The Toff And The Stolen Tresses - John Creasey

He could draw the driver’s attention, but the man was concentrating on the out-of-town traffic, and Jolly did not want to look a fool as well as feel one.

“Jolly,” Mrs. Wallis said, and slid her hand to his again. “Don’t be silly, pet, you—”

She stopped abruptly, to stifle a yawn. Jolly’s hopes rose. She would soon lose consciousness, and the embarrassing business could be forgotten.

She pressed close against him again.

“Jolly, honey, you really are so sweet,” she said huskily. “You’re wasted working for a man like Rollison—why don’t you relax, and be nice to me? I’ll put in a word for you with Tiny, you won’t get hurt.”

Will you kindly take your hand away, madam, sit back in the corner, and stop behaving like a woman of the streets.”

She drew back abruptly, and next moment she sneered:

Tut I’m not that kind of a woman, Jolly, I’m very particular about my men friends. Do you know what will happen to you when my husband hears that you took me away?”

“Your husband will doubtless spend most of the rest of his life in prison, where he most rightly belongs,” Jolly said coldly.

She stared, then laughed again. This time he could feel her quivering, as if she was helpless with the laughter. She patted the back of his hand, instead of squeezing, and said marvellingly:

              “You’re wonderful, Jolly, you’re priceless! I didn’t think that anyone like you still lived. It’s such a pity.”

She kept still in her corner for some minutes, and Jolly began to breathe more freely, but he was still too close to her to feel that the absurd crisis was over. He smoothed back his ruffled hair, and was tempted to wipe the lipstick off his lips, for he could feel it on them; but he did not. There was probably lipstick on his shirt and collar, too; he must never be seen like this.

“Jolly,” the woman said, “how about telling the driver to turn round and take me home?”

“That is impossible, and you know it.”

“It would be worth a pony, Jolly.”

“Fifty pounds or five hundred, that is immaterial,” Jolly said, and realised that he still sounded like a pompous fool, but he could not prevent himself. “Will you kindly resign yourself to the fact—”

She began to laugh again.

In the middle of the laughter, while his face was going scarlet, and he had to restrain himself from slapping her, she yawned. This time she couldn’t suppress it; she realised that and was frightened. She clutched Jolly’s hands, but this was no part of an attempt to seduce him, he could sense her fear.

Now don’t worry, you’ll be quite all right,” he said in a much more normal voice.

“You don’t know Tiny,” Stella said, and her voice quivered helplessly. “You don’t know—” She fell forward against him, dead to the world.

He eased her back into her corner, took out his handkerchief, and dabbed the sweat off his forehead. Then with great deliberation he wiped his lips and his fingers, and ran his fingers about his face so as to make sure that there was no lipstick there; he would not be satisfied until he had a mirror.

He felt cooler and much more himself, but still a little disturbed, when he looked about to see where they were. This was Wimbledon Common. They would soon be on the Kingston Bypass, and not far beyond the end of the bypass was the cottage where he had to deliver her. There an old family servant of the Rollisons would make sure that she was well cared for but did not escape. It was half an hour’s journey at most.

There was a lot of traffic on the bypass, and some of the drivers coming in the opposite direction kept their headlights full on; it was difficult even for Jolly to see, and driving must be very trying.

Then he began to fear that a car was keeping very close to them.

He could not be sure that it was always the same car, sidelights and headlights looked very much alike from the mirror, but one certainly seemed to be keeping the same distance all the way. Others whipped past, and they themselves passed slower traffic; but the one car was behind all the time.

Ought he to warn the driver?

He leaned forward to do so as the car behind pulled out, and then roared past. A man and woman were in the front seat, and neither so much as looked at him. Jolly relaxed and reproved himself. But he would be glad when this evening’s drive was over, he had never felt so futile or foolish in his life. He hoped he would never have to see this woman again, every time he did it would remind him of tonight.

He closed his eyes, not really dozing, but finding the quiet hum of the tyres and the steady breathing of his charge soothing. Whenever he opened his eyes the other traffic was passing swiftly, until they went off the bypass, then through Esher; soon they would have to turn off. The driver knew the place well, and slowed down, obviously looking for it. The woman didn’t stir.

They turned off, into a narrow, winding road, and only a mile or two along there would be a lane leading to the cottage; there was no more secluded spot near London. Jolly relaxed completely, and was not even uneasy about the lipstick; was not uneasy when a car passed them, and pulled over rather too sharply. Foolish driver. Another car was just behind, and was about to pass.

Then, the rear lights of the car in front blazed in scarlet warning. Jolly’s driver jammed on his brakes. The car behind came up so swiftly that Jolly held his breath, waiting for the crash. It did not come. He was aware of men jumping out of the car in front, others out of the car behind.

“They’re Wallis’s men,” Jolly gasped aloud.

He tried to get out of the nearside door, but before he opened the door two youths were there in the light of the headlamps. He saw the face of the man Wallis, a face he knew from photographs which he had studied that day. He saw the savage glitter in this man’s eyes.

Wallis didn’t speak.

Two youths dragged Jolly from the car, and another dragged the driver out; and then as he staggered along the road, Wallis struck Jolly.

It was the most dreadful thing Jolly had known in all his life.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Cause For Hate

“All right, Mr. Rollison,” the night superintendent at the Yard said, “I’ve got all that. I’ll have the road between here and Esher specially patrolled, and I’ll get the Surrey police to co-operate. If anything went wrong, we’ll soon know. The most likely thing is an accident, of course.”

“Yes,” said Rollison, bleakly. “I know. Thanks. You’ll make sure they do a thorough job.”

“As thorough as you’d do yourself,” said the superintendent with unconscious humour; but for once Rollison did not see the joke. He muttered: “Thanks,” and rang off.

It was now midnight.

He had been tempted to use the other car and drive along the road that Jolly had taken, but it had been impracticable, and would only be a waste of time. He had told himself that he would wait until midnight before calling on the police for help, and had called them at ten minutes to twelve. They now knew everything, except that Jolly had been with Wallis’s wife.

Rollison lit a cigarette, drew two or three times at it, then jumped up, strode to the cabinet, and poured himself a drink. Glass in hand, he stepped to the big desk. On it were the two bricks with the tresses of hair tied to them. They’d been tied securely, someone had done quite a job, and meant to make sure that the hair didn’t come off.

Why?

They had come to raid the Jepsons’ house, remember, not to attack him. So the message in that hair had been meant for Ada or her missing brother; it could have been meant for no one else.

What could two tresses of hair convey to Ada? What could they convey to anyone?

What was the connection between them and the attack on Leah Sampson?

He could picture that girl now, crying and despairing, and could see the compassion on her father’s face—and the white patch where the hair had been cut off so savagely close to the scalp.

These things must add up.

The telephone bell rang.

He was within two yards, and it seemed that the bell hadn’t stopped ringing before it was silenced, and the ear-piece was pressing close against Rollison’s ear.

Let this be Jolly: above everything else, let this be Jolly. Not simply news of him, but Jolly himself.

“Rollison speaking.”

A man said in a hard, unrelenting kind of voice: “Found him yet?” and rang off.

*     *     *

That caller had been Wallis, there was no doubt of that.

Now something added up in Rollison’s mind, and its total meaning was terrifying. Wallis had caught up with Jolly and Stella Wallis, and he would have been in a livid mood. Fury at the way he had been man¬handled and at the disappearance of his wife would combine with his normal jealousy to make him more deadly than ever.

“Found him yet?”

Found him where?

Alive?

It would be easy to act blindly, and to make a fatal mistake. That had been Wallis, but there was a possibility, that the call had been bluff, that Jolly wasn’t hurt.

Forget it.

There was a much greater probability: that Wallis had called believing that Rollison would be in no mood for caution, hoping that he might lose his head in his desire to find Jolly.

“Found him yet?”

Found him where?

The telephone bell rang again.

It might be a second call made simply to tear his nerves, to try to drive him into impetuous action. But it was too soon after the first call for that to be reasonable. It might be—anyone. Ebbutt, Grice, Ada.

Nonsense.

No one would ring at this hour, nearly half past twelve, without a very good reason: such as Scotland Yard with news of Jolly. Only seconds passed while Rollison hesitated and the telephone kept ringing on a subdued note; Jolly had arranged for it to be subdued in this room, and loud in his bedroom. Nowhere else. Jolly. Rollison seemed to watch his own hand as it moved, grasped the receiver and put it slowly and deliberately to his ear.

“This is Rollison.”

“One moment, please, Superintendent Benson would like a word with you.”

Benson was the night man in charge at the Yard. Rollison found himself clenching his teeth, sensed rather than felt the pain that the clenching caused at his jaws. He stared at the trophy wall, standing within reach of it; close to him were the two tresses of hair.

Why the hell didn’t Benson come on the line?

He came.

“Rollison?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm,” Benson grunted. Get on with it.

“Better come right out and tell you. We’ve bad news about Jolly.”

Rollison said softly, carefully and clearly: “What kind of bad news?” but it seemed to him that he knew the answer before Benson spoke again, because Benson was a tough copper. Benson wouldn’t worry about reporting that a man had been beaten up.

“It’s touch and go,” Benson said.

But there was hope.

“Where is he?”

“Kingston Hospital. He’s in the theatre—”

Rollison interrupted with a swift: “Thanks.

I’ll go there,” but he hardly realised what he said. He replaced the receiver and began to move. He went into his bedroom and took an automatic, fully loaded, from a locked drawer in his wardrobe, and clipped a knife round his forearm and another round the calf of his leg.

Then he put on a cloth cap, which was rather high at the crown. Jolly should have had one. This was a refinement of the motor cyclist’s helmet, and the sheet of steel inside would take the worst of any blow. Too late? He left all the lights on as he went to the landing. He was ultra cautious as he walked downstairs, and shadows of the landings and of cupboards seemed like the shadows of men; but were not. He reached the street door, and opened that as cautiously. The Yard man was strolling past.

Rollison went out.

“Going out again, sir?”

“Yes.” Rollison was already opening the car door.

“I’ll keep an eye—” began the Yard man, and then his voice was drowned by the snarl of the car engine. He shrugged and backed away, glanced upwards, and then shouted at Rollison so that his voice penetrated all the other noises. “OW he shouted. “Oi!”

Rollison jammed on the brakes, and the engine stalled. He put his head out of the window.

“What is it?”

“You’ve left your flat lights on!”

Rollison opened his mouth to storm, then caught up with himself, said with tense calmness: “Yes. Leave them, will you?” and drove off.

The Yard man stood staring at him, frowning as the car hurtled round the corner.

By night the hospital was brightly lit and quiet, with only those who must be moving about the corridors and the wards, most of the offices closed, most of the patients resting quietly, some with drugs to help them ease their pain. First, Rollison saw a night porter; then a senior porter; next a nurse; at last a Sister.

“The accident case that came in just after midnight,” she said. “Yes, sir, he’s in the operating theatre now.”

“How is he, please?”

“I’m not yet in a position to say. Who are you, sir? His son?”

“I’m his employer, but that doesn’t explain—Sister, please find out how he is, what his chances are. Ask a doctor to come and see me, someone who knows what he’s doing. If it’s a brain injury, then we’ve got to have Kempton here.”

The Sister, small, dark and elderly, said in a startled voice: “Mr. Kempton?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m afraid we couldn’t expect Mr. Kempton—”

Somehow Rollison controlled the tone and volume of his voice. He did not know how strange he looked, startlingly handsome, his eyes afire and his mouth set so that the words seemed to force themselves out in a kind of growl.

“I know Mr. Kempton. He is a personal friend. If my man needs him, he’ll come. Please find out.”

With great compassion and some awe, the Sister said: “I’ll see what I can discover, sir. Will you sit down and wait?”

“Thank you.” Rollison didn’t sit down, and was tempted to follow her, but he did not. He paced up and down the passage outside her office, and seemed to be walking through the emptiness of time. Two nurses passed talking, joking, glancing at him; and were sobered. A tall, dark young man who needed a shave went hurrying into a ward. The Sister came, also hurrying.

Rollison waited for her with growing, chilling fear.

“The operation is over,” she announced. “Mr. Nott-Comber did the operation himself, and you can be quite sure that no one could have performed it better. It is just a question of waiting.”

“So he’s alive,” Rollison made himself say.

“The operation was successful,” the sister said, “but he lost a great deal of blood, and his life is still in the balance.”

“When should we know?”

“If he’s still holding on in the morning—”

“May I wait here?” asked Rollison, abruptly. “There is a waiting-room with a couch,” the Sister told him. “I’ll send a nurse with you, and then send you in a cup of tea and some aspirins.”