The Toff and the Stolen Tresses (6 page)

Then Rollison heard a sound along the passage; a moment later, the front door opened.

He stepped swiftly to the passage door as the shadow of a big man appeared.

The front door closed.

 

 

The closing of the front door was very soft. Rollison felt quite sure that this was Wallis, and that he had been told who was here. The first footsteps were very soft and light, too; furtive and stealthy. Rollison stood close to the wall.

Wallis came in sight.

He was tougher-looking than Rollison remembered; not huge, but massive with a short neck on his broad, thick shoulders. He wasn't bad-looking, especially side face, but Rollison could see that his nose had been broken years ago. He was staring straight ahead, towards the kitchen door, but would soon look in here.

His right hand was held a little in front of him, and on it the brass of a knuckle duster gleamed dully.

Rollison felt his heart begin to thump.

Wallis took another step forward, and it looked almost as if he was going straight past; but he didn't. He spun round towards the living-room door, very quickly for a big man, his right hand raised ready to strike. It was easy to believe that one blow from that armoured fist would fell the strongest man alive.

Rollison stood quite still.

Wallis said, in a rough but high-pitched voice: ‘So you're still here.'

He certainly wasn't ugly, but there was an animal look about him, a kind of rawness suggesting that he lived by the law of the jungle. It was easy to picture this man as ruthless, heartless, savage; easy to believe that he could wreck a home built up over half a century with a calculated thoroughness which was entirely free from passion.

He showed his very strong, white teeth in a smile which was also a leer.

‘Now I'm going to smash you to pulp,' he said, and showed his other hand; in this he held a shiny black leather cosh, a twin to Rollison's. ‘I'm going to smash you up so that—'

‘Tiny,' Rollison interrupted, ‘Stella's a nice girl.'

Wallis stopped in the doorway, eyes narrowing. He had a puzzled look; it would be easy to believe he was very slow thinking.

Was he?

‘You leave Stella out of this,' he said. ‘Where is she?'

‘I sent her out on a little errand.'

‘I know that's a lie. Stella wouldn't do what you told her.'

‘She had no choice.'

Wallis said in his slow way: ‘You're lying. I'll look after Stella afterwards.' He raised the cosh. Any moment now he would smash it at Rollison, and if he landed the first blow, that would be the end of this day's work.

Rollison said: ‘If you touch me, you can say good-bye to your wife.'

The narrowed eyes were angry now, but they were still puzzled, and the blow didn't fall. Wallis stood there for at least half a minute, only an inch or two taller than Rollison and only an inch or two broader, with his jaw thrust forward and his mouth set tightly, and the questions in his eyes making a kind of torment.

‘You're crazy,' he said.

Rollison said: ‘When I'm fighting a wild animal, I fight like a wild animal. I've put your wife in a place where no one will find her unless I do. Keep back.'

‘Why, if you don't tell me where—' Wallis began, and did the obvious thing: he smashed with cosh and knuckle duster at Rollison, flinging his whole weight into the blows, sure that he could break resistance and spirit, and compel his victim to tell him where to find his wife. He attacked without any thought of defence, and left himself wide open. Rollison whipped the cosh out of his pocket and struck him across the side of the head.

Wallis gasped, and fell back, as if he had not dreamed there would be danger.

Rollison snatched at his right wrist, gripped, twisted, and almost casually sent Wallis thudding back against the passage wall. Before he had reeled away, Rollison was after him, first snatching Wallis's cosh away, then holding his right wrist and pulling the knuckle duster off with the other hand. He got it free. It fell to the carpet with a dull sound, and Rollison bent down, picked it up, and backed away.

He tossed the knuckle-duster into one of the easy chairs, and slid the coshes into his own pocket. Then he took out the packet which the Austin driver had given him, opened it, and with all the casualness in the world, revealed a small automatic.

‘I wasn't worried by you on your own,' he said off-handedly, ‘but I thought I'd better be prepared to welcome your friends. How many are outside?'

Wallis looked sick and hurt and dazed. He was standing upright, but his head was bowed, and his arms hung rather loosely by his side. There was no mark on him, but it was a long time since he had been hurt at all. His fair hair, which looked as if it had been marcel-waved at Donny's, was too immaculate to be true. He kept blinking, and Rollison doubted whether he heard the question. Rollison moved forward and asked more sharply: ‘How many men outside?'

Wallis licked his lips.

‘There—there's no one.'

‘Don't give me that.'

‘No one outside,' mumbled Wallis. ‘Thought I could handle you myself.' He saw the gun. He looked down at his bare right hand, and shrugged, but there was a glint of intelligence in his eyes now. Was he as dull-witted as he appeared to be? Or still suffering from shock? ‘One day I will,' he added, as if in afterthought.

‘I don't believe you'd come here and tackle me by yourself,' Rollison said. ‘How many men outside?'

‘Why don't you go and look?' Wallis said that as if it was a brilliant sally.

‘All right,' Rollison said. ‘If you're lying don't blame me if you get killed. The police wouldn't worry if they found your body, I'd probably get a medal for doing it.'

Wallis stared with that dull, puzzled look, as if he didn't really understand what this was all about.

‘Where's Stella?' he mumbled. ‘Don't hurt Stella.'

‘She'll be all right if you do what you're told,' Rollison said sharply. ‘Who paid you for the Middleton Street job?'

Wallis echoed: ‘The Middleton Street job?' as if he hadn't heard aright.

‘That's what I said.'

Wallis closed his eyes, then cautiously put a hand to his pocket and drew out a handkerchief; it hadn't been unfolded, and was snow white and perfectly ironed. He dabbed at his lips.

‘No one paid me,' he announced at last.

‘Try telling the truth.'

‘No one paid me,' repeated Wallis, and something like a grin twisted his lips. ‘I did it for love.' He moved so that he could sit down on the arm of a chair, and it would not have surprised Rollison if he had made a dart for the gun. ‘If you think you can make me talk, you're crazy.'

‘Forgotten your wife?'

‘No,' said Wallis, more deliberately, ‘I haven't forgotten Stella, but I know all about you. You wouldn't do anything to a woman.' There was a bravado in his manner now. ‘You're too much of a gentleman, that's what you are. Forget it, Rollison, you won't get a squeak out of me.'

‘Won't I?' said Rollison, softly.

‘Not now, or for the next hundred years,' Wallis said. ‘You might as well save your breath.'

He meant it.

He was not only massive, immensely strong and utterly ruthless, but in his way he was brave; it might be the bravery of a stupid man, but it was still bravery. He wasn't at all what Rollison had expected to find. Certainly it would be useless to threaten him, as useless to use force even if he could bring himself to use it against a man who hadn't a chance. You could hate: you could want to see such a man punished beyond physical endurance for the things he had done; but it was a different matter if you were appointed the avenger. Wallis knew that. Wallis did not think that he was in any immediate physical danger, and he was not really frightened for his wife.

If he had reasons to believe that he was wrong he might sing a different song.

‘Tiny,' said Rollison, nursing the gun and leaning forward to emphasise his words, ‘I've told you what I want. If you don't come across, you'll have some shocks. Who paid you for the Middleton Street job?'

Wallis sneered.

‘Who was it? Donny Sampson?'

Wallis's lips were still twisted. ‘You won't do a thing,' he seemed to say, ‘you can't scare me.'

‘One more chance and that's the end of my patience,' said Rollison, and there was menace in his voice, an expression on his face which had scared many a man who had seemed as tough as this one; but he got no reward at all. ‘All right,' he said, and levelled the gun straight at Wallis's face. ‘This is one of your mistakes. You won't look nice when they find you.' He waited for a few seconds, saw Wallis's hands tighten, saw him clutch the arms of his chair, saw the dawn of fear. Wallis actually held his breath, but he didn't speak: and silently he seemed to say, ‘I'll call your bluff. Rollison squeezed the trigger.

 

In that last moment Wallis saw the movement and jumped up wildly, as if he realised that he had been wrong, and great fear blazed up in him. But he was too late.

His eyes showed that fear, and then a kind of fury; next moment the cloud of vapour from the muzzle of the automatic hid his features. He began to gasp and mutter incoherently. His hands went to his eyes which burned and streamed with water. And while the tear gas from the gas pistol stung him, Rollison took out a cosh, and struck on the nape of the bull neck.

The one blow knocked him out.

Rollison said: ‘We'll see how you like it,' and looked round the pleasant room, the television set, the books, all the loved things in this home. He thought of old Mrs. Blake of Middleton Street and what she had lost, and of the others who had suffered just as badly. The temptation to deal with this man as he had dealt with so many was almost overwhelming, but Rollison fought it back, and left the room.

He reached the kitchen and opened the larder door.

Stella Wallis looked up at him, as if she was frightened of what she might see. Obviously she had expected her husband.

‘Isn't he—
home?'

‘He's home and sleeping it off,' said Rollison, ‘and he won't love me much when he comes round.'

She looked utterly astounded.

‘You mean that you—' she broke off. ‘You can't make me believe you got the best of Tiny!'

‘I got the best of Tiny this time and it wasn't even difficult,' said Rollison. ‘Now you're going to help me do it again. You're coming with me, Stella, for a little holiday. Tiny will wonder where you are. I'm quite touched by his obvious devotion. You'd better wear a hat and coat, and bring anything else you want.'

Her face was a study in disbelief and bewilderment.

‘You don't seriously mean it.'

‘Let's hurry, shall we?' said Rollison, and took her wrist and drew her out of the larder. ‘There's a lot to do.' He hustled her up to her bedroom, and she took a coat, a hat and a scarf and some gloves from the wardrobe and a dressing chest; then she picked up a handbag, and turned and looked at him as if she still didn't really believe that this was happening.

‘After this, he'll kill you.'

‘I'll worry about me. Come on!'

‘What about my children?' her voice rose up.

‘Your neighbours will look after your children,' Rollison said, ‘they're not in any trouble. Let Tiny work it out for himself.' He took her arm again. ‘Now let's hurry.'

At the foot of the stairs he pushed open the door of the living-room. Wallis was sprawled back in the armchair, and his eyes flickered, as if he was on the point of coming round.

Stella said in a strangled voice: ‘No,' and looked at Rollison. It was a look he would remember for a long time, because she couldn't keep the admiration out of her eyes, and in that moment she was quite startlingly handsome.

‘Be seeing you, Tiny,' Rollison said, and hurried to the front door. ‘After you.' He let the woman go first, for he was still uncertain about what he would find here. All he found were neighbours, gaping; no youths, no strong-arm men, nothing to suggest that Wallis had lied. The hired car was still along the road.

 

 

No one followed Rollison or Stella Wallis.

She sat by his side, subdued and bewildered, and made no attempt to get away, even when they were stopped at traffic lights in the city and the West End, where the evening rush hour was just past its peak. She was still looking as if she could not believe what had happened when Rollison drew up outside Number 22 Gresham Terrace. He glanced up and down, to make sure that he had not been followed, then led Stella to the stairs, and walked up behind her. She had beautiful, quite exceptional legs, and walked very well. At the top landing and outside the flat marked G, she turned and said in a low-pitched voice: ‘He'll kill you. I mean it.'

‘I have a friend waiting with my obituary notice,' said Rollison solemnly. ‘It's been on ice for seventeen years.' He opened the front door with the key but didn't go in at once. There was always the possibility that the flat would have been visited by – for instance – Mick Clay.

Jolly appeared.

‘Good evening, sir.' He bowed to Stella Wallis, as he would to royalty. ‘Good evening, madam.'

Rollison said brightly: ‘Evening, Jolly. This is Mrs. Tiny Wallis.' Jolly did no more than tighten his lips; the casual observer would not have noticed the slightest indication of surprise. ‘She wants to hide away from an irate husband for a few days. Where do you suggest?' Rollison asked this blandly as he led the way across a small but pleasant lounge-hall and into the big room, while Stella stared at him as if at a madman. ‘Any notions?'

‘I don't—' Stella began, but broke off.

‘I would suggest Mr. Micklem's place, sir,' Jolly said promptly.

‘Good idea,' approved Rollison, thoughtfully. ‘Near enough to London for you to take Mrs. Wallis there this evening and get back in time to put me to bed, but far enough to be out of immediate danger. Telephone for a car to be at the back in ten minutes, will you?'

‘Very good, sir.'

‘B—b—but—' began Stella weakly, and then gave it up.

‘What you want is a little pick-me-up,' said Rollison hospitably. ‘What's it to be?' He led the way to a cocktail cabinet, and when Stella said: ‘Gin and tonic, I think,' in a faint voice, he poured out for her, poured a whisky and soda for himself, and said: ‘To a happy holiday.'

Words burst out of her.

‘It's crazy, you can't do this to me, you just can't do it!'

‘Did you ever see such a piece of sheer exhibitionism as that?' inquired Rollison, and indicated the trophy wall, with all its souvenirs of past crimes, past dangers and past triumphs. ‘Ignore the rope, that only hanged a man. See that cosh? A toughie who thought he was as good as Tiny used that, and he took the long drop too. That knuckle duster was also intended to break every bone in my body. Not quite large enough for Tiny, would you say?'

‘I'm beginning to think you might get away with it,' Stella said chokily, ‘but don't make any mistake, if Tiny ever gets you in his hands he'll never let you go again.'

‘I think you're probably right,' agreed Rollison soberly. ‘I'll have to keep away.' He glanced at Jolly, who came into the room again. ‘All fixed, Jolly?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Any special news for me?'

Jolly paused to glance at Stella Wallis, as if wondering whether what news he had could safely be told in her presence; and then decided that it could. His report was a masterly piece of precision and abbreviation. James Matthison Jones was fully conscious again, and showing signs of full recovery; Ada Jepson had telephoned, but left no message; Wilson of the
Globe
had told him of a dozen London cases of girls having long hair shorn, and believed that many other cases had been reported in the past few months.

‘Human hair is moderately valuable, sir.'

‘What do you call moderately?'

‘About nine or ten pounds a head if average dark hair, that is the present market price on imported hair from India and Pakistan. Some still comes from central Europe, sir. Fair hair will fetch from twenty to thirty per cent more. White or ash-blonde hair, especially if wavy, may fetch as much as twenty guineas a head.'

‘At ten or fifteen pounds a time it wouldn't make a fortune for anyone,' Rollison said. ‘Would it, Stella?'

She had been watching Jolly as if fascinated, but answered at once.

‘It might for a barber,' she said. ‘Like to know where the best wigs come from around here?'

‘You're going to say Donny Sampson's.'

‘It must be wonderful to have second sight,' Stella Wallis gibed. ‘Donny's own daughter had her hair cut off today.'

‘Really.'

‘And Donny's a cunning old so-and-so,' the woman went on. ‘He gets the names and addresses of girls with lovely hair from his competition, and sooner or later they lose their hair—if it's the best for making wigs. He owns dozens of barber's shops in London, and this Hair Stylists' Association is just a name for them, although he keeps in the background. He has those leaflets distributed and advertises where it'll do most good, in local newspapers and shop windows, and gets more silly little fools to go to his places. He must have pulled in thousands of customers! They can only enter if they go to a shop he owns, whether his name's on the front or not. He gets hundreds of heads of hair for his wigs that way.'

‘Very interesting,' said Rollison gratefully. ‘We'll have to check on Donny. Thanks, Stella. Another gin? Right then, off you go! Don't try any tricks now. Jolly, if Mrs. Wallis should fall asleep in the car, don't be too surprised,' he added quite unexpectedly. ‘She's had a strenuous day.'

‘Sleep? I never get tired until after midnight, you're talking through your—' began Stella Wallis, and then her eyes rounded, she broke off, and her hands raised to her breast. ‘What was in that drink? Come on, tell me, you beast, what was in it?'

‘Good night,' said Rollison, sweetly. ‘You'll be all right, as far as I know no one has any quarrel with you.'

She looked as if she could have struck him, but did not try, just followed Jolly out of the room, through the kitchen and down the fire escape to the car which was waiting in a street near Gresham Terrace. As she went, Rollison stood by the window of his large room, with the trophies behind him and the wide street below.

It was probably five minutes after Jolly and the woman had gone that a youth appeared, strolling casually along the street; soon there were three.

‘Casing the joint,' Rollison murmured. He grinned, stepped to the telephone, and dialled Scotland Yard. This time Grice was in.

‘Bill,' said Rollison quickly, ‘Jolly's out, and I'm going out in fifteen minutes. Soon after that I think some gentlemen of the Edwardian period will pay me a visit. I'd hate to have my flat wrecked. If you happened to have a squad car or a Q car nearby—'

Grice was sharp. ‘Sure about this?'

‘Yes.'

‘I'll fix it.'

‘Don't jump down my throat if I ask your chaps to make sure these Teddies have time to break in, will you? The redder the hand the tighter the handcuff, if you know what I mean.'

‘They won't act too soon,' Grice said gruffly. ‘What's this about you knocking a motorcyclist off his machine in Rockham Street?'

‘I did. A lorry chased me. The motor-cyclist was a decoy. How is he?'

‘Dead,' said Grice.

‘Oh,' said Rollison, very quietly. ‘Bill, I'm sorry. But it gives you a chance to probe deep. He was one of Tiny Wallis's men. I don't know much about Wallis, but in a funny way he's good. Either he's one of the ablest crooks I've ever come across, with brilliant staff work, or he's got a clever man behind him.'

‘What's this story that you've kidnapped his wife?' Grice interrupted.

Rollison came nearer to making an admission of a felony than he had ever done in his life: Grice had never caught him so deftly on the wrong leg. He took a few seconds to answer, and Grice went on gruffly: ‘Let's have the truth.'

‘Don't tell me that Tiny's lodged a complaint with the police,' said Rollison, and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

‘A complaint was lodged.'

‘Well, well,' said Rollison meekly, ‘I didn't think he would have it in him. She came of her own free will, Bill.' When Grice didn't answer, he went on: ‘And I think I can produce satisfactory evidence of that.'

‘Jolly, I suppose.'

‘Jolly.'

‘Rolly,' said Grice, suddenly very earnest, ‘I know that I practically asked you to see what you could find out about Wallis and Clay, but I didn't expect you to go racing about the East End like a maniac, and as for making Wallis's wife go off with you—it's absolutely crazy. Apart from the possibility of a charge of abduction, you're asking for serious trouble. After this, Wallis will be—'

‘Cross, I suppose,' interpolated Rollison mildly. ‘On the abduction matter Bill, see my solicitor.' He drew his hand across his forehead again. ‘Did you find out anything about the hooligans who cut off Leah Sampson's hair?'

‘Not a thing,' said Grice. The Division handled it, we kept out as you seemed so anxious that we should. Everyone named has an alibi.'

‘I'm told there's a plague of hair-shearing in London,' Rollison observed.

‘There's a lot more than usual, but we always have some,' Grice said. ‘Why were you anxious we shouldn't make too much fuss over Leah's?'

‘The coincidence was remarkable. I called on Donny, and while I was there young Leah came rushing in, so shorn that she'll have to wear a wig for several weeks. I wondered if it was to show me how little Wallis cares.'

‘Could be,' conceded Grice, very slowly. ‘How well do you know Donny?'

‘I'm not sure.'

‘Did you know that he's become one of the biggest land-owners in his part of London?'

Rollison said blankly: ‘Fact?'

‘Positive fact. He began by buying up the small shops he had rented for years, then buying up other shops—all barbers'—and in the past year or two he's bought up shops of all kinds. He's a really big land-owner.'

‘Kindly landlord?' inquired Rollison, as if hopefully.

‘We've never heard anything different,' Grice said, ‘but it's a trend I don't much like.'

‘How'd he get the money to go into the estate business?'

‘He did it by extending his shops, setting the expenses against taxation, and keeping strictly within the law,' Grice answered. ‘No doubt about that. He works mostly with his own family, although he has a fairly big staff outside the family.'

‘The hairdressers' millionaire.'

‘Wealthy, anyhow,' Grice conceded. ‘What made you go to see him?'

‘I was told that he'd put Wallis and Clay on to a job.'

‘Did you tell him that to his face?'

‘Yes, and he didn't deny it.' Rollison waited, but Grice had nothing to say, so Rollison went on: ‘You'll lay that car on, won't you?'

‘I just scribbled a note and the order's gone out on the other telephone,' Grice said. ‘And listen—if Wallis presses his charge, we can't stall him. At the moment I'm told that he looks as if a steam-hammer hit him.'

‘Oh, no,' said Rollison, ‘just a little fist or two. Thanks, Bill.'

He rang off.

He lit a cigarette and poured himself another drink, then glanced out of the window and saw that several of the youths were there now; he had never seen so many people lounging about Gresham Terrace. Possibly they were there to try to make sure that Wallis's wife was not taken away; as likely that they were coming to get her, and were waiting for a signal. Rollison let thoughts trickle through his mind. Perhaps the most puzzling one was Wallis's action; for Wallis to complain to the police was remarkable, unless –

He'd been ordered to complain.

Who paid Wallis? Who was his ‘brain'?

‘When we know that we'll know most of the rest,' said Rollison to himself, then finished his drink and went into the kitchen. Jolly had prepared everything for a mixed grill, and there was a note saying:

 

The meat is in the oven, sir.

 

Chipped potatoes, white and fresh, were in a basket next to a saucepan of fat, there were some frozen vegetables standing ready for the pot. Rollison shook his head in regretful self-denial, and went out of the kitchen door and down the fire escape; that kitchen door was self-locking, so that no one could tell whether it had been closed from the inside or the outside. His footsteps clanged a little on the iron as he went down, but none of the youths was in the yard.

Rollison crossed this, and went to the corner of Gresham Terrace. A police patrol car with men in plain-clothes was crawling by, and two of the youths moved smartly across Gresham Terrace towards Number 22.

‘I hope they don't have time to do much damage,' Rollison said with feeling, and winked at the driver of the patrol car. Then he walked rapidly towards Piccadilly, and took a taxi to Middleton Street, Chelsea. He had not yet seen the Blakes, who as far as he knew were the only people who might be able to explain the attack on Jimmy Jones.

He knocked at the door of Number 24, and immediately there was a response, but no elderly person opened the door; instead a solid-looking man, obviously a Yard man in plain clothes, barred Rollison's path. Then he recognised the visitor, and sprang almost to attention.

‘Thanks,' said Rollison, and smiled. ‘Old folk at home?'

‘Oh, yes, sir.'

‘How are they?'

‘Oh, they're much better now,' said the plainclothes man. ‘Nearest thing to a miracle I've ever seen.'

‘Miracle?' echoed Rollison, blankly.

‘That's the word, sir! When I first saw them they looked ready to pass out, they hadn't a stick left whole, and the fact that the neighbours were very kind didn't make all that difference. Of course it helped, but—well, then this morning the new furniture and everything arrived. Wonderful lot of stuff, sir, and a bigger and better television set. Wonderful people, those Jepsons.'