The Toff And The Stolen Tresses - John Creasey

“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.”

“You’re very kind,” said Rollison, and startled her afresh with the warmth of his smile. “Thank you.”

*     *     *

The couch was springy and comfortable, there were two cushions for his head, and the room itself was warm. Rollison loosened his collar, shoes and belt before the nurse came in, elderly, grey, tired-looking and disinterested. Rollison did not know what the tablets were, but felt fairly sure that they were not aspirins. He took them, and sat back. All the things that had happened began to go round in his mind, and he kept seeing pictures of the people involved, especially Wallis; Ada; the girl who had come so piteously to her father, with her lovely hair shorn; and Jolly.

Stella Wallis.

Over-confident, bragging fool, why hadn’t he been satisfied with scaring her? He should never have taken her away. It had seemed a touch of genius at the time, but was it genius to have the police at his heels, and worried? Was it genius to lay Jolly open to such a risk as this?

Jolly.

*     *     *

He did not know what time it was when another Sister stood in front of him, next morning, a buxom woman with a high colour, bright blue eyes, and a smile which suggested that she remembered the merry days of her probationer life. She held a cup of steaming tea steady as Rollison blinked, became aware of a crick in the neck and that he was hotter than usual, and then remembered. Everything but dread vanished from his mind, and the dread showed in his expression.

“How is he?”

“He’s got through the night, and has a fair chance,” the Sister told him.

“Thank God for that! May I see him?”

“Dr. Morton is in charge now, and I expect he will allow you to, but Mr. Jolly is unconscious of course.”

“Yes,” said Rollison. “Thanks.” He sat up and took the tea. “You’re very good.”

“It isn’t every day we have the Toff staying here!”

He found himself smiling, sipped the tea, and as she turned to go caught sight of two young nurses at the door, obviously peeping at this visitor. They vanished as the Sister said:

“A Superintendent Grice of Scotland Yard is on his way to see you and the other injured man, Mr. Rollison.”

“The other—” echoed Rollison, and then realised that thought of Jolly had driven everything else out of his mind, he had forgotten that there had been the hire car driver; and now he knew that the driver had been attacked, too. “Yes, of course. How is he?”

“Oh, he wasn’t badly hurt, he’ll be discharged from hospital this morning,” the Sister said. “He’ll have to be careful for a few days, of course.”

“Big mercies,” Rollison said humbly. “Thank you, Sister.” He smiled again, finished his tea as she went out, rasped his hand over his stubble, and was wondering where to wash when a man approached briskly, tapped at the door and came in: a youthful, clean-cut man with sharp grey eyes and briskness in his manner as well as in his step.

“Good morning, Mr. Rollison. I’m Dr. Morton. If you’d care to come along to the doctors’ quarters, we can fix you up with an electric razor and everything you’ll need. Superintendent Grice is due in about twenty minutes, I’m told. I presume you know that your man Jolly is doing very well, everything considered?”

“Yes. Thanks.” The doctor’s briskness was refreshing.

Morton went on in that lively voice: “I saw him when he was brought in, and helped Nott¬Comber with him. Whoever did it ought to be given the cat once a week for the rest of his life.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” said Rollison.

He was taken to a large, bright wash-room, shaved and washed, and looked completely himself in twenty minutes, when a young intern took him to a kind of staff dining room. There at a table overlooking a lawn and some flowers was Grice, and Grice stood up, tall and spare and obviously very worried.

“I want to talk to you on the way back,” he said. “I’ve seen the driver, and we know what happened. I understand you want to see Jolly first.”

“Coming with me?” Rollison asked.

They stood together in the small private ward, with its window overlooking the grounds, its pale green walls, and its spotlessness. They looked at Jolly, whose face was bandaged so that he seemed only half a man; but his nose wasn’t bandaged although it was bruised. He was so pale and still that he might almost be dead, and in Rollison there welled up a great hatred for the men who had done this thing. -

“Come on, Bill,” he said in a stony voice. “I want to know all you’ve got under your hat.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Hero

A plainclothes man drove Grice’s car; Rollison drove the hired Austin, trying not to hurry, intent on learning every fact he could. There were not many, but they filled in several gaps, for instance that Jolly’s driver had not realised that they were being followed until they turned into the narrow road. He was sure that at least three cars had been involved in the chase, changing position so that no one could suspect that anyone had an interest in him and Jolly.

“While they were attacking Jolly, they talked,” Grice went on. “A man made it clear that he’d had the approaches to Gresham Terrace watched by men in cars. A motor-cyclist had acted as a scout, and sent the cars after Jolly.”

“As thorough as we’d expect,” Rollison said. “Know who they were?”

“The usual hooligans doing what they’re told.”

“Wallis there himself?”

“We believe that the man in charge was Wallis, but it’s impossible to prove it,” Grice said. “It was dark, remember. Jolly’s driver, our only witness, couldn’t see this man properly and won’t swear to his voice. And Wallis has seven so-called witnesses to give him an alibi.”

“The same old game. What else?”

“Mrs. Wallis is now back in Dirk Street,” Grice said.

“Here it comes,” Rollison said, bleakly.

“Yes, here it comes,” Grice’s voice sharpened. “Why were you crazy enough to kidnap Stella Wallis? Didn’t you realise that it would drive Wallis berserk?”

“I knew,” said Rollison icily. “I also knew that Wallis had been at his foul business for months. That you couldn’t stop him, and someone had to. I hoped that losing his wife would drive him into a big mistake. I even hoped I might be able to do a deal with him; his wife back in return for the name of the people employing him.”

“I thought that was it,” Grice said, more quietly. “You under-rated Wallis, of course. A lot of people have done that. A man has to be good to keep clear of us when we’re really after him.”

“Or you have to be bad.”

“Rolly, take it easy.”

“Can Jolly take it easy? Can the poor devils whom Wallis beats up, and whose homes he wrecks? Can the girls who lose their hair? Can’t you even guess who’s behind Wallis?”

“We guessed Donny, but haven’t proved it yet,” Grice said. “Human hair is fairly valuable, Donny is undoubtedly behind this competition, and practically every girl who’s been shorn had entered for it.”

“Have you been to Donny’s shops? Examined the wigs and toupees?”

“We’ll go the moment you get us a search warrant,” Grice said dryly. “I can’t, Rolly. I can’t prove anything against Wallis, either. You may hate the man, you may think that he’s the worst of his type we’ve ever had to tackle, but it’s no use blinking at facts. It’s a fact that he is as courageous as a wild beast, and he sticks to his own code. No squealing and no squealers. That’s why he’s so dangerous. He’s never been known to commit any crime except his speciality. We know some of the people who employed him in his early days, but he’s learned to cover up perfectly. Obviously he gets paid big money. Probably he gets most of his results by threats—he doesn’t have to use violence. Now and again he meets strong opposition, and that causes trouble.”

“Have you any idea who he’s fighting now?”

“No.”

“What about these youngsters he uses?”

“If you mean the Teddy Boy types he works with, don’t make any mistake about them,” Grice said. “Wavy hair, broad shoulders, a velvet collar and stove-pipe trousers don’t make a young brute, but a lot of young brutes are wearing the uniform, and far too many haven’t any moral sense. You can’t reason with them. I’m not sure you can frighten them. They’re dangerous because they’re reasonably well educated, they can tell a good tale, they can even impress with party manners. But for a fiver they’ll do anything Wallis wants.”

Rollison said bitterly: “Does he protect them from the police, too?”

Grice didn’t answer.

Rollison put his foot down and the speedometer needle touched eighty along the bypass. Grice stared grimly ahead. As they neared Richmond Park, Rollison slowed down.

“Sorry if I’m rough,” he said. “I blame myself for what happened to Jolly, and it’s hard to take.”

“Don’t I know?” Grice asked. “We’ve been after Wallis for months. Every job he does seems my fault.”

A grin forced Rollison’s lips apart.

“If we can’t stop him between us, we ought to retire. Bill.” The last word was a sharp interrogation.

“Yes.”

“Suspect the Jepsons?”

“I’ve only one reason to.”

“What’s that?”

“Some of Wallis’s victims are indirectly associated with Jepsons.”

“The family or the business?”

“The business.”

“Any idea why their place was attacked last night?”

“I hoped you’d know,” Grice said.

“I think Ada does, but she hasn’t talked, and she isn’t friendly with me any more.” Rollison was trying to get himself into a less savage mood. “Check her, Bill, and check her brother Reginald, who decided to give himself a holiday in Ibiza. That’s about as difficult a place to get to as he could find.”

“Think he knew this was coming?”

“I think he might.”

“Get anything out of the man Jones?” Grice asked abruptly.

“No. There’s a thing I’d like to know more about, all the people who’ve been victimised, Bill. What’s the link?”

“Association with Jepsons or customers of Jepsons,” Grice said, “but as one person in four seems to fit that bill, it doesn’t get us anywhere. The victims won’t talk, I’ve tried each one myself.”

“I can try, too,” Rollison said dryly.

They were at the top of Putney High Street, a quarter of an hour’s drive away from Scotland Yard. It was warm enough to drive with both windows down, and Rollison felt sticky round the neck. A big lorry loomed up in the mirror behind him, and there was a small car in front of him, the driver of which seemed to be nervous; his brake light kept going on and off. Rollison changed gear on the steep hill, and the lorry loomed closer behind them, its driver pulling out to pass.

Rollison saw the red light of the little car in front of him go on again as if the driver had jumped on his brakes. Rollison braked sharply, glanced in the mirror, and felt his heart beat violently in fear.

The lorry was just behind him, getting nearer and there was no driver at the wheel. It was out of control, and Rollison couldn’t go fast enough to avoid it because of the little car in front.

Grice began: “What the devil?” Then turned round, and gasped: “My God!”

“Jump for it,” Rollison said with fierce urgency. “Open that door and jump for it.”

He turned his wheel sharply, to pull out beyond the little car. In a split second he could be sandwiched between it and the lorry, and this car could be crushed like a concertina.

There was just room to squeeze through. The little car turned out, and baulked him.

Grice drew in a sharp, hissing voice.

“All right,” Rollison said, tautly. “Hold tight, we’ll have to let it hit us.” The front of the lorry was no more than a yard behind, and the driving wheel without its driver seemed to mock at him.

Then another car drew alongside the lorry, and a man actually stood by the open door.

It was Grice’s car.

A Yard man was clinging to the door, one arm and hand outstretched and one hand groping for the cabin window of the lorry. If he could get into the cabin and at the brake he might save them from disaster. Below Rollison was the crowded High Street, twenty or thirty cars drawn up at the nearest red stop light, and if he and the lorry crashed into them, there would be death and maiming and horror.

They were only a hundred yards away.

The Yard man leapt.

Rollison thought: “He’s missed!”

But the man clung to the open cabin’s window, then leaned forward and reached for the brake. Praise his cold courage.

The lorry began to jolt to a standstill.

“All right,” Rollison said to Grice, who couldn’t see in the mirror and was twisting round in his seat. “A George Medal for that chap, and I hope you promote him, too.” He saw the lorry falling away behind him as the red light changed to green. The little car which had baulked him suddenly shot forward, and merged with the traffic, but was being stopped by a policeman. The driver was probably old or very young. Rollison pulled into the kerb, then took out his handkerchief and dabbed his cold, damp forehead.

“They mean it, don’t they?”

“I’ll find out who’s behind Wallis if we have to put every man in the C.I.D. on the job,” Grice said savagely. “I’ve never had the wind up so badly.”

“Me too.” Rollison opened the driving door, watching the wing mirror carefully; it had suddenly become essential to behave as if everyone else on the road was mad. “I want a word with that hero, and I’d like to know what happened to the driver.” He got out, and saw the lorry drawn up, the other police car just in front of it. A crowd gathered, and a little woman was standing on tip-toe and patting the Yard hero on the back. The man looked flushed, flustered and embarrassed.

Then Rollison saw the side of the lorry.

JEPSONS

it read:

Everything for the Needs of

the People

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A Job For Ebbutt

“That may be the van which nearly ran into you before,” Grice suggested. “I’ll contact Jepsons, and find out all I can.” He was still shaken, but pushed through the crowd to the Yard man who’d jumped and said:

“Coolest job I’ve ever seen, Morris. Thank you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Morris was tall, lean, youthful-looking, and smiling nervously.

“He ought to have the George Medal, at once,” breathed a woman standing by.

Rollison shook Morris’s hand.

“We’re going to fix it somehow,” he said. “When did you see that the driver had vanished?”

“Well, sir, I saw him get out of the cabin and climb into the back of the lorry itself—there are glass doors, you can see right through. There’s a hole at the back of the cabin, too. He just hurried to the tail board, swung himself over, dropped down and ran. Must have done it plenty of times before, he was like India rubber. We had to go after him or else try and stop that lorry, and we thought we ought to have a cut at the lorry.”