The Toff on Fire (5 page)

 

There was a telephone at the side of Rollison's bed, but he was so awkwardly placed that he could not get at it quickly, and it gave four more sharp bursts of ringing before he could lift the receiver. By then he was sitting on the side of the bed, in front of a large dressing-table mirror, which showed his hair standing on end after the scramble to answer the call.

“Richard Rollison here,” he said.

There was no answer.

“Hallo, there. This is Richard Rollison.”

There was no answer, but there were sounds, a kind of hissing noise, one that he associated with someone out of breath. It seemed close to the mouthpiece, and came very clearly.

“Hallo,” he said, very distinctly and sharply.

Then, a woman's voice came.

“Is—is that—is that the Toff?”

The voice was very faint, but unmistakably a woman's. There was nothing special about it, except a trace of Cockney in the last word, making ‘Toff' sound almost ‘Torf'. Yet the manner of her speaking told him much more than the words, for it spoke of fear. Fear and a breathless woman and a call so early in the morning.

“Yes,” he said carefully, “this is the Toff. Can I help you?”

Silence.

This time, there was not even the hiss of agitated breathing, only the stillness. He had heard no sound of the receiver being replaced, or being dropped. He held on, no longer speaking, looking at the dial on his telephone and wishing for the days of manual exchanges, when it would have been easy to trace this call.

A motor horn brayed a clear warning. It must be very close to the telephone at the other end, which placed it as a telephone kiosk call near a road. He heard other sounds, and fancied that one was of someone running.

The woman spoke again, urgently.

“Why don't you answer, is that—”

“This is the Toff speaking. Who—”

She cut right across his words.

“Listen, mister, look after my baby,
please!
Make sure he has a good home.” Now, the woman cried. “They're going to kill me, I'm sure they're going to—”

“Stop a moment!” said the Toff with sudden and sharp vehemence, and so made her break off. “Listen carefully now. Give me your name and tell me exactly where you are.”

“I—I don't know that I can, I—” there was another pause, another voice in the background. It wasn't possible to be sure whether the second voice was hostile or friendly; it was just that of a man speaking quickly, using words which Rollison couldn't distinguish, although he caught: ‘Get a move on.' Then there was a new sound, the last Rollison wanted to hear just then; the clatter as the receiver was banged down.

He put his down, slowly.

The frightened woman might be anywhere in London – anywhere within the London dialling district, and the kiosk might be any one of several thousand. Rollison sat quite still, looking at his reflection without noticing his set expression or, for that matter, his royal blue pyjamas. A frightened woman with a slightly Cockney voice, a desperate mother, a man who had left the baby and the note about the Doc. Add it all up. Add it all up, yes, and look for the thing he hadn't yet seen, something which was on the edge of his mind, something he had missed. It was that faculty, of being sensitive to factors he knew existed but couldn't place, which made him what he was.

Suddenly, he snapped his fingers.

“Didn't hear her press Button A,” he said, and immediately lifted the receiver, “so it might not have been a dial call.” He dialled ‘O', asked for the telephone supervisor, and found her helpful and quick.

“… yes, that's right, sir, there was a call to your number from Guildford, about five minutes ago. It will take a few minutes to get further particulars, if you would care to hold on—”

“I won't hold on,” said Rollison in his friendliest voice, “but if you'll find out where the call came from, also getting the address if possible, I'll call you back.”

“If it's a private number, sir, I shall not be allowed to disclose any information except the number.”

“That's all right,” Rollison said. “I'll call back in ten minutes.”

He rang off again, and sat quite still until he stretched out for a cigarette, and lit it slowly.

He could call Scotland Yard, and be reasonably sure that they would help; but they would also be curious. Did he want the police to be curious, yet? He couldn't escape from one piece of reasoning; that if the parents of the child had thought that the police could help, they would have called on them.
Add it up.
A man who could pick locks like this one wasn't likely to have many friends among or liking for the police, even if the Doc was putting pressure on him. If he had a record, as was probably the case, he would want to keep away from authority – more especially if he was on the run.

Rollison looked at himself in the mirror, and put his head on one side.

“You are slipping,” he announced. “Of course they're on the run, and they hadn't anywhere to park the baby. Not much chance of getting away from the police while carrying an infant of that age, so—”

What of the woman's fear?

If this had been planned cold-bloodedly, if parents simply wanted to be free from the child, would the woman have sounded so frightened? And remember the talk of the Doc.

Rollison reached a decision.

He lifted the receiver again, and dialled Whitehall 1212. When a brisk-voiced operator said: “Scotland Yard,” he asked at once:

“Superintendent Grice isn't there by any chance, is he?”

“No, sir, I'm afraid not.”

“Chief Inspector Worley?”

“No, sir.”

“Chief Inspector Knott?”

“Yes, sir, he's in his office. Who shall I tell him is calling?”

“Richard Rollison.”

“Richard Rol—” echoed the operator, and then stopped abruptly, only to go on in a different tone: “Mr. Rollison, yes sir. I'll put you through at once.”

“Thanks very much,” said Rollison warmly.

Knott was a youngish man, only recently promoted, and was particularly well-disposed, because a few months earlier he had arrested a murderer in what was generally accepted as a very smart piece of work; hence his promotion. He was well aware that he would not have made the arrest but for the Toff, and was not likely to stand on ceremony.

“Hallo, Rollison, can't you sleep?” Knott had a lively voice. “What's the trouble?”

“It's my guilty conscience and a curious telephone call,” said Rollison mildly.

“Can't do anything about your conscience,” said Knott; it was easy to imagine his grin. “What information do you want about the telephone call?”

“The number in Guildford, hence the address,” Rollison told him. “The Supervisor is getting both, but won't confide in an ordinary humble citizen. If I tell her to refer to the Yard, she might decide to trust me.”

“And she might also check with us,” said Knott dryly. “All right, you can give us as a reference. What's it all about?”

“When I've found out, I'll tell you.”

“I hope you mean that! How did the American trip go, by the way? I read bits and pieces about you; you seem to have taken New York by storm.”

“In fact they took me by the seat of my pants, but I survived,” said Rollison, and took advantage of Knott's expansive mood. “The trouble is that I'm out of touch over here, just now.”

“Exactly what else do you want to know?”

Rollison chuckled.

“Go on like this, and I'll begin to think you earned your promotion after all! What kind of a reputation has the Doc won for himself lately?”

There was a long pause, so long that it seemed ominous. Then at last: “Nasty,” said Knott, and his voice sharpened noticeably. “There was another ugly killing in Shadwell five weeks ago, not much doubt that the Doc did it, or else he was behind it. We didn't put an end to him when we hanged Jessie Gay. Is this—”

“Know who he is, yet?”

“No.”

“We must find out,” said Rollison, earnestly. “Chief Inspector, I can't thank you enough, and if anything happens that is likely to interest you, I'll pass it on.”

“Mind you do,” said Knott. He did not sound quite so amiable now; mention of the Doc had obviously troubled him. “Take my advice, and make sure what you're doing before you tackle anything that the Doc's involved in. He's reputed to have said he'll break you, for catching Jessie Gay.”

“Oh,
has
he?” said Rollison heavily. That woman's fear had been real fear, remember. “I'll be very careful indeed,” he promised. “Goodbye.”

He rang off, stubbed out the cigarette, which he had drawn at only three or four times, and called the exchange again. The Supervisor was obviously waiting for him, and when he referred her to Scotland Yard, she said at once: “I don't think that will be necessary, I'll just put a note on my report, Mr. Rollison.” So she had been busy, and had identified him. Bless his reputation! “The call came from Guildford 05691, and the name and address of the subscriber is Robertson, Rose Cottage, Horsham Road.”

“You're very good,” Rollison said, “thank you very much indeed.”

She gave a little, self-conscious laugh.

“It's a pleasure to help the Toff, sir!”

Rollison chuckled as he rang off; spontaneous tributes such as that did a great deal for his ego. He went back into the bathroom, doused his face in cold water, then dressed very quickly. He was outside in less than ten minutes, striding along Gresham Terrace to the mews round the corner; there, he kept his car, today a scarlet Bristol. As he was backing it out of the garage, the policeman to whom he had talked earlier passed the end of the mews, and made a point of calling out.

“Up early, sir?”

“Candle at both ends, Jim, it'll be the death of me,” Rollison said, and waved.

Dawn was breaking, but it was still quite dark. A few buses, menacing in their speed along the empty roads, were coming in from the suburbs. Small vans and one or two donkey-drawn carts, piled high with fruit and vegetables, were coming away from the city; doubtless from Covent Garden. Cyclists had their coats buttoned high to the neck, and put down their heads as protection against the cutting October wind.

Rollison drove almost sedately until he had crossed Putney Bridge, where the dawn began to silver both the sky and the river. Then he put on speed. He knew Guildford well, and did not need to ask the way in the cobbled High Street, but turned on to the Horsham Road at once. Then he slowed down. Rose Cottage might be in the centre of the town, or else a mile or two along. He saw a postman cycling, pulled up alongside and asked: “Which direction is Rose Cottage, do you know?”

“Straight along, sir, almost the last house in Guildford, that is—right on the corner, you can't miss it. The road's very narrow there, and there's a halt sign.”

“That's fine,” said Rollison. “Thanks.” He drove on, speeding again, but feeling more tired than he had all night; there was a stinging sensation at the back of his eyes. Now, he was inclined to scoff at himself, for this was almost certain to be a wasted journey. Then recollection of the woman's scared manner and of the sudden silence drove thought of wasted time away. It was about an hour since the woman had telephoned; he could not have come more quickly, and he might conceivably be in time to help.

He followed a bend in the road, and saw Rose Cottage. He couldn't mistake the way the road narrowed, or the big warning HALT sign, the white lines on the road. The red brick cottage had probably been there for three hundred years, and nearly every motorist who had to drive past it thought that it ought to have been torn down in the early days of motoring. It was low-roofed, the roof itself was bent and crooked, the red tiles were touched with the green of lichen. Small windows fronted the road, and the front door opened straight on to the road; as dangerous as it could be. There was a wooden gate to a small, hedged garden and a back door. A few yards this side of the cottage was a bay where he could park, and a notice:
J. Robertson Builder and Decorator.
He pulled the car in and sat for a moment, stiff after the journey and his night without sleep.

“What I need now is a cup of strong coffee,” he said aloud. He got out, lit a cigarette, and approached the wooden gate. Near it was a layer of thin, damp dirt – and across this was a tyre track which he recognised on the instant; that of the motor-cycle which had been in Gresham Terrace.

“Now we shouldn't be long,” he said softly, and went into the garden.

Everything near the cottage was quiet, only the birds in the hedges and the nearby trees made any noise, and he hardly noticed them. He was studying the brick path which led to the back door, seeing footsteps in the damp earth on either side of the path – the footsteps of big men.

The lace curtains at the small windows were drawn. These, and something about the house itself, made him think of old people. On a line at the back hung a pair of men's long, woollen pants and of women's combinations; undoubtedly an old couple lived here.

By the back door was a window where the curtain was pulled a little to one side, so that he could see in. He glanced through the window, wondering what excuse he should give for waking anyone up so early; if this really was early, in the country. The cottage, the hanging clothes, the little patch of vegetable garden, the shed in the garden with builder's ladders and a builder's hand cart, all had a quiet, peaceful look.

Then, all thought of peacefulness fled.

An old woman, her grey hair spread out on a dark floor, lay in a huddled heap in the doorway of the room.

 

 

Rollison moved swiftly away from the window, and reached the small back door. Its iron knob was shiny black, the big hinges fastened to the heavy oak were painted, too; and the panels had been freshly oiled. He pushed the door with his shoulder, but it didn't budge. There might be prints on the handle. He took out a handkerchief, then breathed on the knob, and saw several prints; he gripped where he would smear none, and turned the handle.

The door opened smoothly and silently.

His shadow was cast into the small kitchen, and over the woman lying half-way inside the room, half-way in a room beyond. There was a slight smell of gas. The woman lay so still that she seemed to speak of death.

Rollison closed the door, and then went down on one knee.

The grey hair was loose on one side, fluffy and almost white; one or two metal curlers held it tight on the other side. One arm was hidden by her body, the other lay twisted at an odd angle. She was short and plump. Her legs thrust out of the bottom of an old woollen dressing gown, one foot bare, the other still covered with a knitted slipper. The blue knots of varicose veins showed on the right leg.

Rollison took her hand, and tested the pulse, but felt nothing of life.

He took his forefinger away, and then tried again; but there was no beat at all. Very gently, he moved her so that he could see her face. Then he saw what had killed her. There were bruises at her throat, and scratches too; someone had choked the life out of her, and left her there like an empty sack.

He got up, and went into the room beyond, a living-room and parlour, crammed with Victorian furniture, the walls filled with sepia photographs and, on one, the photograph of a man in a private's uniform of the first World War, with service medals beneath it. The telephone was on the inside ledge of the window. Another door led out of this room and Rollison went to it. Beyond was a flight of stairs on one side, and the front door of the cottage on the other. He walked up the narrow stairs, bending his head because the ceiling was so low. The stairs creaked, uneasily. He reached a landing, which was just a square yard between two doors, both of which stood open. The first was a single bedroom, with a sloping roof, a tallboy and other oddments of furniture. The other was a larger bedroom with a double bed, and on the bed an old man, clearly the man of the photograph downstairs. He had been strangled, too.

Rollison spent ten minutes looking round the cottage, and found little that helped, unless it was a photograph of a fair-haired girl and a dark-haired youngster which had the name of a Whitechapel photographer on the back. There were some letters, written in a neat handwriting but badly spelt, always signed:

 

Your ever loving Evie

 

Then a glance through the letters told a story, with phrases like: “I'll be glad when it's here, now,” and “I wonder if it will be a boy, Dan says it's got to be!” making the story crystal clear. Dan and Evie and a baby on the way – and the last of these letters was dated four weeks earlier.

Tucked inside the envelope, so that Rollison nearly missed it, was a telegram:

 

It's a boy, both doing well, Dan

 

Proud parents; proud grandma, proud grandpa.

When Rollison left the cottage, closing the door softly behind him, his lips were set tightly and in his eyes was an angry, savage look.

The scarlet Bristol turned off the Embankment, bright in sparkling sunshine, crunched through leaves of the plane trees brought down by the night's wind, and pulled up outside the main C.I.D. building. Two or three policemen saluted Rollison, no one questioned him until he was up in the hall, where the sergeant on duty, a white-haired man who had served here before the Toff had been born, looked at him with a smile which suddenly disappeared.

“'Morning, sir. Want Mr. Grice?”

“Please.”

“He asked you to go straight up, sir.”

“Thanks.” Rollison nodded and forced a smile and then hurried along the wide corridors to the stairs; he did not want to be caught in the lift with amiable C.I.D. men who had fun in ribbing the Toff. He reached Grice's door, tapped, and started to open it on Grice's “Come in”. This was a smallish room, with two wide windows overlooking the Embankment, Grice's big desk and a smaller one, which was empty. Grice was tall, spare and hollow-cheeked. His sallow skin seemed to stretch too tightly over his nose, making the bridge white and sharp, and over his chin, making that look sharp and pointed. He had fine brown eyes, was dressed in brown, and had thinning brown hair with hardly a trace of grey.

He started with a dry, almost laconic greeting and a sardonic grin.

“Hallo, Rolly, don't say New York's taught you how to hurry. I—”

He broke off as he rounded the desk, shook hands, and then said quietly: “What's as bad as this?”

“Bill,” said Rollison, “I could go out and do murder myself.”

“My advice would be not to.”

Rollison grave a frosty grin. “I might even follow it.” He paused only for a moment. “I know you can't make any firm promises, but if it's possible, I want you to keep me right out of this affair for a few days, anyhow. I'll make the reason clear as I talk.”

“I'll do what I can. Sit down, and—”

“Mind if I stand?” Rollison meant if he walked, for he began to pace the room as he started the story. He left nothing out, and put nothing in that had no direct bearing on the crimes. He watched Grice become more and more serious and grim, saw him making notes on a slip of paper. Grice didn't once interrupt.

As he finished, Rollison said: “… if the Doc knows that the baby was brought to me, he'll probably find out where the baby is now. I don't want to take that chance. So it's better if he doesn't even guess that I'm involved.”

“No need to bring you into it at all,” said Grice. “I'll call Guildford, and have them go and have a look at Rose Cottage.” He didn't add that Rollison should have reported before, just put in the call. While waiting, he went on: “You know that the Doc hates your guts, don't you?”

“I've only heard a little.”

“You'll soon hear more. Jessica Gay was hanged after you'd left England and the Doc spread a whispering campaign that you'd never come back to the East End, that he'd make it so hot for you that you wouldn't dare—and if you tried, he'd drive you out or cut your throat.”

“I've heard that kind of talk before,” Rollison said.

“Take it seriously this time,” Grice advised, soberly. “As you'd caught Jessie Gay, there was a stiffening attitude towards the Doc, and a lot of men defied him. That was partly because they believed you'd help them when you came back. So the Doc was quiet for a month or so. When you didn't return as soon as expected he started again. The cold truth now,” added Grice very grimly, “is that half the squeals we get come from the Doc. He makes the crooks and fences pay him protection money, or he shops them. We have to act on the information, but at times it makes us sick. We'd far rather put the Doc inside than—”

Grice stopped, abruptly.

“I see exactly what you mean,” Rollison said quietly, “and I suppose this could be a wily way to get at me. But if so, why present me with that baby? Obviously the parents are terrified of the Doc, and—”

“Don't say I didn't warn you about him,” Grice said. “He's big, he's powerful, and he's got most of the East End boys scared. He uses every form of pressure—such as a threat to a newborn child. Now! What about this motor-cyclist and the woman? Know their names?”

“Eve and Dan,” Rollison answered.

“Could be Daniel Rickett,” Grice said at once, “he's the only Daniel who can pick a lock, as far as the records go. Lives in Whitechapel, number 17 Luke Street, I think—I'll check. I'm taking it for granted that nothing will stop you from going after the murderers.”

Rollison, feeling and looking rather easier, said mildly: “Right in one. The murderers and the Doc. Is he really unknown?”

“We haven't once picked up a line to his real identity, or where he lives,” Grice went on. “We do know that several of the older fences are already out of business, though, and the Doc's taken over. One of them is dead and buried.”

“Murdered?”

“I think so,” Grice went on grimly. “Rolly, let me give it to you as straight as I can. The Doc is one of the few men who, in twenty-five years, have really got both the big and the little crooks worried. He started off in the protection racket, but now we know that he buys stolen goods in a big way. We've picked up a few of his legmen, carrying stolen goods or money to pay for them, and we've tried to trace the goods back to the Doc, but the trail always peters out. We did get a squeal about ten weeks ago, but the squealer's body was pulled out of the Thames at Rotherhithe two days later. Like me to tell you something that will make you blush?”

“Impossible.”

“We've often wished you were back. Only today the Assistant Commissioner asked whether I'd any objection to asking you if you'd care to have a look round for the Doc.”

“That's taking fame too far,” protested Rollison, righteously, but now that he had talked and now that he knew there would be no limit to the co-operation from the police, he felt much better. “Any leads you can spare?”

“Before we go into that, let me tell you this,” Grice said. “You'll find that a lot of people you thought were your friends won't be friendly in the East End at the moment. You went abroad when there was trouble and the Doc put it around that he scared you off.”

“Oh, did he,” said Rollison heavily, and remembered Ebbutt's lack of enthusiasm. “I thought he'd run to earth, but—”

“Don't rely on anyone but yourself, don't trust a soul,” Grice warned. “Now! We could give you a hundred leads, and they'd probably all fizzle out. Why don't you start with this baby business?” Grice gave a droll grin. “I've seen you at work often enough, and probably know one thing about you that you don't realise yourself.”

“Several, probably, but which one?”

“To get results, you need a cause,” said Grice. “You were born three centuries too late; a suit of armour, a trusty blade and a fair lady's reputation would have been exactly right for you.”

“I've a cause this time,” said Rollison, softly. “Do some things for me, Bill. Trace that motor-cycle, without letting it be known that you're after it. Find out if Dan Rickett and his wife are hiding out anywhere, but don't pull them in. Let me know if you find either of them dead, too.”

Grice nodded, soberly.

“Just one other thing,” added Rollison, and found himself able to smile. “Do you seriously think that to exert pressure on Rickett, the Doc would threaten Rickett's baby?”

“Yes,” said Grice, abruptly, and glanced at the telephone as it rang. “That will probably be Guildford.” He lifted the receiver. “Hallo? … Yes, he's here. For you,” he added almost in the same breath, and held out the receiver.

Rollison moved towards him. “But no one knows I'm here.”

Grice said: “That's what you thought.”

Rollison took the receiver, hesitated, and said: “Richard Rollison speaking.” He had no idea whom to expect, but for some reason he found himself thinking of Esmeralda and her round, pretty face and her wicked eyes. “Who—”

“So it's the ruddy Toff,” a man said in a husky voice; the kind of voice it would be difficult if not impossible to identify. “Like some advice, Toff? Go back to the great U.S.A. Or go anywhere you like, so long as you don't start interfering in London; it isn't your territory any more.”

Then he rang off.

Rollison looked at the receiver thoughtfully, replaced it with great deliberation, told Grice exactly what the man had said, and then added: “And he sounded as if he believed it. How I hate these automatic exchanges—”

“I'll make sure it was a local call,” Grice said, and picked up the receiver, asked the operator, and then put the receiver down and said: “It was.”

“Bill, if that was the Doc and he doesn't want me to poach, he probably knows why I'm here,” Rollison said. “If he's got the Ricketts, he may have made them tell where he left the baby.” Now he stopped moving and speaking slowly, but quickened his pace towards the door. “The Wylies live in Throgmorton Square. Ebbutt's got a couple of men there, but it would be better to have one or two good plainclothes men keeping an eye on the place. Will you fix it? I'm going to my flat; the Doc's boys have probably paid me a visit, hoping to find the baby there.”

He opened the door.

Grice was on his feet.

“I'll fix Throgmorton Square,” he said. “That call wouldn't have been made if the Doc still had a man at your flat, but I'd better send someone with you, to—”

“Don't,” urged Rollison. “If a friend of the Doc is waiting there I don't want him to think that a Yard man will follow me like Mary's lamb. He'll probably want to Teach Me A Final Lesson, and Warn Me Off the East End For Ever. So we'll let him try. Look after the Wylies and that baby. As soon as I'm through, I'll try to get a bodyguard there myself.”

Grice was already at the telephone.

Rollison went downstairs much more quickly than he had come up. Two or three people greeted him, and he waved, but went on. The scarlet gleam of the Bristol streaked out of the gateway, accompanied by grins of the men on duty and the scowling drivers of three taxis and a bus who were all forced to brake. He went round Parliament Square, and heard Big Ben strike ten; just ten o'clock on a busy morning. St. James's Park and the Mall were empty; it wasn't until he reached Piccadilly that he had traffic troubles, and they didn't last very long.

He pulled up outside 22 Gresham Terrace, slammed the car door, and appeared to notice nothing; not even the two men in a saloon car which was parked near a corner. The street door was often open by day, and he left it open and hurried upstairs, whistling cheerfully. He took his time getting his keys out, while listening intently. He heard no sound from the flat, but did hear a sound below, probably in the hall.