John Creasey - Stars For The Toff

Rollison slammed the door of the car and walked what seemed an unending gauntlet of sad and familiar faces. He had asked for help and it had been given cheerfully; and now one of their friends was dead.

The sun shone out of a clear blue sky. It shone on the open door of the gymnasium, and then on Bill Ebbutt, as he appeared, wearing a black polo-neck sweater and black trousers—as if he were in mourning. The clothes showed up the pallor of his face.

His big hand engulfed Rollison’s.

“Bill,” Rollison said, “I couldn’t be more sorry.”

“I know, Mr Ar,” said Ebbutt, hoarsely. “Helluva thing to happen. Any idea who did it?”

“Not yet.”

“Every mother’s son of us will help.”

“I know,” said Rollison. “As soon as I need help, I’ll tell you. Does Mrs Wray know?”

“Yeh.” Ebbutt gulped. “I told her.”

“Is she at home?”

“Yeh.”

“Come with me, Bill, will you?”

The little home in a narrow street of old grey hovels soon to be demolished was within walking distance. A dozen silent men followed Rollison and Ebbutt round half a dozen corners and then to a front door painted bright yellow—painted, quite recently, by Charlie Wray. Two or three neighbours were in the tiny front parlour which opened on to the street; they stood aside for Rollison and Ebbutt to enter.

Wray’s widow was small and slim, with hair which was still jet black despite her sixty-odd years. She stared at Rollison, her eyes red and swollen, her face streaked with tears.

“Get out of my house,” she said. “Don’t ever come here again.”

“Daisy—” Rollison began.

“Don’t speak to me. Don ’ t speak to me. If it wasn’t for you, he’d be alive. You killed him.”

“Now, Dais—” began Bill Ebbutt, in distress.

The woman ignored him, her eyes boring into Rollison with frightening intensity. “Get out of my house. Get out of my house , Mr Rollison. And remember—don’t ever come back.”

“ You may be b adly hurt, Mr Rollison, many of your friends may turn against you

“Daisy,” Rollison said, very quietly, “if I were in your place I would feel exactly as you do. I’m desperately sorry.”

He turned and walked into a street which was now crowded. Many of the faces he saw were those of strangers, although there were some he knew, mostly from Bill Ebbutt’s gymnasium. A little grey-haired woman, struggling to see over the shoulders of those in front of her, shook her fist.

“You as good as killed poor Charlie!” she called out. “You sent him to his death!”

Uneasily, a man said: “Shut up, Ma.”

“I’ll shut up when you’ve shut him up.”

Ebbutt glared at her.

Rollison gripped his arm. “It’s all right, Bill.”

But it wasn’t all right. The silence was too noticeable, the coolness much too marked, as he walked away. There was hatred in his heart for Charlie Wray’s killers, and dismay at the attitude of the people here, so many of them his former friends.

* * *

“It’s crazy, Mr Ar,” Ebbutt said, “but the talk started even before you got here. They started to say you should have done the job yourself, not got someone else to do your dirty work. I —hey! I didn’t mean that the way it sounded, I meant . . .”

Bill Ebbutt floundered.

Rollison put a hand on his arm and said: “Don’t worry, Bill.”

He got into the Bentley and drove away, half expecting something to be thrown at the car; but nothing was thrown. The people just stared blankly and the last he saw of them was a miniature of set, troubled faces in the driving mirror. He turned into the Mile End Road and the roar and throb of traffic. Before he reached the tall spire of Whitechapel Church he knew that this was going to be a case that only he should handle.

Or he and Jolly should handle. He must telephone Jolly.

* * *

“The body was found only fifty yards from the house where Mrs Abbott lives,” said Jolly. “Do you think you should go and see her?”

“Yes,” said Rollison crisply. “What about Lucifer Stride?”

“He seems to have vanished,” Jolly said, glumly. He paused for a moment, and then added: “There is one other thing, sir. Have you seen the evening newspaper?”

“No.”

“It has a full report of the hearing, and of your generous gesture, sir. As a result there are a great number of people gathered outside, showing very considerable enthusiasm. You might well be advised to come in by the fire escape.”

“Oh,” said Rollison, taken by surprise. “I’ll think about that. Do I hear the other telephone bell ringing?”

“Incessantly, sir,” said Jolly. “Incessantly.”

When Rollison put the telephone down it was with unexpected lightness of heart. And he seemed to hear a gentle voice saying: “. . . but you will get hel p from unexpected sources. ”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Home Of The Angry Woman

No one was near 12 Tillson Street, the street in which Charlie Wray had died. On the roadway and the pavement close to a cracked and broken lamp-post was a telltale patch of fresh sand and dampness from the water used to hose away the signs of death. It was a short street, shaped like a shallow crescent between two longer ones. The houses were all three storeys high, with steps leading down to gloomy-looking basements; there were bars at the basement and ground-floor windows of Number 12, and black paint on the bars and the rail about the house. In the middle of the basement area was a large bowl of dead and dying tulips; otherwise the place seemed well-kept. It was flanked on either side by FOR SALE boards outside houses much more dilapidated.

Rollison stepped to the front door, and glanced behind him. There was no one in sight—only a small black car parked fifty yards or so along the road.

On the side of the door were four bells, and beneath each bell-push a name. The third one from the bottom had: “ Mrs Abbott ” in faded ink on a dirty white card.

He pressed Mrs Abbott’s bell, and waited. There was no answer. He pressed again with the same result. He did not know why he was surprised, but he was; and uneasiness merged into his surprise. He inspected the lock; it was easy to force, and he did not lose a moment. The blade of a special knife, a few dexterous twists—and the latch clicked back. Rollison pushed the door open and stepped inside.

At once he detected a strong smell of burning.

Burning?

He saw stairs disappearing downwards into a well of darkness; more stairs leading up, the walls drab with faded paper. It was from these that the smell of burning seemed to be coming. He hurried upwards, passed a doorway marked 2, and reached the next landing. Beneath the 3 on the door now facing him was the name Mrs Abbott. This door had an old-fashioned type lock, no more difficult to force than that on the main entrance. The smell of fire was much stronger now, and Rollison worked quickly. Suddenly the lock clicked back, and he flung the door open.

Smoke filled a room almost straight ahead, along a narrow passage. It was red-tinged. Rollison coughed as he plunged inside; he could see flames through the swirling grey, but little else. In one corner of the room he could just make out a wash-basin and a large old-fashioned jug. Coughing and choking, he fumbled for a tap, filled the jug, and splashed water over the fire. It seemed an age before the flames went out. He refilled the bowl and splashed in greater volume, this time until there was only smoke and steam and blackened debris.

The window was closed and smoke still whirled and twisted, as if anxious to get out. Rollison pushed open the window and turned back.

Gradually the smoke cleared; and as it cleared, his smarting eyes made out the hazy shapes of furniture: a chair, a cupboard, then a bed. And lying across the bed, feet dangling to the floor, a woman’s body.

Rollison’s heart lurched; then he steeled himself to go forward. It was a shock, even though he had been half prepared for some such thing. The woman did not move. Rollison reached her, saw the slackness of her eyes and mouth and knew that she was dead. He leaned forward and looked down on the now flabby face of Mrs Abbott.

Two had died . . .

The smoke had almost gone, and glancing into a corner he saw a bureau, flap down, drawers wide open. He went over to it. Someone had rifled it, papers were strewn about and two drawers had been turned upside down on the floor. But there was nothing to show what the thief—if thief it had been—had been seeking.

Rollison turned back and studied the position of the dead woman.

If she had come in, crept in, and approached a thief from behind, and the thief had heard, he could have spun round, seized her, and easily have thrown her into the position in which she now lay. One shoe had fallen between the bureau and the white bedspread, the other dangled from her foot. Seeing these, Rollison felt sure that this was what had happened.

There were dark marks on Mrs Abbott’s throat, showing where thumbs and fingers had pressed—marks which told how deeply they must have embedded themselves in the thick flesh. No one could kill like this by accident. In fury, perhaps, but chiefly in cold-blooded determination. And the killer must have had powerful hands.

Turning away from the body, Rollison studied a photograph of an elderly man— almost certainly Mrs Abbott’s husband, he thought. Then he made a careful search through the rest of the flat. But he found nothing of interest. And there was no ammonia, nothing to suggest that it was Mrs Abbott who had made the missile she had thrown at him.

Such missiles couldn’t be bought; she must either have made it herself or had it made for her, and Rollison’s suspicions that someone had put her up to the attack strengthened. He lingered for a few moments, wondering whether he had overlooked anything, decided not to stay, and went to the front door. There was no telephone, but he could ring the Divisional police from the nearest booth.

He opened the door—and saw two heavily built men standing outside.

* * *

Rollison stood stock still in surprise.

The two men blocked his way to the stairs; obviously they intended to do this. He felt quite sure who they were, and almost at once, one of them said:

“Mr Rollison?”

“Yes. I was about to telephone Division,” Rollison said.

“Were you, sir?” Scepticism showed in the man’s voice. “You don’t live here, sir, do you?”

“No. You know very well that I don’t.”

“Just making sure, sir. Excuse me.” He pushed by, and as he did so two more men appeared at the foot of the stairs. There would have been no point in trying to get away, but even had he wished to make the attempt, these additional men made any chance of escape almost impossible. Rollison still hadn’t fully recovered from his surprise at their unexpected arrival on the scene; now he tried to regain control of the situation.

“Officer.”

The man who had pushed past him paused. “Yes?”

“A woman has been killed in this house.”

“Indeed, sir. Is that why you were about to call us?”

“Yes.”

“What are you doing here?” The second man spoke, the taller and more massive of the two; he reminded Rollison of Bill Ebbutt fifteen years or so ago.

“I came to talk to the woman—to Mrs Abbott.”

“I see, sir.”

The first man was walking down the passage. The acrid fumes of smoke were still strong, and Rollison saw him pause and rub his eyes. He turned.