The Toff on Fire (17 page)

He put his hand to his pocket.

One of the men said: “Get him,” and he heard those behind move towards him, saw those from the doorway crouch, ready to stop him whichever way he tried to go. They were afraid that he had a gun, but all he took from his pocket were his visiting cards. He tossed these into the air so that they billowed out and then began to fall like huge snowflakes – and then he took a running leap towards the doorway. One man dodged. Two drew closer, to stop him. The men from behind were within a yard or two, if they once caught him Liz would be proved right; they would tear him to pieces.

He swerved past the couple, handed another man off, and saw two more blocking the doorway. He had just enough space to take a running leap, and he made for them at speed. As he leapt, they swayed to one side, afraid of being smashed down by his full weight.

He landed just inside the gymnasium, and turned round swiftly; now, his gun was in his hand.

“After all, it's in self defence,” he said mildly. “Anyone want to come any further?”

He was not afraid that the men outside would take any chances. His fears were of the men behind, of Ebbutt's men, who should be on his side.

Then, he heard Ebbutt's voice, as the ex-boxer came from the little office in a corner of the shed.

 

 

The Toff stood with his back to Ebbutt and the men inside the gym, and watched the crowd outside. There were nearly a dozen men, now – and, some distance away, many people watching as if they sensed that this was a moment of great decision. The Toff held the automatic lightly in his right hand, watching the Doc's men as they stood still, and then edged away.

“No one coming?” he inquired as if sadly. “That's a pity.”

Ebbutt had stopped speaking, and appeared to have stopped moving. No one behind Rollison was nearer than three yards, but that was very near. If they wanted to bring him down, they could do it easily; they could toss Indian clubs at him, or dumb-bells, they could do whatever they liked –
if
they chose to.

Ebbutt would be forced into the open.

A tall, lean-faced man came up the street, hurrying. Someone in the little group outside the gymnasium called: “Here's Vic!”

Rollison had never heard of Vic …

He didn't like the sneery twist to the man's lips, or the nasty expression in his eyes, or the way his hand was deep in his pocket. He came striding, and the man who had called his name moved towards him.

“What's this all about?” Vic asked, sharply.

“It's the ruddy Torf—”

“I thought I said he wasn't to go inside.”

“That's right, that's what you said,” the man agreed, “but it's like trying to stop a jet.”

Vic sneered: “It's like working with a lot of halfwits.”

He kept his right hand in his pocket as he drew nearer the entrance, and as he eyed Rollison, Ebbutt began to speak. Ebbutt's voice was pitched so low that the words only just reached Rollison's ears, and he could imagine that Ebbutt was speaking without moving his lips; so that no one could see that he was talking.

“Mr. Ar,” he muttered, “you never should've come, it was askin' fer trouble. Pack it in, woncha? Tell Vic you'll get aht of 'ere quick.”

He stopped.

The man named Vic stood two yards from Rollison; if sight of the gun made him uneasy, he didn't show it.

“Just tell 'im you won't make any trouble, Mr. Ar,” Ebbutt muttered miserably, “we don't want—”

Vic said flatly: “Take his gun away, Ebbutt.”

Ebbutt drew in a sharp breath.

“You heard me,” Vic ordered, “take his gun away, we'll teach him whether he wants to come poking his nose into our front door again.
Take that gun.”

“Mr. Ar,” breathed Ebbutt, “drop the gun, and then make a run for it.”

“Take it!”
rasped Vic.

There was no shadow of doubt what was happening, now. No man behind Rollison would move or speak for him; the friends of yesterday were the neutrals of today, and some might even be enemies. There was bitterness in that, but much of it was caused by fear of what reprisals the Doc might take. Ebbutt might be governed by the same fear, but he was coming down on the Doc's side in the showdown.

“Mr. Ar—”

“No, Bill,” said Rollison mildly, “I'm not going to drop the gun or give it to you. I've come here because I've a job to do. I want to go down into your cellar.”

“Look, that mob out there—”

“I want to have a look round in the cellar,” Rollison insisted, “that's what I came for and what I'm going to do.”

“Mr. Ar, if you don't drop that gun and talk turkey, there's no knowing wot they'll do. I warned you—”

Rollison spun round.

As he moved, he fired two bullets through the open, sliding door, over the head of Vic and his friends, smacking them into the walls of small houses opposite. Then he drove his right fist into Ebbutt's stomach, and as the big man folded up, staggering and gasping, Rollison jumped towards the sliding door and pulled at it with all his strength, to keep Vic and the others out. He saw Vic dart forward, other men with him. He saw the shiny black cosh in Vic's hand, the ugly weapons in the hands of the others. Vic reached the door and shot out a hand to try to stop it from closing, but Rollison slammed it hard. It crashed into Vic's fingers, and he heard the man's squeal. The door slid back a fraction, Vic's hand dropped out of sight, and Rollison pushed the door right home and dropped the bar across so that it couldn't easily be forced.

Then, he swung round.

A dozen or more men were in here, some with big sweaters, some stripped. Ebbutt was still backing away, but his hands were at his stomach now, and he was breathing heavily.

Heavy thuds shook the sliding door.

“Mind if I look in the cellar, Bill?” Rollison asked politely. He put his gun back into his pocket, as if to suggest that he now knew that he was among friends, and smiled as if there was no hostile crowd outside. He knew that the crowd wouldn't be there long, for the shots would have echoed far and wide – and news of them and news of the assault on the doorway would soon reach the ears of the police. It wouldn't be long before the mob was dispersed, but – it might be too long.

Ebbutt spoke heavily, painfully.

“Mr. Ar, I can't give you no more protection. I told you that, didn't I? I can't take no chances. If I do anyfink to 'elp you, Gawd knows wot'll 'appen to Liz
and
my daughter and '
er
kid.”

He stopped, standing squarely in front of Rollison. Men moved behind him, like a solid phalanx, as if to make sure that Rollison couldn't get away. The thudding on the door was thunderous, now. Soon, men would come to the other doorways – those doorways which led to the garden of the Blue Dog, and to the cellar beneath the pub, the cellar where Evie Rickett might have been kept prisoner.

“I just want to go down into the cellar, Bill.” Rollison's voice was quite normal. “Give me the keys, will you?”

“Mr. Ar, don't
make
me—”

“Bill,” said Rollison lightly, “while I live, nothing and no one is going to stop me from going down into the cellar. Do you want it the hard way?”

“'Ard way,” said Ebbutt, and seemed to sigh. “You're the one wot's makin' it 'ard. Listen to that banging, Mr. Ar, that will tell you 'ow mad they are. You've been away too long, you don't know how—”

There was a splintering noise, behind Rollison; an axe, through the door. Two more thuds followed, and then another menacing crack, as wood splintered. It was only a matter of minutes, now, and the police hadn't arrived; they were probably on the way in force, but they might arrive too late. Ebbutt stood as solid as an oak door, with his men behind him, and others now sidling along the sides.

There was no doubt that Ebbutt was prepared to throw him to the wolves, but –
why?

The little door in the corner opened, leading to the garden and the cellar.

It might be one of Vic's men, it might be another of Ebbutt's. Rollison didn't know, and didn't care. He moved very swiftly, taking the gun from his pocket. That made the men behind Ebbutt sway back, as if before a high wind; but Ebbutt stood his ground.

“Bill,” said Rollison, “I'm coming.”

“For Gawd's sake—” Ebbutt was sweating, there was a beading on his forehead and face, a beading on his upper lip. “Don't make it any worse, Mr. Ar, if you get down into that cellar my Liz an' Maisie an' ner kid—”

Rollison squeezed the trigger.

He fired at Ebbutt's fleshy thigh, but aimed to frighten, not to wound. The roar of the shot sounded loud in the confined space, and the corrugated iron clanged under the explosive sound; and under the smashing blows of the axe. Then Rollison thrust Ebbutt aside, and he staggered back, the sweat dripping from his forehead, one hand clutching his leg. The other men, nervous of the gun, moved away – but before Rollison was half-way along the gymnasium, a man picked up an Indian club and flung it at him. It passed in front of his eyes. Another caught him on the back, a third brushed the side of his head. But the threat of the gun cleared a path ahead, and he was within a yard of the door when he saw who had opened it.

It was Liz Ebbutt, in her Salvation Army uniform.

She stood just outside the door, and something shimmered in her hand. A knife?
Liz?
Rollison couldn't believe it. A dumb-bell struck him a glancing blow on the back of the head, and it wouldn't be long before the other door crashed in. If Vic and the mob caught up with him, he would probably be beaten to death before the police arrived.

But he couldn't strike
Liz.

He saw her lips move, and saw her hold out the ‘thing' which shimmered in her hand.

“That's the cellar key,” she said, in a quavering voice, “as God's my judge I don't know what's down there, but there's the key. Hurry, Mr. Rollison, or else—”

The door behind them gave way. Rollison heard it crash, then glanced over his shoulder and saw Vic and the others spilling towards him. The ring was in their way, and he had only seconds to spare. He moved swiftly outside and as he did so Liz Ebbutt slammed and locked the small door, and said: “Hurry, won't you? Please
hurry.”

There were the big wooden gates which led from the back of the Blue Dog to the street – and the gates were being forced open, as men pushed against them. Two men were looking over the wall from the far side, but it wasn't easy to climb, because Ebbutt had covered it with barbed wire and broken glass. There was the back of the pub, and the steps leading down to the cellar – and the cellar door.

“There he is!”
a man roared.

Now, they were beating on the back door of the gymnasium. The noise was deafening, and it drowned other sounds, for the corrugated iron walls boomed and clanged as the door shook. Rollison reached the cellar steps and started down them. A man atop the wall flung something at him; iron clanged as it hit the ground. He had to turn his back, and bend down, to thrust the key into the lock. If he'd had to pick the lock, he wouldn't have had a chance.

He felt the key turn, and thrust the door open.

It was dark inside, and the smell of beer was almost overpowering. He didn't wait, but jumped in and slammed the door behind him. He locked it, then took out his hooded torch and flashed the narrow beam of light round.

He found the main lights, and switched them on. He heard the sounds, muted now, and fancied that he heard a footstep in the yard. He pushed home the top and bottom bolts of the heavy door, and then turned to look about the cellar. Here, barrels of beer stood on trestles round the walls, each with a wooden bowl beneath it, to catch drops as they dripped. Smaller barrels were on shelves, above the big ones below. At the other side of the cellar was another door, and he knew that this led to the wine bins and the spirit bins and the bottle store. He might need another key for that. He reached the door, hearing the distant sounds but no battering on this one.

Yet.

He twisted the handle, and pushed and pulled, but the door wouldn't open. He tried the key, but it was too big. He was clenching his teeth as he took out a penknife with a picklock blade, and started to work on the lock. He felt it catch, and then slip. He wasn't as steady as he should be and fought hard for self-control. In the back of his mind was a fear which had been there from the beginning – that he would find Esmeralda, with the evidence that Ebbutt was involved.

There was another fear, in its way greater.

That the Doc's men would throw an ‘egg'; as they had threatened at his flat, as they had done at the hotel.

The key gripped.

He turned it slowly and cautiously. Sweat was running down his cheeks and forehead. He felt the lock turning, but if it slipped again he would have to start afresh, and he might not have time. He felt it slip back sharply, and knew that he had won this battle against time, but as he pushed at the door, there was a heavy thudding on the other door which led from the garden.

Here they came again.

Torch flashing, he went into the darker cellars beyond this one. He stabbed at the light switch, and lights blazed on as he slammed the door behind him. He shot these bolts, too, then leaned against the door, as if he had to pause to get his breath back.

There were the long lines of bins, the bottles covered with dust and cobwebs, the whisky and gin and vermouths, the rums and the smaller bottles fairly clean. He saw no one and nothing else, but that wasn't significant; this part of the cellar was like a rabbit warren, with passages leading off to the right and left. Until he had searched them all, he couldn't be sure what was here. The bins themselves were open at the sides, here and there bottles had toppled from one bin into another.

He stopped, abruptly.

An empty bin was close to the spot where two passages intersected. In this was piled a collection that would not have shamed the Black Museum at Scotland Yard. There were knives and guns, coshes and pieces of lead piping, there was a hangman's rope, coiled in and out of the other oddments, there were little phials of poison, there was even a broken cuckoo clock and a brim of a top hat, poking out of the heap.

Here were his trophies, part of the thing he had come to find.

He did not see the laddered nylon stocking, which had been worn by Jessica Gay, who had sacrificed herself for love of the Doc.