to have the stage trap-door clear,” Rollison said. “That’s important, Bill. I might lose if that’s covered up.”

“I’ll see to it, Mr Ar. But I tell you—”

“I’ll come straight to you afterwards, Bill.”

“And ‘oo’s goin’ ter carry you?” muttered Ebbutt. “I wish you wouldn’t go, Mr Ar.”

“So does Jolly,” said Rollison. “I’ll be seeing you.”

He put the receiver down and heard Clarissa say: “I’ve no influence at all with him, Jolly.” She looked at Jolly. “Well? You’ve fallen for it, have you?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you to meet him, sir?”

“At Old Nob’s.”

“Old Nob’s!” exclaimed Clarissa. “That’s where I met him before.”

She stood up and knocked a champagne glass over. The champagne spread, still bubbling, over the cloth, gradually soaked in and became a dull wet patch.

“It is the most verminous, disreputable and dangerous haunt in the East End of London,” declared Jolly and drew in his breath. He stood at attention and trembled slightly, i think you must be out of your right mind to contemplate going there to-night, Mr Rollison, and I would be doing less than my duty if I failed to say so.”

“You certainly would, Jolly. Care to change your mind, Clarissa?”

“I’ll come,” she said.

“Sir! You can’t take Miss Arden, you really can’t!”

“We’ll leave at nine o’clock and I’ll make a few calls first,” Rollison said. “I shall go in these clothes. I want the palm-pistol fully charged both with ammonia pellets and bullets—no shoulder holster, no ordinary pistol. I’ll take the sword-stick, too. Miss Arden won’t be armed.”

Jolly bowed, trembling.

“We’ll have coffee now,” said Rollison. “Then fetch the car from Pulham Gate. I want to be recognised by everyone.”

* * *

“I suppose if I ask you whether you really ought to go or whether you’re planning it out of sheer stubbornness, you’ll think I’ve lost my nerve or else have some sinister purpose,” Clarissa said. “Can the police, the man Ebbutt and Jolly all be wrong?”

It was five minutes to nine.

“They’re all quite right,” said Rollison.

“So you are crazy?”

“As crazy as Mellor. He may not turn up, of course. He probably won’t. That’s what the others fear. They think someone else will be waiting to cut me up. Old Nob’s is notorious, if you need telling that. Probably Mellor’s best move would be to stage another riot there with two or three toughs ordered to get me while the fun’s going on. The police wouldn’t be able to pin it on to anyone then. But my money’s on his turning up.”

“Can you give me one good reason why he should?”

“Yes,” said Rollison. “But you have to know your East End so as to understand it. You have to know your crooks, your gangs, the mentality of the leaders. You have to know that the one besetting sin of them all is vanity. Mellor’s gone all out to make himself a Big Boss. We’ve had few others in London but none has lasted so long. Every now and again someone who thinks he’s cleverer than the rest has a cut at running the East End with all its profitable rackets. There are two ways to do it. One to work well in with everyone, be friendly, bribe your way. That takes a long time. The other way is to build yourself up a reputation for terrorising everyone else. Mellor’s done that. He had two big plans; one has gone sour on him but the second might work because he still has his reputation. He hates my guts because I killed Waleski and saved “my” Mellor. That gives him one good reason for wanting me out of the way. There’s a stranger reason still. Jolly should really tell you about it. I’m fairly well known in the East End. By a mixture of luck and judgment I’ve slapped down several of these would-be Big Boys. Now, if Mellor can slap me down— follow me?”

Clarissa actually laughed.

“That would set the seal to his fame?”

“He’s crazy enough to think so, which makes us both crazy.” Rollison stood up.

“One more question,” said Clarissa. “Why do you want me to come with you?”

“Why did you destroy those letters?”

“I think we’d better go.” Clarissa put out her cigarette as Jolly came in to say that it was four minutes past nine and that the car was waiting.

“Good,” said Rollison to Jolly. “I’ll be back late.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jolly did not say another word but, as the car moved off, Rollison saw him standing at the window of the sitting-room, looking out.

No police car followed them through the West or the East End; but Rollison knew that the police were on the look-out and reports of his progress were flashed back to the Yard and the Division by every policeman who saw the car.

* * *

By half-past nine the East End of London seethed with the news of the coming confrontation. Everyone in or on the fringe of the so-called underworld was agog with the story. Discussion in pubs and dives waxed hot, bookmakers did a brisk trade; and the betting was even, slightly in favour of the Toff, for purely sentimental reasons. A curious phenomenon became apparent as the hours passed. Men who hated the Toff as much as they feared him, and who hated and feared the police, hoped that he would win. Now and again a copper’s nark slipped out of a pub and passed this information on to a detective; and it was sent back to Grice who was at

Divisional Headquarters. Excitement and disquiet bubbled everywhere but few knew where the meeting was to take place, although many guessed. No rumour that it was to be at Old Nob’s reached Grice, who concentrated men near all known danger-spots and knew that nothing he could do would be in time to prevent trouble—only to clear up after it. When Mellor struck—and he would strike—it would be swift and merciless. Grice did not think Rollison had one chance in ten.

Probably the most worried man in the East End was Bill Ebbutt. He had given instructions to his countless cronies and had two or three reliable men at Old Nob’s, where the dancing had started at half-past eight and by now was working itself up to its nightly, furious climax. He also had three men at the Lion, a dockside pub a few hundred yards away from the dance-hall.

One of them was Charlie who sported his canary polo sweater and a light brown cap and, for once, drank whisky: he needed something to keep his nerves steady. The Lion wasn’t crowded: few pubs were that night. There were even fewer than usual at Old Nob’s for many preferred to keep out of trouble, both for its own sake and because the lurking police would certainly raid as soon as the outbreak started.

No one doubted that the outbreak would come.

At twenty minutes to ten the door of the Lion swung open and a little man rushed into the smelly, smoky public bar.

“Charlie! Where’s Charlie? Charlie, ‘e’s comin’! Car just turned the corner—’ear it?”

The gentle purr of Rollison’s car sounded clearly through the hush which fell upon the room. Three men finished their beer and went out quickly, anxious to be clear of trouble; for the attack might come here. The car stopped and the twenty people in the room stood and watched the door; there was no pretence at normality. The barmaid, a middle-aged, tight-lipped woman, stood with her hand resting on her husband’s big arm, also watching. No one drank; no one moved until Rollison stepped in and held the door open for Clarissa.

A gasp went up.

Rollison raised his silver-handled stick and said.

“Hallo, folks! Not drinking?”

No one answered but two or three people stirred. Eyes switched to Clarissa. Rollison laid his hand on her arm and led the way to the bar.

“Whisky, I think. Singles, Mrs Morley.”

The tight-lipped woman moved to the row of gleaming colourful bottles behind her and her hand shook as she measured out the whisky. Her husband put a jug of water and a bottle of soda-water on the bar. Charlie sidled up to Rollison and said:

“Bill says it’s not too late to change yer mind, Mr Ar; an’ no one will think any the worse of yer if you go back right now.”

“I’ve a call to make before I go home,” Rollison said. “What’ll you have, Charlie?”