The Toff on Fire (12 page)

“Told him to go and fry his flipping face,” Ebbutt said, and startled Liz into jumping wildly. Her husband came in carrying a tray with four bottles of beer and two glasses; and a bottle of milk and cup and saucer. Liz faded out of the conversation and Ebbutt took over, while he poured the beer, drank to Rollison's health, and then tipped the milk into a small saucepan and lit the gas at a ring in the fireplace.

“Next day, I was set on.
I
was, Mr. Ar! Caw, they didn't arf smash me up; 'orspitable case I was. The damage was done while I was in the 'orspital, reelly, they got at the boys, scared the lights out of 'em, and scared the lights out of Liz, too. But I wouldn't 'ave given in, Mr. Ar, but for little Lucy—you know, our Maisie's kid. You was at the christening, you remember 'er, she—”

“Three years old with fair curls and a smile like Marilyn Monroe's,” Rollison said.

Liz snorted.

“That's her,” agreed Ebbutt, and added simply: “She was picked up orf the street this arternoon when I come to see you, Mr. Ar. Neely went mad, Maisie did, and me and Liz—well, what could we do? I 'ad a message that I wasn't to see you no more, or the kid would be a proper mess. I just couldn't take the chance, Mr. Ar, that's the sober truth, I couldn't take it.”

“You'd have been wrong to take it,” Rollison said quietly.

Ebbutt looked eager.

“You really mean that?”

“Of course I do, Bill. You're to keep out of this—on the surface, anyhow. You don't mind doing a bit of guerrilla work, do you?”

“Anyfink,
Mr. Ar, anyfink at all!”

Ebbutt meant exactly what he said, and his wife supported him; but in fact there was nothing that he must do, after tonight. Rollison was sure of that. If the Doc found out that Ebbutt was helping the Toff, he would act swiftly and viciously, and there would be terrible anguish in this family and greater fear among others. Bill Ebbutt was ‘out'. And because of that, Rollison understood more clearly the kind of stranglehold that the Doc had. It was easy to see the pattern; the Doc attacking men who refused, on principle, to go to the police for help, until he had such a hold that they dare not go to the police.

“When did this begin?” Rollison asked.

“Few weeks ago, when the newspapers said you was coming 'ome,” Ebbutt told him. “Said you'd leave Noo York in the
Queen
'
Liz,
didn't it? Day after, I discovered them two middleweights were the Doc's spies. I put two and two together, Mr. Ar, and guessed the Doc didn't want you to upset ‘is arrangements, so to speak. I tried to get in touch with Mr. Jolly, but 'e was out—and after that, when you got back, I just didn't 'ave the 'eart to try to do anyfink.”

“You had the good sense not to, Bill. But listen.” Rollison drank more beer and leaned back in his chair, while Liz Ebbutt studied him with her beady eyes, and nodded with approval from time to time. “Do you know Dan Rickett?”

Ebbutt was puzzled.

“Well, yus, I know 'im. 'E's not a buddy, but 'e's often come in for a pint.”

“Did you know that the Doc snatched his baby?”

Ebbutt didn't speak, but he turned pale. His wife drew in a sharp breath. They hadn't known, but they knew exactly what it meant. Everything they did, almost every word they said, made the ascendancy of the Doc's position more clear.

“Wot 'appened then?” asked Ebbutt, painfully.

“Rickett left the baby at my place,” Rollison said.

“Then—” it didn't take long to outline the story, and the touching thing was Mrs. Ebbutt's expression when she heard that the child was safe. Rollison stopped talking only long enough to finish his tankard, and to have it refilled, and to light a cigarette. Then he went on: “Any idea why the Doc would try to put pressure on Rickett?”

Ebbutt nodded his great head. “Yus.”

“Why?”

“Flyest boy there is in the East End, in the country if it comes to that,” said Ebbutt. “He can open anything with a lock, just seems to wave his hands and say
abracadabra,
and the can falls apart. Don't even need a tin-opener! 'Ad a kid brother neely as good, but the kid 'ad trouble with the Doc. He got killed—they
said
it was an accident. All I know is that Rickett said he wouldn't sell to the Doc if he was starving, and he meant it; he hates the Doc. Don't arst me where 'e sold 'is stuff, it wasn't frew any of the reg'lars as far as I know. I got the whisper, you know 'ow it is, everyone talks to everyone dahnstairs over a glass o' beer. There's anuwer whisper, too—did you 'ear abaht the big jewel job in New Bond Street, couple munce ago?”

“No.”

“Thief lifted a 'undred thahsand nickers' worth,” Ebbutt said flatly. “The Yard didn't 'ave a smell, but I 'eard it was Dan Rickett. Now if the Doc noo it was Rickett and wanted Rickett to sell the stuff to 'im—”

“That's about the size of it,” Liz said, quietly, “you don't have to look any further.”

Ebbutt said: “What a ruddy swine, I—”

“You may be drinking beer in my bedroom but I'll thank you to mind your language,” Liz said tartly.

“Sure, okay, Liz.”

“Bill,” said Rollison quietly, “I want you to do just one thing. Pass on to me as much gossip about the Doc as you can, and give me a list of all his known contact men. I know there's no direct line to him, but—”

“I can name twenty or more contacts,” Ebbutt said.

“Will you make out a list of them? Now?”

“Glad to,” said Ebbutt, “won't take two shakes of a lamb's tail, either.” He got up from a chair which was much too small for him, and then added almost absently: “You wouldn't like to tell me why you want it, would you?”

“No.”

“Quite right, too,” said Liz, “the less you know the less you've got to worry about.”

“You wouldn't like to tell me something, Bill, would you?” asked Rollison.

“Try me.”

Rollison said, very quietly: “I will. Who
is
the Doc, Bill? Do you know?”

There was a long pause, and a quietness in the room, before Ebbutt said very softly: “No, I don't know 'oo it is, Mr. Ar, but I've got ideas. Lot of uwer people 'ave, too, but you won't get them to talk. Remember, I'm only guessing, but—well, there's a young doctor, come to practise in Mile End a year ago. The Doc wasn't 'eard of until three or four munce after that. It might be just a coincidence, but—well, I'd take a look at Dr. Jonathan Marling, if I was you. Nice chap to look at, but—well, it's a chance, anyway.”

“Thanks, Bill,” said Rollison. “Now, write that list out for me, will you?”

“Sure,” Ebbutt said, “but arf a mo', take a dekko at a picture of Dr. Marling—in the
Gazette
the other night, he was, in the Local Personalities Column. You know.”

The
Gazette
was a local newspaper, chatty and discursive and popular. A copy was folded up and tucked in a magazine stand near the bed, and Ebbutt took it out, unfolded it, and pointed to a man's photograph.

“That's 'im,” he said. “Looks okay, but 'oo can tell?”

The Toff certainly couldn't tell.

But he felt his heart begin to pound, for this was the man whose photograph had been in poor, dead Maggie's room, and in Esmeralda's handbag.

Soon, he would see Dr. Marling.

 

 

It was half-past two when Rollison left the Blue Dog, by the same way as he had entered. It was cold, and he shivered in a blustery gust of wind. He went straight to the Mile End Road, and then turned the corner and walked past the gymnasium; he saw the watcher still there, and the light of a street lamp showed him to be in a little porch, where he was sheltered from the wind and where he could sit down. Rollison hunched his shoulders and walked past him.

Half-way along this street was the home of the first man on Ebbutt's list.

Rollison did a simple thing.

He went to the front door, and slipped one of his visiting cards through the letter box, flicking it so that it went a long way into the hall. He let the letter box fall with hardly a sound, and then walked on, whistling under his breath. He went along to the next address, ten minutes' walk away, and as Ebbutt had warned him, found this a builder's home and yard; and in the yard was a bicycle. He borrowed the bicycle, after putting a card into this house, too.

Ebbutt had listed men who lived within a mile or two of the Blue Dog. On a bicycle, Rollison was able to cover them all, and he knew the district as well as he knew the West End of London. He passed one or two night birds, and two policemen, talking at a corner. They didn't ask him what he was doing out so late.

The task took him just over an hour.

The last call was near the Mile End Road, half a mile away from the Blue Dog, and was a hundred yards away from that rarity in the East End, a detached house. This house was on the corner of the main road and a narrower one, and had been built on a spot where four small, terraced houses had been demolished by bombing. In their wisdom the local planning authorities had declared that this was a good position for a doctor to live, and they were truly wise. Rollison knew that an elderly doctor, named Grayson, had lived for years in cramped quarters and with nothing like enough facilities to look after his patients properly. The old doctor's new house had been fully equipped, and two years afterwards, he had taken on a partner – this Dr. Marling.

Dr. Grayson was now dead.

His partner was still there, however, a man of about thirty or thirty-five. Ebbutt had said little but while the list was being prepared Liz Ebbutt had said a lot about Dr. Jonathan Marling. Rollison felt that he almost knew the man, who had certainly known Maggie Jeffson.

Most of what Liz had said was in Dr. Marling's favour.

Rollison pushed open the letter box of the last house on his list, flicked his card in, grinned, stretched himself, and yawned. Then he lifted the bicycle over the wall at the back of the house, and slipped a card between the two halves of the bell. That done, he walked along the Mile End Road.

A red light shone outside the doctor's house.

Rollison reached it.

No lights showed at the windows. A front window was open a few inches at the top, which suggested that Dr. Marling did not fear burglars. There was a low brick wall, a lawn in front and, probably, a vegetable garden at the back of the house.

Rollison vaulted over the wall.

Two cars raced each other along the Mile End Road, going much too fast, headlights swaying up and down. It sounded almost as if it was a police chase. Headlights shone on the house, on the smaller ones nearby, on to the plate glass window of a shop. When the light faded and the engines died away, Rollison was on his own again.

He pulled on some old kid gloves, then examined the back door, very carefully. It looked simple to open, but that would depend on whether the bolts were shot or not. Rollison couldn't tell without forcing the lock. He turned away and examined the window, using the hooded torch. The stillness of the night lent stealth to his movements. The latch did not seem to be fastened, and he put the blade of his knife beneath the bottom window, and pushed; the window went up far enough for him to get a grip.

The window squeaked as it went up.

Rollison waited, listening, heard nothing, and climbed into the kitchen.

The Ebbutts had told him that a middle-aged man and woman looked after Dr. Marling, who was a bachelor; a bachelor doctor on his own was likely to arouse comment in the East End. Only the three slept in the house, as far as the Ebbutts knew.

Now that Rollison was inside, the risk he took was very much greater. If Marling was an honest man and the rumours against him had no foundation, the fact that the Toff was the Toff, a highly respected citizen, would make little difference in the eyes of the law; unless it made the crime seem worse.

All Grice's influence could do nothing to help him if he were caught.

He went out of the kitchen, walking quietly and slowly. Soon, he had the plan of the ground floor in his mind. The consulting room was at the front on one side, the waiting room across the hall – it was also the dining-room, judging from the furniture. Leading from the consulting room was a little store room and dispensary, where the drugs were kept, some surgical instruments, everything that a doctor and nurse were likely to need.

Beyond this was a small room, which was book-lined from floor to ceiling; a study.

Rollison drew the curtains, after checking that they were not likely to show much light through, closed the door, and then switched on the light of this room. The books seemed to spring at him from the walls. The armchairs were large and comfortable. A bottle of whisky, a siphon and a jar of tobacco were on a small table, next to a copy of the
Times
and one of the popular dailies. Nothing could have seemed more normal.

The books were in great variety. Medical text books filled one wall, classics most of another, translations from the French, German and Italian as well as Spanish, filled two shelves. Marling had a catholic taste in reading. There was a small pedestal desk in one corner, and Rollison sat at this. He hesitated, then stood up and went to the door, listening but hearing no sound.

He put out the light, and opened the door an inch.

No; there was nothing.

He closed the door again, and then went back to the desk. On it was a photograph of a pleasant-faced elderly woman. Marling's mother?

And there was a framed photograph of Esmeralda Gale.

Rollison did not spend much time looking at Esmeralda, but it was difficult to get her out of his mind. There were a lot of questions he wanted to ask Esmeralda—

Later.

The drawer of the desk was locked, but a skeleton key had it open in a few seconds. Rollison opened the other drawers, once this control was free. There was little here. A few letters, some from abroad; pens, pencils, all the oddments a man might have in his desk. There was a folder of bank statements, showing that at the end of June, Marling had had a fairly comfortable bank balance of a little over four hundred pounds. There were some receipts for stock and share certificates, all the investments rather conservative; judging from these, the man was worth about fifteen thousand pounds.

In the bottom drawer were some more photographs; the elderly woman again, this time with an elderly man; two men, youngish and cheerful when the picture was taken; on the back were the words: “George and me, Buxton Conference.” There was a family portrait, and several other pictures, mostly of young women – all heads or head and shoulders, all pleasant – all unknown to the Toff.

Except one.

Here was a picture of Margaret Jeffson, otherwise Maggie.

Esmeralda and Maggie, both friends of Marling.

Nothing on the photograph told Rollison why it was here; there was no name, no date, no photographer's stamp. He studied it closely, then looked through and found two others of the same woman. He put one in his pocket, then closed the drawer.

There was nothing else here, no records of names and addresses of the men whom Ebbutt had pinpointed, for instance, nothing to suggest that Marling was leader of the organization which had a stranglehold on part of the East End. There might be something upstairs – or there might be something in the green steel filing cabinet in the office next to the surgery.

Rollison tip-toed to the door again, switched off this light, and opened the door. There was still no sound, and the only light came faintly through a frosted panel of the door; there was a street lamp just outside.

He turned into the office. The window here had a blind, which was down; and he knew that the window faced the garage, so there was less chance of it being noticed. He closed this door, which was facing the foot of the stairs, and opened the cabinet.

The drawer squeaked.

He checked, quickly, and found that the drawer was filled with files dealing with patients; and that it also contained a part of the file of Medical Cards belonging to those patients registered with Dr. Marling under the National Health scheme. The other sections were in the drawer below. Rollison scanned them, picked up the filing system quickly, and then began to check the names on Ebbutt's list. After five minutes, he began to feel a real excitement, for the first seven names of people to whom he had delivered his
billets doux
that night were registered here.

He checked the rest.

His excitement mounted as each one appeared, and by the time he had finished, he found that the twenty-seven people whom Ebbutt knew worked with the Doc were registered with Dr. Marling.

Coincidence?

“Not likely,” Rollison murmured, and sat back for a moment, to savour what he had discovered; and to think about it. The one thing he had learned was to take nothing for granted. This might point a finger at Marling, but—

He closed the drawers, one after the other, after making sure that there was nothing else to interest him. He hadn't done too badly, and it might help to find out what kind of reaction there was to the distribution of the cards.

He could come and see Marling tomorrow.

He went cautiously towards the door, listened, heard nothing and opened it. Except for the moment of breaking in, and the visit to Ebbutt, it had been as uneventful a night as he could remember. And welcome. He switched off the light and stepped into the passage. There was just the haze of light against the frosted glass of the door. He might as well go out the front way, it would save climbing a wall at the back, and he would be nearer the main road. He need not walk straight out, but could make sure no police were passing. He had more to worry about from the police now than from anyone else.

He opened the front door a fraction; it wasn't bolted. Most people in Marling's position would have felt safer if the doors were locked and bolted.

He stepped on to the porch, and looked up and down, but saw no sign of the police, no traffic, nothing at all except the shapes of the houses and, a long way down the road, a lighted window and a neon sign. In the distance there was the rumble of heavy traffic, as if several lorries were on the way here. He closed the door with hardly a sound, and stepped out of the porch.

A man, standing close to the wall, struck at him savagely.

Rollison saw the shadowy figure and the upraised arm. He had been so sure that there was nothing to fear that he hadn't a moment's warning. He tried to dodge back, but couldn't. He felt the blow on the side of his head, and it sent him staggering sideways. Before he could recover, the man was on him, smashing blows at his face, his stomach, his chest. And they were powerful, paralysing blows. Vaguely, Rollison realised that he was being attacked by a man who knew where to strike, and how to hurt – a man who seemed intent on hurting more than anything else, because he could have put his victim out in the first few blows.

Why didn't he?

Rollison gasping for breath, covering up as well as he could, felt the blood trickle from a cut in his lips, was vaguely aware of other sounds; and then the rain of blows stopped, and he heard a man's heavy breathing. He himself was crouching against the wall of the house, his hands still covering his face. His right forearm was numb from the blows he had taken on it, his mouth was very sore, and one eye seemed to be swelling.

Then a man said: “Stop that, you ruddy fool! Stop it!”

There was a scuffle, and then the blows stopped and Rollison was aware of two men where there had been one.

“What do you want to do? Kill him?” The newcomer asked roughly.

“He asked for what he got, breaking in here, and—”

“Ever seen him before?”

“Can't say I have, Doc.” Rollison's assailant admitted. “If we get him inside we could have a better look at him. Or would you rather call the rozzers?”

The man called ‘Doc' had a deep, pleasant voice.

“He's had enough punishment to be getting on with. But I'd like to find out what he was after—my money, or something out of the dispensary. Let's have him in.”

“Okay,” the other man said.

Rollison knew that if they took him inside and shone a bright light upon him, it would be fatal. This young doctor might be
the
Doc, and if the Doc knew that Rollison was so near, it wouldn't be difficult to get rid of him. He had stopped the other's onslaught, but at a word it could start again, and if a man was killed in a fight when he'd been caught breaking into a house, then—

Marling, who was standing on the porch, was looking at Rollison. Rollison saw a tall, well-built man with dark, curly hair and the face he knew from photographs.

“Come on, get a move on,” said the man who had mauled Rollison, “the Doc wants a little talk with you.”

“I—I'm coming,” Rollison muttered.

“And keep your hands out of your pockets.”

“Okay.”

The only chance was to fool them; to make them feel that he was finished and there was no fight left in him. He moved away from the door, and then groaned convincingly, and sagged back again, lifting his right leg off the ground. His assailant glanced down.

“Didn't break his leg, did you?” asked Marling abruptly.

“Not me,” the boxer said. “Here, stop foxing and take a walk.” He pulled at Rollison's right arm.