by John Creasey
A Number 11 bus came along.
He got on.
Two girls, an elderly couple, a coloured man and a tall, massive man in brown also got on. Jim went upstairs; the man in brown went inside, and sat near the door.
The journey to Sloane Square allowed time for smoking a cigarette and a half. Jim stubbed out the half as he got up, clambered down the stairs, and stepped off; just ahead of him was the tall man in the brown suit, who had also jumped up in a hurry, as if he had only just realised that this was his stopping place.
It was ten minutes’ walk to Middleton Street, which was off the main road, and Jim stepped out more briskly. He noticed the massive man in brown some way ahead of him, then saw the man slow down to look into a shop window, and let him pass. It did not occur to him that the man was virtually his shadow. Even when the other turned down Middleton Street in his wake, Jim took no notice.
He reached Number 24 a little after a quarter past seven, and pressed the bell although he had his key in his hand; Mrs. Blake liked him to ring, so that she knew who had come in. She would be approaching from the kitchen doorway as he opened the door, with her pleasant welcome, and her invariable:
“I expect you’re starved, I’ll soon have something ready for you. Just go up and have a little wash.”
He would go up . . .
He opened the door with his key, and was surprised because there was no movement from the kitchen, and only silence in the house.
If she was going to be out, Mrs. Blake usually told him before he left in the morning; she was remarkably a creature of habit, and since she had acquired a television set, had seldom gone out in the evening.
Ah. It was later than usual, and the television was on. Jim grinned to himself, but a moment later decided that he was wrong; he would have heard voices or music, had that been the case.
He called out: “You home, Mrs. Blake?” There was no answer.
* * *
Had he gone upstairs then, as he usually did, and into his front room bed-sitter, he would probably have looked out of the window, and seen the tall man in brown meet the small man in the neat grey suit and the trilby pulled over one eye; but instead, he went along to the kitchen.
* * *
The television set, in a corner, was as blank as an empty window. The large kitchen was scrupulously clean and tidy, there was a green chenille table cloth over the large deal table, the wooden chairs were all varnished; and there was an appetising smell coming from the stove. On the dark green cloth was a note:
The telly’s out of order so I’ve popped next door to see the play, dinner’s in the oven and help yourself to anything you feel like. Mrs. B. There are some of those new rock cakes you like in the big red tin in the larder.
Jim grinned.
He raided the larder, helped himself to Mrs. Blake’s rock cakes, which were the perfection of simple baking, then went upstairs. He strolled to the window, as he nearly always did, partly because if there were any letters for him he would find them on the table in the window. There was none. He looked out. Across the road, walking briskly, was a little man whom he did not remember having seen before; the little man glanced up, almost as if he was aware of being watched, but quickly looked down again, and went straight on.
Jim took off his coat and hung it on the back of a chair, went into the bathroom, washed, and began to whistle to himself. He was feeling a little less glum, and the cake had whetted his appetite. Still whistling, he hurried down the stairs. He was surprised by his return to cheerfulness, and dryly inferred that his feeling for Evelyn could not go really deep. He took the meal out of the oven, an ample one obviously served at lunch-time. It was very hot, and he winced when his thumb caught the side of the dish. The gravy had dried to dark brown round the edge, but when he took the vegetable dish lid off, steam rose up in a cloud; yet it did not look dry.
He put it on the wooden mat which Mrs. Blake had provided, and began to eat, cautiously at first. He propped up the newspaper against a pot of jam, and glanced through the headlines which he had already seen that morning; the international news was so-so, the home news was of further crises. Cheerful world!
He was halfway through, and eating more quickly because the food had cooled, when there was a ring at the front door.
“Oh, damn,” he said mildly, and pushed his chair back and went along, dabbing at his lips with his table-napkin, which he dropped on to the hall-stand. He could see the shadow of a girl behind the two glass panels set in the upper part of the door, and wondered if Mrs. Blake had left her key, and had come to see if he was in.
He opened the door.
A girl he had never seen before said: “Good evening.”
She had a slightly Cockney voice and an ingratiating manner, and a smile he didn’t much like. She was made up more than most, which spoiled rather than improved a kind of everyday prettiness. She wore a red hat and a pink coat, a clash which even Jim didn’t fail to notice.
“Good evening,” he said.
“Is Betty Driver in, please?”
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I’m afraid you have the wrong house, no Betty Driver lives here.”
“Oh,” she said, and her face dropped and she looked younger and woebegone. Then she backed away and looked up at the number painted on the fanlight, a clear, black 24 in letters six inches high. She looked back at him. “This is number 24, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes, but I assure you—”
“But she must live here, she told me she did!”
Jim would have laughed, but for that little look of dismay and distress. There was no one named Driver here, and he was quite sure that Mrs. Blake would not have taken another lodger without first telling him.
“I’m awfully sorry.”
“But—but it’s absurd, she told me.”
“I’m sorry,” Jim repeated more briskly, “but Mr. and Mrs. Blake live here, and neither of them is in just now. I’m the only other occupant of 24 Middleton Street, and my name isn’t Driver, it’s Jones.”
“Jones?” She seemed to breathe her disbelief into the name.
“James Matthison Jones,” he repeated firmly. “I’m sorry I can’t help you.”
“Oh, well,” she said, as if she wasn’t really convinced. “Well—oh, well, all right, I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
“It’s no bother,” Jim said, and waited until she had turned away and was on the pavement, before he closed the door. He gave a mirthless kind of laugh as he went back to the kitchen, sat down and discovered that he’d forgotten the table-napkin, and decided to make do without it. The food which had been so hot was now almost too cold, but he finished it, and pulled a dish of apples and custard towards him. He was weighing into the rock cakes again when there was another ring at the front door bell.
“Well, this is a night for callers,” he said, and went along quickly. It crossed through his mind that the girl might have come back, but the shadow against the glass was of a tall man.
He opened the door.
He recognised the massive man who had been on the bus, had first gone ahead and later turned the corner behind him, but he did not think beyond that; there was no outward cause for fear.
“Good evening,” he said.
“Your name Jones?”
“Yes.”
Jim had never seen anyone move more quickly. The man shot out a fist and thumped him on the nose. The blow sent him staggering, and the pain brought tears flooding to his eyes. He banged up against the wall. He heard the door slam, and could just make out the figure of the tall man, blurred through those tears. He put up clenched fists and struck out, but it was like striking a whirlwind. He felt a cruel blow at the side of his jaw, pain which no ordinary knuckles could have caused streaked through his cheek and head. He took another blow on the chest, so fierce and savage that he cried out.
Gasping and struggling, he tried to back away. The misty blur in front of his eyes was tinged red, and he felt as if every breath was tear
ing him apart. Then one blow smacked his head against the wall so heavily that he grunted, and lost consciousness.
He slumped down.
The tall man, who was breathing evenly and whose trilby was still firmly on his head, bent down and dragged him to one side, then opened the door. The little man was on the pavement, and he came hurrying in.
The door closed.
The little man looked down and said: “You’ve made a mess of him all right.”
“Go and lock the back door, too,” the massive man said. “We don’t want to be interrupted, do we?” He did not even glance at the unconscious man behind the door, but worked a brass knuckle duster off his right hand, smearing knuckles and fingers with blood as he did so.
The little man came back.
“Door’s locked,” he announced. “And Milly will ring the bell if anyone comes.”
“Okay, let’s get a move on,” the other said. “We’ll have a quick look round first, and then we’ll make it look as if they’ve had a visit from an atom bomb.”
As he spoke, he grinned, and the grin was not nice to see.
And outside, the girl who had come to find whether Jim Jones was alone in the house sat waiting for them in a small car.
CHAPTER THREE
Visitor For The Toff
The Honourable Richard Rollison, known to so many as the Toff, and who much preferred to be known as plain Mr. Rollison, read about the attack on James Matthison Jones in the newspaper the next morning, together with a number of other reports from the twentieth-century world of peace and goodwill. An old lady had been beaten up in her shop and robbed of three pounds ten shillings, seven youths had set upon one youth and his girl in a cinema, and the youth and the girl were in hospital—as was the man named Jones. There were other crimes of violence, both in London and nearby, and one or two stories of little incidents in Glasgow did not exactly brighten the morning’s newspapers.
He was at breakfast.
It was ten o’clock.
His worst friend must have admitted that he looked remarkably clear-eyed and clear-skinned for a man of forty-ish who had not come home until half past three; and they would also have admitted that whenever a woman called him handsome, the woman was right. It was a casual handsomeness at this moment, for although he had not shaved he had bathed. His hair was damp and curling more than usual and, if the truth were told, looking a little more grey at the sides than of yore. He read without glasses, and ate bacon and eggs and then toast and marmalade with the single-minded attention of the true English trencherman to whom breakfast was the foundation of a successful day.
Jolly, his man, came in from the kitchen with freshly made coffee. Some said that Jolly had obtained his post because in his far-off youthful days, Rollison had indulged a naive sense of humour, and Jolly had rhymed with Rolly. Whatever the truth of that, Jolly was now twenty-one years older. In those twenty-one years this flat, at Gresham Terrace in the heart of Mayfair, had seen some remarkable sights. It had also received some astounding visitors, many of them young and lovely, and had been redecorated five times, the last twelve months ago. The large walnut desk which seemed to fill one side of the room had not been changed; most of the pictures were old friends of the Toff and of Jolly, too, but the most remarkable thing that had happened in those twenty-one years was visible on the Trophy Wall.
This wall, behind the desk, was like a Black Museum from some unchronicled Scotland Yard. Here were all the exhibits the police could ever expect to find in trials of murder and general wickedness, and a few that no one would expect. For instance, the nylon stocking with a run sealed by nail varnish; and the chicken feathers, and the top hat with a bullet hole in the crown. Most of the trophies were lethal weapons, however, ranging from automatic pistols to knives, and poisons, and the piece de resistance was a hangman’s rope. The knowledgeable whispered that this had really hanged a man: when asked, the Toff always said of course it had, he kept nothing synthetic here.
Each trophy was from a case on which he had worked; some, from cases on which he had nearly died. A few came from investigations where he had actually worked with the approval and the blessing of the police. Most of these were of recent date, for either the Toff or the police had mellowed, and he had always had one supporter at the Yard, in Superintendent William Grice.
Superintendent Grice, according to three of the five newspapers which Rollison glanced through, was in charge of the investigation into the attack on James Matthison Jones at 24 Middleton Street, S.W.
Jolly poured out coffee while Rollison read, and turned to leave, silent as any wraith. When he was at the door, Rollison murmured:
“Jolly.”
“Sir?”
“How are you this morning?”
“Very well, sir, thank you.”
“Good. Mind working?”
Jolly, coffee pot in hand, turned back to the breakfast table, which stood in a window alcove, overlooking other houses and other flats; the street window was on the other side of the room.
“As far as I know, sir.” He was cautious. “Read the newspapers?”
“I have perused them lightly, sir.”
“You mean you’ve read every line under the heading of crime. What strikes you as being odd?”
“Mr. Grice being engaged on the matter of the assault at Middleton Street,” Jolly answered promptly.
“Why is that odd?”
“One would have expected the Divisional police to deal with such a matter, sir, not Scotland Yard, and certainly not a senior Superintendent.”
“You couldn’t be more right,” agreed Rollison, and pushed his chair back and took cigarettes from his dressing gown pocket. “Jolly,” he went on, “I have a confession to make. I have been dreaming beautiful dreams. I am tired of the sordidness of the Big Smoke or the Great Metropolis, whichever you prefer to call it. I long for the freshness of unsullied crimes, where young men do not get bashed over the head and old women are not murdered for a few bob a time, and gangs of hooligans do not set upon a boy and girl, simply because the boy, once one of them, has fallen in love with the girl. I do not think that I am greatly taken by this modern age, Jolly, particularly on a morning like this. Is it my imagination, or is London much, much worse than it was?”
Jolly kept a rigidly straight face except for the movement of his lips.
“It is your imagination, sir.”
Rollison eyed him thoughtfully, and then said: “Oh, is it? For that you may spend today looking out the newspapers of the—what date is it?”
“May the seventeenth, sir.”
“May the seventeenth of each of the last twenty-one years. We’ll have the Globe, the Wire, the Sun-Record and The Times, just to get a balanced view, and we shall count the number of new crimes reported on each day of each year. You may go to the newspaper offices in person.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Jolly. “Would you like more coffee?”
“Please.”
Jolly poured.
“Will you excuse me now, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, sir. May I ask whether you have read this morning’s newspapers?”
This time, Rollison was silently speculative for a long time. So far neither master nor man had allowed himself to smile, each remaining quite poker-faced. Whenever they played a game like this, it was seldom that either relaxed. Rollison studied Jolly, with the sorrowful-looking brown eyes, the rather wrinkled skin, the scragginess under the chin which suggested that he had once been fat but had recently wasted away. Jolly’s lips were sensitive, and although there was a kind of dyspeptic look about him, his was a face that most people liked.
“Yes,” said Rollison at last. “I have perused the newspapers.”
“Did you observe the name of the employer of the man, Jones?”
Slowly and as if painfully, Rollison said: “No.”
“I imagined that had escaped your notice,” said Jolly, magnificently bland. “In the Globe, sir, it states t
hat Jones worked for Jepsons. Possibly only the Globe carried that piece of information, because Jepsons own many shares in the Globe.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Rollison, and did relax and chuckle. “All right, your game, Jolly. The chap works for Jepsons. Where do we go from here?”
“I have no idea, sir.”
“Except that if the Jepsons have a problem they’ll probably bring it to us,” said Rollison, and stubbed out his cigarette. “Do we need to labour for our pieces of gold?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How much in the kitty?”
“Sufficient, sir, but a wise man—”
“Sets some aside for a rainy day. I know. No holiday in distant climes where there’s no time at all for crimes?”
“A short visit to Barbados, sir, might be advantageous.”
“Enough,” said Rollison. “I know we’ve been offered a fabulous fee to go to the West Indies and look for a missing millionaire, and I know you’ve had a lifelong ambition to visit those little islands off the coast of the U.S.A., but no thank you, not at this time of the year. There’s too much sun, too much temperature, too many lovelies and too many distractions. We might have a weekend at Blackpool, or if you feel the need for more rarefied air, at Bournemouth. If Mr. Jepson should come, I’ll see him.”
* * *
Mr. Jepson did not come that day.
The evening newspapers, and the morning and evening newspapers of the next three days all reported the condition of James Matthison Jones. At first, there were hints that he might die, but on the morning of the fourth day he was reported as being out of danger. No arrest was made.
