The Toff and the Fallen Angels

by John Creasey

  ‘I was half-afraid you wouldn’t get here,’ she said, gripping tightly. ‘Are you all right?’ She searched his face. ‘Don’t look so innocent!’ she cried. ‘You were nearly blown up, weren’t you?’

  ‘That story’s got around, has it?’ Rollison said, and laughed. ‘Yes, I survived. I’m afraid the car I’m now using isn’t big enough to put your motor scooter in the boot.’

  ‘I’ll leave it here,’ she said, and they turned and walked back to Jolly’s battered Austin. She appeared not to notice its age and condition. ‘You’re going to get a front page headline in The Globe, and probably in other papers, too.’

  ‘I don’t deserve it,’ Rollison said. ‘Will it also be connected with Slatter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I hope to heaven I’ve done the right thing.’

  ‘Let me be the judge of that,’ said Gwendoline primly. ‘Off the record.’

  He told her what he expected and had asked, and added as he drove along Commercial Road: ‘The police are already watching Smith Hall in strength, but they will probably be recognised, and I want some strong-arm men who won’t be. Have you ever heard of the Blue Dog?’

  ‘In Wapping? Or is it Whitechapel?’

  ‘Whitechapel,’ Rollison said. ‘So you’ve heard of it.’ He turned two corners, and on the next was a public house, the woodwork painted bright blue, and the inn sign yellow with a blue-painted mongrel. Several people went in and two came out as they passed. Rollison turned this corner, and on the left was a big wooden building, over the front of which ran the legend: Ebbutt’s Gym. Some elderly men and a few youths stood about, the youths sparring. Rollison pulled up near the entrance, and a man called: ‘Lumme! It’s Mr Ar!’

  ‘Where’s Bill?’ called Rollison.

  ‘In the pub, Mr Ar!’

  Rollison was giving Gwendoline Fell a hand.

  ‘Ask him if he can spare me a few minutes here,’ said Rollison.

  ‘Sure will, Mr Ar!’ The man, small and with a nutcracker face, hurried towards the back of the Blue Dog. The youths stopped sparring, and stared with great interest at the Toff and his companion. The door of the gymnasium was open and the sound of leather on leather came clearly. Rollison pushed aside a canvas flap, remarking for all to hear: ‘I’m bringing in a lady.’

  ‘S’okay,’ said another smaller man in a white polo- necked sweater. ‘Always welcome, Mr Ar, with or without!’ He beamed welcome at Gwendoline with a grin stretching from cauliflower ear to cauliflower ear.

  The gymnasium was much bigger than it looked from outside. There were two boxing rings, both occupied by youngsters, half a dozen men gathered around each. The walls were fitted with parallel bars, there were vaulting horses and punch balls, everything, in fact, needed for training in a modern gymnasium. Over in one corner was a small office, partitioned off. In another was a door marked ‘Showers’. The doorkeeper hovered near as Rollison explained.

  ‘Bill Ebbutt, who owns this and runs the pub next door, used to be a heavyweight,’ Rollison began.

  ‘And a bloody good un, too,’ interpolated the doorman.

  ‘And he trains promising youngsters for nothing or next-to-nothing,’ said Rollison.

  ‘Picks the good uns, too,’ whispered the doorman.

  ‘And a lot of old professionals come in and help with the training. It’s really a kind of club.’

  ‘And a good un, too,’ repeated the doorman. Then his voice rose: ‘Here’s Bill,’ he announced with obvious pride, and waved a hand in greeting as Bill Ebbutt came in.

  Ebbutt was huge, baldheaded, treble-chinned and wheezy of breath. He wore an enormous polo-necked sweater of a heather mixture wool; knitting it must have been a year’s labour of love. So big was his jowl and so comparatively small his head that he looked rather like one pear reared upon another. His eyes, deeply buried, were a bright, periwinkle blue.

  ‘Cor lumme, Mr Ar, you’re a sight for sore eyes.’ He engulfed Rollison’s hand. ‘Glad to see you, always will be, who’s your lady friend?’ He towered above Gwendoline, who looked up at him with barely concealed amazement.

  ‘Miss Gwendoline Fell,’ said Rollison.

  ‘Glad to meetcha, Miss Fell, any friend of Mr Rollison’s—’ he extended a vast hand, but before he took Gwendoline’s a change came over his expression, and almost in a whisper, he said: ‘Not the bitch who writes in The Globe?’ He raised both hands in an onslaught of horror. ‘I never ought to ‘ave said that, I’m sorry, I—’

  ‘Very well put, Mr Ebbutt,’ said Gwendoline calmly. ‘That’s what at least half a million readers think of me.’ She beamed up at him. ‘I don’t mind what I say about them, so why should I mind what they say about me?’

  ‘I daresay,’ said Bill, still abashed. ‘All the same, I never ought to say things like that to a guest. Here! Not come to do a story about me and my boys, have you? I dunno that I want—’

  ‘I just wanted her to know I’m not the nincompoop I sometimes look,’ said Rollison. ‘Can we go into the office?’ They crowded in, while sparring and the vaulting, the punching and the jumping continued. ‘Bill,’ went on Rollison, ‘I need about two dozen of your boys for a job which could be very nasty.’ He explained, wasting no words, obviously confident that Bill Ebbutt did not need telling anything twice.

  ‘I get the picture,’ Ebbutt said. ‘If anyone does lay on a kind of all-out attack, you don’t want to be caught napping. What do you really want, Mr Ar? One man for one girl? Only way to make sure they get absolute protection.’

  ‘If you can manage to find twenty-two—’

  ‘Cor, bless you, there’s so much short time and redundancy I could do fifty! Get ‘em over there asking for jobs, no one will be surprised. Ok, Mr Ar, you leave it to me. The flipping coppers - beg your pardon, Miss - are the first line of attack, we stand by to pick up the pieces. I’ll go over and spy out the land after the pub’s closed. Now, how about coming across to the Blue Dog for a couple, Mr Ar? And you, Miss - it’ll be a kindness, to prove you’ve no hard feelings.’

  ‘Rolly,’ said Gwendoline Fell, some time later, ‘I like your friends very much, and they certainly like you. Perhaps I was a little hasty when I first talked to you. I think I’ve reformed.’

  ‘I don’t mind you reforming, providing you don’t blame me for it,’ said Rollison. ‘I can’t wait to read your column in the morning.’

  ‘If you care to come to Fleet Street, you could see some early editions now,’ said Gwendoline.

  ‘Nothing I’d like more,’ said Rollison. ‘But I’ve an appointment I mustn’t miss. Show an unnatural restraint, Gwendoline - and don’t follow me.’

  As far as he could judge he was not followed by her or by anyone else on his way to break into Sir Douglas Slatter’s house. He called Jolly from a call box and made sure Angela hadn’t telephoned; so she had Guy Slatter out somewhere in the West End.

  And the big house should be empty, although the police were nearby.

  Chapter 18

  BURGLARY

  Rollison drove past both houses. There were two police cars, and policemen were to be seen patrolling the grounds. The front porch of Number 29 was brightly lit and there was a light on in an upstairs room. Rollison parked not far from the spot where he had left his car that afternoon, and walked by a roundabout route across Bloomdale Square towards the back of the house. There were bright lights at Smith Hall, in spite of the fact that it was midnight, but only one light glowed at the back of Slatter’s house, and he judged it to be on a landing.

  The police were not watching Slatter’s; their fears were for the residents of Smith Hall.

  Rollison went to the back door of Number 29, and tried the handle; the door yielded, so Angela had done her job.

  An inside door was open and a dim light showed. He slipped inside, closed the outer door an
d entered a large kitchen which led to the passage alongside the stairs. Landing and hall lights were fully on. He opened the doors of the main downstairs rooms, satisfied himself that they were empty, then went upstairs. All landing lights were on, but the house was absolutely silent. He went into the first bedroom he came to. Obviously occupied, a man’s clothes were everywhere, on the bed and on the floor; the door of a bathroom, leading off, was open and water dripped from a shower.

  Rollison opened cupboards and drawers until he came to one which was locked. He forced this, without difficulty. His eye lighted on a bundle of letters addressed to Guy Slatter.

  Love letters?

  He opened two, and each was on the same theme. Both of them were from dead Winifred de Vaux, stating simply that Guy was the father of her child. They went further, and stated with some bitterness that this had happened before to other, many other, unfortunate girls, all of whose illegitimate children Guy had fathered.

  Very thoughtful, Rollison went out, leaving the door ajar. He entered a room opposite.

  This was obviously Sir Douglas Slatter’s room. There was a huge Victorian wardrobe, of some dark, highly polished wood, a dressing table and chest of drawers of the same suite. The wardrobe was where the stockings and gloves had been hidden. Rollison saw a photograph on the dressing chest, of young Guy taken a few years ago. The likeness between the two men had been quite remarkable, even then. By it was a smaller picture - of Naomi Smith.

  Rollison left the door ajar, and began to search.

  He found the drawer where the stockings had been kept; Angela had left one behind. In another, immediately above it, were ordinary clothes and underwear. Beneath a hanging section were several pairs of shoes, and Rollison took each pair out and examined it.

  On one, were mud stains and splashes; the kind of marks there would quite likely be on the shoes of a man who had run over muddy ground - as Naomi’s attacker had run. Rollison put these back, and then looked through the clothes. There was a pair of flannels with mud splashes at the turn-ups, some nearly as high as the knees.

  He was putting these back when he heard a sudden furious blaring of horns, not just one or two, but half a dozen on different notes. He heard voices, too; shouting and whistling. He went to the window, keeping close to the side, and looked down into the street. A convoy of cars, eight or nine of them, was pulled up in the road, blocking all the traffic in each direction, and youths poured out of them, heading for Smith Hall.

  For an awful moment he was afraid the large scale attack he had half-feared had come before Ebbutt’s men were here to help. Four policemen appeared in a solid line, blocking the gateway, but three youths rushed into Slatter’s drive, and vaulted the wall. They did not go to the front door, but hurled stones at the side door and the windows of Smith Hall, while the honking and bellowing and whistling grew worse.

  Rollison ran out of the room, down the stairs to the back door, and saw the youths already on the run; two scared girls were standing at one window, which had a big hole in the middle. Cars snorted and moved off, tyres screeching. From the corner he could see two policemen grappling with some of the youths, who broke away and rushed towards the last car, which was already moving. A man leaned out to drag the youths in, as the cars swung round the corner, engines roaring.

  Slowly, silence settled.

  Very clearly, a girl’s voice sounded: ‘I can’t stand it, I just can’t stand any more!’

  It was Judy Lyons.

  Someone began to soothe her, someone else called out: ‘Nor can I.’

  The sound of Naomi’s voice followed, calm and clear despite the ugly incident.

  ‘Is anyone hurt? I want to know at once - is anyone hurt?’

  No one had been hurt, it seemed, but Judy was still sobbing, her wails low, persistent and hopeless. Rollison withdrew cautiously. The noise of the invasion had died away, even the distant sound of racing engines had gone. Policemen were talking, and police cars had appeared. One man began to report what had happened as the newcomers drew near and inspected the damage to the windows.

  Rollison went back into Slatter’s house, and hurried up the stairs. As he reached the main bedroom, it occurred to him that he was using the house almost as if it were his own. He crossed to the photographs and studied them, then tried all the drawers in the room. None were locked. He went across to the study, and saw flashlights down below, heard voices through the window. But hardboard had been placed across the broken pane, there was no danger of him being seen if he were careful. He took a pencil-slim torch from his pocket, twisted the top so that it spread a glow of diffused light, then sat in Slatter’s chair and tried the drawers.

  The top one was open and the keys were in it. Angela certainly made burglary easy. He paused for a moment, feeling a natural reluctance to intrude on another man’s privacy; and then he thought of the girls next door, and of all that had happened, and he opened drawer after drawer without compunction, looking through account books and papers. The more he read, the more he realised Slatter’s great wealth, and he spent five minutes poring over one book, obviously kept by Slatter himself, for many years. This was a record of houses and land bought and sold over a long period.

  Oct. 10th, 192.. Bought 21 Padfield Road, Fulham, SW6 £399

  Total outgoings over 40 years £1,070

  Total income from rents over 40 years £4,180

  Sold, Oct. 1st, 196.. at a price of £5,550

  On the opposite page were details of tenants and repairs, and general details about the house, offers of purchase and the amounts involved.

  This book had a hundred and twenty entries, of houses which Slatter had bought and sold in nearly every part of London. There was a similar book which covered properties in the SW1, W1 and the WC1, and WC2 areas - at least as many properties, some of them costing a hundred thousand pounds and all sold for at least ten times the purchase price after yielding a substantial income for twenty or more years.

  It was easy to think of old Slatter sitting in this very chair and making the entries carefully, with an old- fashioned J-type nib.

  Then Rollison came upon a small book, which covered the properties in Bloomdale Street and other streets nearby. Slatter had once owned a whole block of forty- four houses, but had sold them over the years until now he owned only two - this one and the house next door. On the entry for this house was a cryptic:

  Offered £45,000 by Bensoni and Tilford . . . refused.

  And on the pages covering the house next door, Smith Hall, was a similar entry:

  Offered £45,000 by Bensoni and Tilford . . . refused.

  Both entries had been made only two weeks ago.

  Rollison was sitting back, studying these entries and comparing them, recalling all he could of the firm of Bensoni and Tilford, one of the biggest housing and construction companies in Britain, when he heard a giggle. There was no mistaking it - a girl was approaching up the stairs, giggling. Almost at once a man said in a harsh whisper: ‘Be quiet! There’s someone here!’

  That was Guy Slatter, and he could not be more than ten yards from the open door of the room. But for Angela’s warning giggle, Rollison might have been caught red-handed at the desk.

  He did not even push the drawer in, but stood up swiftly and tiptoed towards the door. There was another giggle, much more subdued, from Angela. By then he was standing at the wall alongside the door. He heard a footfall, saw a shadow - and it was remarkably like the shadow which he had seen outside the house next door on the previous night.

  Very cautiously, Guy Slatter appeared.

  He looked across at the desk, and there was enough light for him to see that the drawers were open and books cluttered the desk. The sight made Guy stride into the room, and as he passed, Rollison struck a chopping blow on the back of his neck - the kind of blow that could kill. Guy staggered forward a few paces, then c
rumpled up.

  Angela appeared almost instantly in the doorway, staring as if dumbstruck at the untidy heap on the floor.

  Rollison moved to Guy, bent down, and felt his pulse. It was beating, but he was out cold, and was likely to be for several minutes. Rollison went to the desk and put the book covering this property back into the drawer, placing it beneath the one which was already there, as if the burglar had not had time to inspect that before being disturbed. Angela hadn’t moved when Rollison reached her. He put an arm round her waist and hustled her into the passage.

  ‘What brought you back?’ he demanded.

  ‘Guy decided he liked me much better at home. Rolly, I tried to keep him away, but—’

  ‘Did he give any special reason?’

  ‘No. No, I don’t think so—’

  ‘Angela, my poppet, I think you’d better come with me,’ said Rollison. ‘You can tell me everything on the way.’

  Angela hesitated, and then said: ‘I rather like him, Rolly, but I think perhaps you’re right. Did you get what you came for?’ They were already hurrying down the stairs.

  ‘I think so,’ Rollison answered.

  ‘Don’t I qualify for the CID?’ Angela demanded.

  ‘You certainly collected the evidence,’ Rollison said. They went out the back way and walked in the opposite direction to Smith Hall. No one appeared to notice them leaving the grounds by the narrow tradesmen’s entrance. ‘What did happen?’