The Toff on Fire (9 page)

 

Rollison stood near the door of the big room of the apartment, with the passage door closed behind him. He had not moved from the time he had come in. He could see all of the big room, and the open door of the bedroom – and there was something else he could see, although the others did not yet realise it. Leo was plainly visible in a long dressing-table mirror, and by standing close to the edge of the door, Rollison could see without his own reflection showing. The woman wasn't, nor was the child; but the foot of the bed, the door, and the crouching man were right in Rollison's line of vision.

He had heard the faint whirring of the telephone, and knew that the woman must have dialled a number; and then for a long time there had been no sound from her until, suddenly, she had started to whisper. Soon, the help she had summoned would be on the way.

Above all, Rollison wanted the child; unhurt. After that, he wanted a line to the Doc, and had hoped to find it here. But he wouldn't, now. He had given up the advantage of surprise, hoping to startle and to bluff these two into a mistake, but Leo wasn't going to be bluffed.

Rollison saw Leo stand up as he made the threat to kill the child – and then Leo did something which made the threat seem positively devilish. He took a knife from his pocket. His expression, nearly full face in the mirror, had brutal viciousness, and he looked as if he would carry out his threat gladly. Obviously he now knew that he could be seen in the mirror. He began to back towards the head of the bed, and if he went much further he would be out of Rollison's sight.

“Leo,” Rollison said, “don't move any more.”

The youth stopped.

“I've told you what I'll do,” he spat out. “I—”

“Leo,” Maggie Jeffson said in a steady voice, “don't lose your head.
He
said that we mustn't harm the baby.”

“That's what he told you,” sneered Leo; “he told me to suffocate it if I couldn't get it away alive.”

The Doc was quite capable of ordering that.

Maggie didn't answer, and that seemed to imply that she believed Leo. Leo moved again, until all Rollison could see was his back. He heard a sibilant sound, as of whispering; they were talking to each other so that he couldn't hear. He knew that Leo had that gun and felt quite sure that he would use it.

It was more than half an hour since Rollison had left Gresham Terrace, and Jolly would wait for sixty minutes exactly, not a split second more, before calling Grice and naming the hotel. So it would be forty minutes, say, before the police arrived.

To reach the telephone he must pass the bedroom door, and make himself an easy target.

But the woman had sent for that help; he probably hadn't more than ten minutes' grace – if as much.

The whispering stopped; then the woman spoke quietly. She had a pleasant voice, very different from Evie Rickett's, different from Esmeralda's, too, for it had a huskiness and richness. Rollison had not yet set eyes on her, but her voice gave him some idea of what to expect.

“Mr. Rollison,” she said, “you've been away from London for a long time, you don't quite know what's happening. You're making a mistake in fighting the Doc.”

“Mistake for whom?” asked Rollison interestedly. “The Doc or for me?”

“I'm quite serious,” she went on. “Before you left England he was hardly known, but today—well, you're making the biggest mistake of your life.”

“What would you like me to do?” asked Rollison curiously. “Bow out and wish him luck?”

She hesitated.

“Not quite that?” murmured Rollison. “Nice of you.”

“There is one thing you could do,” said Maggie Jeffson, and a new tone in her voice told Rollison that she was anxious to make him think she was really serious, that this was the crux of what she had to say. It was probably the result of the whispering campaign between her and Leo. “You could work
with
the Doc.”

“Oh, no,” ejaculated Rollison. “Not that old trick.”

“You'd be wise, and if you don't you'll regret it, because—well, a lot of people will get hurt. That's one thing that even the police don't realise yet, the Doc always gets what he wants.”

“Even dictators die.”

“If I can't make you see reason now,” Maggie said patiently, “but why won't you think about it—that wouldn't do any harm, anyhow. You can't take the baby back, Leo would rather do what the Doc told him. You don't want the baby to die, do you?”

Leo said smoothly: “I'd kill it all right.”

“So why don't you give up trying,” insisted Maggie, “why don't you consider working for the Doc?”

Rollison didn't answer.

“Just think what a combination it would be,” Maggie went on, and there was a note of excitement in her voice.

“Between you, you could do everything you want. The Doc always said that you had the strongest potential in the East End, that he'd always prefer to work against the police than you; he could guess what the police were going to do next, but you might fool him. I'm
quite
sure that he'd like to work with you.”

“Well, well,” said Rollison, as if bemused, and added: “Well.”

“I'm
not so sure,” Leo said roughly.

“If you like,” offered Maggie, “I'll telephone the Doc now.”

She was just playing for time; nothing else at all.

Rollison turned, and locked the door which led from the passage, then shot the bolt at the top, sliding it slowly and with no sound. As far as he could see, there was no other way into the flat except by the window. He hadn't spoken for a long time. He heard Leo mutter, and wondered how long the man's patience would last.

“There isn't a thing that you and Doc couldn't do if you worked together,” Maggie said, with soft insistence.

“I can believe it,” said Rollison.

He moved forward in long, silent strides, picking up a chair as he went. He knew the exact position of the mirror and of the couple, and believed that he couldn't be seen now. He stood squarely in front of the bedroom door, so that he could see the head of the bed, the dressing-table and the wardrobe; the man and the woman and the baby must be in the far corner, keeping out of his sight in the mirror.

He flung the chair.

He heard Maggie exclaim and Leo swear, then he followed the chair, in a wild surge forward. He saw the woman, crouching over the armchair, and guessed that the baby was on it. He saw Leo, gun in hand, bringing it up to firing position; the hurtling chair had taken him off his guard, but not for long. Rollison dived on to the springy bed and then rolled over. He felt a bullet tug at his trouser leg as he struck out, hit Leo and sent him staggering. He had only seconds to work. Leo was still staggering as Rollison reached his feet, grabbed the youth by the neck, and thrust him away. Leo's arms were waving, the gun pointing towards the ceiling, but in a moment he would level it; and in that moment—

Rollison cracked the youth's head against the wall Leo's eyes rolled, and his knees bent under him.

Rollison saw the youth falling, and saw Maggie moving. He turned round to face her. His hair was dishevelled and his coat rucked up, but he looked so bland, so nonchalant and so recklessly handsome that she probably didn't notice anything else.

“Hallo, Maggie,” he said cheerfully, “nice to know you. You haven't let that child come to any harm, have you?” He moved closer to her, but she didn't back away, just stood over the chair as if she, not he, was guarding the child. The telephone was on a shelf built into the wall, and he stretched out for it, lifted the receiver and tucked it under his chin, and then dialled so that he had one hand free. He saw the eagle way she watched, and as he called his own Mayfair number, he said in deep and convincing tones: “Whitehall 1-2-1-2.” He flashed her a smile. “That's the number of Scotland Yard, or did you know?”

She just stared at him.

It wasn't a moment to pay much attention to a woman's looks or figure, but Rollison's gaze roamed about her, and what he saw seemed to please him, too.

Then, Jolly answered.

“Hallo, Jolly,” he said, “I think I'm all right, so don't tell Grice anything about this place just yet.”

The woman drew a deep breath.

“But I need help of a kind,” Rollison went on. “I fancy that in ten minutes or so some of the doctor's orderlies will be coming to pay their respects, and I'm not sure that I want to be alone when they come. Did you talk to our pal?”

“As a matter of fact, sir, I did,” said Jolly, “and Ebbutt said that he was very anxious to see you. He promised assistance though, and he is on the way now—I expect him almost any minute. I took the precaution of suggesting that it would not be wise for him to come alone.”

“Good. Send them straight over here, Jolly. Apartment 101, on the fifth floor. Tell them they might run into a lot of trouble, and they'd better be careful—make sure he knows I'm having Doc trouble, too.”

“I will, sir,” Jolly said, and then his voice rose slightly: “There is a ring at the door now, sir—two long one short, that will
be
Ebbutt.”

“Tell him not to lose any time,” Rollison urged.

He rang off, on Jolly's calm assurance, and he looked into Maggie Jeffson's beautiful eyes. She seemed completely untroubled, but it was a forced composure; she was skilled in hiding her feelings.

“When the Doc's friends come,” Rollison said earnestly, “tell them to go away in a hurry or I shall send for the police. Tell them to let the Doc know that I'm holding you as a hostage, and that he'll be hearing from you soon. And tell them not to lose any time.”

Unexpectedly, her lips curved at the corners; there was a smile in her eyes, too. Was she laughing at him? She lifted the gilded telephone and must have been answered by the operator on the instant.

“Mary …” she began.

“I'm expecting two or three friends,” she went on. “Have they arrived yet?

“Oh. Well, when they come, tell them to go back and report that I've had to change arrangements, and I'll be getting in touch with them again later. Then let me know what they say …

“Thank you, Mary.”

She rang off, putting the receiver down slowly. That seemed almost like a signal, for Leo to stir on the floor, and for the baby to give a weak, bubbly cry. Rollison glanced towards it, saw the dark blue eyes wide open, the pink-and-red face puckered, the lips turned back to show the bare red gums.

“Will they do what you tell them?” Rollison asked.

“I think so.”

“You'd better hope so, too. How bad a man is Leo?”

“Pretty bad,” she said, quietly.

“Too bad to let loose.”

She was still smiling, but obviously puzzled now. She glanced, as if without thinking, at a photograph standing on a small table – a photograph of a dark-haired, good-looking man, and when Rollison saw it, his eyes narrowed.

He had seen a similar portrait, of the same man – in Esmeralda Gale's handbag; she had taken it out when looking for her lipstick at the Star Club.

Until that moment, he had not dreamed of a possible; association between this woman and Esmeralda.

Could there be?

Maggie Jeffson looked at Leo, who was trying to sit up,^ but who had not yet recovered consciousness completely; his was more a reflex movement at the moment. Rollison and the woman studied each other, while there were the sounds of traffic from outside, and then, very clearly, a car racing along the street and stopping too sharply; its brakes squealed.

“The Doc's orderlies,” murmured Rollison.

She said: “Probably.”

“Now we'll see how much notice they'll take of you,” said Rollison. He grinned and looked completely at ease; but he was not. A locked and bolted door would not keep determined men out if they had orders to get in and kill. He could call the police and save himself, but that wasn't what he wanted to do yet. There were other ways of fighting the Doc. He moved swiftly, to push two heavy chairs against the door, as a kind^of barricade. Would those killers do what Maggie expected? She looked like a statue of Juno in modern dress as she waited, revealing a most remarkable trick of immobility. Rollison saw the look of repose come back, so that her face seemed like delicately tinted marble, but she was as much on edge as he. He didn't know whether she expected the men to obey her, or whether she had known all the time the they would not.

He would soon know.

The telephone bell rang, startling Maggie, although she must have been expecting it. She hesitated, then lifted the receiver and said: “Yes?”

Rollison stretched out a hand and took the instrument from her, and listened as the girl Mary said in a breathless voice: “They wouldn't take any notice, Miss Jeffson. They're on their way up now.”

 

 

Rollison put the receiver down slowly. He did not need to tell Maggie what had happened; obviously she guessed. He tried to judge her real reaction, but couldn't be sure of it; all expression had gone again, her eyes were lack-lustre, her lips seemed to be set more tightly. He saw her glance down at the child, who had become quiet again, but at that very moment it opened its mouth and cried weakly:

“
Ya-ah-ya-ah-ya.''

There was no sound from the passage, yet.

Rollison said quietly: “You'd better go and reason with them, Maggie. Tell them that if they break the door down, they'll get me only over your dead body.” He gave a mechanical smile, and moved aside for her to pass – and as he did so, the telephone bell rang again.

Maggie swung round. It was hard to believe that a human being could move so beautifully, that a human body could call so loudly to a man.

“What—” she began.

Rollison lifted the receiver, trying to keep his mind empty of guessing. If Ebbutt's men weren't too long, those chairs would hold. He couldn't get heavier furniture out of the rooms and into the passage to strengthen the barricade; he had done all he could.

“Hallo?” he said abruptly.

“Mr. Rollison,” said Jolly, and his voice had a different note, one almost of anguish. This caused more alarm than anything else. “I've been talking with Mr. Ebbutt, and he flatly refuses to come. I told him that it might be a matter of life and death to you, and he still refuses. I will come the moment—”

He broke off.

There was a noise at the other end of the line, and then a difFerent voice, deep, hoarse, powerful. There was only one voice exactly like that in the world; the voice of Bill Ebbutt, ex-prizefighter, friend and stalwart and supporter of the Toff for as many years as Rollison liked to recall, a man who had been loyal when everyone else had failed, when the police had hunted and even bosom friends had denied the Toff's name.

“Mr. Ar,” Ebbutt said, and seemed almost to be pleading. “I'd come like a shot if this was a n'ordinary job, you know that, but I can't fight the
Doc.
I just can't, Mr. Ar, 'e's told me that if I do 'e'll cut me gran'child's froat.”

Ebbutt stopped.

And into the harrowing silence there came the thud of footsteps in the passage outside.

The footsteps drew nearer.

Maggie, staring at Rollison, began to move away as if she was going to plead with the men; or else, to push away the chairs and unbolt the door, and so make it easier for them. At least Rollison could make sure that she could be stopped from doing that.

“Honest, Mr. Ar, if it was anyfink else—”

“All right, Bill,” said Rollison, quietly, “I see the point.”

“Will you give me that telephone?”
Jolly cried in a shrill voice,
“I want to call Scotland Yard.”

Rollison rang off.

Maggie had gone out of the bedroom, now. Rollison moved quickly, picked up the photograph of the man whom Esmeralda knew, and slipped it out of its frame and into his pocket. He picked up the baby, and followed the woman. A man was working at the lock of the door; he hadn't troubled to press the bell, and was obviously just prepared to get the door open and burst in. There might be two or three men there.

Or – one might be preparing to throw an ‘egg'.

That was the greatest danger. If they opened the door and flung the ‘egg' inside they could burn the apartment to nothing, but be in no danger themselves.

Maggie looked round at him.

“I don't think they'll listen to me,” she said flatly. “I can try, but I think it will be a waste of time.”

“All right, Maggie,” Rollison said, in the same level tone of voice that he had used when speaking to Bill Ebbutt. “Do you know what they'll do?”

“They'll probably set fire to the place.”

“Knowing you're here?”

“I told you before,” the woman said, “you haven't even begun to know the Doc. If you work for him, this is a risk you take.”

“So it's a risk you take,” Rollison said, and found himself smiling almost bitterly. “He might at least give you evens.” He turned away from the passage door, as the handle turned; only the bolt held it now, undoubtedly the lock had been picked. He closed the door of the big room, held the baby in one arm, and held Maggie's wrist with the other. He went to the window, and said: “Open it as wide as you can.”

“But—”

“Open it.”

She hesitated for a moment, then flung the window up. Cold air swept into the room, making the curtains billow, ruffling the blue shawl and making the fluffy wool dance like blue corn in a late summer breeze. Rollison took out his lighter and held it to one of the cushions on the couch near the window, waited until it was flaming and smouldering, and watched the dark smoke drawn out of the window. He leaned out, and shouted:
“Fire! Send for the fire service. Fire!”

He saw startled people look up. The smoke was passing over his head, something in the cushion was burning with a most offensive smell. He saw a woman point upwards, and a policeman come running from the corner.

“Fire!” Rollison bellowed. “Fire! We can't get out, the passage is blazing.
Fire, fire, fire!”

The policeman was waving, as if to reassure him, while a man dashed into a nearby shop. To telephone? Rollison drew back, still holding the child. Maggie, in the same statuesque pose, was standing near the window and watching him as if she had never seen anything like him before.

Then there was a roaring noise from the passage; a crash, as if the door had been forced down. Rollison drew his gun from his pocket, and covered this door—but he did not need a gun and he did not need telling what had happened.

The roaring was of burning.

The ‘egg' had burst, the outer door was down, the fire was a fire in deadly earnest, and the only question was how long it would take to spread in here.

Then, he
knew.

He could see the inside of the door blackening already, and the flames ate into it voraciously; in a matter of minutes, every part of the apartment would be afire.

“When you're up against the Doc,” said Maggie Jeffson, “you just can't win.”

The sound of a fire engine came loud and clear and urgent, and people were running towards the corner, to see it, while crowds gathered outside the Lancing Hotel. Men were hurrying away from the entrance – probably these were the Doc's men, who had started this thing.

Rollison leaned out of the window, waving both arms.

“The place won't last five minutes!” he roared. “Get everyone out! Everyone out!”

He couldn't be sure whether the policeman heard, but he saw men turn towards the officer and guessed that they were passing on his message. He heard the fierce crackling of the flames outside the room, and an explosive
zutt
as a panel of the door cracked.

Flame leapt through it, blasting hot.

The fire engine turned the corner.

Rollison saw it pull up outside the hotel, and saw steel helmeted men leap from it and start to uncoil the hoses. The fire escape arrived and the ladder and platform seemed to shoot up towards him. He knew that he was safe and that for the time being he had saved the child. No matter how fierce the flames nor how hot they seemed, they would escape.

Smoke was writhing towards him, thick and evil-smelling, when the fireman arrived atop the turntable.

“Take the baby and help her,” Rollison said, and he seemed almost detached as the fireman took the child, then steadied Maggie. “And there's an unconscious man inside.”

“We'll see to him,” a man said.

“I'm all right,” Maggie said, evenly. She gave Rollison that unexpected, half amused smile, then stepped on to the turntable. The roaring from behind was steady and almost deafening, now, and Leo wasn't likely to live through it, in spite of the fireman's words.

Then, Maggie staggered.

The fireman was still holding her with one hand, the infant hugged closely to him with the other. Maggie closed her eyes, and swayed backwards. Rollison stretched out and tried to grab her, clutched her dress, and felt it tear in his grasp. The fireman held on desperately, but her dead weight pulled him towards the edge, and with the child in his arms he might lose his balance.

He let go.

Then Maggie Jeffson fell.

There came a scream from below, rising as if in awful terror – then silence, next a thud, then a crowd of horrified people about the crushed body on the pavement.

Rollison stared down, hard-eyed.

“Get a move on, or the place'll be up like a perishing Guy Fawkes,” the fireman burst out. He was pale, and was obviously keeping his face averted from the ground and from the woman. “What the hell made her do that? If she'd kept her head for another couple of minutes, we'd have been okay.”

The fire roared behind them and tongues of flame leapt out. Leo was lost in the flames, was almost certainly dead by now.

Rollison climbed on to the swaying platform.

Among the men who were on the opposite side of the road, ten minutes later, was Superintendent Grice. There were dozens of police, and more were coming on duty every moment. Three fire engines were pumping water on to adjoining buildings, for it was obvious that there was no hope at all of saving any part of the Lancing Hotel. Rope barricades had been put up at the corner, and the crowd was being thrust slowly back. An ambulance stood by, and the body of Maggie Jeffson was being covered with a white sheet.

An ambulance man held the baby.

By then Rollison had recovered from the overpowering heat upstairs, and was standing near Grice, watching the stretcher bearers and drinking a cup of hot, sweet coffee which had been brought by a café owner round the corner.

Grice called sharply: “Stop a minute.”

He went towards the dead woman, and bent down. A young doctor who had formally pronounced that life was extinct, drew near him.

Rollison watched.

Grice pushed the magnificent auburn hair back from the marble forehead, then let it fall again. He spoke in an undertone to the doctor, then signalled to the ambulance men to carry on. It wasn't until the doors had closed on what was left of the Doc's loyal servant, that Grice made his way to Rollison.

Grice looked a different man; older, graver, harassed.

“Did you see what I was looking for?” His manner was abrupt.

“I think so. A bullet hole.”

“Did you know?”

“I knew she didn't faint and I knew she didn't throw herself off,” Rollison said, “but I don't know who fired at her. Someone from a window opposite, of course. Possibly they were after me—she moved in front of me just before she started to fall.”

“The cold-blooded swine,” Grice said, and his voice was harsher than Rollison could ever remember. “I knew the Doc was as bad as they come, I knew he was squeezing the East End, I knew he was squeezing out the other fences and setting himself up as a kind of Big Boss, but I thought we could afford to wait for a while. I didn't think he'd–”

Grice broke off.

He hadn't dreamed, and no one had dreamed, that the Doc would go to lengths like these; that if he were thwarted he would use fire to kill and to maim the innocent, if only he could get his own revenge.

“I'll have the building opposite searched,” Grice said, “but I'll bet it's far too late.”

He gave orders, and then a Fire Service officer came up, tall, black-haired, glum.

“Can't be sure yet, but it looks as if two families were trapped,” he said. “We've talked to one of the porters and to someone on the third floor. Can't find anyone else, there wasn't a big staff.”

Rollison said quickly: “Have you found the telephone operator? A girl named Mary?”

“No, sir. The porter
thinks
she went up to the fourth floor to warn a deaf woman who couldn't hear the telephone,” the fire officer said. “Can't be sure.”

“I'm sure of one thing,” Grice said. “I won't rest and the Yard won't rest until we've got the swine.” He looked bleakly into Rollison's eyes. “I know you saved the child, perhaps we wouldn't have if you'd told us where to come. But if you'd told us, we might have stopped this holocaust.”

Rollison didn't speak.

“Why didn't you call us?” Grice demanded, roughly. “What makes you think you're so all-powerful?”

Rollison rubbed his chin where it was sore from banging it on a rung of the fire escape. He did not smile and did not relax as he said evenly: “I asked you to guard the baby. A nice job you made of it. If you're handing out blame, get in line yourself.”

He turned and pushed his way through a crowd of firemen, policemen and newspapermen. Two newspapermen recognised him and came hurrying, but he wouldn't stop, and the look in his eyes and the set of his chin told them that he wasn't just being difficult. A police sergeant sent an inquiring glance at Grice, asking silently if Rollison was to be stopped; Grice shook his head. Rollison pushed his way towards the corner of the street which led to Birdcage Walk. There was a big crowd here, too, but clear above the hum of talk he heard his own name.

“Mr. Rollison! This way, Mr. Rollison!”

That was Jolly.

Rollison looked across the road and saw Jolly standing by a taxi; bless Jolly, now and always. Rollison skipped between the traffic, most of which was moving very slowly, and climbed into the taxi. Jolly got in beside him, gave the driver the address, and then sat back, his body upright, while Rollison leaned in a corner and closed his eyes, as if he wanted to shut out the picture of ugly things.

Jolly sat without saying a word.

As they turned into the Mall, heading for Clarence House and then St. James' Street, Rollison opened his eyes.