A Mask for the Toff (2 page)

 

The Honourable Richard Rollison was amusing himself.

He sat in a large easy-chair, with a brandy glass cupped in his hand, and surveyed a remarkable wall in front of him. If one could forget the three other deep-cream walls each with two landscapes in oils hanging on them, the excellent if orthodox furnishing of a room which was half drawing-room, half study, and forget also the normality of Rollison's reposeful figure, it was possible to imagine that this was part of a museum. In fact, the only known counterpart was not much more than a mile away from this Mayfair flat: the Black Museum at Scotland Yard.

Rollison was recalling the histories of some of the exhibits.

There were the bloodstained chicken feathers, which reminded him of a chicken farm and murder; a top hat with a hole in the crown, worn when he had been within an inch of a bullet in the head; there were guns, knives, glass phials containing innocent looking but deadly powders; and there was also a hangman's rope, which had once been placed round the neck of a man who now knew all the secrets of the next life.

Rollison occasionally gave a gentle, reminiscent smile, which suggested that in spite of the recollections of violence, he was in peaceful mood. A door opened, and his man came in.

“Hallo, Jolly. Bedtime?”

“Unless there is anything else you require, sir?”

“Nothing,” said Rollison. “I'm a little sad, Jolly. Thinking of all the things I used to do, and how reformed I am. No, I am not hankering after excitements, just mildly regretting that they weren't spread out more evenly.”

“They seem to have been consistent, sir,” said Jolly, and smiled faintly. Until that moment he had looked a doleful man, with a lined face and a myriad crows feet at his eyes, a rather scraggy jowl and a thin neck, which looked thinner on account of a wide collar at least two sizes too large. He had thin grey hair and brown eyes which were mournful in spite of the smile; they were also deceptive.

“Consistent?” mused Rollison. “I doubt it. But we had infinite variety. I wonder what really started me chasing after bad men, Jolly. Have you ever plumbed the depths of your philosophy to form an opinion?”

“I have not, sir,” said Jolly; “I don't need to.”

“You know me as well as all that? Come and sit down, help yourself to a drink and tell me all about myself.”

“Thank you, sir, but I have just had my nightcap,” said Jolly. Nevertheless, he pulled up another arm-chair and sat down, fully at ease; which he knew Rollison would expect. “It doesn't often happen that a man is born with quite the same simplicity.”

“Simplicity?” Rollison looked startled.

“Simplicity,” insisted Jolly. There was a hint of a twinkle in his eyes, suggesting that he was enjoying this. “It is simplicity in this way, sir—you have a clear conception of the line between right and wrong. You are sentimental, which makes you take up lost causes with alacrity, and when you find a thing that is bad, you believe that it should be cut out, as a piece of wasp-bitten apple.”

“
Oh,” said Rollison. “That's all?”

“That is what has made you the most respected, and I use the word advisedly, amateur detective of your generation,” said Jolly, mildly. “Of course there are other attributes—”

The telephone bell rang.

“Timely,” said Rollison, who now looked crestfallen. “I couldn't bear any more tonight. Tell whoever it is that I'm not at home, and then go to bed.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jolly got out of his chair quickly, and with an ease worthy of a much younger man, lifted the telephone receiver from the instrument, which was on a table just out of Rollison's reach. He listened; and he frowned.

“I am sorry, but Mr. Rollison isn't in, he—”

He stopped, obviously because the caller didn't believe him. His frown deepened, as he said: “One moment, please; I think I hear him coming in now.”

He covered the mouthpiece with his hand, and added in a low-pitched voice: “I don't think you'll want to speak to him tonight, sir. It's—ah—Mr. Ebbutt.”

“And why shouldn't I want to speak to Bill?”

“He doubtless wishes to urge you to change your mind about that prize-giving at his boxing-school,” Jolly said unhappily, “and you have so many engagements that—”

“It's the first time I've heard of a prize-giving at the Academy,” said Rollison. “Jolly, you're a menace.”

He took the receiver.

“Hallo, Bill.”

“Hal-
lo
, Mr. Ar!” A foghorn appeared to be at the other end of the line. “Glad I just 'appened to catch yer; got a little job that's right up your street. The minnit I 'eard abaht it, I said, Mr. Ar's the man, no doubt abaht it at all. So 'ere I am. It was a question of going to the dicks, I mean the police, or you, Mr. Ar, and I thought you'd like a go at it. Besides, Bert Noddy, you remember 'im, it's really 'is show, an' Bert wouldn't go narkin', even if it is abaht Sam Downing. What I mean to say is—“

“Hold on a minute, Bill,” said Rollison, and turned to Jolly: “Nip along and get the car, I think I'm going out … Yes, Bill, carry on.”

 

The sleek Lagonda, with Rollison at the wheel, slid through the quiet streets of the West End and the City, reaching Aldgate Pump a little after midnight. Here, where the East End and the City met, there was a hushed silence which would remain until the early workers came out of their burrows and began to throng the streets. Soon, in a wider thoroughfare, there were some people about. A hot-chestnut man crouched over his glowing red fire, and seemed indifferent to the possibility of business. Most of these people watched the car as it purred along the Mile End Road; and many of them recognised Rollison.

He drove on until he reached a corner building, larger than most of the others along here. A street lamp immediately outside shone on the fascia board and displayed the fact that this was the
Blue Dog,
a public-house of fair repute. Rollison turned the corner and pulled up at the back of the building. Farther along, shown up by another street lamp, was a large corrugated-iron building outside which a large sign declared:

 

BOXING ACADEMY

B. Ebbutt, Prop.

Champs. Taught.

 

As Rollison got out, his tall figure thickened by a heavy belted overcoat of navy blue, a side door of the public-house opened and a large man called: “You didn't lose much time, Mr. Ar. Glad to see yer.” He came forward, in his shirt sleeves, a mammoth with a vast stomach, a large, fleshy face, a corrugated forehead, small eyes and a flat nose; a villain, to look at. His great hand crushed Rollison's. “Proper do, ain't it?”

“Where is she?”

“Still at Bert's. But she's okay, I got a coupla the boys keeping their eyes open. Question is, ought you to go there, or ought we ter bring 'er away? Bring 'er away, I say, but she's so frightened. Every time Bert tries ter get 'er to leave the 'ouse, she gets 'ysterical. I fought of sending me wife to try, but you can never tell wiv Lil. Might frighten the lights aht of the kid.”

“Bill
Ebbutt
!” came the shrill voice of his wife, from inside the pub and obviously some distance above their heads: “have you lost your senses? Out on a night like this wiv no coat on, you'll catch your death. Come in at once!”

“See what I mean?” said Ebbutt.

Rollison chuckled.

“Yes, Bill. Can you find me an old coat and a cap just about my size? I'll go along and see what I can do with her.”

“Sure—'ere, take the key, they're just inside the front door. You can't miss 'em.”

Ebbutt thrust a key into Rollison's hand, while the scolding voice of his wife came again, in tart rebuke. Rollison, smiling, walked along to the Academy and opened the front door. When he pressed down a switch, a big room, with the two rings, the punchbags and all the equipment of a gymnasium, showed in a bright light. Hanging on the wall were several coats, hats and other oddments of clothing, kept by Bill Ebbutt for the benefit of those unfortunates who needed clothes and couldn't afford to buy them.

Rollison tried on a coat; it was large, but otherwise fitted tolerably well. He wound a grey muffler round his neck, put on a peaked cap and pulled the peak low over his eyes, and drew on his gloves. Then he went out and stamped about on a patch of freshly dug ground outside the building, to smear his shoes. That done, he put his own coat into his car, and walked briskly along the street towards the home of Bert Noddy, whom he knew slightly.

On the telephone, Rollison had been told everything Ebbutt knew, and Ebbutt had never been a man to repeat words for their own sake. It was a curious affair, and the girl who couldn't speak English was obviously in distress.

Rollison knew Downing by reputation as one of the nastier characters of the East End. He also knew that it was rumoured that Downing sometimes moved in High Society. At others, he moved on a rather lower scale, at Pentonville, Wandsworth or Dartmoor.

Rollison had to take two turnings right and one left before he reached Brill Street, where Bert Noddy lived. A gas-lamp shone at the corner, but the light was poor; all the street lighting in these East End side streets was bad. Yet he turned the corner cautiously. The rubber heels of his shoes muffled the noise. He peered along, expecting only to see one of Bill Ebbutt's boys lurking near Noddy's house. He saw no one.

The man was probably hiding.

He walked quickly but with little sound. There were a few lighted windows, but most of the street was in darkness. Near one window he saw a heap on the ground; it looked like an old coat, flung carelessly away; but coats were not as cheap as that in the East End of London. He kept close to the wall, to lessen the risk of being seen. As he drew nearer, he saw that it was more than a coat; it was a man. He began to whistle, very softly, and stopped to look farther along. There was no sign of movement. He reached the man and bent down on one knee; and his whistling stopped abruptly. There was blood over the man's head, more smeared on his cheeks.

Rollison didn't feel for his pulse or do anything to see whether he was alive, but went on, still close to the houses.

He heard a car engine, and headlights shone along the road which intersected this one.

He stepped into a doorway; by flattening himself against it, there was room to hide. The car turned the corner, and the narrow street was bathed in its silvery light. He heard it stop; but the engine wasn't switched off. He peered along and saw a man in a dark suit jump from the car and dash into a house.

Rollison moved swiftly.

By the time he reached the doorway of Bert Noddy's house, where light shone out, he heard a muted whisper: “Put that light out!”

Someone obeyed; only the headlamps of the car now gave light, and that did not touch the front of the house. There were heavy footsteps, and then a man appeared, carrying a woman over his shoulder. He held her round the knees, and her hair fell towards the ground; Rollison could just see that. The man carrying her looked neither right nor left, but reached the car and pulled open the near door.

Another man hurried from the house.

Rollison, pressed close against the wall, let him pass, then shot out his right arm and clutched his shoulder, pulling him round. He struck with his left, a jab to the chin. He felt the pain of the blow through his gloves. The man grunted, and his knees bent – and as he fell, the man carrying the woman put her into the car, dumping her on the back seat, and turned round.

He was a split second too soon for Rollison.

He started: “
What
—” and then his right hand flashed to his pocket, and he dodged to one side. The man – Downing – pulled out a life preserver, came forward and smashed at Rollison. Rollison moved his hand, but the blow caught him on the shoulder, numbing it. Downing brought his knee up, towards Rollison's groin. Rollison dodged to one side, and Downing was momentarily on one leg. Rollison hit him, not hard enough to hurt but quite hard enough to bowl him over; but as Downing fell, another man rushed at Rollison from behind. Rollison heard him coming, but was too late to escape a blow on the back of the head. The cap saved him from the worst effect, but he reeled away, only capable of feeble defence. He turned instinctively so that his back was against the car and he couldn't be attacked from behind again. He saw a man leap at him, and heard metal smash against the car.

He shot out his foot, and fended the assailant off. The man he had knocked out first was getting to his feet. Out of the corner of his eye, Rollison saw Downing. Downing didn't join in the fight, but opened the car door. It came within a few inches of Rollison. Rollison fended the other man off, and slammed the door. It hit Downing's hand; he heard a gasp of pain, saw a big, vicious face twisted with rage and agony. But at three to one he couldn't hold out for long, and—

A whistle sounded shrilly, and suddenly men pounded along the street towards the car, from the direction from which Rollison had come. Downing started and stared towards this new threat. He had his right hand under his arm, but moved and spoke as if he were in no pain.

“Run for it.
Run.”

“
But—” protested one of the other men.

“I said
run
.”

All three turned and raced towards the corner, while the others came on from the far end. Rollison straightened up. The police had their moments, even if Bill Ebbutt and Bert Noddy preferred to avoid them, on principle.

In fact there were no police; only three men, dressed much as Rollison was then.

“Okay, Mr. Ar?” One man burst out, as they drew near.

“Yes. Get after them.”

“Sure!” They sped past, while Rollison pushed back his cap, rubbed his head gingerly, and wished that his shoulder would stop aching. The sound of footsteps faded, he had no idea whether the second trio would catch up on the first; he doubted it. Bill Ebbutt had doubtless sent him a bodyguard, and one of its members had used a police whistle. Rollison opened the rear door of the car, groped for the light, and pressed the switch down.