The Toff and the Stolen Tresses (9 page)

 

 

Jolly sat with Stella Wallis in the back of the large, smooth-running car which had been sent from the hire service. He had told the driver where to go, and the woman hadn't protested, hadn't yet spoken a word. Either events had stunned her, or she was beginning to succumb to the sleeping dose which Rollison had put into her drink.

The light from street lamps showed that her eyes were wide open. Jolly glanced at her from time to time, aware of the pleasant scent she used, and not unaware of her closeness. He kept hoping that her head would loll forward as she lost consciousness, but ten minutes after they had started out, her eyes were still wide open.

He felt her hand move into his.

She squeezed.

It was a long time since any woman had behaved like that with Jolly, and it not only startled but shook him. He drew his hand away and glanced at her less with embarrassment than with dry amusement. She was smiling at him. Her eyes were narrowed now, but open quite wide enough, and her lips were parted, too; he could see the polish of the lipstick and the gleam of her white teeth. She was a good-looking woman, and knew what she was about.

She pressed his leg, gently.

He could ease away; or he could pretend that he had noticed nothing; or he could tell her to sit back in her corner. He took the line of least resistance, telling himself that if he made no response, she would soon get tired of this little game. He stared straight ahead. She squeezed his leg gently, and then moved so that she was cuddled close against him. Her right hand went to his cheek.

She didn't speak; but he could feel her warm breath on his face.

He sat absolutely motionless for a moment, then he freed his hand, and said with strained courtesy:

‘You are wasting your time, I assure you.'

He took her hand away from his cheek, but she went on pressing close against his side, as if determined that he would not be unaware of her nearness or her charms.

‘Mrs. Wallis, please be good enough to realise that this is quite pointless,' he said more firmly.

The chauffeur in front of the glass partition could not hear any of this.

‘Mrs. Wallis!' Now Jolly was sharp.

She let him go, but before he realised what she was going to do, moved again, seized his face between her hands, pulled his head down, and kissed him. He felt the soft warmth of her lips, the sharpness of her teeth as he struggled to free his head, but she had him in a hold that was hard to break.

‘You're so sweet,' she said, cooingly, ‘you're so quaint, darling, why don't you relax a little? No one would mind if you just relaxed.' She kissed him again, lingeringly, and his head was still imprisoned. He could not free himself without hurting her. ‘Just relax, darling,' she breathed, and he could only just see her face and her eyes as she looked at him.

He could stand outside himself, as it were, and see all this, the absurdity of it, the ludicrousness. He, Jolly, in charge of this woman, helpless under her grasp, fighting against her blandishments. He felt worse than he had ever felt in his life. He must stop her nonsense, it mustn't matter if he hurt her. He took her wrist at last, and twisted sharply, and she gasped and fell back.

‘I am sorry,' he said stiffly. ‘You left me no choice.'

She looked at him intently, showing no resentment.

‘Poor, poor darling,' she said in that soft, cooing voice. ‘Aren't you allowed any life of your own? Do you have to do everything that Rollison tells you? Won't he even let you have a kiss or a little cuddle without permission? Why don't you be a
man,
Jolly?'

‘This discussion is quite pointless.'

Stella Wallis gave a curiously cooing laugh, and Jolly felt its barb and knew that in a way she was right: he was behaving like a pompous prig. He had to. He was serving Rollison, and had to take this woman to the cottage. She did not exist as a woman, simply as a prisoner of the Toffs, so he dare not relax. It did not matter how much of a fool she made him feel. At least there was only half an hour or so longer.

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: ‘But 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.

 

 

‘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 manhandled 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. ‘Oi!' 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.

‘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.'