by John Creasey
There were only three people in the public bar, and no one was behind it. The occupants looked up at Rollison, and as quickly looked away. All were strangers to him, and all were suspicious of a well-dressed man of Rollison’s appearance in the bar.
Then Eddie Day waddled behind the bar. His face was pale, his eyelids drooped, he looked tired—as he always did—and his little ears, delicate almost as a child’s were prominent only because he was nearly bald.
“Hallo, Eddie,” said Rollison.
Eddie looked up—and his little mouth gaped. He raised both hands, kept staring, then broke into a smile which seemed to double the size of his mouth, and brought his hands crashing down on the bar.
“Bless my ‘eart an’ soul, if it ain’t Mr. Ar! Well corlummee, if it ain’t Mr. Ar! Well, I never did!” He took Rollison’s hand in his vast fingers and squeezed it. “I never did!” he said, wheezing. “I thought you’d deserted us, Mr. Ar, ever since the curate business you ‘aven’t put your nose inside the place. Good boy, that parson, though I say.it myself—do you know what?”
“What?” asked Rollison, greatly pleased.
“My ole woman’s deserted the Army, an’ now she goes to church, that’s a fack. Proper looks dahn on them brass-blowing buglers, she do, and her uniform—she just won’t put it on. I bought ‘er a n’Ancient an’ Modern fer ‘er birfday, you know, one wiv music, and she was as prahd as punch of it, proper prahd. Gets a bit monotonous singing ‘ymns every night.” added Eddie Day, “but still, anythink for a quite life, I says.” He paused, and then burst out: “Now what am I a-thinking of, Mr. Ar—what’ll you ‘ave? The same?”
“The same.”
“Good old mild and bitter,” said Eddie, taking a glass. “I remember the first mild-and-bitter you ‘ad in my ‘ouse, Mr. Ar, same as if it was yesterday. “Ere, I’ll tell you what—come into the parlour and meet the ole woman again. She’ll be tickled to death to see you.” He wheezed in high good humour, and added: “You know the way!”
Sitting in the parlour at the back of the pub, Eddie Day regaled Rollison with the local gossip, hoped that he would soon be about more often, said that Mrs. Eddie would soon be in, and then, when he seemed too breathless to talk any more, he leaned forward and said with a broad wink:
“What’s on your mind, Mr. Ar?”
Rollison laughed. “You’re a deep old scoundrel. Eddie!”
“You didn’t fink I fought you’d come to say ‘ow are yer at this time o’ day, did yer?” asked Eddie, with a shake of his head. “I know better’n that. If you’d come for that you would ‘ave chose to-night, when all the boys is abaht. Anythink much?”
“I don’t yet know,” said Rollison. “There was a little fellow picked up by the police last night—or early this morning. Known to use a knife.”
“Larry Bingham,” said Eddie promptly, and scowled. “Nasty little piece o’ work, that Bingham. I wouldn’t raise a finger to ‘elp ‘im, Mr. Ar, an’ that’s the truth. “Ad a cut at a lady in the West End, didn’t ‘e?”
“So that’s reached you,” said Rollison.
“Cor strike a light, we don’t miss much!” said Eddie. “Friend o’ yours? The lady, I mean?”
“Yes.”
“Dirty little tyke,” said Eddie, and then showed some alarm. “Larry, I means. Well. I dunno that I can ‘elp yer much, but
I do know this. He owed Malloy a pony. Usually does a job to pay off ‘is debts, Larry does, never got a penny to bless hisself wiv. You’d think a man would ‘ave the common to layoff the racket when it don’t show a divvy, wouldn’t you, Mr. Ar? I mean, I can understand a man keeping at the game if he’s making a good fing aht of it, although I don’t approve of it, mind you; I’m all for law and order. Malloy’s been very flush lately,” he added.
“Do you know whom Malloy’s working for?”
“No,” said Eddie. “He’s a close one, he is, but I’ll tell yer what—Percy Dann lives next door to Malloy, maybe he knows somethink. Should be in any time, ‘e always ‘as ‘is pint before dinner, Percy does. Just a minute, Mr. Ar, I’ll go an’ see if ‘e’s arrived.”
He came back in a few minutes, followed by a painfully thin and ugly man, with a despondent face and dreary brown eyes and an Adam’s apple which moved up and down above his choker. He wore an oily-looking cloth cap at the back of his head, and in his right hand he carried a pint glass.
Eddie said: “Got ‘im for yer, Mr. Ar!”
“Coo lumme, look-oo-it-is,” said Percy Dann, running the words together as if he could not utter them fast enough. “I-never-fought-I’d-live-ter-see-this-day Mister Ar. “Ow are yer?”
He extended a limp hand.
He let it drop into Rollison’s, and then gripped—and had Rollison not known that Percy Dann, for all his thinness, had remarkably powerful fingers, he would have been taken by surprise. Percy had spent several years in prison for using those remarkable fingers in order to pick locks, for he was double-jointed and had great dexterity as well as strength in them. He had since retired, and had succeeded in convincing the police that his only income now came from the little tobacconist’s shop in a side street leading from the Mile End Road.
“How’s Mrs. Dann?” asked Rollison, and Eddie gasped in dismay but could not prevent a five minutes’ discourse on the troubles of Mrs. Dann. She was not well. She had undergone two operations and the doctors didn’t know what they were doing; doctors, Percy Dann wouldn’t give a fiver for all the doctors in London; they had properly finished off his wife, they had, she was so weak she could hardly crawl about the shop. He began to go into some detail about the operations when Rollison asked him if he would have another.
“Why, sure, Mr. Ar,” said Percy, and finished his glass in a single gulp. “Same again, Eddie. I was saying”
“How’s Malloy getting on these days?” asked Rollison, quickly.
“Oh, ‘im,” said Percy, disparagingly. “I never did like that perisher an’ nor does the wife. Never will, neither. Why, lives next door to us, he does, an’ do you think ‘e made a single hinquiry about the wife when she ‘ad ‘er op.? Not ‘im. Didn’t trouble to hinquire once, not even when she come back.”
“How’s his business?” asked Rollison.
“Mighty suspicious, if you arst me,” said Percy darkly. “ ‘E’s got plenty of nickel, no questions asked. “E’d put Larry Bingham up ter that job larst night, if you arst me. Lot o’ coming and going there is, too. Why, if it ain’t Eddie wiv the goods,” he broke off, and did justice to the second pint, after wishing The Toff good luck.
“Who has come and gone?” asked Rollison, and before Percy could launch into a monologue, added: “Has there been a short, fat man who favours bright check suits?”
Percy looked at him shrewdly.
“Always on the mark, that’s Mr. Ar. You mean Ole Nosey.”
“Nosey?” repeated Rollison.
“S’right. I dunno “is name, but ‘e’s a reg’lar visitor, ‘as been for munce. Come along the road one day wiv a nose like a rear light—I remember it well because it was the day the wife come out, proper weak she was, but when she saw “is nose— laugh? She nearly died a’laughing! Said a man of “is age ought a know better than look through keyholes, she did; ‘e didn’t arf give ‘er a look. “Ad it for weeks, that nose. Well, a week, anyway.”
“How long ago was this?” asked Rollison.
“Matter o’ three or four weeks,” said Percy. “The wife’ll know, got a memory for dates, she “as. Tell yer what,” added Percy, lowering his voice. “Nosey was at Malloy’s last night, he was, and so was Larry Bingham. About eight o’clock, it was—what time did I get ‘ere, Eddie?”
“About eight,” said Eddie.
“Then it musta been a bit before,” said Percy, “I see them both, I did, I said to myself, they’re up to a bit o’ no good, they are. You can always tell. When Larry got knocked off, was I surprised? No, sir, you ask the wife. I told ‘er, I said to ‘er, there’ll be trouble,
Liz, you mark my words, Larry’s been out-a work too long. No, I wasn’t surprised. Takes a lot to surprise me,” added Percy, darkly. “You’d be surprised at what I know—wouldn’t ‘e, Eddie?”
“S’right,” said Eddie.
“I take a man for what he is,” went on Percy, “never mind “is business so long as ‘e pays spot cash, no credit in my business, no more than there is in Eddie’s.” The thought amused him. “Well,” he said, when he had recovered, “does it ‘elp, Mr. Ar?”
“A great deal.” said Rollison, warmly. “Has Nosey been along this morning?”
“The wife never said so, and there ain’t much that misses the missus,” declared Percy, and went off into another paroxysm of laughter. “Malloy’s at ‘ome—” ad two telegrams, I can tell you that; I see the boy myself. If I knew what was in them telegrams,” added Percy, “I could tell you a lot, that’s a fact. Well I’d better get along, dinner’ll be waiting and the wife likes me to ‘ave it ‘or. Be seeing yer, Mr. Ar.”
“You’ll see me in ten minutes or so,” said Rollison, “I’m coming to have a word with Mr. Malloy.”
“Cor, lumme,” said Percy, “some people don’t arf like trouble, don’t they, Eddie? An’ some works fast, I will say that fer you, Mr. Ar, you don’t let the grass grow in the medder! Why don’t you come along o’ me, an’ meet the missus?”
“I don’t want you mixed up in this,” said Rollison.
“I dunno as I wants to be mixed up in it meself,” said Percy, frankly, “but I don’t mind lendin’ you a n’and. Come to think,” he said, “Malloy’s been ‘avin’ some posh visitors lately. Made “is wife mad, the wife says.”
Rollison said, quickly: “Women?”
“There was one skirt,” said Percy. “Little thing, wiv a nose aimin’ at the sky. You know. Snub. All lad-di-dah.” Percy raised his voice an octave. “Weally, Mrs. Malloy, I’m only a fwiend of your husband’s.” He laughed at himself, and added: “Only worse, Mr. Ar.”
“When was she last there?” asked Rollison, feeling quite sure that this visitor was Janice Armitage.
“S’matter of fact I think the wife said she was along there just before I come for me pint,” said Percy. “I was at the back an’ never see her. Tell yer what, Mr. Ar—if she’s there, I’ll be in the winder of my shop. Okay?”
“I’ll come five minutes after you,” said Rollison.
“Gimme ten,” said Percy, “I got to ‘ave me dinner. Then there was another skirt, I never see much of ‘er. Come arter dark an’ went aht arter dark.”
“Oh,” said Rollison, thoughtfully, and thought of Lady Lost. Percy could give no details except that he thought she had a fur coat.
“So long, thanks for the pint,” said Percy. He winked, offered his hand again and this time left it limp in Rollison’s, and then walked out.
A quarter of an hour later, Rollison followed him.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
MR. MALLOY
THE street where Percy Dann had his shop was long and narrow, with small houses on either side—one of long lines of drab terraces. Here and there a house was freshly painted, but the landlords of that particular street were not inclined to be generous with decorations.
Mr. Malloy lived in one of the houses which had been freshly painted. Next door, the paint from the shop was peeling off, the showcards in the window were brown with age and freely fly-spotted, a few cartons had fallen down and were covered in dust, and the window was still stuck with gummed paper as a protection against blast. Mr. Malloy’s windows, on the other hand, positively shone. The front doorstep, which was flush with the pavement, was freshly whitened, the brass letter-box and brass knocker, particular to that house, glistened in the sunlight. It looked an oasis of respectability in a slough of disrepute—but the police as well as Rollison knew that little else about Mr. Malloy was respectable.
No one knew exactly what he did for a living.
The police had never been able to take him to court, and although Rollison had heard vague rumours about him, he had never met the man; he had, however, seen him at a distance. He remembered a small, middle-aged man with sparse black hair heavily oiled and plastered over his cranium, showing little streaks of pink, a flabby face and a drooping moustache, also dark but streaked with grey.
As Rollison drew near the house, which was Number 91, he saw a figure at the window of the shop next door, and through the grime recognized Percy. At first he thought that Percy was beckoning him, but when the thin man waved his hand he decided that he was sending him away. That might mean that Janice had left, and suggested that Percy did not consider the moment ripe for a visit. Rollison motioned over his shoulder with his thumb, Percy shook his head vigorously and went through his former antics.
Then Rollison saw what he meant; he was weaving his forefinger about his nose; “Nosey” was inside.
Rollison beamed his thanks, and knocked heavily.
After a short pause a woman opened the door. She was dressed in dark blue, was neat and well made up, without being pretty or looking cheap. Narrowed blue eyes looked Rollison up and down, before she said:
“Good-morning.”
“Good-morning,” said Rollison. “I would like to see Mr. Malloy.”
“On what business?” she asked.
“Strictly private business,” said Rollison.
He is engaged.”
“Tell him to see me at once, or the police will be here within half an hour,” said Rollison.
The threat did not appear to frighten her, but it did make her narrow her eyes still more; they were curiously hooded, the lids thick and jutting out a little at each side of her eyes.
“You’d better come in,” she said.
She stood aside for Rollison to enter a narrow passage. A light was on above the stairs, otherwise the hall and narrow staircase would have looked dark. The walls were freshly distempered and the paint was fresh green—it reminded him of Phyllis Armitage at Leeming House. Hardly had the thought crossed his mind than the woman had passed him to enter a room on the right. Then he heard a familiar, feminine voice.
“I really don’t see what you mean.”
“Well, well!” murmured Rollison. “Sister Janice is on the scene again.” He could not hear what the woman said, but a man’s harsh voice was raised immediately afterwards.
“What is he like?”
The woman described Rollison so well that he silently congratulated her.
“Rollison!” exclaimed Pomeroy, his voice no longer soft and gentle.
“That b . . .” said Malloy.
“Why, that seems like Mr. Rollison!” declared Janice. She sounded greatly relieved.
“Be quiet, you little fool!” snapped Malloy. “Flo, take her next door.”
Janice exclaimed: “I won’t go next door!”
Her words were stopped abruptly; there was a sound which might have been the result of a blow across the face. Rollison turned the handle and flung the door open.
Half-way across the room, moving towards a door which presumably led to the back of the house, was Janice Armitage. Her neck was bent forward, her shoulders were against Malloy’s chest; he had his hands beneath her arm-pits and was dragging her with her heels sliding along the floor. The woman named Flo was opening the door, and Pomeroy was standing against a bookcase, looking thoroughly alarmed.
“Good-afternoon,” said Rollison. “How much is the entertainment tax?”
Malloy dropped the girl; her head struck his thighs, his shins and then the floor. He swung round on his heel, flinging words at Flo.
“Get out, fetch Mike, tell Barney”
Rollison said: “Stay here, forget Mike, ignore Barney.”
“Get going!” screamed Malloy.
The woman stood by the door, as if she were deliberately defying Malloy, whose flabby face was stained red. Pomeroy was still standing by the bookcase. He appeared to have recovered from the shock, and his right hand was moving slowly towards his pocket. Rollison s
aw a vase filled with artificial flowers on a table by his side. He picked up the vase and tossed it towards Pomeroy, saying:
“Catch!”
The man dodged to one side, and came nearer Rollison, who rounded the table, took Pomeroy’s right arm and held it high above his head, keeping the man on a stretch. He put his hand into the pocket and drew out an automatic, he dropped Pomeroy, who collapsed in a heap on the floor.
Malloy struck the woman across the face, a resounding blow which sent her reeling against the wall, and then he swung round on Rollison. He also had a gun. They appeared to level the guns at the same moment—and neither fired. For a moment there was silence, as if the room had become a vacuum. Then it was broken by a gasping sound from Pomeroy, who began to get to his feet.
“Sit down,” Rollison said to him, and Pomeroy collapsed into a chair. “Malloy, put that gun away.”
If Malloy decided to shoot, he was not likely to miss. Rollison watched his gun-hand, wondering if he could judge the moment when the finger moved on the trigger. Then he saw Flo, who had been leaning against the wall with her hands covering her face, peering between the fingers. She moved, startling him enough to make him swing round towards her, but she struck at Malloy’s arm and knocked the gun out of his grasp.
“You crazy fool !” she blazed.
Malloy, beside himself, turned on her. She struck out at at him, but before Rollison could reach the man he had caught her hair and pulled her towards him, forcing her down on her knees. Then Rollison struck Malloy on the side of the head with the butt of Pomeroy’s gun. Malloy did not even gasp. His fingers lost their grip, he staggered to one side and pitched down, lying across Janice’s legs.
“Aren’t we having a time?” said Rollison.
The woman was pushing the hair out of her eyes. She looked sullenly at Rollison and then at Malloy, and she was breathing heavily. Pomeroy was gasping for breath, as if the vicarious action had affected him. He was sitting like a little fat ball in a small armchair.
The woman said: “What do you want?”
