The Toff And The Stolen Tresses

by John Creasey

  He saw the driver at the lorry cabin, high above him, the huge wheels, the quivery bonnet; it was like the mouth of a great beast eager to snatch and mangle him. The motor-cyclist was looking over his shoulder, grinning, so sure he had played his part. He was right in Rollison’s path, in the way of deliverance.

  Rollison’s body was at a great tension as he accelerated. Even the Rolls-Bentley engine roared, and the grin was wiped off the motor-cyclist’s face. The truck driver vanished from Rollison’s sight, only his hands could be seen, twisting at the wheel as if determined to smash the sleek beauty of the car’s lines.

  Rollison judged his moment, and swung hard to the right.

  The front of the lorry missed the tail of the car by inches. The whole of Rollison’s driving mirror was filled with the huge green sides and the turning grinding wheels. He could hear the brakes screeching, the beast robbed of its prey. The motor-cyclist tried desperately to get out of the way, Rollison tried as desperately to miss him, but he could not. The Rolls-Bentley’s bumper caught the back of the machine, and sent it hurtling to one side. The driver pitched up in the air and then crashed down. He fell so close to the front of the car that for a moment Rollison thought he had run over him, but there was no jolt.

  There was just the empty street ahead, a few people at the windows, their faces transfixed in horror; the small, grey houses and the dead street lamps, and a long way off, the blank wall of a warehouse. That was all.

  The lorry was steady now, but racing away from the corner, the motor-cyclist, and Rollison. In his mirror, Rollison could see the smashed machine and the inert figure on the ground. Then a woman approached him from one of the little houses, first walking, then hurrying. He stopped the car at the kerb, sat for a moment with sweat icy on his forehead, then he got out and walked quickly back. There was no sign of the youths, and the lorry had disappeared round a far corner. In the distance, near the Blue Dog, a crowd seemed to be staring this way, and a policeman came hurrying.

  The woman was bending over the motor-cyclist.

  Rollison felt nausea, and was touched with the chill of horror. There was blood on the man’s face and on one hand, and he lay so still that he might be dead. The strange thing was the silence from the nearby houses, from which the women stared from their windows; and the silence of the woman now kneeling by the side of the man who lay so still.

  Rollison asked heavily: “How is he?” as he joined her.

  She looked up, a little woman with thin features and a spiteful face. Her lips were twisted viciously and her eyes were full of hate, and she spat at him:

  “He’s dead and you killed him! Murderer, that’s what you are. Murderer! You ought to be strung up.”

  As her words fell on the sunlit air, another woman came out of the little doorway of her tiny house and took up the accusing cry.

  “Murderer!” she screamed at him. “Murderer!”

  Another shout came and another. There were men’s voices as well as women’s, youth’s as well as men’s. Never in his life had Rollison felt such menace or known a greater fear.

  Then dozens of youths appeared at a corner, and came slowly, menacingly, towards him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  MOB

  The Toff could run away.

  There was both time and opportunity. The youths were coming from the corner where the lorry had turned, and the car was facing away from them in the other direction. Two or three women and several toddlers were between Rollison and the car, but he could reach it in time to get away; despite their menace the youths were too far off to prevent him.

  Or the Toff could stay and face it out.

  He knew what that could mean, what it probably would mean. These youths weren’t maddened by the accident, as the woman was; they had come to set upon him when his car had smashed against the truck, in case the job needed finishing. They had lain in wait. Now they had a perfect excuse for going wild, the excuse that they had turned on a motorist for killing one of their friends. No one could argue. No one could support Rollison’s story, for any who would speak for him were too far behind. Before they could come to his aid, it would be all over.

  So he could face it out and end up in hospital, like Jimmy Jones; unless he ended up in a morgue.

  The first woman was spitting her spite at him, others were joining in, the youths were drawing nearer. They weren’t coming quickly. They were wary, of course, there was a kind of cloak about the Toff, the protecting shield of his reputation. In the East End the name Toff was a byword, and many were frightened of him.

  If he ran away, none would ever be frightened again. A reputation built up over twenty years, and which had survived challenge upon challenge, could fade away like a wisp of steam if he turned his back on this mob of youths.

  All these things passed through his mind in flashes, like electric sparks. The shrill voices of the women made a background of sound, as did the shuffling of the feet of the youths who were drawing nearer. He saw three youths quicken their pace, and go behind him; they were to cut off his retreat. If he was going to run, this was his last chance.

  He needed a means of attack. Not with fists and not with weapons, not even with words. He turned with swift decisiveness upon the woman near the fallen motor-cyclist, and those who were supporting her. His face was set and bleak, and she got up and backed away, as if afraid that he would strike her. He went down on one knee beside the motor-cyclist, a man in his twenties. His forehead was raw and bleeding, the back of his right hand was lacerated, and blood was trickling down his lips. Rollison grasped his left wrist, feeling for the pulse, and stared down into the pallid face, as if he had no other thought in the world and it did not even occur to him that this mob would attack him.

  He looked up.

  The advance guard of the youths were only a few yards away.

  “This man isn’t dead,” Rollison said crisply. “He’s got a good chance if we hurry. Who has a bike?” One youth opened his mouth as if to say “I have’ and Rollison didn’t wait for him to change his mind. “You go and see if Dr. Scott’s in, quick. If he’s not, get Dr. Murphy. Anyone else here with a bike?” No one answered this time, and the first youth hesitated. Then Rollison recognised a little whippet of a boy, not vicious but easily led, and one of the fastest milers in the East End of London. “Here, Rolly, you beat all Olympic records up to the Blue Dog, the nearest telephone. Dial 999 and ask for an ambulance. Let’s see if you can still run!”

  The youths wavered.

  One of the women shouted at them: “What are you standing there for?”

  That worked the miracle.

  The youths turned and hurried, Rolly to run like a deer, with nothing in his mind but accepting the challenge, the other to leap on his bicycle as if his life depended on it, and pedal off furiously.

  Rollison turned to the woman who had come first, and who was now silent.

  “Do you live just here?”

  She gave a quick, reluctant kind of nod, as if surprised into acknowledging the question.

  “Wonderful! Get some blankets and a couple of hot water bottles, and put a couple of kettles on. They might come in useful.” Rollison was still on one knee beside the injured man, and he looked back at him as if taking it for granted that the woman would obey.

  She did.

  The danger had passed.

  Whoever had urged and almost certainly bribed this East End mob to help against the Toff, had lost the first round. Vicious, spiteful-looking youths, young brutes in a gang and in the right mood, were simply people. Crazy mixed-up kids? Young fools, who needed sharp treatment and firm discipline, who had as much good as bad in them if only it could be brought out. They began to move away, the threatening circle had broken already. The women were back in their houses, and soon one came running with a bright red eiderdown, which looked like the blood of a dozen men as the sunlight streamed upon it. She put it over the injured man and tucked it in, and Rollison stood up, glad to ease his knees. He took a
gold case out of his pocket, lit a cigarette, and for the first time wiped his forehead, using the back of his hand. The sweat lay cold on his hand. He drew deeply on the cigarette, then looked at the nearest of three elderly men. Not far away, half a dozen others were running, and behind these Ebbutt came in an old T model Ford, the most ancient in London, and the smartest; the sun was shining brightly on its sky blue sides.

  “Who saw that lunatic of a lorry driver?” Rollison asked, as if it did not occur to him that this had been done deliberately. “Anyone get the number?”

  No one spoke.

  “What happened?” one of the older men asked.

  “Damned fool came round that corner as if he was racing at Donnington,” Rollison said. He was smoking more freely, and the tension had gone from his whole body. “The motor cyclist had just passed me. He was looking over his shoulder, or wouldn’t have got in my way. I think he’ll be all right,” he added, “it looks that way to me.” He glanced towards the Model T seeing Ebbutt’s set face as he pulled into the kerb, and then climbed out clumsily. He took the situation in at a glance, and the expression that came to his eyes was one almost of wonderment. Other men from the Blue Dog, all Ebbutt’s cronies, were very near. The last vestige of danger had gone, for all of these men trained in Ebbutt’s gymnasium, and included some of the best boxers in London.

  “You all right, Mr. Ar?” Ebbutt sounded incredulous.

  “I’m fine, Bill,” said Rollison, but he didn’t smile. “I’m upset because I knocked this chap off his bike, nasty thing to happen. Thank God it wasn’t worse.” He watched other women coming with more blankets, one of them with hot water bottles, and the vixen who had called him murderer was among them, spite forgotten in the instinct to help the injured man.

  Then came a police car, speeding, and soon afterwards the ringing of the ambulance bell sounded, while one woman said to another quite clearly:

  “Cawse I did see it all from the winder. It wasn’t Mr. Rollison’s fault.”

  * * *

  Half an hour later, only the police were left at the scene. Rollison slid into the driving seat of the Rolls-Bentley, and smiled at several youngsters who were talking about the car with baited breath. Ebbutt leaned against the door, and asked in a voice which no one outside could hear:

  “Wot you going to do now, Mr. Ar?”

  “Can you give me the address of Tiny Wallis and Mick Clay?”

  “Well, I s’pose I could. They live in the same ‘ouse. Wallis is married, Clay’s a lodger.” Ebbutt paused. “But I dunno whether I should tell you, Mr. Ar. Wot’s on?”

  “I just want to find out what makes them tick, and who they’re doing their strong arm stuff for,” said Rollison. “I nearly found out what happens when they tick. They laid that attack on pretty fast.”

  “Oh, they’re quick,” Ebbutt said. “Don’t misunderstand me, Mr. Ar, Wallis ain’t a big shot and never will be, but he’s got friends and Clay will do whatever Wallis tells ‘im. A lot of people wouldn’t grass on them because of what might happen afterwards. The worst thing about Wallis and Clay is that they don’t lay off until they’ve really done some damage.”

  “Do they always work with Teddy Boys?”

  “Usually,” Ebbutt conceded. “The Teddies is easy, they’re always spoiling for a fight. It’s an old technique, Mr. Ar, the boys wait at the corner of a street if Wallis and Clay want to do someone, and make sure they’re not interrupted. Then they always have an alibi laid on.”

  “Any idea why they do it?”

  “The gospel truth is that I dunno,” confessed Ebbutt, and looked as if he meant it, for he rubbed one cauliflower ear. “I don’t even know that they work for anyone in particular, they just hire themselves out.”

  “Do you know who they’ve been working for lately?”

  “No, Mr. Ar, I don’t. I ‘eard they’d done a job for old Donny Sampson a couple’ve weeks ago, but that’s as far as I know.”

  “I knew that a barber had been attacked,” Rollison said, “but I didn’t think Sampson was in any racket.”

  “Well, Donny’s made it pretty clear that he don’t want no one muscling in on his business. Too rich, that’s Donny’s trouble, money’s gone to ‘is ‘ead.” Ebbutt ran his hand over what little hair he had, most of it bristly. “That reminds me, I ought to have a n’aircut. He’s got several branches now, and there’s a manager in each; most of the hair-dressing trade around here is cornered by Donny Sampson. When a barber retires or wants to sell out, Donny buys the business, and he pays a fair price, too. But he won’t allow anyone else to take over any business if he can stop it. The people who’ve been established here for years is okay, he doesn’t attempt to take away their trade, but there’s no room for newcomers.” Ebbutt sniffed. “Okay, provided you don’t beat-up anyone to make ‘em sell.”

  “Bill,” said Rollison, very mildly, “do you think I need a hair-cut, too?”

  “As a matter of fact,” said Bill Ebbutt, earnestly, “I’ve always thought there was room for another Sweeney Todd. Why don’t you go and see if Donny’s trying to hemmulate Sweeney, Mr. Ar? The worst ‘e can do is cut your froat.”

  “Which of the shops does he work at?” asked Rollison.

  “Oh, the big one, proper posh place that is, up in the Whitechapel Road. You musta seen it. Ladies and gents like all of them, wigs and toupees and scalp treatment, the whole works. You really going, Mr. Ar?”

  “I think so, Bill.”

  “Like me to come along?”

  “I think I’ll take a desperate chance and go alone,” said Rollison dryly, and switched on the ignition. “I wouldn’t like to say what Jolly will think if they make a mess of my hair.”

  “Don’t you worry about that,” said Ebbutt. “Donny’s an artist all right. Well, I’ll be seeing yer, Mr. Ar.” He thrust out a massive hand. “Take care of yourself.”

  “You wouldn’t forget that I asked for that address would you?” murmured Rollison.

  “Well, I never! ‘Ead like a sieve, that’s me,” said Ebbutt. “Okay, then. They live in the same ‘ouse, at . . .”

  Rollison grinned, made a mental note of the address, shook hands with Ebbutt, and drove off. The children waved as he passed by, and several youths at the corner near the Blue Dog looked at him sulkily but without open malice. He turned into the Mile End Road, where the world was normal. A little woman pushing a pram with fair-haired twins in it saw him and waved wildly; but for the Toff, her husband would undoubtedly have been in prison; now he was working steady at the docks.

  Rollison drove to Whitechapel Road. Parking wasn’t easy, but he found a spot a hundred yards or so away from Donny’s big establishment. He walked slowly towards it, not worried but curious; had he been followed? As far as he could tell, he had not.

  He drew nearer Donny’s, his mind full of the man and what he knew of him. Donny was not a Donald or even donnish. In some way he had acquired the first name of Adonis, perhaps from parents with a wry sense of humour, for photographs proved that Adonis Sampson must have been the ugliest and puniest child born some fifty-five years ago.

  He was no longer ugly, but his looks exerted a kind of fascination. He still looked puny, although that was almost certainly deceptive.

  His shop was much larger than most along here; in fact two double-fronted shops had been turned into one. The outside was painted pale blue and gold, and it would not have been out of place in New Bond Street. One section of the window was devoted to wigs and toupees and plaits of hair, much like a theatrical wigmakers; another was beautifully dressed to show cosmetics; a third would have graced a hair-dressing salon in the heart of Paris.

  Rollison stepped inside.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Donny

  Donny’s was luxury.

  Across the road were small, dingy houses with drab curtains and blackened chimney pots. Two doors away was a newsagent’s shop with a window which hadn’t been changed for years, and dust lay thick on the old dummy cigare
tte cartons. On the nearest corner was a fish and chip shop, with a huge sign reading: FRYING TONIGHT. To the right and the left and all about this district there was the poverty of parts of the East End, and the roughness of most of the rest. No one knew better than Rollison the quality and the oddness of many of the people, or that the squalor remained only in patches; but there was little polish on the East End of London.

  Except at Donny’s.

  Not far away were London’s docks. Along this very street came lascars and sailors from the four corners of the earth, some drunk, some perverts, some broke, some with money spilling out of their pockets. From the thousands of little houses which rose like mushrooms made of bricks, the stevedores left for their daily work, rough, hardy men whose labour made them dirty and whose wives were often hard put to keep their homes and their families clean. Their only sight of luxury was through a television set and visits to the pictures—except at Donny’s.

  It was like stepping out of a coaling barge into a first class liner.

  Coming out of a doorway on the right was a little woman with a flushed face, her flowered cotton frock obviously Sunday best, high heeled brown shoes which needed mending, and the look of a poor man’s wife. Her greying hair was a mass of lustrous curls, and a glow in her eyes told of a woman who had realised a dream. She went to a small office with two windows, like a cinema’s cash desk. There a young woman with auburn hair and wearing a pale pink smock sat like a queen.

  “Well, ‘ow do I look, dearie?” the flushed-faced woman said.

  “You look very nice indeed, Mrs. Taylor,” said the queen behind the desk. “I haven’t seen you looking any better.”

  “I will say this,” said the happy-looking woman, “Donny’s boys and girls know their job! Lemme see, two pun fifteen shillings, ain’t it?”

  “That’s right, Mrs. Taylor.” The queen spoke like one, too, and contrived to conceal from her customer that she was highly intrigued by the man who had just stepped inside the shop, but had not gone straight into the men’s salon through a door clearly marked: Gentlemen’s Coiffeur. This door like all the doors was painted duck egg blue and gold. The carpet was thick and yielding, and also a pale blue. Around the walls were pictures of film stars with remarkable hair styles, most of them from historical pictures.