by John Creasey
“It’s the first time I’ve heard of a prize-giving at the Academy,” said Rollison. “Jolly, you’re a menace.”
He took the receiver.
“Hallo, Bill.”
“Hal-lo, Mr. Ar!” A foghorn appeared to be at the other end of the line. “Glad I just ’appened to catch yer; got a little job that’s right up your street. The minnit I ’eard abaht it, I said, Mr. Ar’s the man, no doubt abaht it at all. So ’ere I am. It was a question of going to the dicks, I mean the police, or you, Mr. Ar, and I thought you’d like a go at it. Besides, Bert Noddy, you remember ’im, it’s really ’is show, an’ Bert wouldn’t go narkin’, even if it is abaht Sam Downing. What I mean to say is—“
“Hold on a minute, Bill,” said Rollison, and turned to Jolly: “Nip along and get the car, I think I’m going out … Yes, Bill, carry on.”
The sleek Lagonda, with Rollison at the wheel, slid through the quiet streets of the West End and the City, reaching Aldgate Pump a little after midnight. Here, where the East End and the City met, there was a hushed silence which would remain until the early workers came out of their burrows and began to throng the streets. Soon, in a wider thoroughfare, there were some people about. A hot-chestnut man crouched over his glowing red fire, and seemed indifferent to the possibility of business. Most of these people watched the car as it purred along the Mile End Road; and many of them recognised Rollison.
He drove on until he reached a corner building, larger than most of the others along here. A street lamp immediately outside shone on the fascia board and displayed the fact that this was the Blue Dog, a public-house of fair repute. Rollison turned the corner and pulled up at the back of the building. Farther along, shown up by another street lamp, was a large corrugated-iron building outside which a large sign declared:
BOXING ACADEMY
B. Ebbutt, Prop.
Champs. Taught.
As Rollison got out, his tall figure thickened by a heavy belted overcoat of navy blue, a side door of the public-house opened and a large man called: “You didn’t lose much time, Mr. Ar. Glad to see yer.” He came forward, in his shirt sleeves, a mammoth with a vast stomach, a large, fleshy face, a corrugated forehead, small eyes and a flat nose; a villain, to look at. His great hand crushed Rollison’s. “Proper do, ain’t it?”
“Where is she?”
“Still at Bert’s. But she’s okay, I got a coupla the boys keeping their eyes open. Question is, ought you to go there, or ought we ter bring ’er away? Bring ’er away, I say, but she’s so frightened. Every time Bert tries ter get ’er to leave the ’ouse, she gets ’ysterical. I fought of sending me wife to try, but you can never tell wiv Lil. Might frighten the lights aht of the kid.”
“Bill Ebbutt!” came the shrill voice of his wife, from inside the pub and obviously some distance above their heads: “have you lost your senses? Out on a night like this wiv no coat on, you’ll catch your death. Come in at once!”
“See what I mean?” said Ebbutt.
Rollison chuckled.
“Yes, Bill. Can you find me an old coat and a cap just about my size? I’ll go along and see what I can do with her.”
“Sure—’ere, take the key, they’re just inside the front door. You can’t miss ’em.”
Ebbutt thrust a key into Rollison’s hand, while the scolding voice of his wife came again, in tart rebuke. Rollison, smiling, walked along to the Academy and opened the front door. When he pressed down a switch, a big room, with the two rings, the punchbags and all the equipment of a gymnasium, showed in a bright light. Hanging on the wall were several coats, hats and other oddments of clothing, kept by Bill Ebbutt for the benefit of those unfortunates who needed clothes and couldn’t afford to buy them.
Rollison tried on a coat; it was large, but otherwise fitted tolerably well. He wound a grey muffler round his neck, put on a peaked cap and pulled the peak low over his eyes, and drew on his gloves. Then he went out and stamped about on a patch of freshly dug ground outside the building, to smear his shoes. That done, he put his own coat into his car, and walked briskly along the street towards the home of Bert Noddy, whom he knew slightly.
On the telephone, Rollison had been told everything Ebbutt knew, and Ebbutt had never been a man to repeat words for their own sake. It was a curious affair, and the girl who couldn’t speak English was obviously in distress.
Rollison knew Downing by reputation as one of the nastier characters of the East End. He also knew that it was rumoured that Downing sometimes moved in High Society. At others, he moved on a rather lower scale, at Pentonville, Wandsworth or Dartmoor.
Rollison had to take two turnings right and one left before he reached Brill Street, where Bert Noddy lived. A gas-lamp shone at the corner, but the light was poor; all the street lighting in these East End side streets was bad. Yet he turned the corner cautiously. The rubber heels of his shoes muffled the noise. He peered along, expecting only to see one of Bill Ebbutt’s boys lurking near Noddy’s house. He saw no one.
The man was probably hiding.
He walked quickly but with little sound. There were a few lighted windows, but most of the street was in darkness. Near one window he saw a heap on the ground; it looked like an old coat, flung carelessly away; but coats were not as cheap as that in the East End of London. He kept close to the wall, to lessen the risk of being seen. As he drew nearer, he saw that it was more than a coat; it was a man. He began to whistle, very softly, and stopped to look farther along. There was no sign of movement. He reached the man and bent down on one knee; and his whistling stopped abruptly. There was blood over the man’s head, more smeared on his cheeks.
Rollison didn’t feel for his pulse or do anything to see whether he was alive, but went on, still close to the houses.
He heard a car engine, and headlights shone along the road which intersected this one.
He stepped into a doorway; by flattening himself against it, there was room to hide. The car turned the corner, and the narrow street was bathed in its silvery light. He heard it stop; but the engine wasn’t switched off. He peered along and saw a man in a dark suit jump from the car and dash into a house.
Rollison moved swiftly.
By the time he reached the doorway of Bert Noddy’s house, where light shone out, he heard a muted whisper: “Put that light out!”
Someone obeyed; only the headlamps of the car now gave light, and that did not touch the front of the house. There were heavy footsteps, and then a man appeared, carrying a woman over his shoulder. He held her round the knees, and her hair fell towards the ground; Rollison could just see that. The man carrying her looked neither right nor left, but reached the car and pulled open the near door.
Another man hurried from the house.
Rollison, pressed close against the wall, let him pass, then shot out his right arm and clutched his shoulder, pulling him round. He struck with his left, a jab to the chin. He felt the pain of the blow through his gloves. The man grunted, and his knees bent – and as he fell, the man carrying the woman put her into the car, dumping her on the back seat, and turned round.
He was a split second too soon for Rollison.
He started: “What—” and then his right hand flashed to his pocket, and he dodged to one side. The man – Downing – pulled out a life preserver, came forward and smashed at Rollison. Rollison moved his hand, but the blow caught him on the shoulder, numbing it. Downing brought his knee up, towards Rollison’s groin. Rollison dodged to one side, and Downing was momentarily on one leg. Rollison hit him, not hard enough to hurt but quite hard enough to bowl him over; but as Downing fell, another man rushed at Rollison from behind. Rollison heard him coming, but was too late to escape a blow on the back of the head. The cap saved him from the worst effect, but he reeled away, only capable of feeble defence. He turned instinctively so that his back was against the car and he couldn’t be
attacked from behind again. He saw a man leap at him, and heard metal smash against the car.
He shot out his foot, and fended the assailant off. The man he had knocked out first was getting to his feet. Out of the corner of his eye, Rollison saw Downing. Downing didn’t join in the fight, but opened the car door. It came within a few inches of Rollison. Rollison fended the other man off, and slammed the door. It hit Downing’s hand; he heard a gasp of pain, saw a big, vicious face twisted with rage and agony. But at three to one he couldn’t hold out for long, and—
A whistle sounded shrilly, and suddenly men pounded along the street towards the car, from the direction from which Rollison had come. Downing started and stared towards this new threat. He had his right hand under his arm, but moved and spoke as if he were in no pain.
“Run for it. Run.”
“But—” protested one of the other men.
“I said run.”
All three turned and raced towards the corner, while the others came on from the far end. Rollison straightened up. The police had their moments, even if Bill Ebbutt and Bert Noddy preferred to avoid them, on principle.
In fact there were no police; only three men, dressed much as Rollison was then.
“Okay, Mr. Ar?” One man burst out, as they drew near.
“Yes. Get after them.”
“Sure!” They sped past, while Rollison pushed back his cap, rubbed his head gingerly, and wished that his shoulder would stop aching. The sound of footsteps faded, he had no idea whether the second trio would catch up on the first; he doubted it. Bill Ebbutt had doubtless sent him a bodyguard, and one of its members had used a police whistle. Rollison opened the rear door of the car, groped for the light, and pressed the switch down.
The girl sat huddled in a corner, her eyes closed. There were puffy red marks at her throat, but she was breathing normally. He found a big lump on her right temple, but no other signs of injury.
Then her lips moved.
“Madame!” she moaned. “Madame Thysson. Madame …”
Her voice trailed off; and she didn’t speak again, showed no reaction when he spoke to her.
Chapter Three
Home From Home
One of Ebbutt’s men came back, panting. He did not need to report that Downing and the two men had dodged him and his friends. Rollison took off his coat and put it round the girl. The others returned as Rollison backed out of the car.
“How is she?” a man asked.
“She’ll do. One of you get a doctor, and the other telephone for the police. Yes, we must have the police.”
He didn’t wait for comment, but went straight into Noddy’s house, putting on all the lights. In the kitchen he found Noddy and his wife, both unconscious. The woman was lying across the little man, and beginning to come round. Noddy had an ugly wound in his forehead, but was breathing. Rollison hurried outside, where one of the three men was on guard by the car.
“She’s coming to,” he said.
The girl who couldn’t speak English was now sitting upright, and blinking in the faint light of the roof lamp.
“I’ll look after her,” Rollison said. “When the police arrive, tell them I took her away.”
“Okay, Mr. Ar.”
Rollison opened the rear door, and the girl pressed back against the corner. He spoke in French.
“Do you speak French, madame?”
She started up.
“Yes, yes!”
“I am going to take you to my apartment, where you will be with friends,” said Rollison. “We’ll soon be there.”
He smiled and closed the door, leaving the light on. The engine started at a touch, and he drove fast through the narrow streets, passing the Blue Dog. Two policemen and a police-car stood outside the pub, which would not make Bill Ebbutt happy or please his wife. Rollison swung right, away from the West End, drove for several miles and then turned off the main road. He chose a long, narrow side-road and drove slowly; no car turned after him. Satisfied that he wasn’t followed, he went straight back to the West End, but he did not go as far as his flat in Gresham Terrace. He pulled up near Piccadilly, where the colourful advertisement lights were out and which was deserted but for a few hurrying figures and two policemen standing at a corner and talking.
A taxi came along.
Rollison whistled to it, and beckoned the policemen; they came up at once.
“You’ll probably get a call to look for my car,” Rollison said. “Don’t let anyone drive it away.”
The taxi drew up, and he opened the door, then beckoned to the girl.
She climbed out, unsteadily, and needed help.
“I don’t understand quite, sir,” said one of the policemen. “If you’ll tell me—”
“My friend is ill, I can’t stop,” said Rollison, and pressed a card into the constable’s hand. “That will find me. Gresham Terrace, driver.” He got into the taxi after the girl, and slammed the door.
Beneath the light of a lamp the policeman looked down at the card, and read Rollison’s name and address. He frowned as the other man leaned over his shoulder, then stifled an exclamation.
“Rollison! Well, I’m beggared!”
“Why should you be?” asked the other man, and absently turned the card over. He found himself looking at a pencilled drawing, of a top hat, a monocle, a bow tie and a cigarette in a long holder, all so placed that they suggested a face; but the face wasn’t there.
“See?” The other man was eager. “Rollison—the Toff. Often wanted to meet him, I have. I wonder what he’s up to now. Nice bit of stuff with him, wasn’t she?”
A light was on at the front of the flat, which was on the third and top floor of 22g Gresham Terrace. When Rollison reached the landing, with the girl’s arm in his, the front door opened. Jolly, still dressed, stood aside and bowed slightly as they passed; if he felt any surprise, he showed no sign of it.
Rollison led the girl across the square hall and into the main room. He guided her so that she reached a chair with her back to the trophy wall. She sat down heavily. He took the coat from her shoulders and flung it over a chair, calling to Jolly:
“Coffee, I think, and plenty of sugar. If anyone from the Yard rings up, I’ll speak to them.”
“Very good, sir.”
Rollison smiled down at the girl. He was tall and lean and handsome in an engaging, swash-buckling way, his grey eyes held laughter, and in spite of the flecks of grey in his dark hair, he looked young. He took out cigarettes and proffered them, but she didn’t take one. He slipped the case away without lighting up, and spoke to her in fluent French.
“You needn’t worry at all, and you can stay here for the night, or perhaps longer. I’ll ask you a lot of questions in the morning. I shall have a doctor here soon, to see you and give you something to steady your nerves. You needn’t answer my questions tonight, unless you want to.” Thank you, m’sieu.”
“Now, I’m going to look at your head,” Rollison said. “They hit you, didn’t they?”
“So hard, m’sieu.”
He felt through the luxuriant brown hair, which gleamed in a light just behind her, and she winced. The large swelling remained on the temple, but there was no sign of blood. The puffiness at her throat remained.
“You’ll be all right.”
He crossed to the telephone and dialled a neighbouring doctor; it was some minutes before there was an answer, in a sleepy voice.
“Sorry it has to be this hour,” Rollison said, “but what do you do with a young woman who’s had a crack over the head that laid her out for nearly an hour, and who needs a good night’s sleep?”
The man at the other end of the line said promptly: “Put her to bed.”
“But supposing the police want to question her, and she isn ‘t fit for questioning?”
“That’s a good idea,” said Rollison, as if surprised. “Thanks. Bring the mystic potions and whatnot in your little black bag, won’t you?”
He put down the receiver, and lit a cigarette from force of habit. Jolly had come in and, without a word, put a woollen cardigan round the girl’s shoulders, then disappeared. The room was already warm.
Rollison longed to ask a dozen questions, but wanted her to speak first. She leaned forward in her chair, looking at him intently; she hadn’t so much as glanced away from him since they had arrived. Now, she looked round the room, then raised one hand.
“Please, why do you help me?”
“You need help.”
“So very much,” she said. “That man—”
“The Frenchman?”
“No, no! That other man.” She shivered, and closed her eyes; and had justified his guess that the man in the dark suit was a Frenchman. He rubbed his damaged shoulder gently, for it was aching, and waited for her to go on. “He did not want me to go away from that terrible house.”
“I wonder why?”
“I do not know,” she said, with convincing earnestness. “I had not seen him before. Marcel, he brought me. I should not have come, it was foolish of me to come, but Marcel wanted it so much. I do not understand why he should want to keep me here.” Her eyes were deep-brown pools of inquiry, but fear still lurked in the background. “I do not understand anything about it, m’sieu.”
“Do you know Marcel well?”
“Yes! We are to be married.”
Rollison said mildly: “Well, well. Does madame—”
The telephone bell rang, and the girl glanced towards the instrument. Rollison silently confounded it, and left the answering to Jolly. He pulled up a chair and sat astride it, close to his guest.
“Did Madame Thysson approve?”
