Here Comes the Toff (4 page)

Anthea, a little later, agreed.

By then it was half-past three, and the Toff was wondering whether to make a day of it. Anthea, however, seemed the reverse of tired, and he wanted her to enjoy herself to the uttermost. It was with this generous thought in mind that he started to cross a cobbled road: and a car swept into it.

An old Morris, so battered that it was barely recognizable, and yet it was travelling fast. Anthea stopped in the middle of the road, caught in two minds. The Morris came straight on, and then Anthea felt herself lifted off her feet, found herself in the Toff's arms – and actually sailing through the air.

For the Toff jumped.

He jumped just in time, and the Morris rattled past, the red-faced driver leaning out of his window to swear at them. Anthea was pale as she stood on her own – and then she winced, and would have fallen had the Toff not saved her.

“Trouble?” asked Rollison quickly.

“My—ankle, I think. I ricked it.” She kept most of her weight on one foot, and looked at him squarely. “Rolly, was that an accident?”

“Of course, it …”

“
Was
it …”

The Toff's eyes narrowed a little as he said: “I can't be sure, Anthea. The driver was a friend of Charlie Wray's, and Charlie was annoyed that I saw him talking with Sidey. On the other hand, the driver swore at us, which suggests he was as scared as we were.”

“I—see.”

“But he might have put the scare on for my benefit,” admitted the Toff, who had not turned a hair. “I'm sorry about this ankle, Anthea. Will it carry you, do you think, or shall I?”

She tried it out gingerly, and then shook her head.

“There isn't a chance.”

“Too bad,” said Rollison. “I'll get you into the Mile End Road, there's a better chance of getting a cab there.”

He lifted her bodily, and in three minutes they were in the Mile End Road, being stared at by numerous passers-by. A taxi was standing at a rank, and Rollison beckoned it. He directed the man to Anthea's flat, and while they were in the cab they were silent for a while. Then Anthea said: “Do you think they tried to kill you?”

“It could be. Don't brood over it, Anthea, it's happened before.”

“It might succeed some day.”

“We all have to die,” said the Toff. “Taken by and large, have you enjoyed yourself?”

“I—don't—know,” said Anthea frankly. “I wouldn't have missed it for the world, but the way that fat man looked at you, and then—oh, well,” she added, and her eyes shone, “you ought to be able to look after yourself.”

“I'll try! I wish your day hadn't been spoiled by a fat man and a swollen ankle,” went on the Toff, “but you've seen plenty, and you'll be off your feet for a few days, to Jamie's great disappointment.”

But Anthea didn't think about Jamie.

She pondered over the Toff, and the strange mixture that went to the making of him. He could take an evening at the Embassy and a day in the East End with the same aplomb, and he seemed to have as many friends in the one neighbourhood as the other. There was danger for him, and she felt it intuitively and knew that he was aware of it. She believed that he was preparing to do battle again, and she thought with a shudder of the fat man and the Morris which had so nearly run him down.

She was thinking of them that night, when the Toff again visited the East End, but not as he had been during the day. It is unlikely that she would have recognized him, but she would have noticed the new boards across a door panel of the pub which attracted his custom.

And for him she would have been afraid.

 

 

Jake Benson wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, banged his glass down, and winked at Charlie Wray, the owner of the Blue Dog in Wapping. Benson was short and thick-set, but lopsided. He drooped a little on the right, while the right side of his face was lower than the left, giving him a particularly villainous expression and a perpetual grin.

“O.K., Charlie boy! Now I'm orf to do a job o' work; but I'll be seeing yer.”

“Don't forgit to do it proper; and use a knife—it's quiet,” wheezed Charlie Wray.

Obviously he thought he had cracked a joke of the first quality, for he cackled and was still wheezing with merriment when Benson reached the swing-doors. Charlie was a vast man – as Anthea knew – twenty stone if he was a pound, a quivering jelly of a fellow whose bland face deceived some people into thinking he was the soul of benevolence. A man who looked fully into his little brown eyes would have been disabused very quickly, for Charlie Wray, although superficially honest – which meant that he had never been caught in any crime by the police – certainly was not a nice man.

Nor was Jake Benson.

They were two of a kind, dissimilar though they were in appearance. Benson's face was tanned a deep mahogany, and his skin was like hide; Wray's was white and dimply, and usually streaked with sweat. Benson's crimes had been committed, for the most part, on the high seas, and he, too, had succeeded in creating what a defending solicitor would have called an unblemished reputation.

This job for “Mr. Brown” would mar it if he were foolish enough to make a mistake.

As Benson opened the door another man reached it. Whether he had not seen Benson, or whether he was deliberately trying to get out of the pub first, no one knew, but it remained a fact that they collided. The stranger – a stranger to the Blue Dog, although a denizen of Wapping, if his soiled clothes and muffler and peaked cap were tokens – drew back a pace, muttering an apology.

“I'm sorry, mister …”

“I should ruddy well think you are!” snarled Benson, whose toes had suffered. “Git aht of my way before I bash yer face in.”

He caught the man by the shoulder, sent him reeling back into the Blue Dog, and without another glance at him went out into the night. For a moment his footsteps echoed back into the pub, then faded out. The half-dozen loungers remaining there regarded the offender with some curiosity.

He was standing a couple of yards from the door, looking at it fixedly, with his shoulders hunched and his fists clenched. No one could see his face clearly, for his peaked cap was pulled low over his eyes, a habit by no means uncommon.

“Come on, buddy!” called Charlie Wray, in his oiliest voice. “Don't you be worrying erbaht Jake. 'E never meant nothing – take it from me. 'Ave one on the 'ouse.”

It was a gesture that surprised the regular patrons of the Blue Dog, for Charlie was notoriously mean. But it did not impress the stranger, who snarled something unprintable under his breath, and barged out of the pub.

The fog outside grew thicker as Benson neared the river, and his footsteps were muffled; suddenly they stopped altogether. He was at the entrance of a narrow cul-de-sac that led to the warehouses facing the river, and he knew that no one was likely to be passing.

His actions then might have interested any policeman – or, for that matter, any citizen – for he took off his heavy boots. He put them with some care against the wall and padded on, making no sound at all. His feet were hardened by years of standing on ships' decks and frequent soaking in brine.

No light broke the darkness; occasionally the muffled wail of a ship's siren disturbed the stillness of the night. Here the fog was even thicker, and Benson's grin was twisted more than usual, for this was just what he wanted. No ships at the wharves could be loaded in the pea-souper, and the occasional watchman, who might have noticed him, would be blinded by the fog.

It was a perfect night for murder.

Only a man who knew the district like the palm of his hand could have gone on with so little hesitation. Apart from the quietness of his movements, the crook was making no attempt to conceal himself; he did not listen for approaching footsteps, and once when a man passed him he made no effort to move out of the way.

Not once did he appear to realize that the man he had struck at the Blue Dog had followed him, for that man's feet were shod as carefully as Benson's, if with greater comfort, for he wore rubber soles. At no point was there more than twenty yards separating them, and if Benson blessed the fog, so did his pursuer.

They were nearing the river. The lapping of the water against the sides of small boats and against the wharf walls came clearly. The creaking of ropes and hawsers murmured through the silence, but nothing could be seen through the all-enveloping fog.

Benson went slowly and more furtively as he neared the edge of the wharf. He took a small torch from his pocket, and the pencil of light stabbed through the gloom. It curled eerily in and out until it lit on a stanchion; Benson moved across to it and sat down, making the perch as comfortable as possible. A match scratched against the side of a box and flared up as Benson lighted a small cigar, the end of which glowed red a few inches from his nose, but without illuminating his features.

The man who had followed him could see the glow, but nothing else. He waited motionless, and for all the noise he made he might not have been there.

Ten minutes passed, and at last Benson stirred, taking a quick turn across the wharf. He was listening acutely now for an expected sound, and he shone the light of his torch on his watch to see that it was twenty minutes past nine. The man he was to meet was five minutes late.

“Blast 'im,” Benson muttered aloud. “I'll teach the swab to keep me waitin'.”

A moment later he chuckled, an unpleasant sound that fell on the ears of the watcher. The chuckle lasted for several seconds, for Benson was a specialist at appreciating his own jokes. He would teach his man, all right, and …

Heels sounded on the flagstones abruptly.

Benson stood up again as the approaching footsteps grew nearer, and another pencil of light stabbed a few yards through the fog. Benson raised his voice cautiously, turning towards the light.

“That you, Sidey?”

“That's me.” The torch went out, and the silent listener repeated the name to himself several times, to make sure he did not forget it, while Sidey went on: “What a perishing blurry night to bring me out, Benson.”

“Shut yer trap!” growled Benson. “You'll have a dozen blinkin' dicks along here in a minute.”

“What a hope, on a night like this!” The man named Sidey gave a hoarse gasp of merriment, and the sound came ghostily through the darkness. “Well, I've come to collect. Where's the cash?”

“I've got it,” grunted Benson. “Come 'ere.”

They were close enough to see each other now, although Benson was holding something in his right hand which the other man did not see. He was expecting payment for services rendered, and despite the filthy night he was looking forward to a holiday on the strength of it.

A long holiday …

Benson's left hand stretched out suddenly, and gripped the other's arm. There was something frightening in the steel-like grip, and the man tried to draw back, his voice rising in alarm, but Benson's grip was too powerful.

“What the hell are you doin'?”

“Shut up, you fool!” snarled Benson. “Listen, Sidey, you tried to be clever once too often, see? You won't do it again. You're gettin' yours – and it's comin' now!”

There was time only for a half-scream to come from the man's lips; it stopped suddenly, ending in a choking, sickening gurgle. There was a sudden, shivering pain at his neck that lasted for a split second, and then, as Benson withdrew his support, the man's body slumped down to the ground.

The silent watcher, who could see no more than vague shapes in the fog, went taut; and then, as he realized that he could do nothing, he relaxed and continued waiting.

“An'
that's
what you've collected.” Benson muttered the words under his breath as he knelt down, to make sure the man was dead. Then he took a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully wiped the handle of the knife to clean it of prints. He dropped the weapon on the man's body, and, less than a minute after the murder, turned away and moved silently into the darkness.

For a few minutes something akin to panic filled him but as he put distance between himself and the body his confidence returned. By the time he reached the
cul-de-sac
where he had left his boots, he was prepared to do the same thing again, provided “Mr. Brown” paid as well.

And then he had a shock, and the panic returned a hundredfold. It was frightening, unreasoning, making him feel cold and clammy, and yet hot.

For his boots were gone.

He made sure, searching along the wall and shivering all the time, and then he turned and almost ran in the direction of the Blue Dog. The man who had shadowed him followed, and Benson's fear would have turned to undiluted terror had he seen the expression on the man's face.

 

Charlie Wray was in the private room on top of the public bar when Benson returned. A single glance at the seaman's face told him of trouble, and he half-rose out of the chair into which his gross body was squeezed.

“What have you bin doin'?”

“Git me a drink!” gasped Benson.

He dropped into a seat, and his hands were trembling. Charlie's eyes narrowed as he waddled across to a cupboard. In a few seconds Benson was gulping a neat whisky, and the spirit revived his courage, even making him think he had acted like a fool. Charlie Wray listened to his story, a derisive smile on his lips.

“So because some nit pinched the boots he fell over,” he said acidly, “you get the blasted heebies! That ain't the kind o' show we want from you, Benson, and the sooner you know it, the better. We want nerve, see?”

Benson finished a second tot of whisky, and glared ill-temperedly into Charlie's eyes, Dutch courage gathering within him.

“I can do my part with anyone. Sidey's gone, see, clean as a whistle. Don't you come any of that wif me, Charlie!”

“
I
won't start it,” said the fat pubkeeper, with emphasis on the “I”. “But someone else might.”

“Who's goin' ter tell him?” Benson looked murderous.

“Nar then!” said Charlie, bland in a moment. “I'm not, an' you know it. But someone else might a' seen you rush in, Jake, and you never know who's working fer the Boss. Still, it's a foggy night, and yer luck's in. Forgit it, son, forgit it.”

As he finished speaking he reached for the telephone near him. Benson, breathing more easily, was now inclined to be bellicose. He glared at Charlie as the latter said wheezily into the mike: “Mr. Brown, please.”

The man at the other end of the wire said: “Speaking.”

Benson knew him only as Brown, but Charhe Wray knew him as a Mr. Leopold Kohn, and had often worked for the man in the past. Charlie, in fact, was a go-between, who took no direct part in any crimes; he was too valuable as a giver-and-taker of vital messages, a hider of men and contraband, to be laid open to police action.

Kohn's voice was cold.

“What is it tonight, Wray?”

“Benson's in, sir. The job's O.K.”

“No trouble at all?”

“Not so's I know, sir.' Charlie winked at Benson as he spoke, and omitted to mention the matter of the lost boots.

Kohn grunted: “Good. Tell Benson to report to me at Highgate at ten o'clock tomorrow morning, and tell him to be on time.”

“Ten o'clock tomorrer, sir, on the pip. Right, Mr. Brown. That's O.K.”

The man at the other end rang off without the formality of a goodbye, but Charlie's face was wreathed in smiles, as if all was right with the world.

“There y'are, Jake. You'll report and collect the dough tomorrer, easy as kiss me. I—
Wot
the hell!”

He broke off as a sound came at the door – or what seemed at the door. Benson heard it, too, but Benson was slower to move than Charlie Wray. The pubkeeper shifted his great bulk like lightning, and had the door open in a trice.

The landing outside was well lighted, but he saw nothing, and he turned back a moment later, muttering to himself, while below stairs, just out of sight, a stranger stood motionless.

“Could 'a swore I heard somethin'. It must 'a bin you putting the wind up me, Jake. Well, that's O.K., then, all hunky-dorey.”

“I'll doss here tonight,” said Benson.

“Welcome as the flowers, Jake, my word on it. I'd better be going downstairs, or they'll be givin' free drinks.”

A free drink at the Blue Dog was certainly a rarity, and Benson laughed appreciatively, while Charlie eased himself down the stairs and into the bar. The only thing he saw worth noticing was that the man against whom Benson had banged earlier in the evening had come back for another drink. But the stranger was as surly and morose as he had been before, and his eyes – which Charlie might have recognized – were still covered by the peak of his cap. Charlie did not try to encourage him in conversation, but he might have done had he known that the surly one could have laid his hands on Benson's boots.

“So Sidey's gone,” said Irma, known as Curtis, but whose real name was Cardew. “Why?”

Mr. Leopold Kohn, sitting at a large desk with the light shining down on his almost bald pate, nodded and smiled – unpleasantly. After a fashion, he was a handsome, even a distinguished-looking man, and dressed immaculately. So was his companion, although the unrelieved black of her dress would have struck some people as an affectation rather than mourning. None the less, it suited her.