by John Creasey
Wallis certainly wasn’t mean with money; and obviously he had plenty.
There were two nicely-furnished smaller rooms, obviously the children’s, and a third bedroom: Mick Clay’s. Here the furniture was as good as that in any of the rooms. The decoration was too: but Rollison could not fail to see the difference here compared with the rest of the house. Clay was untidy, he left his clothes in a heap, there were the marks of cigarette burns on the mantelpiece and on two chairs. There was an impression that Mrs. Wallis had given up trying in here; had just closed the door and left her brother to get on with it.
Rollison went downstairs again.
He listened at the front and back door, but heard nothing. It wasn’t yet five o’clock. He went into the living-room, and picked up a large book which he’d seen before, but hadn’t looked at. He wasn’t surprised when he saw that it was a press-cuttings book, and that here was a record of the newspaper reports of police court inquiries and accounts of people who had suffered like poor Jimmy Jones.
Then Rollison heard a sound along the passage; a moment later, the front door opened.
He stepped swiftly to the passage door as the shadow of a big man appeared.
The front door closed.
CHAPTER NINE
Bad Man
The closing of the front door was very soft. Rollison felt quite sure that this was Wallis, and that he had been told who was here. The first footsteps were very soft and light, too; furtive and stealthy. Rollison stood close to the wall.
Wallis came in sight.
He was tougher-looking than Rollison remembered; not huge, but massive with a short neck on his broad, thick shoulders. He wasn’t bad-looking, especially side face, but Rollison could see that his nose had been broken years ago. He was staring straight ahead, towards the kitchen door, but would soon look in here.
His right hand was held a little in front of him, and on it the brass of a knuckle duster gleamed dully.
Rollison felt his heart begin to thump.
Wallis took another step forward, and it looked almost as if he was going straight past; hut he didn’t. He spun round towards the living-room door, very quickly for a big man, his right hand raised ready to strike. It was easy believe that one blow from that armoured list would fell the strongest man alive.
Rollison stood quite still.
Wallis said, in a rough but high-pitched voice: “So you’re still here.”
He certainly wasn’t ugly, but there was an animal look about him, a kind of rawness suggesting that he lived by the law of the jungle. It was easy to picture this man as ruthless, heartless, savage; easy to believe that lie could wreck a home built up over half a century with a calculated thoroughness which was entirely free from passion.
He showed his very strong, white teeth in a smile which was also a leer.
“Now I’m going to smash you to pulp,” he said, and showed his other hand; in this he held a shiny black leather cosh, a twin to Rollison’s. I’m going to smash you up so that—”
“Tiny,” Rollison interrupted, “Stella’s a nice girl.”
Wallis stopped in the doorway, eyes narrowing. He had a puzzled look; it would be easy to believe he was very slow thinking.
Was he?
“You leave Stella out of this,” he said. “Where is she?”
“I sent her out on a little errand.”
“I know that’s a lie. Stella wouldn’t do what you told her.”
“She had no choice.”
Wallis said in his slow way: “You’re lying. I’ll look after Stella afterwards.” He raised the cosh. Any moment now he would smash it at Rollison, and if he landed the first blow, that would be the end of this day’s work.
Rollison said: “If you touch me, you can say good-bye to your wife.”
The narrowed eyes were angry now, but they were still puzzled, and the blow didn’t fall. Wallis stood there for at least half a minute, only an inch or two taller than Rollison and only an inch or two broader, with his jaw thrust forward and his mouth set tightly, and the questions in his eyes making a kind of torment.
“You’re crazy,” he said.
Rollison said: “When I’m fighting a wild animal, I fight like a wild animal. I’ve put your wife in a place where no one will find her unless I do. Keep back.”
“Why, if you don’t tell me where—” Wallis began, and did the obvious thing: he smashed with cosh and knuckle duster at Rollison, flinging his whole weight into the blows, sure that he could break resistance and spirit, and compel his victim to tell him where to find his wife. He attacked without any thought of defence, and left himself wide open. Rollison whipped the cosh out of his pocket and struck him across the side of the head.
Wallis gasped, and fell back, as if he had not dreamed there would be danger.
Rollison snatched at his right wrist, gripped, twisted, and almost casually sent Wallis thudding back against the passage wall. Before he had reeled away, Rollison was after him, first snatching Wallis’s cosh away, then holding his right wrist and pulling the knuckle duster off with the other hand. He got it free. It fell to the carpet with a dull sound, and Rollison bent down, picked it up, and backed away.
He tossed the knuckle-duster into one of the easy chairs, and slid the coshes into his own pocket. Then he took out the packet which the Austin driver had given him, opened it, and with all the casualness in the world, revealed a small automatic.
“I wasn’t worried by you on your own,” he said off-handedly, “but I thought I’d better be prepared to welcome your friends. How many are outside?”
Wallis looked sick and hurt and dazed. He was standing upright, but his head was bowed, and his arms hung rather loosely by his side. There was no mark on him, but it was a long time since he had been hurt at all. His fair hair, which looked as if it had been marcel-waved at Donny’s, was too immaculate to be true. He kept blinking, and Rollison doubted whether he heard the question. Rollison moved forward and asked more sharply:
“How many men outside?”
Wallis licked his lips.
“There—there’s no one.”
“Don’t give me that.”
“No one outside,” mumbled Wallis. “Thought I could handle you myself.” He saw the gun. He looked down at his bare right hand, and shrugged, but there was a glint of intelligence in his eyes now. Was he as dull-witted as he appeared to be? Or still suffering from shock? “One day I will,” he added, as if in afterthought.
“I don’t believe you’d come here and tackle me by yourself,” Rollison said. “How many men outside?”
“Why don’t you go and look?” Wallis said that as if it was a brilliant sally.
“All right,” Rollison said. “If you’re lying don’t blame me if you get killed. The police wouldn’t worry if they found your body, I’d probably get a medal for doing it.”
Wallis stared with that dull, puzzled look, as if he didn’t really understand what this was all about.
“Where’s Stella?” he mumbled. “Don’t hurt Stella.”
“She’ll be all right if you do what you’re told,” Rollison said sharply. “Who paid you for the Middleton Street job?”
Wallis echoed: “The Middleton Street job?” as if he hadn’t heard aright.
“That’s what I said.”
Wallis closed his eyes, then cautiously put a hand to his pocket and drew out a handkerchief; it hadn’t been unfolded, and was snow white and perfectly ironed. He dabbed at his lips.
“No one paid me,” he announced at last. “Try telling the truth.”
“No one paid me,” repeated Wallis, and something like a grin twisted his lips. “I did it for love.” He moved so that he could sit down on the arm of a chair, and it would not have surprised Rollison if he had made a dart for the gun. “If you think you can make me talk, you’re crazy.”
“Forgotten your wife?”
“No,” said Wallis, more deliberately, “I haven’t forgotten Stella, but I know all about you. You wo
uldn’t do anything to a woman.” There was a bravado in his manner now. “You’re too much of a gentleman, that’s what you are. Forget it, Rollison, you won’t get a squeak out of me.”
“Won’t I?” said Rollison, softly.
Not now, or for the next hundred years,” Wallis said. “You might as well save your breath.”
He meant it.
He was not only massive, immensely strong and utterly ruthless, but in his way he was brave; it might be the bravery of a stupid man, but it was still bravery. He wasn’t at all what Rollison had expected to find. Certainly it
It would be useless to threaten him, as useless to use force even if he could bring himself to use it against a man who hadn’t a chance. You could hate: you could want to see such a man punished beyond physical endurance for the things he had done; but it was a different matter if you were appointed the avenger. Wallis knew that. Wallis did not think that he was in any immediate physical danger, and he was not really frightened for his wife.
If he had reasons to believe that he was wrong he might sing a different song.
“Tiny,” said Rollison, nursing the gun and leaning forward to emphasise his words, “I’ve told you what I want. If you don’t come across, you’ll have some shocks. Who paid you for the Middleton Street job?”
Wallis sneered.
“Who was it? Donny Sampson?”
Wallis’s lips were still twisted. “You won’t do a thing,” he seemed to say, “you can’t scare me.”
“One more chance and that’s the end of my patience,” said Rollison, and there was menace in his voice, an expression on his face which had scared many a man who had seemed as tough as this one; but he got no reward at all. “All right,” he said, and levelled the gun straight at Wallis’s face. “This is one of your mistakes. You won’t look nice when they find you.” He waited for a few seconds, saw Wallis’s hands tighten, saw him clutch the arms of his chair, saw the dawn of fear. Wallis actually held his breath, but he didn’t speak: and silently he seemed to say, “I’ll call your bluff. Rollison squeezed the trigger.
In that last moment Wallis saw the movement and jumped up wildly, as if he realised that he had been wrong, and great fear blazed up in him. But he was too late.
His eyes showed that fear, and then a kind of fury; next moment the cloud of vapour from the muzzle of the automatic hid his features. He began to gasp and mutter incoherently. His hands went to his eyes which burned and streamed with water. And while the tear gas from the gas pistol stung him, Rollison took out a cosh, and struck on the nape of the bull neck.
The one blow knocked him out.
Rollison said: “We’ll see how you like it,” and looked round the pleasant room, the television set, the books, all the loved things in this home. He thought of old Mrs. Blake of Middleton Street and what she had lost, and of the others who had suffered just as badly. The temptation to deal with this man as he had dealt with so many was almost overwhelming, but Rollison fought it back, and left the room.
He reached the kitchen and opened the larder door.
Stella Wallis looked up at him, as if she was frightened of what she might see. Obviously she had expected her husband.
“Isn’t he—home?”
“He’s home and sleeping it off,” said Rollison, “and he won’t love me much when he comes round.”
She looked utterly astounded.
“You mean that you—” she broke off. “You can’t make me believe you got the best of Tiny!”
“I got the best of Tiny this time and it wasn’t even difficult,” said Rollison. “Now you’re going to help me do it again. You’re coming with me, Stella, for a little holiday. Tiny will wonder where you are. I’m quite touched by his obvious devotion. You’d better wear a hat and coat, and bring anything else you want.”
Her face was a study in disbelief and bewilderment.
“You don’t seriously mean it.”
“Let’s hurry, shall we?” said Rollison, and took her wrist and drew her out of the larder. “There’s a lot to do.” He hustled her up to her bedroom, and she took a coat, a hat and a scarf and some gloves from the wardrobe and a dressing chest; then she picked up a handbag, and turned and looked at him as if she still didn’t really believe that this was happening.
“After this, he’ll kill you.”
“I’ll worry about me. Come on!”
“What about my children?” her voice rose up. “Your neighbours will look after your children,” Rollison said, “they’re not in any trouble. Let Tiny work it out for himself.” He t ook her arm again. “Now let’s hurry.”
At the foot of the stairs he pushed open the door of the living-room. Wallis was sprawled back in the armchair, and his eyes flickered, as if f he was on the point of coming round.
Stella said in a strangled voice: “No,” and looked at Rollison. It was a look he would remember for a long time, because she couldn’t keep the admiration out of her eyes, and in that moment she was quite startlingly handsome.
“Be seeing you, Tiny,” Rollison said, and hurried to the front door. “After you.” He let the woman go first, for he was still uncertain about what he would find here. All he found were neighbours, gaping; no youths, no strong-arm men, nothing to suggest that Wallis had lied. The hired car was still along the road.
CHAPTER TEN
Pieces Of A Puzzle
No one followed Rollison or Stella Wallis.
She sat by his side, subdued and bewildered, and made no attempt to get away, even when they were stopped at traffic lights in the city and the West End, where the evening rush hour was just past its peak. She was still looking as if she could not believe what had happened when Rollison drew up outside Number 22 Gresham Terrace. He glanced up and down, to make sure that he had not been followed, then led Stella to the stairs, and walked up behind her. She had beautiful, quite exceptional legs, and walked very well. At the top landing and outside the flat marked G, she turned and said in a low-pitched voice:
“He’ll kill you. I mean it.”
“I have a friend waiting with my obituary notice,” said Rollison solemnly. “It’s been on ice for seventeen years.” He opened the front door with the key but didn’t go in at once. There was always the possibility that the flat would have been visited by—for instance—Mick Clay.
Jolly appeared.
“Good evening, sir.” He bowed to Stella Wallis, as he would to royalty. “Good evening, madam.”
Rollison said brightly: “Evening, Jolly. This is Mrs. Tiny Wallis.” Jolly did no more than tighten his lips; the casual observer would not have noticed the slightest indication of surprise. “She wants to hide away from an irate husband for a few days. Where do you suggest?” Rollison asked this blandly as he led the way across a small but pleasant lounge-hall and into the big room, while Stella stared at him as if at a madman. “Any notions?”
“I don’t—” Stella began, but broke off.
“I would suggest Mr. Micklem’s place, sir,”
Jolly said promptly.
“Good idea,” approved Rollison, thoughtfully. “Near enough to London for you to take Mrs. Wallis there this evening and get back in time to put me to bed, but far enough to be out of immediate danger. Telephone for a car to be at the back in ten minutes, will you?”
“Very good, sir.”
“B—b—but—” began Stella weakly, and then gave it up.
“What you want is a little pick-me-up,” said Rollison hospitably. “What’s it to be?” He led the way to a cocktail cabinet, and when Stella said: “Gin and tonic, I think,” in a faint voice, he poured out for her, poured a whisky and soda for himself, and said: “To a happy holiday.”
Words burst out of her.
“It’s crazy, you can’t do this to me, you just can’t do it!”
Did you ever see such a piece of sheer exhibitionism as that?” inquired Rollison, and indicated the trophy wall, with all its souvenirs of past crimes, past dangers and past triumphs. “Ignore th
e rope, that only hanged a man. See that cosh? A toughie who thought he was as good as Tiny used that, and he took the long drop too. That knuckle duster was also intended to break every bone in my body. Not quite large enough for Tiny, would you say?”
“I’m beginning to think you might get away with it,” Stella said chokily, “but don’t make any mistake, if Tiny ever gets you in his hands he’ll never let you go again.”
“I think you’re probably right,” agreed Rollison soberly. “I’ll have to keep away.” He glanced at Jolly, who came into the room again. “All fixed, Jolly?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any special news for me?”
Jolly paused to glance at Stella Wallis, as if wondering whether what news he had could safely be told in her presence; and then decided that it could. His report was a masterly piece of precision and abbreviation. James Matthison Jones was fully conscious again, and showing signs of full recovery; Ada Jepson had telephoned, but left no message; Wilson of the Globe had told him of a dozen London cases of girls having long hair shorn, and believed that many other cases had been reported in the past few months.
“Human hair is moderately valuable, sir.”
“What do you call moderately?”
“About nine or ten pounds a head if average dark hair, that is the present market price on imported hair from India and Pakistan. Some still comes from central Europe, sir. Fair hair will fetch from twenty to thirty per cent more. White or ash-blonde hair, especially if wavy, may fetch as much as twenty guineas a head.”
“At ten or fifteen pounds a time it wouldn’t make a fortune for anyone,” Rollison said. “Would it, Stella?”
