John Creasey - The Toff And The Stolen Tresses

It was probably five minutes after Jolly and the woman had gone that a youth appeared, strolling casually along the street; soon there were three.

“Casing the joint,” Rollison murmured. He grinned, stepped to the telephone, and dialled Scotland Yard. This time Grice was in.

“Bill,” said Rollison quickly, “Jolly’s out, and I’m going out in fifteen minutes. Soon after that I think some gentlemen of the Edwardian period will pay me a visit. I’d hate to have my flat wrecked. If you happened to have a squad car or a Q car nearby—”

Grice was sharp. “Sure about this?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll fix it.”

“Don’t jump down my throat if I ask your chaps to make sure these Teddies have time to break in, will you? The redder the hand the tighter the handcuff, if you know what I mean.”

“They won’t act too soon,” Grice said gruffly. “What’s this about you knocking a motor¬cyclist off his machine in Rockham Street?”

“I did. A lorry chased me. The motor-cyclist was a decoy. How is he?”

“Dead,” said Grice.

“Oh,” said Rollison, very quietly. “Bill, I’m sorry. But it gives you a chance to probe deep. He was one of Tiny Wallis’s men. I don’t know much about Wallis, but in a funny way he’s good. Either he’s one of the ablest crooks I’ve ever come across, with brilliant staff work, or he’s got a clever man behind him.”

“What’s this story that you’ve kidnapped his wife?” Grice interrupted.

Rollison came nearer to making an admission of a felony than he had ever done in his life: Grice had never caught him so deftly on the wrong leg. He took a few seconds to answer, and Grice went on gruffly:

“Let’s have the truth.”

“Don’t tell me that Tiny’s lodged a complaint with the police,” said Rollison, and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

“A complaint was lodged.”

“Well, well,” said Rollison meekly, “I didn’t think he would have it in him. She came of her own free will, Bill.” When Grice didn’t answer, he went on: “And I think I can produce satisfactory evidence of that.”

“Jolly, I suppose.”

“Jolly.”

“Rolly,” said Grice, suddenly very earnest, “I know that I practically asked you to see what you could find out about Wallis and Clay, but I didn’t expect you to go racing about the East End like a maniac, and as for making Wallis’s wife go off with you—it’s absolutely crazy. Apart from the possibility of a charge of abduction, you’re asking for serious trouble. After this, Wallis will be—”

“Cross, I suppose,” interpolated Rollison mildly. “On the abduction matter Bill, see my solicitor.” He drew his hand across his forehead again. Did you find out anything about the hooligans who cut off Leah Sampson’s hair?”

“Not a thing,” said Grice. “The Division handled it, we kept out as you seemed so anxious that we should. Everyone named has an alibi.”

“I’m told there’s a plague of hair-shearing in London,” Rollison observed.

“There’s a lot more than usual, but we always have some,” Grice said. “Why were you anxious we shouldn’t make too much fuss over Leah’s?”

“The coincidence was remarkable. I called on Donny, and while I was there young Leah came rushing in, so shorn that she’ll have to wear a wig for several weeks. I wondered if it was to show me how little Wallis cares.”

“Could be,” conceded Grice, very slowly. “How well do you know Donny?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Did you know that he’s become one of the biggest land-owners in his part of London?” Rollison said blankly: “Fact?”

“Positive fact. He began by buying up the small shops he had rented for years, then buying up other shops—all barbers’—and in the past year or two he’s bought up shops of all kinds. He’s a really big land-owner.”

“Kindly landlord?” inquired Rollison, as if hopefully.

“We’ve never heard anything different,”

Grice said, “but it’s a trend I don’t much like.”

“How’d he get the money to go into the estate business?”

“He did it by extending his shops, setting the expenses against taxation, and keeping strictly within the law,” Grice answered. “No doubt about that. He works mostly with his own family, although he has a fairly big staff outside the family.”

“The hairdressers’ millionaire.”

“Wealthy, anyhow,” Grice conceded. “What made you go to see him?”

“I was told that he’d put Wallis and Clay on to a job.”

Did you tell him that to his face?”

“Yes, and he didn’t deny it.” Rollison waited, but Grice had nothing to say, so Rollison went on: “You’ll lay that car on, won’t you?”

“I just scribbled a note and the order’s gone out on the other telephone,” Grice said. “And listen—if Wallis presses his charge, we can’t stall him. At the moment I’m told that he looks as if a steam-hammer hit him.”

“Oh, no,” said Rollison, “just a little fist or two. Thanks, Bill.”

He rang off.

He lit a cigarette and poured himself another drink, then glanced out of the window and saw that several of the youths were there now; he had never seen so many people lounging about Gresham Terrace. Possibly they were there to try to make sure that Wallis’s wife was not taken away; as likely that they were coming to get her, and were waiting for a signal. Rollison let thoughts trickle through his mind. Perhaps the most puzzling one was Wallis’s action; for Wallis to complain to the police was remarkable, unless—

He’d been ordered to complain.

Who paid Wallis? Who was his “brain’?

“When we know that we’ll know most of the rest,” said Rollison to himself, then finished his drink and went into the kitchen. Jolly had prepared everything for a mixed grill, and there was a note saying:

The meat is in the oven, sir.

Chipped potatoes, white and fresh, were in a basket next to a saucepan of fat, there were some frozen vegetables standing ready for the pot. Rollison shook his head in regretful self-denial, and went out of the kitchen door and down the fire escape; that kitchen door was self-locking, so that no one could tell whether it had been closed from the inside or the outside. His footsteps clanged a little on the iron as he went down, but none of the youths was in the yard.

Rollison crossed this, and went to the corner of Gresham Terrace. A police patrol car with men in plain-clothes was crawling by, and two of the youths moved smartly across Gresham Terrace towards Number 22.

“I hope they don’t have time to do much damage,” Rollison said with feeling, and winked at the driver of the patrol car. Then he walked rapidly towards Piccadilly, and took a taxi to Middleton Street, Chelsea. He had not yet seen the Blakes, who as far as he knew were the only people who might be able to explain the attack on Jimmy Jones.

He knocked at the door of Number 24, and immediately there was a response, but no elderly person opened the door; instead a solid-looking man, obviously a Yard man in plain clothes, barred Rollison’s path. Then he recognised the visitor, and sprang almost to attention.

“Thanks,” said Rollison, and smiled. “Old folk at home?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“How are they?”

“Oh, they’re much better now,” said the plainclothes man. “Nearest thing to a miracle I’ve ever seen.”

“Miracle?” echoed Rollison, blankly.

“That’s the word, sir! When I first saw them they looked ready to pass out, they hadn’t a stick left whole, and the fact that the neighbours were very kind didn’t make all that difference. Of course it helped, but—well, then this morning the new furniture and everything arrived. Wonderful lot of stuff, sir, and a bigger and better television set. Wonderful people, those Jepsons.”

“So the Jepsons did that,” said Rollison, and had a mental image of Ada, so dumb-blondish and yet so shrewd. “Bless their hearts. Ask the Blakes if they can spare me five minutes, will you?”

“I’m sure they’ll be glad to,” the plainclothes man said. “Mr. Blake’s in the kitchen, Mrs. Blake’s upstairs with Jimmy Jones and Miss Jepson. Didn’t you know Jones was back?”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Transformation

In the small house there was transformation. Rollison could tell this as he entered the narrow hallway, saw the front room on the right filled with new furniture, a new carpet; everything a home needed. He could see the rough to the kitchen, and a small room also on the right; there was bright newness everywhere. An elderly grey-haired man stood up from a chair, and revealed a television set; it was as if he had been watching the blank screen.

He came forward.

“Mr. Blake, this is Mr. Rollison,” the plainclothes man said. The grey-haired man, with his clear skin and steady blue eyes, looked puzzled for a moment, and then exclaimed:

“The Mr. Rollison? The one they call the Toff?”

The Yard man chuckled.

“That’s him, Mr. Blake.”

“This really is an honour,” Blake said eagerly, and put out his hand, as if not certain that the Toff would take it; his grip was firm, his eyes told of his delight. “Martha will be delighted, she really will. Why, I must have been reading about you for twenty years!” He pumped Rollison’s hand again, and called: “Martha, Martha dear! Come on down at once, we’ve a visitor, you’d never believe . . .”

His wife was small, plump, comely and grey-haired; and obviously a little overwhelmed by the transformation and the generosity of the Jepsons. The Toff was gentle and understanding; and it was Blake who led him upstairs. He could hear Ada talking, in a quick, light voice, which suggested that she hadn’t a serious thought in her head; just prattle. Then Blake opened the door, and said:

“Jimmy, do you think you could stand another visitor for ten minutes?”

Ada jumped up.

“It’s past time I left, I didn’t realise I’d stayed so long, please don’t let me keep anyone away. I—” she looked past Blake at Rollison, and broke off, her eyes widening and her lips pursed in a little O as if of astonishment; that was the way she looked whenever she was really surprised. Then, swiftly and lightly, she went on: “But it’s Rolly! Rolly dear, how nice of you to come as soon as you heard Jimmy was out of hospital. Jimmy, this is Mr. Richard Rollison.”

“The Toff,” whispered Blake, as an echo.

Rollison looked at James Matthison Jones, and greatly liked what he saw, although much of Jones’s head was bandaged, and there was a plastered pad beneath his jaw on the right side. It was only a few days after the attack. There were bruises on his hands and his face which were not bandaged, but his mouth had not suffered, and his eyes were as clear and direct as a man’s could be.

“Hallo,” said Rollison, and took Jones’s hand. “Throw me out if you’re tired of talking, won’t you? Hallo, Ada, nice to see you.”

Jones seemed to find it difficult to make up his mind whether to look at Ada or at his new visitor. He compromised, smiling quickly at the Toff and then turning to the girl and saying: “Please don’t go. I’m perfectly all right now, and company’s good for me.”

“No, really, I must fly,” said Ada, “I’ve promised to see a friend before dinner.” She raised a hand to Jones, and turned and hurried out of the room, casting a swift sideways glance at Rollison. Blake went downstairs with her, and she chattered brightly all the way down, as if she could never be solemn and earnest.