John Creasey - The Toff And The Stolen Tresses

Rollison looked at her intently, and spoke with great deliberation.

“I’ll go, Lila, and I won’t come here again if you’ll look at me as you are doing now, and swear that the trouble your family’s in began yesterday—when I first came to see him. That’s all you have to do. Swear that it’s true, and I’ll go.”

She looked at him with her eyes brimming over with tears, and her lips quivering, but she did not speak again.

“Lila,” Rollison urged, “get the family together, talk among yourselves, try to work this out the best way. I want to help Donny as much as you do, if for different reasons. But if he keeps telling me half-truths, and if all of you close up when the police and I ask questions, he’ll probably get badly hurt. Don’t forget that.”

She still didn’t speak.

Rollison nodded and turned away, doubting whether he would ever be able to break her down.

He had moved only a step when he heard her cry out in a strangled voice, and he turned round. He saw a sight which he should have expected, and which Lila must have feared. Donny was being led out by burly Harrison.

“What’s on?” Rollison asked sharply.

Harrison held a toupee up for him to see.

“This is made out of hair cut from a girl’s head only two weeks ago. Hair experts are going through every wig he’s got.”

“Mr. Rollison,” Donny said in a strained voice. “I knew nothing at all about it, but I’ve been charged with being in possession of stolen—stolen goods.”

“You can tell that to the court,” Harrison said. “Move aside, Mr. Rollison.”

Rollison stood very still, and asked:

“Who’s doing this to you, Donny? Who is it?” Donny said: “There’s nothing I can say.”

* * *

“If I knew anything I’d tell you,” Lila said brokenly, tut I just don’t know a thing.”

* * *

Rollison went to his car and drove to Mission Street, about half a mile away. There was a corner café, patronised by dockers and labourers, and even now he could hear the throbbing heartbeat of the docks as he drew near. The owner, a man named Rickett, had been the first to suffer from Wallis’s brutality. He wasn’t in a big way of business, and for the most part was handy for emergency stores, such as canned and packaged foods for ships sailing earlier than expected. Night workers and the crews of ships which docked during the

night found him useful, too.

Rollison pulled up outside the shop.

Even before he stepped from the car, he saw the corner of the window, dressed much more attractively than the rest, with Jepsons’ goods of many kinds—their toothpaste, hair creams, cigarettes, pens and pencils, Jepsons’ writing paper, postcards, envelopes, Jepsons’ brushes and their polishes for shoes and furniture.

A woman was watching Rollison from inside the shop, and he saw her dart through a doorway leading to a room at the back the moment he opened the front door. Its bell clanged noisily. The shop was small and the shelves crowded. There was much more of Jepsons’ stocks here—pots and pans and gadgets, soaps and soap powders, canned foods, everything for the kitchen or the galley.

Out of sight a woman said urgently: “It’s lunacy, Tom, that’s what it is, sheer lunacy. Haven’t you had enough?”

A man answered in a quiet voice, and spoke very slowly.

“Becky, if you’re right, and this is the Toff, I’m going to see what he wants. It’s true that I

“I tell you it’s crazy! Look what happened when he went to see Donny! Everyone knows about it, and who can say where it will stop? They can have my hair for nothing, but they might kill you next time. Isn’t it bad enough to be crippled for life?”

“I can get along,” the man said, in the same deliberate voice. “You only see one side of it, Becky, you don’t see the important one. What’s going to happen if this doesn’t stop? No one will be safe anywhere. If the Toff can do anything to stop it now, then we ought to help him.”

“What kind of a chance has he got if the police couldn’t do a thing?” the woman almost sobbed. “And what about me? You may not care whether you have another beating up, but what happens if they go for me?”

There was a moment of silence.

“If you’re so nervy, Becky, you’d better go and stay with your mother for a week or two. I can manage here all right. Please don’t make it more difficult than it is already.”

The woman said hoarsely: “I think you’re a crazy fool!”

Then the man appeared in the doorway, and at first sight Rollison thought that he was old. His hair was grey, and his eyes were tired. He was quite short, his nose was broken, and there was an ugly scar over his right eye. But the most noticeable thing was the way he walked: carrying a stick and bent a little from the waist; but he walked firmly.

He looked into Rollison’s face, and smiled in a strangely contented way.

“You were right, Becky,” he called to the woman behind him, “it’s Mr. Rollison. Have you come about the way Wallis and his men attacked me, sir?”

Rollison found himself warming to this man as he had warmed to very few.

“Yes, Rickett,” he said, and looked over the man’s shoulder into the woman’s eyes. She was no more than thirty-five or forty, and attractive in a gipsy way; she had thick, dark hair of which she was undoubtedly proud. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Rickett, I’ll spread it around that neither of you would say a word, and I’ll see that you get some protection, too—protection that won’t be noticeable.” Here at last was a job for Ebbutt’s men. “Just one thing. Have you thought of any reason at all for the beating up, Rickett?”

“Of course he hasn’t!” Mrs. Rickett cried. “He told the police he didn’t know why.”

“The police needn’t know what he’s going to tell me,” Rollison said.

“We’re honest people and there’s nothing,” Mrs. Rickett shrilled. “Yes, Mr. Rollison,” Rickett said, “I think I know why I was attacked.” He moved round I awkwardly, and put his arm round his wife’s shoulders; and she was near to tears. “I didn’t tell the police because I was frightened of what might happen if I did. I wasn’t absolutely sure, either. But the situation’s got much worse since I was questioned. I’m not really positive now of I my facts, but I’ve given it a lot of thought since I came out of hospital. I think I know why it was.”

For a moment he seemed to have real difficulty in making himself go on, for his wife was crying openly, so great was her fear.

“I think that I’d been buying stolen goods from a wholesaler,” Rickett said deliberately, and his grey eyes met Rollison’s frankly and unafraid. “I’d been getting a little extra discount for some time, but that didn’t surprise me, because Jepsons’ stuff is usually sold pretty fine, and I thought they were behind it. Then I discovered, quite by chance, that one of the other dealers in the district wasn’t getting the same discount from his wholesaler, and it wasn’t a Jepsons’ special price offer. It was the wholesaler’s. I knew from experience that this particular wholesaler didn’t often sell at cut price, so I asked their representative how it was that they could offer the discount when others couldn’t.

“That night Wallis and the other man came,” Rickett went on, steadily. “I couldn’t swear who they were. They had scarves over their faces, and cloth caps pulled low down. It wasn’t for over a month after I came out of hospital that I tied the two things up, Mr. Rollison. My memory wasn’t too good when I first came out, but now I’m seeing things straight, and I’ve heard about the other people who’ve suffered in the same way. If anything I say to you will help to put an end to it, then you’re welcome. I hope you won’t have to go to the police, but—”

“No police,” said Rollison quietly. Not about this. Who is the wholesaler?”

“Tom, don’t tell him!” Mrs. Rickett clutched her husband’s arm. “If you tell them they’ll know it was you, they’re bound to.”

“It’s Bishopps, of Penn Street,” Rickett said. His wife turned away, and covered her face with her hands.

“You won’t suffer for this,” Rollison promised Rickett, and prayed that he could make the promise good. “The first job I’m going to do is find some other lead to Bishopps and tell the world how I got on to them. It won’t bring reprisals on you.”

“Oh, you can talk,” the woman said drably.

“Do whatever you think is best,” said Rickett. “Someone had to start this, sooner or later.”

Rollison said: “Yes, someone had to.” He took Rickett’s hand, gripped hard, and then turned and went outside. He wasn’t surprised to see two youths standing at the corner across the road. They were staring insolently, and there was little doubt that they would report where Rollison had been and how long he had stayed. He drove off, watching them in the driving mirror, and telephoned Ebbutt’s gymnasium from the first telephone kiosk he saw.

“I’ll make sure the Ricketts are okay, Mr. Ar,” said Ebbutt, “you needn’t worry at all about that. Anyfink else?”

“Not yet but soon,” said Rollison, hopefully.

* * *

The second on the list of victims was a Herbert Smith, of Docksy Street. Rollison did not waste much time studying the board outside Smith’s small house, or the board over the big yard next to it.

BERT SMITH

Carrier Express Delivery Service

Anywhere in London

Two small vans carrying the same wording were in the yard and as Rollison went in, he saw a stocky man get out of one of the vans, obviously with an effort; and when the man came towards him, it was apparent that he limped. He was bigger than Rickett, a tough-looking customer, but he stopped abruptly when he saw who it was.

In a flash, he said: “Don’t stay here, Mr. Rollison, I don’t want any more trouble. Last time they broke my leg in three places, that was bad enough.”

“One question,” said Rollison. “All you have to say is yes or no. Do you handle deliveries or do any work for Bishopps of Penn Street?”

“No harm in answering that,” Bert Smith said. “I’ve been their main delivery for fifteen years. But that’s all I’m going to tell you, don’t waste your time.”

“That’s all I wanted,” Rollison said, and turned and went away.

Would the other five victims be associated with Bishopps too?

It shouldn’t take long to find out.

* * *

Rollison made three more calls in the next hour, and the pattern was already clear; once one knew what the connection might be, it was obvious. One of the three had a shop, like Rickett; Rollison didn’t go in there, but telephoned from a nearby kiosk and asked if the man dealt with Bishopps; and was told yes. Jepson goods were in his window, too. The second man’s connection wasn’t so easy to find, but his wife did most of the talking, and revealed it without realising that she did.

“We haven’t the faintest idea why it happened, there wasn’t any reason at all as far as I could see. My husband’s led a good, honest sober life—why, he wouldn’t have kept the same job for twenty-three years if he hadn’t, would he?”

Rollison looked at the man; a frightened man, who undoubtedly knew more than he had told his wife.

And Rollison smiled.

“Twenty-three years with whom, Mr. Smart?”

“Why, Bishopps,” his wife answered, and Smart seemed to wince.

The next man was a warehouseman from Jepsons’ East End Warehouse.

The barber victim had often had Jepson goods delivered by Bishopps, too. The Blakes’ only association with either firm seemed to be through their lodger, Jones.