Rollison’s eyes gleamed with lazy humour.
‘Let it come, old man, I won’t bite.’
Frensham coloured a little.
‘Sorry – I was day-dreaming. Well, I think I’ve got something for you, but I can’t be sure.’
‘Nothing’s sure in this wicked world,’ murmured the Toff, and his interest seemed no keener as he offered cigarettes.
‘No-o. Know of the firm of Willow and Kellson?’
The Toff reflected.
‘Don’t they make syrup of figs, for gentle laxatives?’
Frensham grinned.
‘Idiot! They do, as a matter of fact; but they’re also taking orders for boracic acid from several manufacturers like ourselves. It’s all being bought for re-sale abroad – in one-ounce packets.’
Rollison frowned.
‘Small stuff, eh?’
‘Incredibly small for export orders.’
‘Anyone else doing the same thing?’
‘Not as far as I know, but I haven’t been to many places yet. Of course it may be nothing at all, but single-ounce packets would be a nice convenient size for cocaine.’
‘My thoughts exactly,’ said the Toff. ‘Where do they warehouse?’
‘Blackfriars. Want me to try and look round?’
‘I’d like you to find whether anyone else is concerned in one-ounce packets of boracic acid,’ said the Toff lightly. ‘We might as well try and find three or four, and you can take it for granted that there’s more than one firm engaged in the racket. Dragoli may be an Egyptian degenerate, but his mind’s all there – and he wouldn’t put his powder all in one cannon, in a way of speaking. Will you keep going?’
‘Of course.’ But Frensham, the Toff thought, seemed a little dissatisfied. He might be wishing to take a more active part in the affair, but, on the other hand . . .
The Toff, although he had been in bed or convalescing, had not been idle. He was wondering about the Talbot sports, as Anne Farraway had done.
The Toff called it luck, but others might not have agreed. It so happened that the nearest pub to the warehouses of Willow and Kellson was called the ‘River Tavern’, two hundred yards from the warehouses, and owned by a gentleman named Winkle.
Winkle was a true name, but no one in the world looked the part less. He was a monstrous, over-fed and bloated-looking man, completely bald and, to a casual observer, completely untrustworthy. It would not be true to say that Winkle had not, in his time, broken the law. On one occasion he had spent three years as His Majesty’s guest, for the trifling sin of smuggling silks and precious stones from the river traffic to the centre of London. But Winkle, who had a honey-sweet voice, was a man of contrast. Twenty years before he had been a magnificent-looking figure of a man, and he had married a woman of astonishing beauty – the madness of the war days might have inspired her choice, but at least the Winkles had been happy.
He had one child – a girl of eighteen.
Winkle had educated her as well as he knew how, but he had been handicapped by the death of his wife when Rene had been less than ten years old. From that time Winkle’s appearance had degenerated, he had taken to whisky and beer and other things, and retained only a doting affection for the girl. When, without his knowledge, she had caught the eye of a certain Spaniard whose morals were untroubled by conscience – the girl had been just sixteen – murder might have been done but for the interference of the Toff.
The Toff had been looking for the Spanish gentleman on a little matter of murder. He had found the gentleman and Rene Winkle in, to put it mildly, an extremely compromising situation.
And he had arrived with some ten minutes to spare to spoil the Spaniard’s little
amour,
to make Rene Winkle realize what a fool she was, and to earn her father’s gratitude. Winkle had not said much, but the Toff knew that when he wanted service he had only to ask for it.
Therefore he called it lucky that Winkle should be on the spot. But dotted about London, and in most of the vantage spots of the East End, were others whom the Toff had helped in diverse ways. It would have been strange had he not had a port of call near at hand.
It was to the ‘River Tavern’ that Rollison, dressed in a choker, a bright check cap, and a suit of reach-me-downs that did not do him credit, repaired on the evening after the talk with Frensham.
Winkle did not recognize him until, when buying a bitter, the Toff let him glimpse one of those little drawings which had seemed unnecessary to Sir Ian Warrender. Winkle’s fat, oily face had not altered, but he had nodded imperceptibly. A few minutes afterwards he retired to his private parlour, and the Toff joined him. They were in conclave for twenty minutes. Winkle nodding or saying yes most of the time – except when he admitted he had never believed Rollison dead – and then the Toff – simply because he was thirsty – went back to the public bar.
He had never had a more opportune thirst.
The bar was crowded with the usual mixture of the maudlin, the drunk, the honest, the criminal, the furtive, and the blatant. In one corner was a trio, all unusually furtive. Chokers were well up about their necks, and their hats were pulled well down. Winkle made it his business never to ask questions, but the Toff did not mind that.
For he had caught a glimpse of the eyes and broken nose of the biggest man of the trio, and he was prepared to swear he was looking at Garrotty the Yank.
It was one of those things that seemed too good to be true. The Toff’s eyes were sparkling, and there was jubilation within him as he looked away from the man, went to a corner, and waited until he had an even better opportunity of studying him. Garrotty – if it were Garrotty – stood slouched in the one corner for several minutes without speaking a word. Then, in a monosyllable, he ordered another drink. The syllable was enough for the Toff, for it was the simple and overworked ‘rye’. Garrotty was not yet used enough to England to know that if he wanted whisky he had to ask for it and not rye; but Winkle was accustomed to all manner of queer customers, and he simply repeated what the man had had before.
In lifting his glass, the man showed himself enough for the Toff to be certain. It was Garrotty, with two of his men.
The Toff knew, as he left the ‘River Tavern’, that he was asking for trouble by waiting and preparing to act himself. If he had been wise he would have been in touch with McNab quickly; Winkle would have sent word, and for the Toff would have done so willingly. Moreover, Rollison had been off duty for nearly three weeks, and he was not limbered up as he might have been. But he had tried his damaged arm out, and spent some hours a day for the past few days walking hard. He believed that he was as fit as ever, and he was more afraid that Garrotty would scent the police on his trail; while as the Toff – or, to look at, an out-of-work stevedore or wharfman – Rollison could keep close to the man’s heels without arousing suspicion.
The Toff decided to act entirely on his own.
He slouched out of the bar without another word to Winkle. The street was a dirty, dark and miserable alleyway with wharves and warehouses on one side; a few derelict-looking hovels and houses, the pub, and more warehouses on the other. At distant intervals gas-lamps burned a dim yellow glow. It was not an aspect of London at its best, but the Toff was glad of the shadows.
He was not alone in slouching near the Tavern’.
Three or four men who would have been inside but for the fact that they could not even find the price of half a pint were on the opposite side of the road, staring dejectedly at the pub, two of them with dirty, blackened cigarette-ends hanging loosely from their lips. Farther along the road a man and a girl were talking, the man’s voice a whisper, the girl’s strident and almost menacing. Under the glow of a gas-lamp the Toff could see her painted lips, the mascaraed eyes, and her tawdry finery.
She spared a glance for the Toff as he passed, but he was looking elsewhere. He did manage to see the man she was talking to. A tall, heavily-built fellow with a bowler hat and a muffler. In his way as furtive as Garrotty; and the Toff wondered – but not idly, for there were always things of interest in the incongruities of the East End – why a man of that stamp, and dressed reasonably well, should have been in the middle of an altercation with a street-walker.
And then an odd thing happened.
It started as the Toff had turned at the corner, and was walking back. The doors of the ‘Tavern’ were pushed open. Three men, with Garrotty in the lead, walked out. Garrotty made a bee line for the bowler-hatted one. The girl drew back, her lips twisted.
There was menace in Garrotty’s voice.
‘See here, fella, what’s de skate done t’ya?’
‘I – I... ‘The man in the bowler hat stammered badly, but the Toff was on the
qui vive.
He had no great opinion of Garrotty’s sense, but he did not think that the gangster would be crazy enough to come out of the pub and deliberately pick a quarrel that would cause him to be eyed with interest by a dozen or more people. For already the loungers were walking across the road – they had no more than a cursory interest, a hope that something would happen to relieve them of the curse of the monotony that made their life.
‘You’n me better talk woids,’ said Garrotty. ‘I’ll see ya, sister.’
The man in the bowler hat made no protest. Garrotty took his arm lightly. The other brace followed in the rear, and the girl started to walk, flaunting her hips, towards the ‘River Tavern’. But in the yellow glare of the street lamp the Toff had seen a smile on the face of the man with the hat. A slight smile, no more than a flash, but enough to confirm to the Toff that this affair was far fishier than anything that could have been taken from the Thames.
There was no hold-up, not even a good pretence of one – Garrotty wanted to see the man in the bowler hat. It was, in its way, a rendezvous, and the girl had played her part in it.
The Toff’s mind was humming, not with theories, for he saw no sense in trying to imagine what was happening. What was far more important was to find a way of looking after the girl as well as the quartet now disappearing in the gloom.
He decided, quickly, taking a chance.
A wizened little man, disappointed of a scene, spat disgustedly into the kerb, and half turned. The Toff touched his shoulder, and the man spun round with an oath. His face showed all too clearly that a tap on the shoulder meant more to him than a friendly greeting. The Toff hoped
to
recognize him, but failed. He was doubtless one of the host of small-part crooks who lived in daily and nightly fear of the police, perhaps for no greater sin than touting for bookmakers.
‘Nar then –’
A ten-shilling note was in the Toff’s hand, as though he had taken it from the air.
‘Find the girl’s name and address,’ he snapped, ‘and give it to Winkle. O.K.?’
The note changed hands. The wizened man looked staggered, but he nodded. Before he could find words, the Toff had swung round and was hurrying along the street. He moved quickly, silently; and it seemed to the wizened man that one moment he had been looking into a pair of agate-hard grey eyes, and the next moment there had been nothing to see.
The Toff reached the corner, and his heart thumped.
For the quartet had not turned towards Queen Victoria Street, or Blackfriars. The men were moving towards the warehouses lining the river.
And not a hundred yards away were the warehouses of Messrs. Willow and Kellson.
The Toff, his eyes gleaming, his right hand in his pocket about the butt of a gun, for he was prepared for all things, even a trick, followed them. They turned – Garrotty leading, the bowler-hatted man behind him, and the two gangsters following in their turn, down a narrow alley between two towering warehouses. On the opposite side of the river Neon signs were glaring, and in the reflected red glow the Toff caught a glimpse of the sign on the warehouse wall:
WILLOW AND KELLSON, LTD.
The Toff went onwards, very slowly now.
It was almost pitch dark. Only the faint glow of the advertising signs shed any light at all, and it was lost as he went farther down the alley. He came – as he had half expected – to a wider road, cobbled, smelling vaguely of horses. The quartet turned left, towards the river . . .
The Toff pulled up short.
Only three of them went on. One of the gangsters stayed behind, and that was exactly what the Toff had wanted.
He changed his grip from his gun to a black-jack, and crept stealthily along the alley. He was giving full marks to Garrotty and the others, for they had made no sound on the cobbles or the concrete flooring of the alleys. Against a distant light he saw the outline of Garrotty’s man, slouched at the corner with his hands in his pockets. He was there merely to give word of trouble, or the threat of it.
He wouldn’t have much chance, thought the Toff.
The man was staring along the road, not the alley. The Toff, moving very slowly, very silently, was within a couple of yards of him before he said softly: ‘Reach skywards, friend!’
The gangster swung round. The Toff saw him going for the gun in his shoulder holster, but the other had done just enough. Turning, he was sideways to the Toff, and the black-jack came down with a sickening thud on the back of his neck. A single grunt came as the man pitched forward, and the Toff stopped him from hitting the ground hard.
He worked fast.
From one pocket he took a roll of wide adhesive tape and sealed the gangster’s lips. From another came two loops of sash-cord – the Toff always travelled prepared, for he had learned his lessons in the past – all ready with slip-knots, and he had his man’s ankles and wrists fastened. The whole job took less than sixty seconds, and the Toff was breathing hard as he went towards the gates of the warehouse that Ted Frensham had warned him was suspect.
The second of Garrotty’s men was outside a small gate in the big sliding doors of the warehouse. The Toff could see the river between gaps in the wharves opposite, and it was much lighter here. Too light for what he wanted, but by keeping to the wall he was able to remain out of sight, but moving all the time.