The Toff on Fire (10 page)

“Nice welcome home for you, Jolly.”

“That is hardly a matter of concern, sir.”

“No. Ebbutt gone?”

“Yes, sir, and obviously he was acutely distressed. There appears to be no doubt at all that this man who is known as the—ah—the
Doc
has succeeded in dominating Ebbutt and many others, usually by threatening members of their family. As appears to be the case in this instance, sir. The most disquieting thing is that I do not think we will be able to call upon Ebbutt for any information or any active assistance of any kind. In fact, I think it at least conceivable that Ebbutt will ask
you
not to continue with the campaign, in case the—ah—Doc stages a kind of reprisal war among those known to be or to have been sympathetic towards you. Ebbutt didn't exactly put it in that phrase ology—”

“He wouldn't,” said the Toff, and smiled wryly. “Anyhow,
you
don't change. Make that a rule, Jolly. Is the wardrobe in your room still locked?”

“Firmly, sir.”

“That's something, although it probably isn't much,” said Rollison. “Well, we won't be long.” The car turned out of Piccadilly and the second on the left would be Gresham Terrace. “I think you'd better nip back and get the car, Jolly; you can take this cab.”

“I doubt if that will serve any purpose, sir,” Jolly objected reasonably. “The car was parked with several others near the hotel, and I think it was badly damaged. I'll check if you wish, sir, but—”

They turned the corner.

Rollison didn't answer, and Jolly saw his expression change into one that was near bewilderment. A black Rolls-Bentley was parked outside 22 Gresham Terrace, and Sir John Wylie and his wife were coming away from the house; obviously they had given up hope of finding anyone in.

The Wylies stood and waited as the taxi drew up; and Rollison saw the despair on Jane Wylie's strong, handsome face.

 

 

“You make yourself invisible and hurry upstairs,” Rollison said to Jolly. “Let's try to make things seem as normal as we can.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Right,” said Rollison, and pressed his hand against his forehead. The tension at the Lancing Hotel, the choking smoke, and the shock of seeing Maggie Jeffson die, had done little to clear his mind. He saw Jolly look at him with evident concern, but took no notice. The cab drew up outside the house, and Jane Wylie exclaimed:

“There he is!”

“And here I am,” said Rollison, forcing his black mood away. He opened the door while the cab was still moving, and jumped out. “Hallo,” he greeted. “Just in time.”

They looked as if they were shaken by the sight of him.

He didn't know that his hair had been singed, that his face was blackened with smuts, that his coat was torn and that his eyes held what seemed to be a kind of feverish brightness. At least, their surprise gave him a momentary ascendancy. He took Jane Wylie's hand and dug a smile out of the depth of his resilience, and said:

“We've got the baby back, unhurt.”

Wylie cried: “You have?” and looked delighted beyond words. “Jane—Jane, my dear, it's all right, the child's
safe.”
In his eager reassurance, he was as nearly emotional as Rollison would ever expect him to be. He took his wife's arm and held her tightly, while she looked into Rollison's face, her eyes clearing of some of their distress.

“Is that—is that really true?”

“The police are in charge of him now.”

“Yes. If you'd gone to the police in the first place—”

Wylie broke off.

“I know,” said Rollison, quietly. “Believe it or not, I did go. Two Yard men were outside your house at the time of the kidnapping. I don't know exactly what happened then, but at least all's well again now.”

“Thank goodness for that,” Wylie said, and then began to mumble and speak in odd phrases again. “Foolish, of course—Jane blamed herself. Bridge party, y'know, and—”

“I don't think I'll ever want to play bridge again,” said Jane Wylie. “When I heard—”

“You probably wouldn't have been able to stop it,” Rollison said, “don't start blaming yourself, enough people are doing that already. I heard something about a maid being attacked. Was she badly hurt?”

“Frightened, mostly,” Wylie said, and coughed. “Naturally.”

“Is there anything else we can do?” Jane asked, and she freed herself from Wylie's grasp and put a hand on Rollison's. “You look dreadful, you ought to go and get some rest. But what on earth happened?” There was intentness as well as bewilderment in her expression. “Why should anyone want—whose
is
this baby?”

“He's the child of a couple named Rickett, who seemed to think he was safer with me than with them,” Rollison said quietly. “They're running away from trouble in the East End.”

“So it isn't—” Jane Wylie began, and stopped abruptly.

“Tell me, Rollison.” Wylie cut across his wife's words, and so stopped the ‘yours' which had so nearly come. He looked mildly embarrassed, and coughed again. “Anything we can do to help? No? Well, be advised—Jane's quite right. You must rest. Sure there's nothing we can do?”

“There might be, later.”

“Call on me,” said Wylie, and then corrected himself as he took his wife's arm. “Us. Goodbye for now.”

Rollison stood and watched them go.

Jolly had paid off the taxi, and was waiting in the flat. Rollison found his feet dragging a little as he went upstairs. The door was ajar. He closed it as he stepped inside, and looked round; nothing had changed in the lounge hall, but there was a significant change in the study. The nails had been taken out of the wall, the odd pieces of case fittings were gone, and the wall was clear and clean. Jolly was in the kitchen, and cutlery was clattering.

Rollison went after him.

Jolly spoke without turning round, for he was at the oven, wearing an apron, and looking so endearingly normal that it was hard to believe that they were in the midst of disaster.

“If you will allow me to make a suggestion, sir, I think you should have a shower and a shave. By that time lunch will be ready. After that, I think you will be well advised to take three aspirins, and go to bed for an hour or so. I am not yet fully cognisant of the situation, but I am quite sure that unless you get some rest you will not be at your best, and it might be disastrous if you were not competent to cope.”

Rollison fingered his grimy stubble.

“Haven't I shaved?”

“Not recently, sir.”

Rollison laughed. “I'm much more myself already. All right, I'll do as I'm told. Better hover about while I eat, I can brief you then.” He went into the bathroom, caught sight of himself, and whistled. He had a hot shower, followed with a cold one, shaved and got into pyjamas which Jolly had laid out on the bed. He slipped into a dressing-gown of lustrous red silk, and went into the big room, where the dining-table in a small alcove near a window was already laid. There stood a Martini, with the shaker beside it for another if he wanted it. He sipped and smoked.

Jolly came in carrying a tray; and revealed his miracles with lamb chops, sauté potatoes and green peas. Rollison realised that he had not eaten since the previous night, and it was now nearly half-past five.

After the first onslaught, he talked, bringing Jolly up to date with everything. And: “Then you'd better telephone Miss Gale, and tell her that she won't be hearing from me tonight, after all. Then talk to Grice. I bit his head off and he bit mine, so we're level. He may be co-operative, or he may now put up the shutters. If he's co-operative, I'd like a list of people whom he knows or thinks are on the Doc's payroll. He'll say officially that he hasn't such a list, but reading between the lines I fancy that he's been holding off attacking the small fry, in the hope of catching the Doc. Ask him not to pull anyone in yet if it's possible to avoid it. And if he insists on being difficult,” went on Rollison, pulling towards him a bowl of fresh fruit salad and a jug of cream, “reason with him. Use your powers of persuasion. Tell him—”

“I will make the necessary representations to Mr. Grice,” said Jolly calmly. “I will tell him that you have a plan.”

Rollison chuckled.

“Will you retire now, sir?” asked Jolly.

“Retire?” echoed the Toff. “At my age? Why—”

“I mean, go to bed, sir.”

“Certainly not,” said Rollison, “I'm going to see Ebbutt and find out what's on in his part of the world.”

“You would be much wiser, sir, if—”

“Tonight I'm not wise, there's a job to do first,” said Rollison. “There's one here, too.” He led the way into Jolly's room and unlocked the wardrobe – and there was Galloway, in a kind of stupor.

Rollison spent ten minutes questioning him, without results. Then, his hands and feet still bound, the prisoner was carried into the spare room, and Rollison said to Jolly: “When you talk to Grice, tell him about Galloway and the egg on top of the wardrobe. Tell him the egg is likely to cause another fire if he isn't very careful, too.”

“I will, sir,” Jolly said. “But are you sure you should go out again now?”

“Positive,” said Rollison. “It's now or never.”

He went to the East End, but did not find Ebbutt, who was not at his public house, the Blue Dog, or in the gymnasium behind it – at once his pride and joy. He was said to be out with his wife, but it seemed at least possible that he was avoiding the Toff.

That hurt.

So did the aloofness of Ebbutt's boxing cronies, and others whom Rollison did meet. He sensed that no one really wanted him here, that the Doc had spread his
canard
with telling effect. One thing became apparent; he would have to come back, later in the night, and try again; at least he had learned something of what he was up against.

He drove past Ebbutt's place again on his way home, not knowing that he was within a stone's throw of Dan Rickett.

Rickett was in a small cellar, chained to a wall. He had room to move, and there was a little light, as well as a bundle of straw to sit on. Most of the time he lay flat, staring at the wall, or at his chain; but as Rollison passed, Rickett heard a man approaching.

The door of the cellar opened, and a man whom Rickett had seen several times came in. Rickett did not even glance at him.

“One of these days the Doc will put you where you belong,” the new-comer said roughly.

Rickett still ignored him.

“And one of these days your wife will learn about a lot of things she won't like.”

Rickett didn't stir.

“Fat lot you think of her,” his tormentor sneered, “or you wouldn't let the Doc—”

Rickett turned at last.

“You can't frighten me that way,” he said. “If you or the Doc hurt Evie, you wouldn't have a chance in a million of finding out where the stuff is. Remind the Doc about that.”

The man swore at him, and then went out.

Rickett gritted his teeth as he stared at his chain. For the moment, it was stalemate, and the Doc wasn't likely to hurt Evie or the baby while he thought he could find those jewels, but sooner or later the stalemate would break.

Rollison was back at Gresham Terrace by eight o'clock. A whisky and soda did little to cheer him up, and Jolly's report depressed him further. Grice had been here, taken Galloway, and gone off in a surly, even hostile mood.

“Well, we'll survive,” Rollison said. “What did Miss Gale say?”

“She was out when I called her, sir, and rang through herself a little later, and appeared to be most disappointed that you were out, but I assured her you would get in touch with her at the first opportunity.”

“Hmm. That all?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right. I'll have an hour or two's sleep, and then I'm going to see Ebbutt, even if it means dragging him out of bed. I'll do the East End character act, that should fool any friends of the Doc who are interested in our Willum. You get the East End act clothes out—then, unless you're too tired, I've another job for you.”

“I slept most of the way on the journey, sir.”

“That I don't believe, but I'll let it pass. How many decorated visiting cards have we in stock?”

“A dozen or so, I should think.”

“We need more. Embellish a few while I'm lazing in bed, will you?”

“Yes, sir,” said Jolly.

Rollison slid down in the bed, and soon relaxed; he had trained himself to sleep almost at will, and now he was very tired. He had two hours for sleep at the most.

Exactly two hours later, he woke.

His ‘East End clothes' were on a chair – a suit old, patched, worn, dirty and dusty. Grease spots decorated the trousers and the lapels. There was a faint but unmistakable odour in it, mingling beer and petrol. Rollison put this on, as if he had never been fastidious, and then put on a pair of old shoes, slightly down at heel, and also patched, and he finished with a muffler which he did up round his neck, choker fashion. He slapped an old cloth cap on the back of his head, studied himself in the mirror, and then pulled it forward.

Satisfied, he took his own automatic, the knife and a small transparent plastic box from the bottom of the wardrobe. This contained little pellets of ammonia gas, fired from a small air pistol. He tucked the pistol away, too, and then went into the study, where Jolly was sitting at the big desk, wielding a pencil almost casually.

Rollison picked up one of the visiting cards that he was ‘embellishing'. On one side was the simple legend:

 

The Hon. Richard Rollison,

22G, Gresham Terrace,

London, W.1.

 

On the other, in pencil, was a sketch of a faceless man – a top hat, a monocle, a dot for one eye, a cigarette jutting from a holder, and beneath all this a neat bow tie. The drawing was boldly and clearly done.

“I've finished thirty, sir, and there were seven in the drawer,” said Jolly.

“I'll take twenty-five, we'll keep the others in reserve,” said Rollison. “If I shouldn't come back, let Grice know that I started out to pin Bill Ebbutt down, will you?”

“If you seriously think that there is a risk that you will not return, don't you think—” began Jolly sombrely.

“No, I don't,” said Rollison. “I think that I have to handle the Doc as I would anyone else. If I get nervous, he'll find out. If I ask for police protection, he'll hear about it, and my East End stock would be far below zero.” He paused, and then went on very softly: “We need to revive our friends' faith, Jolly. We have to be bold and daring, we have—”

“Forgive me, sir,” interrupted Jolly, “but you may have overlooked one change in the conditions.”

“What change?”

“The passing of years, sir,” Jolly murmured.

Rollison's grin broadened, and his eyes kindled.

“Before your very eyes you're seeing the modern Peter Pan,” he declared, and rested a hand lightly on Jolly's shoulder. “Of course you're right. So am I. Either I get out of the East End and leave the Doc to the police, or I run true to form. I prefer to run true to form, As I was saying, if I don't come back—or if you haven't heard from me by nine o'clock in the morning, tell Grice.”

“Nine,
sir?” Jolly pleaded silently for eight.

“Eight-thirty,” conceded Rollison, and grinned, squeezed Jolly's shoulder, and then turned and left the flat.