John Creasey - The Toff And The Stolen Tresses

“Won’t I?” said Rollison, softly.

Not now, or for the next hundred years,” Wallis said. “You might as well save your breath.”

He meant it.

He was not only massive, immensely strong and utterly ruthless, but in his way he was brave; it might be the bravery of a stupid man, but it was still bravery. He wasn’t at all what Rollison had expected to find. Certainly it

It would be useless to threaten him, as useless to use force even if he could bring himself to use it against a man who hadn’t a chance. You could hate: you could want to see such a man punished beyond physical endurance for the things he had done; but it was a different matter if you were appointed the avenger. Wallis knew that. Wallis did not think that he was in any immediate physical danger, and he was not really frightened for his wife.

If he had reasons to believe that he was wrong he might sing a different song.

“Tiny,” said Rollison, nursing the gun and leaning forward to emphasise his words, “I’ve told you what I want. If you don’t come across, you’ll have some shocks. Who paid you for the Middleton Street job?”

Wallis sneered.

“Who was it? Donny Sampson?”

Wallis’s lips were still twisted. “You won’t do a thing,” he seemed to say, “you can’t scare me.”

“One more chance and that’s the end of my patience,” said Rollison, and there was menace in his voice, an expression on his face which had scared many a man who had seemed as tough as this one; but he got no reward at all. “All right,” he said, and levelled the gun straight at Wallis’s face. “This is one of your mistakes. You won’t look nice when they find you.” He waited for a few seconds, saw Wallis’s hands tighten, saw him clutch the arms of his chair, saw the dawn of fear. Wallis actually held his breath, but he didn’t speak: and silently he seemed to say, “I’ll call your bluff. Rollison squeezed the trigger.

In that last moment Wallis saw the movement and jumped up wildly, as if he realised that he had been wrong, and great fear blazed up in him. But he was too late.

His eyes showed that fear, and then a kind of fury; next moment the cloud of vapour from the muzzle of the automatic hid his features. He began to gasp and mutter incoherently. His hands went to his eyes which burned and streamed with water. And while the tear gas from the gas pistol stung him, Rollison took out a cosh, and struck on the nape of the bull neck.

The one blow knocked him out.

Rollison said: “We’ll see how you like it,” and looked round the pleasant room, the television set, the books, all the loved things in this home. He thought of old Mrs. Blake of Middleton Street and what she had lost, and of the others who had suffered just as badly. The temptation to deal with this man as he had dealt with so many was almost overwhelming, but Rollison fought it back, and left the room.

He reached the kitchen and opened the larder door.

Stella Wallis looked up at him, as if she was frightened of what she might see. Obviously she had expected her husband.

“Isn’t he—home?”

“He’s home and sleeping it off,” said Rollison, “and he won’t love me much when he comes round.”

She looked utterly astounded.

“You mean that you—” she broke off. “You can’t make me believe you got the best of Tiny!”

“I got the best of Tiny this time and it wasn’t even difficult,” said Rollison. “Now you’re going to help me do it again. You’re coming with me, Stella, for a little holiday. Tiny will wonder where you are. I’m quite touched by his obvious devotion. You’d better wear a hat and coat, and bring anything else you want.”

Her face was a study in disbelief and bewilderment.

“You don’t seriously mean it.”

“Let’s hurry, shall we?” said Rollison, and took her wrist and drew her out of the larder. “There’s a lot to do.” He hustled her up to her bedroom, and she took a coat, a hat and a scarf and some gloves from the wardrobe and a dressing chest; then she picked up a handbag, and turned and looked at him as if she still didn’t really believe that this was happening.

“After this, he’ll kill you.”

“I’ll worry about me. Come on!”

“What about my children?” her voice rose up. “Your neighbours will look after your children,” Rollison said, “they’re not in any trouble. Let Tiny work it out for himself.” He t ook her arm again. “Now let’s hurry.”

At the foot of the stairs he pushed open the door of the living-room. Wallis was sprawled back in the armchair, and his eyes flickered, as if f he was on the point of coming round.

Stella said in a strangled voice: “No,” and looked at Rollison. It was a look he would remember for a long time, because she couldn’t keep the admiration out of her eyes, and in that moment she was quite startlingly handsome.

“Be seeing you, Tiny,” Rollison said, and hurried to the front door. “After you.” He let the woman go first, for he was still uncertain about what he would find here. All he found were neighbours, gaping; no youths, no strong-arm men, nothing to suggest that Wallis had lied. The hired car was still along the road.

CHAPTER TEN

Pieces Of A Puzzle

No one followed Rollison or Stella Wallis.

She sat by his side, subdued and bewildered, and made no attempt to get away, even when they were stopped at traffic lights in the city and the West End, where the evening rush hour was just past its peak. She was still looking as if she could not believe what had happened when Rollison drew up outside Number 22 Gresham Terrace. He glanced up and down, to make sure that he had not been followed, then led Stella to the stairs, and walked up behind her. She had beautiful, quite exceptional legs, and walked very well. At the top landing and outside the flat marked G, she turned and said in a low-pitched voice:

“He’ll kill you. I mean it.”

“I have a friend waiting with my obituary notice,” said Rollison solemnly. “It’s been on ice for seventeen years.” He opened the front door with the key but didn’t go in at once. There was always the possibility that the flat would have been visited by—for instance—Mick Clay.

Jolly appeared.

“Good evening, sir.” He bowed to Stella Wallis, as he would to royalty. “Good evening, madam.”

Rollison said brightly: “Evening, Jolly. This is Mrs. Tiny Wallis.” Jolly did no more than tighten his lips; the casual observer would not have noticed the slightest indication of surprise. “She wants to hide away from an irate husband for a few days. Where do you suggest?” Rollison asked this blandly as he led the way across a small but pleasant lounge-hall and into the big room, while Stella stared at him as if at a madman. “Any notions?”

“I don’t—” Stella began, but broke off.

“I would suggest Mr. Micklem’s place, sir,”

Jolly said promptly.

“Good idea,” approved Rollison, thoughtfully. “Near enough to London for you to take Mrs. Wallis there this evening and get back in time to put me to bed, but far enough to be out of immediate danger. Telephone for a car to be at the back in ten minutes, will you?”

“Very good, sir.”

“B—b—but—” began Stella weakly, and then gave it up.

“What you want is a little pick-me-up,” said Rollison hospitably. “What’s it to be?” He led the way to a cocktail cabinet, and when Stella said: “Gin and tonic, I think,” in a faint voice, he poured out for her, poured a whisky and soda for himself, and said: “To a happy holiday.”

Words burst out of her.

“It’s crazy, you can’t do this to me, you just can’t do it!”

Did you ever see such a piece of sheer exhibitionism as that?” inquired Rollison, and indicated the trophy wall, with all its souvenirs of past crimes, past dangers and past triumphs. “Ignore the rope, that only hanged a man. See that cosh? A toughie who thought he was as good as Tiny used that, and he took the long drop too. That knuckle duster was also intended to break every bone in my body. Not quite large enough for Tiny, would you say?”

“I’m beginning to think you might get away with it,” Stella said chokily, “but don’t make any mistake, if Tiny ever gets you in his hands he’ll never let you go again.”

“I think you’re probably right,” agreed Rollison soberly. “I’ll have to keep away.” He glanced at Jolly, who came into the room again. “All fixed, Jolly?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any special news for me?”

Jolly paused to glance at Stella Wallis, as if wondering whether what news he had could safely be told in her presence; and then decided that it could. His report was a masterly piece of precision and abbreviation. James Matthison Jones was fully conscious again, and showing signs of full recovery; Ada Jepson had telephoned, but left no message; Wilson of the Globe had told him of a dozen London cases of girls having long hair shorn, and believed that many other cases had been reported in the past few months.

“Human hair is moderately valuable, sir.”

“What do you call moderately?”

“About nine or ten pounds a head if average dark hair, that is the present market price on imported hair from India and Pakistan. Some still comes from central Europe, sir. Fair hair will fetch from twenty to thirty per cent more. White or ash-blonde hair, especially if wavy, may fetch as much as twenty guineas a head.”

“At ten or fifteen pounds a time it wouldn’t make a fortune for anyone,” Rollison said. “Would it, Stella?”

She had been watching Jolly as if fascinated, but answered at once.

“It might for a barber,” she said. “Like to know where the best wigs come from around here?”

“You’re going to say Donny Sampson’s.”

“It must be wonderful to have second sight,” Stella Wallis gibed. “Donny’s own daughter had her hair cut off today.”

“Really.”

“And Donny’s a cunning old so-and-so,” the woman went on. “He gets the names and addresses of girls with lovely hair from his competition, and sooner or later they lose their hair—if it’s the best for making wigs. He owns dozens of barber’s shops in London, and this Hair Stylists’ Association is just a name for them, although he keeps in the background. He has those leaflets distributed and advertises where it’ll do most good, in local newspapers and shop windows, and gets more silly little fools to go to his places. He must have pulled in thousands of customers! They can only enter if they go to a shop he owns, whether his name’s on the front or not. He gets hundreds of heads of hair for his wigs that way.”

“Very interesting,” said Rollison gratefully. “We’ll have to check on Donny. Thanks, Stella. Another gin? Right then, off you go! Don’t try any tricks now. Jolly, if Mrs. Wallis should fall asleep in the car, don’t be too surprised,” he added quite unexpectedly. “She’s had a strenuous day.”

“Sleep? I never get tired until after midnight, you’re talking through your—” began Stella Wallis, and then her eyes rounded, she broke off, and her hands raised to her breast. “What was in that drink? Come on, tell me, you beast, what was in it?”

“Good night,” said Rollison, sweetly. “You’ll be all right, as far as I know no one has any quarrel with you.”

She looked as if she could have struck him, but did not try, just followed Jolly out of the room, through the kitchen and down the fire escape to the car which was waiting in a street near Gresham Terrace. As she went, Rollison stood by the window of his large room, with the trophies behind him and the wide street below.