Hammer the Toff

by John Creasey

  Snub said: ‘Do you really want my opinion?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘The first thing that strikes me,’ said Snub, ‘and I expect it’s struck you too, is that we seem to be working on two separate cases. Bruce Drayton, Miss Lancaster and Horniman in one, the Hammer and Benson in the other. You’ve only got the Hammer’s word for it that Horniman and Benson were accomplices, haven’t you?’

  ‘A good point,’ admitted Rollison. ‘Yes.’

  ‘At one time it rather looked as if the Horniman faction were trying to make you believe that the Hammer was involved,’ said Snub, ‘and I’ve wondered whether— but it’s a bit crazy,’ he broke off, a little diffidently.

  ‘Let’s have it.’

  ‘Could the Hammer be trying to make you believe that Horniman and Benson were working together, so as to sidetrack you?’ asked Snub. ‘This philanthropy ploy is all very well, and you’ve seen the man and I haven’t, but it doesn’t really ring true. Not with me, at all events. It doesn’t seem feasible,’ he went on, with some embarrassment because Rollison was looking at him intently. ‘I don’t know that I believe in Robin Hoods, and that’s what the Hammer is trying to make himself out to be.’

  ‘Robin Hood up-to-date,’ Rollison murmured.

  ‘Even so, he hasn’t convinced me,’ persisted Snub,

  ‘He hasn’t entirely convinced me either,’ said Rollison thoughtfully. ‘Care for a job?

  ‘Out and about you mean?’

  ‘I doubt if the Hammer knows that you work for me,’ said Rollison, ‘and no one in the East End does, that’s reasonably certain. Turn yourself into a newspaper reporter, try to get in touch with Mrs Janet What’s-her-name …’

  ‘Piper.’

  ‘Janet Piper, and find out what you can,’ said Rollison. ‘Don’t try any sensational tricks, take it easily, and impress her with the fact that you’re a nice, helpful young man, all in favour of Robin Hood, new version. Try to get a feel of the situation, find out her general attitude towards it and drop one or two hints about blackmail and Horniman; they’re all mentioned in the Daily Cry, so there won’t be anything surprising in it. Do you think you can tackle it?’

  ‘Like a shot!’

  ‘And when you’ve finished with her, whether you have any luck or not, just wander about the East End, looking for a “story” on the Hammer. Try the pubs. You’ll learn more there than anywhere else. All I want is a composite picture of the East End reaction to it, whether it agrees with the Cry’s assessment of the situation or not. And don’t,’ added Rollison, ‘run yourself into any trouble.’

  Snub nodded, his eyes a little too innocent.

  ‘Oh, and while you’re there,’ Rollison continued, ‘visit the Lion and try to find out whether the Hammer’s popularity has gained ground, and whether mine has fallen sharply since last night. As far as Ebbutt and the others know, the police raid was a result of my visit. They may blame me. If they are thinking along those lines, I’ll go down there tonight.’

  ‘Right-ho,’ said Snub. ‘I don’t travel armed, I suppose?’

  ‘You do not! And don’t haunt the side-streets.’

  Snub went off, in great delight, leaving Jolly to talk over his latest suggestion.

  ‘As Mr Higginbottom said, sir, there doesn’t seem to be very much connection between the two crimes.’

  ‘But there must be, and the Hammer gave us a line. Mrs Willis was blackmailed, so was Ethel Kent. Are they going to blackmail Susan, I wonder?’ Rollison glanced at his watch. ‘It’s half-past ten. Does anything strike you as being unusual this morning, Jolly?’

  ‘I expected Mr Grice to call or telephone before this, sir.’

  ‘So did I,’ admitted Rollison. ‘I wonder if there is any suspicion that I helped the Hammer to get away? Barrow wasn’t exactly all over me last night.’

  Grice neither telephoned nor put in an appearance during the morning. No one from Scotland Yard called. Susan rang through to ask, rather dispiritedly, whether there was any news, and Rollison promised to see her during the afternoon. It was surprising how far removed from Bruce and Susan this case had become. He thought of Snub’s suggestion that he was deliberately being side-tracked. Could there be any truth in it? The confusion was so chaotic that it might well have been deliberately created. There was only the one, thin, connecting thread, and that had been put in his mind by the Hammer and the hapless Kent.

  Jolly brought lunch up from the restaurant.

  Rollison had nearly finished it when the telephone rang. The caller was Snub, his voice almost as dispirited as Susan’s had been.

  It appeared that he hadn’t been able to get anything at all out of Janet. There seemed to be more to it than that, but Rollison discerned a reluctance in Snub to tell him.

  It came out at last.

  ‘Well,’ said Snub, ‘it’s about you. Your name’s mud. I thought I’d better let you know. Every other person I speak to seems to think you made trouble for the Hammer, and it isn’t going to be easy to live down.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  End of a Reputation?

  Hostility was everywhere.

  Rollison made his trip to the East End a little after six o’clock that evening. He called at places where normally he would have been welcomed as exuberantly as he had been by Bill Ebbutt; instead, he had been met with thinly-veiled antagonism. At the Lion, Flatty slipped through the side door as Rollison went into the saloon bar, while Liz slapped a glass of beer on the counter in front of him and, when Rollison asked for Ebbutt, said coldly: ‘He’s out – to you.’ Yet he had distinctly heard Ebbutt’s voice booming from the inner room.

  The desire to see Ebbutt became an obsession. Rollison finished his beer and went to the door leading to the parlour. A powerful looking man blocked his path.

  ‘That’s private, mister.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Rollison. He felt a flare of annoyance, but forced himself not to show it. ‘All the same, I’m going in.’

  ‘You’re not’

  Rollison laid a hand on the other’s forearm. ‘I don’t want to make trouble,’ he said. For a moment their eyes met, and then the man shrugged his shoulders, and stood grudgingly aside.

  Rollison, pushing on, saw that Bill and three other men were sitting in earnest conclave about the central table. The room was gloomy, for it was nearly nine o’clock, and only one dim light burned. The three men with Bill Ebbutt pushed their chairs back and stared at Rollison, with that same silent hostility which he had met everywhere.

  Bill kept his seat.

  ‘You’ve jumped to conclusions, Bill, haven’t you?’ asked Rollison.

  ‘’Ave I?’ asked Ebbutt. There was no truculence, no real hostility in his voice. He looked weary. ‘I don’t fink so, Mr Roll’son. I know the facks,’ he went on, heavily. ‘I s’pose yer did wot yer thought was the right fing, but I told yer ’ow we stood wiv’ the ’Ammer.’

  Rollison said: ‘Bill, if it weren’t for me, the Hammer would now be at Cannon Row, and he would have been up before the beak this morning.’

  Ebbutt looked away from him. A man sniffed. The atmosphere of hostility worsened. Long ago, Rollison had dealt with such suspicion and scepticism as this, but he had not thought that the day would come when he would have to fight it again.

  One of the men said in a thin, accusing voice: ‘It ain’t no good, Roll’son, we know wot ’appened. Yer took the police to the ’Ammer. That’s good enough fer us. Why don’t you sling yer ’ook?’

  Another said: ‘If I was you, I wouldn’t stay arahnd after dark, it mightn’t be ’ealfy.’

  The third growled: ‘Scram!’

  Rollison pulled up a chair and sat down. Ebbutt looked at him steadily, but without respect. He glanced authoritatively at the others.

  ‘Leave ’im to me.’

  They went without arguing. Rollison wondered whether any of them would decide that the time was ripe to settle their account with him. There had always been a section
of this community which had disliked and feared him; and rumour could spread incredibly fast in the East End of Loudon. Only a few yards away was the gymnasium, where well-trained, powerful men gathered every night; and executed rough justice when it was considered necessary.

  Ebbutt put his hands flat on the table.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Yer don’t know ’ow sorry, Mr Roll’son, but facks is facks. You’ll be better off if yer keep away from this part’ve the world fer a bit. I’m sorry.’

  After a pause, Rollison said: ‘How long have you known me?’

  ‘Ten years, I s’spose. But—’

  ‘Twelve, Bill. That’s a long time.’

  ‘That makes it worse,’ declared Ebbutt, He leaned forward. ‘Yer’ve been away from us fer a long time, too, Mr Roll’son. I ain’t blamin’ you, but them’s facks, You ’aven’t bin inside the Lion for six munce or more. You’ve been in your own part’ve London, an’ that’s orl right by me. You’ve ’elped the police, an’ that’s orl right by me, too, but it don’t make yer welcome down ’ere. It’s ’appened before,’ he added, slowly. ‘You’ve become a policeman except for the uniform, Mr Roll’son. You don’t see fings the way you useter. Maybe the ’Ammer’s done a lot that ’e shouldn’t accordin’ to your way’ve thinkin’, but ’e’s done plenty’ve good too. I’m makin’ it simple,’ he added, ‘that’s the way it’s got to be. We don’t trust you any more Mr Roll’son. I’m sorry, but there it is. I’ll see nuthin’ ’appens to you tonight, I’ll make sure’ve that, but you would be arstin’ for trouble if you come dahn again.’ He got up, ponderously.

  It was so difficult to argue because the man’s mind was made up. In less than twenty-four hours the whole attitude had changed. Rollison knew the obstinacy of these people, he also knew how deeply loyal they could be. He could understand why the shock of the ‘discovery’ had affected them, but what surprised him was the fact that Ebbutt, of all people, had made up his mind so firmly.

  And then, quite without warning, Rollison laughed. He had to break through the surface of Ebbutt’s hostility, and suddenly it had come upon him that they expected the Toff to laugh. They would take seriousness to be an admission of guilt; an intention to try to justify himself.

  ‘All right, Bill,’ he said. ‘Have it your own way. Don’t worry about a protection squad. I’ll manage. But I’ll make one deal with you.’

  Ebbutt stared at him, uncomprehendingly, but puzzled now.

  ‘I shall expect a barrel of beer delivered to my flat on the day that you have to eat your words,’ said Rollison. ‘There isn’t any better beer in London. I’ll be seeing you,’ he touched the handle of the door, then, looking more serious, he asked: ‘Tell me one thing. Why are you so sure?’

  Ebbutt hesitated, then took a bulky wallet from his pocket. It was torn at the edges and letters and papers bulged out of it, but unerringly he selected one, and handed it to Rollison. It was a single sheet of paper, folded in three. Rollison opened it, his heart beating fast, and the first thing he saw was the rubber impression of a small hammer, in place of a signature.

  The words were typewritten; he remembered the typewriter on the Hammer’s desk.

  He read: ‘I don’t blame you, Ebbutt. Rollison nearly convinced me. But one of the police told J. that Rollison had tipped them off.’

  He read it again, trying to decide how best to make Ebbutt doubt the truth of it. A direct denial would be useless, J – for Janet Piper – was obviously as well known and trusted as the Hammer himself.

  His smile had not disappeared while he read. Now, he pushed the paper into Ebbutt’s hand, and shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I see. I could have a hundred rubber-stamps made like that in twenty-four hours, Bill. It’s a mistake to take everything for granted.’

  He opened the door and went into the saloon bar.

  Chatter and laughter filled the crowded room. The blue haze of tobacco smoke was so thick that he could hardly see half a dozen yards before him. But he did not need to see; a silence fell. Hostile stares came from some, while others averted their gaze. The whole thing appeared to be spontaneous, but it could have been organised.

  Rollison pushed his way to the opposite door, while Ebbutt stood behind him, watching. Then someone flung a glass. It smashed against the lintel, and pieces fell about Rollison’s shoulders. Ebbutt roared: ‘None o’ that!’ Rollison opened the door, looked round and laughed.

  ‘Don’t forget, Bill – a barrel of beer on the day you eat your words,’

  Outside the gymnasium, in the dimly-lit side street, he saw a little group of men, standing motionless. At sight of him two or three of them moved. He wondered whether they would attack, for he sensed hatred as well as hostility here, and the impression that it had been carefully and cleverly organised grew apace. He took half a dozen steps towards the brighter lights of the Mile End Road, and then abruptly turned. A man had been creeping up to him; he wondered whether his fist held a cosh or a knuckle-duster. He pushed the fellow aside, and walked towards the darker end of the street, briskly but without hurrying. In the doorway of the gymnasium, he recognised Flatty and others who once would have called out a cheerful greeting. All were silent.

  He walked on.

  Ebbutt came running up, calling out his name. He drew alongside.

  ‘Don’t arst for trouble, Mr Roll’son.’

  ‘If it really comes to it,’ said Rollison, ‘I can still give as good as I get. I’m going to see Janet Piper.’

  ‘You’re crazy!’

  ‘There are plenty of people here to stop me,’ said Rollison, cheerfully, ‘if they really don’t want me to go, let them get to work.’

  He walked on. Furtive, shadowy figures followed, but Rollison did not look around. If they once thought that he was frightened of them, they might attack; and the meaner spirits, or those who had never really believed in the Toff, might attack in any case. At all costs he must show a fearless front. He reached the end of the street and turned right. Soon he was in the rabbit warren of lanes and alleys and side-streets where the children had led him the night before. Now that he knew the address, he knew how to get there. Although his footsteps rang out on the pavements, he was listening intently, sometimes wishing that he had brought rubber shoes, so that he could judge to a nicety whether anyone was close behind him.

  At each corner, he glanced round; each time he passed beneath a lighted lamp, he stiffened, half-expecting a knife to be slung at him out of the darkness.

  He reached the end of Milch Street.

  There was a brighter light there; he thought perhaps the police had arranged that, and were watching the Hammer’s house in the hope that it would have callers. The danger ought to be less by now, but he would still have to run the gauntlet when he left.

  He turned the corner.

  Something whizzed through the air. Then it crashed against the wall of a house: a knife, broken by the impact with the brick. He neither flinched nor looked round.

  The police were not here, or they would have shown themselves by now.

  He reached Number 27, and lifting the brass knocker, brought it down with a resounding thwack. There was no immediate response, but soon he heard brisk footsteps inside. The door opened and, outlined against the light from a room at the end of the passage, stood Janet Piper.

  ‘Who is it?’ she asked, staring out into the street; and then her expression altered, and she exclaimed: ‘You!’ She backed away and slammed the door to, but Rollison thrust his foot forward and it swung back on her.

  ‘Reward for past services?’ asked Rollison, lightly. Her reaction had lessened his nervous tension. ‘That’s hard, Janet.’

  ‘Hard!’ she breathed. ‘You have a nerve to come here after last night!’

  ‘Do you really remember last night?’

  ‘You took me in then,’ she said, tensely, ‘but I am not going to be fooled again.’

  ‘But you are being fooled,’ said Rollison. ‘All the time you malign me you�
��re being fooled, Janet, the problem is, who by? Not the Hammer, I hope, but certainly by someone.’

  ‘Thanks to you,’ she said, in a trembling voice, ‘hundreds of people who were getting help from—from the Hammer will now get none at all. That ought to make you feel proud. It would have been bad enough had someone else cheated him, but he trusted you. No one else has ever seen him without his mask.’

  Rollison said: ‘He came to see me last night, after Benson had been killed.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard from him. He knows you betrayed him.’

  Had she really received a message from the Hammer, or from this other shadowy masquerader? Rollison wanted to believe that someone else had sent it, tricking her as to its authenticity, but it was difficult. The facts were simple. Rollison had told the Hammer not to expect too much help; and the Hammer, quick to sense danger, had changed his methods.

  Yet the man need not have appeared to Rollison without his mask.

  ‘It doesn’t add up,’ Rollison said, aloud.

  ‘It adds up all right,’ said Janet. ‘Move your foot.’

  ‘You know that the Hammer will be blamed for Benson’s murder, don’t you?’ asked Rollison.

  ‘He’s killed no one,’ said Janet. ‘Move your foot!’

  Rollison kept it there. Had the Hammer killed Benson? It seemed so clear: he had left Milch Street, gone to the Hammer Club, committed his crime and then come to see Rollison; yes, it seemed clear, but why had he also allowed Jolly to see his face?

  There was another thing. As he stood there, with the light shining full on him, facing Janet’s set lips and angry eyes, Rollison thought of Benson. He had been a danger to the Hammer, it seemed likely that he had impersonated the Hammer. As he was dead, he could not have sent that note.

  Was there someone else, still unknown?

  Or was the Hammer a Jekyll and Hyde?

  Janet attempted to bang the door again. Rollison laughed.

  ‘All right, I’ll go,’ he said, ‘but tell me one thing: did the police tell you that I had tipped them off last night?’