by John Creasey
“Very good, sir.” Jolly was not at all surprised. “Is there anything else?”
“Please,” said Rollison. “Don’t ask the Yard or anyone official, but get in touch with one of the newspapers. Wilson of the Globe is probably the best for this. We want to know if there have been many cases of hair fetishism in the past few weeks.”
“Young woman whose hair has been cut off, sir?”
“Yes.”
“I read of such a case only yesterday, I believe that it was at Croydon,” said Jolly. “And I think—but I will check, and have a report ready as soon as possible.”
“Good. And check the value of human hair for wigs and things, will you?”
“I will indeed. What time do you think you will be back, sir?”
“With luck, for dinner.”
“Very good, sir,” said Jolly. “I shall expect you.”
When Rollison stepped out of the kiosk the crowd round the shop had thinned. He saw a Jaguar moving off, and making a U turn. Donny was at the wheel, still wearing his white smock, with his young daughter beside him. Leah Sampson, aged about eighteen, with her lovely, glossy, raven black hair shorn off.
Had that been done to coincide with his, Rollison’s, visit to Donny?
If so, why?
It would be easy to imagine a reason for sheer coincidence.
Rollison passed the Rolls-Bentley again; no one was near it. Inside and outside the hairdressers’ things seemed quite normal, and he was sure that he wasn’t being followed. He recalled the address of Tiny Wallis and Mick Clay, which was quite near here.
He waited at a corner for fifteen minutes, and then the car which Jolly had laid on drew up, and a driver from the garage jumped out. “This the job you want sir?”
The job was a five years old Austin.
“Acceleration all right?” asked Rollison. “Like a jet, sir. Care to try it out?”
“I’ll take your word for it, thanks,” said Rollison. “You’ll wait for the breakdown van for my car, won’t you?”
“Yes, sir. Oh, and here’s something Mr. Jolly asked me to give you.”
“Fine,” said Rollison gravely, and took a small cardboard box from the man: the “toy’ pistol.
He got into the car, turned the corner at once, and then tried out the car’s acceleration; it was all that he could ask if he should need to get away in a hurry. He drove at normal speed towards the Mile End Road, and eventually to the street where the Blue Dog stood at the corner. He was not surprised to see two of Ebbutt’s scouts standing at the door of the big gymnasium behind the pub, a wooden building with a corrugated iron roof.
The men waved, and one came hurrying. Rollison slowed down.
“Mr. Ebbutt would like a word wiv you, Mr. Ar.”
“Thanks,” said Rollison, and got out and lit another cigarette. It was a little after half past three; less than two and a half hours since he had first stepped into the Blue Dog. One of the astonishing things was the speed of events. The attempt to run him down; the swift decision to act upon a woman’s charge of murder; the shearing of Leah Sampson’s hair; and the despoliation of the Rolls-Bentley. All of these things helped to create in him a cold anger which he could not throw off; so his greeting for Bill Ebbutt was not so bright as it might have been.
“Want me, Bill?”
“Yes, Mr. Ar,” said Ebbutt, panting a little because he had been hurrying. He looked almost an old man. “You’ve been warned plenty “aven’t you? They nearly tore your guts out down at the corner.”
“But they didn’t touch me, Bill.”
Ebbutt was as earnest as a man could be, and his big, ugly face was a study in solemnity.
“You got away with that, Mr. Ar, but take it from me you won’t get away with any more unless you take a bodyguard with you.”
“Thanks, Bill.”
“Oo’jer want?”
“Not yet,” said Rollison, with a grin which wasn’t quite spontaneous. “If I go around with two of your chaps on my tail, Wallis and Clay will have scored a moral victory. I’d like to borrow a cosh if you’ve any left among the relics.” Now the spontaneity was back. “We don’t want them to have any moral victories, do we? I’ll tell you if I reach the point where I’ll feel safer with two of your muscle-men behind me. How about that cosh?”
“I’ll get it,” promised Ebbutt, and was gone only a few minutes. When he came back, he handed Rollison a shiny black cosh, pliable and soft, and weighted with lead shot. “If I was goin’ to Wallis’s place, I’d take a knuckle-duster, you’ll never make an impression on ‘im or Clay’s thick skulls wiv a cosh. Mr. Ar, be sensible, and change your mind,” he pleaded. “This job ain’t worth getting yourself in ‘ospital for.”
“I’m not a bit sure that you’re right,” said Rollison, and gripped the man’s thick forearm. “Bill, it isn’t so long since you and your chaps ran into a lot of trouble in a job like this. I’m going to try to keep them out of this one if I can.”
“Well, I ought to know better than try to make you change your mind,” Ebbutt conceded unwillingly, “but we’d rally round, Mr. Ar. And you can’t say I didn’t warn you.”
His face was set and bleak as he watched Rollison drive off.
One of the scouts came up, and asked:
“Where’d you fink ‘e’s orf to?”
“It’s anybody’s guess,” said Ebbutt, “but from the look in ‘is eyes ‘e’s aht for trouble. Wouldn’t surprise me to learn ‘e’s gone to see Wallis and Clay.”
The scout almost winced.
“He wouldn’t be so crazy!”
“You don’t know Mr. Richard Rollison,” said Ebbutt, and a glimmer of a smile came into his eyes. “You don’t know Mr. Ruddy Torf, you don’t. That man would take on the whole Russian Army if he thought it worth a try.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Bad Man’s Wife
Dirk Street was near the docks.
It was one of a few short streets in the district. The terraced houses on either side had been built some fifty or sixty years ago for the foremen, office managers and all the better paid workers of dockland; a kind of upper stratum of nineteenth-century slumland. It was still an upper stratum. Only a man who was doing very well indeed was likely to live in Dirk Street, where the rents were comparatively high and the cost of buying a house almost prohibitive.
Tiny Wallis and Micky Clay lived at Number 11, the middle house of the terrace on the right hand side as Rollison drove in. The cranes and the masts of ships showed above the warehouse walls and the dock walls, not two hundred yards away. All the noises of the docks came into this street, sounding loud when Rollison switched off the engine. He stopped outside Number 19, and surveyed the scene, oblivious of the rattle of cranes and winches, the puff-puff-puff of engines, the shouting of men, the squealing of pulleys, the dismal sound of a ship’s siren. No one else was in the street, but outside Number 11 was a flashy-looking sports car; and it was fairly new.
Most of the houses had been recently painted, the curtains at all the windows were clean; this was ‘class’ all right.
Rollison got out.
He was aware of the people at the windows, faces hidden by the curtains, hands in sight where they pulled the curtains back. This was a neighbourhood where people did not watch their neighbours out of simple curiosity, but because they wanted to keep a step ahead of danger; and two steps ahead of the police. Two of London’s most prosperous fences lived in Dirk Street; so did one of London’s most nimble burglars.
So residents watched, forever wary.
Rollison walked briskly towards Number 11. Four stone steps led from the pavement to the front door, and that in itself put the houses here in a higher social level than the hovels where the front door opened on to the narrow pavement. He knew that he was watched from this house, too, but simply rang the bell.
No one answered at first.
He turned so that he could see the street. Opposite Number 11 a woman had given up all pretence, and was sta
ring at him openly. Two men appeared on the other side of the road, obviously spying.
Rollison gave the bell a longer ring.
This time there were footsteps, quick and light; a woman’s. She came straight to the door, but there was a long moment of hesitation before she opened it. When she did her foot was against it, so that the caller could not thrust it wide open easily. A woman looked at Rollison. She was in her early thirties, well made-up, wearing a black skirt and a beautifully ironed white silk blouse.
“Good afternoon.” She was suspicious.
“Good afternoon,” said Rollison politely. “Is Mr. Wallis in?”
She said “No,” flatly, and he wasn’t sure whether to believe her or not. The way she formed the word suggested that she was going to say “no’ to whatever he asked. She was a good-looking woman, and that silk blouse was well-filled.
“Mr. Clay?”
“No, they’re both out.”
“Do you mind if I wait?” asked Rollison, and put his foot forward so that she couldn’t close the door, dropped his right hand to her wrist, and thrust her back. His broad shoulders hid all this from view of the person across the road. The woman opened her mouth to protest, but before she could he was inside the house, and the door was closing behind him.
He let her go.
“You . . . !” she spat at him, and struck him sharply across the face.
“That’s the first and the last,” said Rollison, coldly. “Which one of them owns you?”
“If you don’t get out of here I’ll . . .”
“Bring the teddy bears to frighten me,” suggested Rollison, and before she could draw back, took her wrist again and twisted enough to show her that he had complete control of the situation. “You won’t get hurt if you stop struggling and start being civil,” he said. “Quite sure they’re out?”
She didn’t answer.
He believed that the men were out of the house, for there was no movement to suggest that anyone else was here. The passage was high and airy, and doors from the bright-looking rooms opened onto it. The stairs were carpeted, and the passage alongside the stairs and leading to the kitchen and other back rooms was also carpeted. The walls had been papered and the woodwork painted recently; here was all the evidence of prosperity.
“When Tiny gets back he’ll tear you to bits,” the woman threatened, but she was scared.
“I’ll take a chance,” said Rollison. He let her go again, and smiled as if they were friends of a lifetime. “I want to have a little chat with Tiny and Mick. Is there a better place than this?”
She kicked him on the shin.
It hurt.
He grabbed her again and held her very tightly, as if ready to squeeze the life out of her. She was more than scared, she was terrified. Abruptly he let her go. She backed away, breathing heavily and watching him nervously.
He gave her a dazzling smile.
His voice was quite unflurried when he said:
“Now let’s be friendly, shall we? I’m going to wait for Tiny, and you can’t exactly throw me out. I could even tell Tiny that I’d come to see you by appointment.”
Fear stormed in her eyes.
“You mustn’t do that!”
“Jealous, is he?” Rollison murmured. “Which in particular?”
“I’m—I’m Mrs. Wallis.”
“How do you do, Mrs. Wallis,” said Rollison politely. “When is Mr. Wallis likely to be in?”
“He might come in any time, and if he finds you here—” she broke off, still breathing hard, still frightened; but there was a changing look in her eyes. Rollison had often seen a look like it in a woman who had started off by wanting to cut his throat. She was just beginning to forget that he was Richard Rollison, the Toff, and beginning to realise that he was breathtakingly handsome, and had a way with him. “He’ll kill you,” she finished abruptly.
“And that wouldn’t do,” murmured Rollison, and offered her a cigarette. “Sure you don’t know what time he’ll be in?”
She answered almost at once.
“It won’t be later than seven, he always likes the news on the telly.”
“What about Clay?”
“He won’t be back till late,” she said. “He’s gone down to Guildford to see a pal.”
“I’ll find out who he’s beaten up in the morning,” said Rollison dryly. “So Tiny’s the only one to worry about for a while. Anyone else home?”
She shook her head.
“Clay not married?”
“No.”
“Just a friend?”
“He’s my brother.”
“Oh, is he?” said Rollison, more heavily, although he was still smiling. “You really had bad luck. With a brother like that you had to marry a man as bad if not worse. Why do you stand for it?”
She made no attempt to answer.
“Don’t try to tell me you like it,” said Rollison, and took a large envelope from his pocket and opened the flap. “Some women might but I don’t think you’re one of them. Seen these?” He handed her three police photographs of Jimmy Jones, when he had first been seen by the police and before the ambulance had taken him away. “Nice way for your husband to earn a living.”
“It’s none of my business!”
“It’s all your business,” Rollison said softly, “and if you go on shutting your eyes to it, one of these days you’ll find yourself in trouble, because someone will get their own back, and they won’t stop at Tiny. What’s your name?”
She was surprised into answering:
“Stella.”
“Stella,” echoed Rollison, “I’ve stopped reading the Riot Act, and I’m going to have a look round. You can come with me, or I can lock you in a cupboard or tie you up. Take your choice.”
Anger flared in her eyes.
“If you touch anything here, you’ll be crazy! I tell you you don’t know Tiny, he’s strong enough to break you into little pieces.”
Rollison chuckled.
“I can believe it, but I don’t think he will. Tiny is on the way out, Stella, although he probably doesn’t realise it yet. What’s it going to be?”
He didn’t try to rush her. There was plenty of time; even if Wallis came home unexpectedly early, there was time enough.
“You’d better lock me up,” she said at last. “All right, wise Stella,” said Rollison, and grinned. “Which cupboard would you like?” She was bewildered; then unexpectedly she laughed.
“I’ve often heard about you,” she said. “I’m beginning to understand what people mean. The larder’s the best place, there’s a ventilator, and it’s quite big.” She turned towards the kitchen, then stopped abruptly, so that he banged against her. She twisted round, taking his hand, and pressed against him. “Listen to me,” she said urgently. “You’re asking for the worst trouble you’ve ever had. You don’t know how strong Tiny is. When he knows you’ve put a hand on me, he’ll go raving mad. He’s so jealous he’s crazy.”
“Then we mustn’t let him know what we’ve been to each other,” murmured Rollison. “How long have you been married to him?”
“Fifteen years.”
“Enjoyed it?”
She said sharply: “I can’t just think about myself, I’ve got the kids to think about.”
“Kids?”
“We’re human, aren’t we?” Stella Wallis flashed. “We go to bed like anybody else.”
“Boys or girls?”
“One of each.”
“Where are they now?”
“At school,” she said, “they’ll be late home tonight, they’re going to sports practice. They’re my first responsibility.” She led the way across a kitchen which was as spick and span as the kitchen at Gresham Terrace. There was a large refrigerator, the motor humming softly, a stainless steel sink unit, everything a modern kitchen could have. “Besides,” she added, “he’s not mean.”
She opened the door of the larder herself. Rollison looked round in the kitchen and found several yale ke
ys in a drawer. The back door had a yale lock. He tried three keys, found two which fitted, and slipped one into his pocket. Then he went into the front room. He wasn’t surprised to find a kind of Victorian parlour, a faint smell of furniture polish, a mahogany sideboard, and several sepia portraits on the wall. He drew a blank there, and tried a small room next to it. Here was a kind of living room, with a television in one corner, comfortable armchairs, one wall fitted with shelves and loaded with books, mostly war stories, records of the ring, and tales of adventure—and with them a few romances by well-known authors. Dream world for two. Tiny Wallis could escape into a world of vicarious excitements and tales of epic courage and great physical strength and endurance; his wife, into the romance which might have been. In a corner opposite the television was a writing bureau. Rollison found it locked, and took a pen knife out of his pocket; it had one blade of which the police strongly disapproved, for it was a skeleton key. In less than a minute he forced the lock of the writing bureau, and pulled down the top, ready for writing. Inside were opened letters, notepaper, envelopes, everything one would expect to find in neat array.
There was also a cash box, which was locked.
There were a few newspaper cuttings.
And there was a little pile of leaflets like those which had been at Donny’s cashier’s cubicle, announcing the Most Beautiful Hair Competition.
“Well, well,” murmured Rollison, and stared at these for several seconds, then put one more into his pocket, left the others, and completed his search. He found nothing else here except a kind of day book—a large diary with a page for every day. He glanced through this, and his interest quickened, for in it were the names and addresses of people who had been visited by Wallis and Clay.
There was a note dated a week ago, reading: Villiers Street, J. Jones.
Villiers Street?
There was no more recent entry, and Rollison closed the book, glanced through the letters which told him nothing new, then went to the front door and listened. A motor-cycle was outside, its engine beating as if in great haste, but it moved off and the sound gradually faded. Someone walked past, and children were laughing; of course, the youngsters were out of school by now.
