John Creasey - The Toff And The Stolen Tresses

Rollison tapped.

“Come in.” Grice was standing behind his desk. “You’re the nearest thing to a ghost I’ll ever set eyes on. Sit down.” As Rollison took an armchair that was already in position, Grice studied him carefully. “Well, you don’t look as if you’ve got one foot out of the grave!”

Rollison had never felt more wary. This was an overtone of friendliness, too sugary to be genuine. Grice wanted something: so away with recriminations, away with taunts of folly, away with the line that but for the police he, Rollison, would probably be dead.

“Half a foot,” Rollison mumbled. “Thanks to you and all policemen. I’ve never been so glad to hear the word “cops”. How did you do it?” Grice pushed cigarettes across the desk, and said expansively:

“We’d virtually asked you to have a crack at this, and it was our fault that you did. Partly ours, anyhow. When we discovered that it was going to be really ugly, we decided that we ought to keep an eye on you. The attack on Jolly was the deciding factor.” Grice leaned back, pressing the tips of his fingers together, positively airy in manner. “We had each of the Wallis victims watched. When Wallis was seen going into Jackson’s house half an hour before you arrived, we laid on reinforcements. We had to have some kind of a schedule knowing that you might find a way of getting out and bringing a lot of information with you, so we gave you half an hour. Then we raided.”

“If I had a whisky and soda,” said Rollison, “I would lift my glass to the C.I.D.”

Grice bent down and produced a bottle of whisky and two glasses; he was virtually a teetotaller, and now poured whisky and soda for Rollison, and plain soda water with a splash for himself.

“Health,” he said.

“To all policemen,” said Rollison, and drank deeply. “I’m glad you didn’t allow me thirty-one minutes. Thanks.”

“Get anything out of Wallis?”

“The questions were the other way about,” Rollison said. “Let me come clean, Bill. Wallis to imply that Ada Jepson was somehow involved. I don’t know whether it was all a big bluff, even to the threat to kill me, whether it was staged to plant the suspicion about Ada, or whether it was genuine. Have you anything new about the Jepsons?”

Grice was watching him levelly, and didn’t reply at once; when he did, he shuffled some documents off his desk, as if to refresh his memory, and then said abruptly:

“I’ve some negative news. Reginald Jepson did not go to Ibiza. I’ve checked with the Spanish consulate, and he didn’t get a visa. But he could have gone to any country in Europe where there’s no visa required. Any reason to think his sister lied about him?”

“No reason, just a hunch. Why should she have lied?”

“I don’t know,” Grice said. “I do know that I’ve got a call out for Reggie Jepson.”

“I’d like to know more about Reggie, too,” murmured Rollison. “What charge have you got against Wallis?”

“None, unless you lay one,” Grice was emphatic. “His statement says that he went to see Jackson, an old acquaintance, and was there when you came. He says that he opened the door for Jackson, and that you immediately threatened him with a gun—the gun which the Divisional people found on the floor of the cellar. He says that he knocked the gun out of your hand, then put you down in the cellar to cool off. He was trying to find out why you’d pulled the gun when we arrived. As a story it’s hard to break. Wallis has a genius for the alibi or the phoney defence. I don’t think it would be wise to charge him, because I can’t see the magistrate giving even an eight-day remand in custody.”

Rollison felt edgy, but said briskly enough: “No charge, then. Can you hold him overnight?”

“Yes.”

“It’ll give us a little time to work in. Did you I know that Jepsons now virtually controlled Bishopps?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know that at least one of the men attacked by Wallis questioned Bishopps’ salesman about goods being sold at special discount?”

Grice said sharply: “No, I didn’t. Who—well, never mind who. You positive?”

“As sure as I can be,” said Rollison. “And add the others together, Bill. One was a carrier who handled these goods, another worked for Bishopps, two bought from the wholesaler. Supposing each knew that he was dealing in stolen goods, and was going to talk when Wallis paid his visit.”

Grice was making notes swiftly.

“It’s a new angle. It could be robbery from Jepsons on a big scale, with Bishopps as the distributors of the goods. Then if a Jepson nominee company bought Bishopps and found out—”

“Bill,” said Rollison, “there’s a curious parallel here. Jepsons, always big and getting bigger, buying up all the opposition they can. And Donny Sampson, a big landowner, once small but getting much bigger and buying up all the opposition he can. Has Donny been charged?”

“Yes,” Grice said. “With being in possession of human hair, knowing it to have been stolen.”

“Think you’ll ever prove that against him?” Rollison asked.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Invitation

“I think we can prove it,” Grice answered. “One or two of his staff say he knew the hair was stolen. But if you ask me if it makes sense, that’s a different matter. Apart from anything else, there’s the obvious objection that Donny wouldn’t deal in his own daughter’s hair.”

“Think he’s being framed?” Rollison asked brusquely.

“It wouldn’t surprise me.”

“And blackmailed into saying nothing?”

“Could be.”

“Either Donny’s a victim or he’s a cleverer crook than we want to think,” Rollison said abruptly. “If he’s a victim, he’s scared of saying so, and Wallis is an expert at scaring people. Ada Jepson won’t tell me what she knows, either. I fancy she’s scared, and she takes a lot of scaring.”

“Think her trouble is Wallis or someone else?” asked Grice. “Or just the fear of being found out?”

“That’s the million dollar question,” said Rollison. He put his hands on the arms of his chair, and sprang up. “Bill, you’re a genius. You’ve given me the glimmering of a new idea. Like to hear it in confidence?”

“Yes.”

“And no reminder that you’re a policeman,” marvelled Rollison, sitting on the corner of the big desk. “Wallis is the key. Wallis takes orders and payment and hands out punishment. You can hold him overnight, and he needn’t be in dock until eleven in the morning. We suspect that Donny Sampson and Ada Jepson are being forced to take what’s coming to them. We think they know who’s behind Wallis, and what it’s all about, but dare not disclose the name. Right?”

“Right.”

“Let’s bring them together,” suggested Rollison softly. “Let’s invite Ada to Wallis’s place, and Donny as well. Let them receive a message supposed to be from Wallis, to go to the house in Dirk Street. If they’re really under his thumb, they’ll go.”

“What good will it do?”

“When they get there, let’s try to force a showdown while Wallis is still in the cooler. Was Mick Clay picked up this afternoon?”

“Yes. He had some jewellery in his pockets which might have been hot, so they held him.”

“So he’s out of the way, as well. If Ada and Donny jump to an order from Wallis, there’ll be one big happy family at Wallis’s house, a kind of welcome-home party. Right?”

“What you really mean is that you want to set them at each other’s throats,” Grice said.

“That’s it.”

“I don’t see that it would do any harm,” Grice conceded. “We’re holding Wallis, we can get a search warrant for his place now.”

“Oh, no, William,” said Rollison, briskly. “The police must keep right out of this. I’ll get inside while it’s dark, rig up a tape recorder, and have it running while the talk goes on. I’ll be there myself to prod them into talking.”

“You’re asking for too much trouble,” Grice objected. “The house will be watched, and everything that happens will be reported to Wallis before he gets home. He’ll know you’re there. If you’ve forced your way in and planted a tape recorder, he would have every excuse to smash you to pulp. We can’t give you authority to break into a man’s house even if we know the man is a dangerous criminal. You’ll have no protection, and Wallis might not wait like he did tonight.”

“You’ve pointed out the one reason why the police can’t be in on this,” argued Rollison earnestly. “That way, Wallis would have plenty of warning. The police mustn’t be within a mile of the place, but we might lay on one or two of Ebbutt’s men in case I need help again, but this time I shouldn’t. This afternoon I walked into it with my eyes shut, tomorrow morning they’ll be very wide open.”

Grice said slowly: “I suppose if you’re set on it, I can’t stop you. But now we’ve got the Bishopps and Jepsons angle—”

“Donny and Ada won’t talk,” Rollison reminded him. “One of them must be made to. They will certainly talk to Wallis. All I’m saying is that we’ve got to get them talking, and make a record.”

“You’re sticking your neck right out,” Grice said, and added craftily. “Think that’s what Jolly would like?”

“You might not believe it but I’m thinking more about Tom Rickett,” Rollison said with steely quiet. “Tom and his wife and the dozens of others who might suffer. Donny Sampson’s daughters. Ada Jepson, too.”

“All right,” said Grice in a clipped voice. “Anything else you plan to do?”

“I think I’ll take an hour or two off,” said Rollison. “Will you lay on the tape recorder? Make it one I can fix easily, I’m no mechanic.”

“You’d better get Ebbutt onto that, he’s got a good radio man.”

So Grice knew more than he often pretended.

“I will,” said Rollison. “May I see Wallis when you charge him?”

* * *

Wallis flatly denied the charge of uttering threats and menaces, and there was cold hatred in the way he looked at Rollison. When they were outside the cell, Grice said with absolute conviction:

“If he ever gets at you again, he’ll kill you.”

* * *

Rollison reached Gresham Terrace a little after eight-thirty. Two of Ebbutt’s men were there, both professional boxers. Ebbutt had supplied them with beer and sandwiches and they were playing with great intentness. Rollison telephoned Ebbutt, laid on the tape recorder, and asked in a voice which the two men couldn’t hear:

“Think you could find me one or two little bits of hot jewellery, Bill? Something I could plant so that a chap we know would have a job to explain them away?”

“I’ll ‘ave a damn’ good try!”

“Thanks,” said Rollison. Now I’m going to send your two chaps home, I don’t need a night shift.”

“Please yourself,” Ebbutt said.

The pair went off as soon as their game was over, each richer by five pounds.

Rollison raided the larder, found ham on the bone, bread and cheese, felt the need for a good hot meal, and told himself that he could worry about that when this was over. He telephoned the hospital again; there was no change in Jolly’s condition, which meant that he had a better chance than ever.

At half past nine, Rollison left the flat again. A Yard man was on duty outside, but no one else was in sight. No one followed him. He did not go by car, but first on foot, then on a bus, finally in a taxi to Middleton Road, near Sloane Square. He made quite sure that no one was watching him, then went briskly along the ill-lit street towards Number 24. There was a light on in the fanlight. He pressed the bell, then looked about him, surprised that Mrs. Blake opened the door; the light behind her in the kitchen seemed wispy. A Yard man came hurrying down the stairs, saying: