John Creasey - Kill The Toff

“Nearest hospital?”

“No. The clinic.”

“Oh, sure.”

As the car moved off, the children ran towards it and brushed their fingers along the shiny green wings, poking out their tongues at the driver. The old woman at Number 51 slammed the door. They drove swiftly down Asham Street towards the docks. They could see the masts of shipping and the gaunt outline of cranes at the quayside above the countless roof-tops and the pencil-slim chimneys. At the end Snub turned left into another long, narrow road. The same kind of houses were on either side but this road twisted and turned. Farther along great warehouses with grey brick walls rose up against the sky.

A police constable on a bicycle turned a corner.

He stared at the car, slowed down—and then raised his hand in salute. Rollison forced a smile for he had been recognised and if he didn’t acknowledge the salute the constable would wonder why and might ask questions of the local copper’s nark.

He was still feeling a little sick.

Snub said: “Think the Doc will play?”

“Yes.”

The car purred along the winding street, forced to slow down as two horse-drawn drays came out of the gateway leading to a warehouse. Two turnings to the left and they came to a road along a wharf with ships on one side and a pub, painted bright red, on the corner; above the pub, starkly outlined against the hazy sky, was a huge red lion. Not far along this street was a large, corrugated-iron shed; alongside it several Nissen huts. The whole area had been razed during the bombing and these were temporary buildings. Beyond them row after row of prefabricated houses, like pale white boxes, made a slight change in the drab scene. Dozens of men and women walked or cycled along this road, many more than there had been in Asham Street.

The tin building and the huts were surrounded by a wire fence and the double gates were open. Snub turned the car into it and pulled up in front of one of the huts. A huge signboard carried the word MEDICAL CLINIC and beneath them the hours of attendance. A nurse in neat uniform came out of the big building and looked curiously at the car.

“I wish it were dark,” said Rollison.

“Have a slice of the moon,” Snub said. “We aren’t going to get away with this one; the Doc won’t play.”

He got out and, as he approached the Nissen hut, the door opened and a middle-aged man appeared. He looked burly in an old tweed suit with baggy trousers and bulging pockets.

He had a round, ruddy face and a frizzy grey head, bald at the top.

Rollison called: “Emergency, Doc. You may need oxygen. Coal-gas poisoning.”

The doctor pursed his lips, as if in disapproval, turned and disappeared.

Snub had the back of the car open and eased Mellor out. His face was still pink-tinged, his eyes were closed, he didn’t seem to be breathing.

“ Corpus ,” Snub murmured.

They carried him between them into the Nissen hut and the doctor called out:

“In here, Rollison.”

He stood in a small room where there were two empty beds, painted with green enamel, covered with sheets and blankets. The room was spotlessly clean. Several pieces of apparatus stood about it including an oxygen cylinder, stand and equipment, by the head of one of the beds. Snub and Rollison put Mellor down and the doctor said:

“Collar, shoes and belt loosened, quickly. You ought to have undone them before. Close the door, will you?”

He spoke in a quiet, unflurried voice with a slight north-country accent and went unhurriedly about his business, sparing time even to look hard and long at Rollison.

“Press down that top switch by the bed, will you? Electric blanket,” he added. After a pause: “If you’d given me a ring, I could have had it all ready.”

He put on a long white coat.

“Sorry,” said Rollison.

“My wife’s in the kitchen,” said the doctor. “Get her to make some coffee, will you? Have a strong cup yourself.”

“I’ll stay, thanks,” said Rollison. “Snub, pop along and be nice to Mrs Willerby,”

Snub went out, closing the door carefully behind him, and the doctor turned from the oxygen mask and bag which he was fixing over Mellor’s face. “Well, Doc?”

“Asking for miracles again?”

“He isn’t dead—or he wasn’t.”

“No. I think we might pull him round. That’s not the miracle I was talking about.”

Rollison smiled. “I get you. Yes, I’m asking for miracles again.”

“Who is he?”

“You’d better not know.”

“Hmm. If we do save him, what do you want?”

“I’ll look after that if you’ll keep him here for the night and attend to him when he’s moved. I don’t want anyone to know that he’s alive. In fact—” He paused and shrugged his shoulders. “The less you know the better, Doc.”

“Is he wanted?”

“Yes but if they tried him, he would get off— or should. If I can stall for a bit while I look round I think I can save him from trial.”

“Hmm!” There was a ghost of a twinkle in the keen grey eyes. “You don’t change much. Did he do this gassing job himself?”

“I don’t know and you don’t know.”

“Who does know anything?” asked the doctor.

He was fitting a stethoscope to his ears and bending over Mellor’s bare pink chest.

“No one who’ll talk, as far as I can judge. If anyone does talk, I’ll confess I hoodwinked you and keep you in the clear.”

“That’s what you think. Don’t forget I’m not the free agent I used to be. I’m a servant of the Government and so a servant of the State, who run the police.”

“That man’s a human being, in a nasty spot of trouble.”

The doctor shrugged his shoulders and turned his full attention on to the patient. He kept frowning as he shifted the stethoscope, finally shook his head, stood up, let the listening piece fall against his chest and opened a drawer in a small table. He took out a hypodermic syringe and selected a tiny glass phial. The care with which he prepared it all fascinated Rollison.

“I’m going to give him an intravenous injection,” the doctor said. “Then we’d better see how much saturation there is. Any idea how long he’s been unconscious?”

“No.”

“Pity. Shift him a bit, will you? and take care not to let the mask slip. Then see if you can get his left arm out of his coat sleeve and roll the shirt sleeve up.” The doctor worked all the time and went on talking in the same unflurried voice. “The trouble with you, Rollison, is that you’re always a man with a mission. Nothing matters but getting results. You’d have made a good pirate—you’ve the buccaneering way with you. Yes, you were born three hundred years too late. As it is, this is a disciplined and orderly world.”

“Really,” said Rollison sardonically.

“And you’re always kicking against the discipline,” said the doctor. He glowered up at Rollison who had Mellor’s arm out of his coat and was rolling up a grubby shirt sleeve. The arm was limp and pink. “You always have. The police have never been quick enough or thorough enough for you—you’ve always had to get a step in front of them and show them the way. Or think you’re showing them the way. I doubt if they agree. Why not let the police know all about this young man and save yourself a lot of bother?”

“It’s the buccaneer in me.”

“I’m serious.”

“I’ll be serious. Ninety-nine times in a hundred the police do a good job—a much more effective job than I could hope to do. But every now and again a peculiar case crops up. This is one. Apply rules and regulations to this and you’ll be in danger of reaching what the world thinks is a right and proper verdict; in fact it would be a travesty. Give rules and regulations the go-by for a bit and you’ll get justice.”

“And you’re all for justice!”

“Who’s been giving you a pep talk?” asked

Rollison.

The doctor was rubbing spirit into the crook of Mellor’s elbow and the faint, sharp smell was refreshing.

“I’m giving you the pep,” said the doctor. “Hold his arm out, will you? Keep it limp.” He picked up the hypodermic syringe. “Can you honestly tell me that if you keep Mellor away from the police it will help him—and help to find Galloway’s murderer?” He smiled again at Rollison’s startled expression and said with gentle reproof: “Keep his arm still—I’ve got to get this into the vein slowly. Well, can you?”

“So you know who he is,” murmured Rollison slowly.

“Even doctors have eyes and he’s been on the wanted list for weeks. I don’t have to talk about it but before I help I want to be fairly sure that this isn’t one of your crazy revolts against an orderly society—that it will be a wise thing to hide him from the police for a little longer. Convince me and I’ll do what I can.”

The doctor began to press the plunger, gently, and kept his eye on a large clock which ticked away the seconds as he made the injection.

CHAPTER SIX

Bill Ebbutt

The hypodermic syringe was empty before Rollison spoke. The doctor drew the needle out gently, wiped it on a piece of cotton wool and stood back to survey the patient. Footsteps sounded outside and there was a tap at the door. The doctor turned to open it and Snub came in with two cups of steaming coffee on a tray, some milk, sugar and biscuits. He flashed an inquiring glance at Rollison who showed no expression.

Anything else?” asked Snub.

“Yes,” said Rollison. “Telephone Bill Ebbutt and tell him I want a room for a stranger— probably for a couple of weeks. The stranger will want nursing for the first few days.”

“Nice work. Thanks, Doc.” Snub went out.

The doctor rubbed the side of his face. He had a broad nose, a full mouth, a squarish chin which seemed to be a little on one side. His white collar was a shade too tight but that didn’t seem to trouble him.

“That young man isn’t the only one who jumped to conclusions,” he said.

“You said you’d play if I could convince you,” said Rollison. “I can—you’ll play. Mellor is the illegitimate son of an extremely wealthy old man. The old man has been suffering from heart trouble for some years. Recently, in spite of strict obedience to doctor’s orders, he has become much worse. The doctors say they’re puzzled. I’m not. He’s worse because someone is working on him. I suspected jiggery-pokery shortly after he asked me to look for his son. There is quite a story behind this. He also had a legitimate son, Geoffrey, a year younger than Mellor. The younger son was burned to death, supposedly by accident, nearly a year ago. The fire was in a summer-house where Geoffrey slept in warm weather. He would have inherited the bulk of a substantial fortune. After his death, conscience set to work in the old man who decided that if he could find his first son, he would do right by him. As they say.” Rollison’s expression didn’t change and he looked at the doctor through the haze of steam rising from the coffee. “That’s the story as I know it.”

“Go on.”

“Inquiries were made discreetly. Mellor had no idea that he was a rich man’s son, no idea that the rich man was waiting to present him with a fortune. But someone knew. The someone framed Mellor for Galloway’s murder. I’ve been through the evidence thoroughly and had counsel’s opinion and counsel’s opinion is that nothing except fresh evidence can prevent Mellor from being hanged. I’ve some fresh evidence but it isn’t complete yet. If the police get it, there’s a grave risk that they’ll let whoever is behind the crimes know that they’re on a new trail. Two possibilities arise from that, Doc. Either the crooks will get a move on and the old man will die very quickly—an attempt at a coup d’etat, as it were. Or else they’ll lie low, covering up their tracks, let justice take its course with Mellor—great joke, isn’t it?—and nature take its course with the old man. Eventually, whoever wants the fortune will probably get it. It’s certainly someone who’s in line for it. The chance of finding the whole truth will be very slim. Or it would have been but for a thing that happened to-day. The crooks clearly wanted to get a move on, something worried them into making a mistake. Mind if I go all egotistic?”