The Toff on Fire (15 page)

 

The flat was quiet, as Grice and Rollison eyed each other, across the big desk.

Evie Rickett was asleep in the spare room, with a police nurse waiting by her side, ready to take down anything else she said, and to give her any help she needed. Outside the house, both back and front, there were C.I.D. men. All the newspapermen and women had gone, and their legacy would be in the early papers. Grice had spent some time on the telephone to the Yard, and Rollison knew that much of the time he had been talking to the Assistant Commissioner.

The
Globe
man had telephoned to tell Rollison that the East End was agog with the news that the Toff was fighting back, and the story of the visiting cards was the best joke for years.

There was laughter, now, against the Doc.

He wouldn't like it. He would sense the danger behind it. He had pinned those cards on to poor Evie Rickett and sent her to Rollison, hoping to make Rollison hold his hand, fearing harm to others.

The Doc was on the defensive at last.

And he'd kept Evie in the cellar of a pub.

“Well, what's on your mind, Bill?” Rollison asked. “Am I ordered to keep my hands off the job?” There was a glint in his eyes. “Because nothing you could say would stop me, and little you could do.”

“I'm not sure that I want you off the job,” Grice said. “The Doc wants that, so why should I?”

“Nice logic.”

“Rolly,” said Grice, “there are one or two things that you probably don't know, and at least one you won't agree with me about.”

“We might compromise,” murmured Rollison.

“Not on this. First—I don't believe that any man would do what the Doc is doing, unless he intended to finish it quickly. He would know that he can't stage what amounts to a reign of terror and get away with it for long. A few days grace is the most he can hope for. He's got this collection of contact men who do exactly what he tells them, and he covers his traces with most of them, but someone must know who he is. The woman Jeffson must have been killed because she knew him, or else could give us an idea where to find him. He's been working quietly and thoroughly, and he's got a stranglehold on many people, but this open clash with us is something different. Either a crisis had been forced upon him, or one has developed beyond his control. I think he will probably stop this killing once the crisis is over. Agree?” Grice flashed.

“Up to a point,” Rollison said. “I think he might be staging this simply as a demonstration. If he can challenge the police openly and get away with it once, his influence will grow much stronger. And it's already strong enough.”

“Could be,” agreed Grice. “Now, look at our point of view. We daren't let him get away with it. We must catch him, and we're going to. I think we can do it quicker with your help.”

“Thanks,” Rollison said. “How?”

“You haven't told us why you suspect Marling.”

“He was named last night as a possible Doc.”

“Who named him?”

“An old friend of mine.”

“I thought so,” Grice said, and he smoothed his chin, while his look gave Rollison the impression that he didn't relish what he was going to say next. “Was it Ebbutt, of the Blue Dog?”

“Yes.”

“How did he come to suspect Marling?”

“It's on the local grapevine.”

“Listen, Rolly,” Grice said very tensely, “your mind is usually as sharp as they come, what's blunting it now? You know that the Doc is unknown to everyone. Very few of his own contacts have any idea who he is. How do you think Ebbutt or anyone else can get hold of a rumour like that?”

“Ebbutt keeps his ear to the ground,” Rollison said.

“Yes,” snapped Grice, “and he may keep a lot more underground. I know that he's a friend of yours, but I also know that he isn't a friend of ours. He's run that boxing business of his for over twenty-five years. He's had thousands of people through the gymnasium, and half of them have been men just out of jail, or men who ought to be in jail. We've suspected for a long time that it's been a clearing house of crime—whether Ebbutt was aware of it or not.”

Rollison was sitting very still.

“Go on, Bill.”

“I'm going on. We've been investigating the affairs of that gymnasium and that pub very closely. Ebbutt's got a remarkable lot of money. He will often give young boxers well-paid jobs at the gymnasium, just to train them. He has a kind of pension list for old boxers and that must cost him a fortune. As nearly as we can estimate, Bill Ebbutt has a payroll of over two hundred pounds a month. Think the profits at the Blue Dog cover that?”

“No,” said Rollison, softly.

“I'm glad I don't have to open your eyes all the way. Now take another look at Ebbutt. He's been carving a niche for himself for a long time. He's the big shot around there, because of the boxing and the gymnasium. He commands a great deal of loyalty. He may have started off with the idea of running a good show for boxers, but the power he got through it may have gone to his head. Once a man's had a taste of power, especially a strong-willed man like Ebbutt, you can't be sure how far it will go. Ebbutt's persuaded you that he's being victimised by the Doc, but—is he? Supposing he
is
the Doc?”

Rollison's lean hands were on the desk, and they were very still. His eyes were narrowed, and his face set. He didn't speak, and he didn't move.

“If he is, he'd want to put you on the wrong track, wouldn't he? He would want to make it look as if he was being victimised. And he would want to keep friendly with you. Remember you, as the Toff, have given Ebbutt a lot of protection for years. You've always trusted him. Whenever you've wanted an under-cover job done, a job that the police wouldn't do, whenever you've wanted strong arm help, you've called on Ebbutt. He's given it to you, and he's established himself as a buddy of the Toff, and therefore he must be trustworthy. Supposing he
isn't,
Rolly. Supposing the gymnasium and the Blue Dog together make up the clearing house for the Doc's messages. How would that fit in with the general scheme of things—including the fact that Mrs. Rickett says she was being held at a pub, or where there was a smell of beer?”

Rollison stirred. “It would fit in,” he conceded.

“Some other things would, too,” went on Grice. “We've been watching for a long time, you know that. We thought that we could catch the Doc before he did any real harm—that he was doing more good than harm by setting the crooks and the fences against one another, but that doesn't mean that we haven't kept our eyes open. And most leads we've got have taken us to the Blue Dog and Ebbutt,
not
to Marling.”

Rollison put his hand to his pocket, took out his cigarettes, and proffered the case to Grice. Grice seldom smoked, but he seemed glad of a cigarette now. Rollison flicked his lighter, and they lit up; everything was done with great deliberation.

“What is your brief for Marling?” Rollison asked, at last.

“I've no brief for him, but surely you can see—”

“The obvious,” Rollison interrupted, and he smiled but could not command the wanted lightness of tone or of expression. “That it would pay the Doc to allow false rumours to spread. As you've said. That it is much more likely that a man of Ebbutt's dominating personality and his intricate knowledge of the East End would lead this business, than would a youngish doctor who's only recently gone to live in the place. Yes, I can see all that. I can't see Ebbutt as a king pin in this, though. I can only see Ebbutt as an honest man.”

“Paying out two hundred pounds a month in wages which you might almost call pensions.”

“Yes,” said Rollison, “I know.”

“Where do you think he gets his money from?”

“I think Ebbutt's been a careful business man all his life, and that he's comfortably off,” Rollison said. “And if he pays these wages, he doesn't pay tax on the money.

But all right, Bill. Ebbutt is your Suspect Number I. I haven't one yet—Marling is only an outsider.”

He didn't think that this was the moment to tell Grice that Marling's photograph had been in Maggie's apartment, or that Esmeralda Gale was also involved with Marling. Grice would not have taken this anti-Ebbutt line unless he felt that it was essential, and it had to be probed, deeply.

“What are you going to do?” Grice asked.

“I'm going to see Marling first, and then I'm going to look for Esmeralda,” Rollison said, “but I'm not going to find her—not yet. The Doc will tell me where to find her, soon enough.”

Grice said: “I don't follow.” The look of strain had gone, obviously he was relieved that Rollison accepted even the possibility that Ebbutt was the Doc. “Why should the Doc tell you—”

“He'll get word to me that Esmeralda is in a certain place,” said Rollison, “and he'll say that if I go there he might make terms. He'll take a chance on my known reputation for preferring to work with Ebbutt and his cronies than the police. He'll bait his trap with Esmeralda, and I—”

Grice said sharply: “What will you do?”

“Walk into it.”

“Don't be a fool! If ever there was a case for working along with us, this is it. We'll give you all the protection you need, and you—”

“You've plenty of people to look after,” Rollison said mildly. “I'll look after myself.”

Grice drew in a deep breath, but didn't attempt to persuade him.

Grice had gone.

Jolly came in from the kitchen, where he had undoubtedly been waiting and listening, with the door ajar. He looked as sedate as ever, and gave no inkling of his thoughts until Rollison said: “How far do you go along with Grice, Jolly?”

“If Ebbutt is the—ah—person known as the Doc,” said Jolly, very softly, “it will be the great surprise of my life, and I would immediately advise you to withdraw from all contact with the East End of London and with all investigation of crime. If you—if
we
could be so wrong—”

“We shall retire together,” declared Rollison, “and take a pub in the country.” He paused. “Jolly, I visited Ebbutt last night. I interrupted a conversation between him and Liz. I heard him as dispirited as a man could be. He talked of selling up and going to live in the country. At the time, I thought he was down in the dumps, because obviously he'd been under pressure, but could he have known that I was in the pub? Could he have heard me getting in, guessed who it was, and timed his little chat with his wife?”

Jolly eased his position.

“I suppose it is conceivable, sir,” he said, “and if there is any justification at all for Mr. Grice's allegations, then there is at least one supporting factor which I'm sure you have already seen.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I was very puzzled indeed when Ebbutt said that he would not come to your assistance the other night,” elaborated Jolly, “and in the light of what we have now been given to understand, it is at least possible that he was pretending to be frightened, but that in fact—”

“If a man's wife and grandchild are threatened with injury and perhaps torture, I think most men can be frightened.”

“No doubt, sir,” conceded Jolly, “but Ebbutt is a very strong character indeed. He has always been strong-willed, obstinate, and aggressive, and—but I think it would be better to try to judge by results, sir, don't you?”

“I do,” agreed Rollison, “and now I'm really going to see Marling.”

“May I ask which suit you require, sir?” asked Jolly.

Before he left, Rollison looked in to see Evie Rickett.

She was in a drugged sleep; and all the injuries showed up on her tired face. Rollison seemed to see another face; Esmeralda Gale's.

There was no sign of the struggle outside the doctor's house in the Mile End Road, when Rollison arrived there. He had parked a hired car, a cream-coloured Jaguar, right opposite the front door, in full view of everyone passing. Traffic was thick and fast, but the wide road allowed plenty of room for parking. The red lamp was not alight. The grass looked very green and beautifully trimmed. The house itself was no thing of beauty, being of yellow brick which had not lost its harsh newness, but it had a spaciousness and a solidity which most of the buildings in the vicinity lacked.

A middle-aged woman with dark hair and the colouring of a Southern European, opened the door.

“Is Dr. Marling in, please?” Rollison said, as she smiled a welcome.

“Please, who wishes him?”

“Will you take in this card?”

“Immediately, sir.” Her accent was attractive. She moved to one side of the hall and tapped at a door and went straight in; it was the door of the surgery.

She came out almost at once.

“Please, wiz me,” she said. She did not lead the way to the surgery, but to the room where Rollison had found the picture of Maggie Jeffson. She closed the door on him, and the carpet which covered rooms and passages from wall to wall muffled all her footsteps. Rollison waited until she had had time to go, and then opened the door a crack, and listened; Marling might be on the telephone, might be sending for – whom?

There was no sound of a voice, and in a moment the surgery door opened. Rollison backed away, without closing his door. Marling's footsteps grew firmer and heavier; he was approaching, and could hardly have had time to telephone or to speak to anyone else.

He pushed the door wide open and came in.

Rollison's impression of the night before was strengthened. Here was a tall, good-looking man, with a strong face, an easy, self-confident smile, black, curly hair. He wore a beautifully cut suit of navy blue, and looked immaculate; the East End practice didn't pull him down at all. He had lithe, easy movements, too. Rollison noticed all these things, and yet the thing that impressed him most was the look in Marling's eyes; a smile that couldn't be mistaken.