The Toff and the Stolen Tresses (4 page)

 

 

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, Oily, 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, Oily 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.

 

 

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 cigarette 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.

The queen handed out five shillings change, smiled sweetly, and said: ‘Thank you very much, Mrs. Taylor. You will tell your friends about our special sessions, won't you, and remind them that you save eight shillings on a permanent wave and one and sixpence on a set if you come between ten and twelve and two-fifteen and four-thirty.'

‘You bet I will,' said Mrs. Taylor, and bustled past Rollison.

The girl at the cash desk gave him her sweetest smile.

‘Good afternoon, sir.'

‘Hallo,' said Rollison, and beamed at her. She looked a little dazzled, as most young women would when the Toff smiled quite like that. ‘Is Mr. Sampson in?'

‘I
think
he is engaged, sir. The manager of the gentlemen's department will be very glad to see you, though.'

‘I'd like to be done by Mr. Sampson in person,' said Rollison, keeping a straight face. ‘Ask him if he can fit Mr. Rollison in?'

‘Mr. Who, sir?'

‘Rollison.'

‘R-O-Double-L,' began the girl behaving as if she had never heard of Rollison, which was unusual in this part of Whitechapel and did much to suggest that she had been imported from different climes. Her voice was really pleasant, the refinement not really overdone. She lifted a telephone. ‘I won't keep you a moment, sir, if you will please sit down.'

‘Thank you,' said Rollison.

He sat in a chair more comfortable than the one at his West End barber's. By his side was a small table with several magazines, including the Society glossies; every one was the current issue. By the side of these a little journal looked almost pathetically out of place, and because of that he picked it up, and read:
The Hair Stylist.
He glanced through the poor quality paper at the badly printed heads of women, and came to the back page of the cover, with the announcement of a competition. He read with interest, and into a distant corner of his mind there sank a single fact: that the only condition of entry was that you should have your hair dressed by a member of the Hair Stylists' Association. That sounded fair enough.

The girl had spoken to at least three people on the telephone, keeping her voice low so that Rollison could not hear her words, and Rollison made no attempt to get nearer. Then he saw her smile, put the receiver down, and lean forward; a pretty thing indeed.

‘Mr. Sampson will see you in a very few minutes, Mr. Rollison.'

‘Thank you,' said Rollison, very politely.

Donny was as good as his word. He appeared through one of the duck egg blue and gold painted doors, and although he was not really a stranger to Rollison he made a considerable impression. He was dressed in a white smock with a high collar, and the close fitting garment would have served a Spanish dancer, so small was Donny's waist and so elegant his carriage. Yet it was his face and head which impressed one most. He was less handsome than distinguished, his complexion-was perfect, and the years had mellowed his features, so that he no longer looked austere. He had beautiful silvery hair which waved a little as it swept back from his forehead; such a man would have held Michelangelo enthralled.

He smiled, courteously.

‘Mr. Rollison, this really is a pleasure. It is over a year since I saw you last.' He held out his right hand.

Rollison took it.

‘We mustn't let that happen again,' he murmured. ‘I'd like to make a fortune, too.'

‘Sufficient for the day,' said Donny, and his amber eyes turned towards Rollison so intently that it was hard to see evil here, or even associate with evil. Those eyes suggested too, that his hair had once been golden coloured; and it was still a lion's mane. ‘I find it hard to believe you have come simply for a haircut.'

‘I'd like a little chat, and know I need a trim,' said Rollison. ‘Can you and will you?'

‘For you, of course,' said Donny. ‘This way, please.' He turned and glanced out of the front door, and Rollison did also; and what Rollison saw did nothing to reassure him. He might not have been followed, but plenty of people knew where he was. Across the road were several of the youths whom he had already seen once that day. They just lounged about, obviously interested only in Donny's.

‘Friends of yours?' inquired Rollison.

‘Not friends, simply customers,' said Donny with a deprecatory shrug and a wave of his pale hands. ‘It isn't always possible to pick and choose one's customers, and you will admit that the young men's hair looks well cared for.'

‘By Donny's?'

‘I imagine so,' said Donny.

He led the way past a line of six barbers, each busy on a man's hair, to a small room with only one chair. Here were all the appurtenances of a beauty parlour, and it was reserved for men. Here were the pomades and the lotions, the sprays and the powders, the special waves in the hair of unbeautiful would-be beaus. Round the walls were photographs of masculine heads of hair, all magnificently groomed.

‘Please sit down,' said Donny, and when Rollison obeyed, went through the customary ritual. Rollison looked at his own reflection, which was rather like a member of the Klu Klux Klan without a witch's hat. ‘I see that you have an excellent barber, and that your hair is naturally so good that you hardly need aids,' Donny observed.

‘No aids to waves,' agreed Rollison, and saw the scissors glint and then snap in the man's white fingers; a surgeon's fingers. There was Donny's reflection, too. ‘Donny.'

‘Sir.'

‘I didn't know you were a bad man.'

‘Perhaps we don't mean the same thing by that expression,' the hairdresser said. ‘I didn't know that I was, either.'

‘And it's unnecessary for a brilliantly successful man like you.'

Donny snipped and shrugged.

‘I have done well, yes, but I am not yet a millionaire, Mr. Rollison. The secret of success lies in hard work.'

‘And no competition.'

‘One buys out competition.'

‘Or drives it out.'

‘Ah,' said Donny, and paused to look hard at Rollison's reflection in the mirror; it was a strange way to meet a man's eyes. ‘I begin to understand what has brought you.'

‘I don't like to think of you hiring men like Tiny Wallis and Mick Clay,' said Rollison chidingly. ‘No one deserved roughing up like that because he wanted to buy a barber's shop in your district.'

Snip.

‘It was,' said Donny and paused and snipped; ‘unfortunate.'

‘Do you know what happened to the man?'

‘I am sorry,' Donny said, and kept snipping. ‘I was able to help him and his wife a little, and I do not think he will suffer very much.'

‘Why employ Wallis at all?' asked Rollison, still mildly.

‘Perhaps it was a mistake,' said Donny. ‘But he had no instructions to use violence, only persuasion.'

‘Under threat of violence?'

‘I don't think you always avoided violence,' murmured Donny. Rollison chuckled quite spontaneously, picturing his own wall and the many trophies of violent action. ‘All right,' he conceded. ‘I agree that there are times when action speaks louder than words. Why are you so anxious not to have any barber near you?'

Snip.

Pause.

‘Mr. Rollison,' said Donny, ‘I think I ought to say that I do not recognise your right to ask such questions, and that I feel under no obligation to answer.' His reflection made him look rather like a saint. ‘However, I have no objection to making the picture clear for you. I am a family man. I have four sons and three daughters, and three of the sons and two of the daughters are married, while the others will be soon. Except for one son, all of my family is in the business. Each son and daughter and each in-law learns the trade, and then becomes a shop manager. With so many children, so many shops are needed.' He stood back, comb in one hand and scissors in the other. ‘It is a good thing that the grandchildren are not big enough yet.'

Rollison didn't answer, and made no attempt to smile. Donny looked disappointed, but went on with his work. For several minutes there was nothing but the snipping, broken occasionally by the hum of an electric clipper. Donny worked quickly and with the grace and effectiveness of a master. When he had nearly finished, he stood back.

‘Mr. Rollison,' he said, ‘you and I began life in very different ways. I was the son of poor parents, my mother was an Italian immigrant, my father spent much time in prison. When he was home, he was a barber. When I was ten, I was cutting the hair of the children of the neighbourhood, and when I was fifteen, I was in charge of the shop. I have been cutting hair in this part of London for over forty years, and I have seen my business grow and grow. It is not an exaggeration to say that it brightens the lives of many who would otherwise be drab. I turn no one away. I have special prices for those who cannot afford my normal charges. But I don't want competition in this neighbourhood, Mr. Rollison, and if I can avoid it, I shall not have any. Once an old established barber wishes to give up, I pay him well for his business, and then either take over or close his shop. Is that unreasonable?'

‘Breaking into a man's home, smashing everything he possesses, kicking him so hard that he has three ribs broken and needs over twenty stitches in his head, terrifying his wife and probably scarring her mind for life—is that reasonable, Donny?'

There was a long silence.

‘Just a little more off here,' said Donny, and snipped and stood back, and smiled; more like a picture-book saint than ever. ‘I think your regular barber will be satisfied—it is satisfying to work on a really good head of hair. I congratulate you, Mr. Rollison.'

‘Yes?'

‘I hope we are not going to be bad friends.'

‘I hope not, too.'

Donny shrugged and whipped off the sheet, and brushed with a soft brush, talking all the time.

‘Is there anything you would like, Mr. Rollison? Hair cream, tonic, razor blades, shampoo lotion, toothpaste—anything at all?' He was smiling as he opened the door of a cupboard and showed a mass of expensive-looking goods. Rollison saw that most of them were marked in a way which he knew well: a monogrammed double J, in script writing; it was the monogram of Jepsons. ‘Or even,' went on Donny, ‘a wig?'

Rollison stood up.

‘Not yet,' he said, ‘but I'll know where to come if I want one, Donny.'

He broke off, for he heard a door slam. That seemed almost a sacrilege here. Then came running footsteps and voices, and a girl crying on a high-pitched note. Donny stepped swiftly to the door and opened it. A girl appeared, her eyes ablaze with rage and yet despair, a girl who would have been pretty but for her expression and for the disaster which had overtaken her hair.

She had been shorn.

Someone had hacked off her hair, as if with a pair of garden shears. One cut, close to the front of her head over the right eye, actually showed the white scalp beneath; one lock fell over her left ear.

‘Look what they've done to my hair!' she cried. ‘Look what they've done to my hair! What am I going to do? Tell me, what am I going to do? I can't stand it, I just can't stand it,
what am I going to do?
'