“I’ll get it,” promised Ebbutt, and was gone only a few minutes. When he came back, he handed Rollison a shiny black cosh, pliable and soft, and weighted with lead shot. “If I was goin’ to Wallis’s place, I’d take a knuckle-duster, you’ll never make an impression on ‘im or Clay’s thick skulls wiv a cosh. Mr. Ar, be sensible, and change your mind,” he pleaded. “This job ain’t worth getting yourself in ‘ospital for.”
“I’m not a bit sure that you’re right,” said Rollison, and gripped the man’s thick forearm. “Bill, it isn’t so long since you and your chaps ran into a lot of trouble in a job like this. I’m going to try to keep them out of this one if I can.”
“Well, I ought to know better than try to make you change your mind,” Ebbutt conceded unwillingly, “but we’d rally round, Mr. Ar. And you can’t say I didn’t warn you.”
His face was set and bleak as he watched Rollison drive off.
One of the scouts came up, and asked:
“Where’d you fink ‘e’s orf to?”
“It’s anybody’s guess,” said Ebbutt, “but from the look in ‘is eyes ‘e’s aht for trouble. Wouldn’t surprise me to learn ‘e’s gone to see Wallis and Clay.”
The scout almost winced.
“He wouldn’t be so crazy!”
“You don’t know Mr. Richard Rollison,” said Ebbutt, and a glimmer of a smile came into his eyes. “You don’t know Mr. Ruddy Torf, you don’t. That man would take on the whole Russian Army if he thought it worth a try.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Bad Man’s Wife
Dirk Street was near the docks.
It was one of a few short streets in the district. The terraced houses on either side had been built some fifty or sixty years ago for the foremen, office managers and all the better paid workers of dockland; a kind of upper stratum of nineteenth-century slumland. It was still an upper stratum. Only a man who was doing very well indeed was likely to live in Dirk Street, where the rents were comparatively high and the cost of buying a house almost prohibitive.
Tiny Wallis and Micky Clay lived at Number 11, the middle house of the terrace on the right hand side as Rollison drove in. The cranes and the masts of ships showed above the warehouse walls and the dock walls, not two hundred yards away. All the noises of the docks came into this street, sounding loud when Rollison switched off the engine. He stopped outside Number 19, and surveyed the scene, oblivious of the rattle of cranes and winches, the puff-puff-puff of engines, the shouting of men, the squealing of pulleys, the dismal sound of a ship’s siren. No one else was in the street, but outside Number 11 was a flashy-looking sports car; and it was fairly new.
Most of the houses had been recently painted, the curtains at all the windows were clean; this was ‘class’ all right.
Rollison got out.
He was aware of the people at the windows, faces hidden by the curtains, hands in sight where they pulled the curtains back. This was a neighbourhood where people did not watch their neighbours out of simple curiosity, but because they wanted to keep a step ahead of danger; and two steps ahead of the police. Two of London’s most prosperous fences lived in Dirk Street; so did one of London’s most nimble burglars.
So residents watched, forever wary.
Rollison walked briskly towards Number 11. Four stone steps led from the pavement to the front door, and that in itself put the houses here in a higher social level than the hovels where the front door opened on to the narrow pavement. He knew that he was watched from this house, too, but simply rang the bell.
No one answered at first.
He turned so that he could see the street. Opposite Number 11 a woman had given up all pretence, and was staring at him openly. Two men appeared on the other side of the road, obviously spying.
Rollison gave the bell a longer ring.
This time there were footsteps, quick and light; a woman’s. She came straight to the door, but there was a long moment of hesitation before she opened it. When she did her foot was against it, so that the caller could not thrust it wide open easily. A woman looked at Rollison. She was in her early thirties, well made-up, wearing a black skirt and a beautifully ironed white silk blouse.
“Good afternoon.” She was suspicious.
“Good afternoon,” said Rollison politely. “Is Mr. Wallis in?”
She said “No,” flatly, and he wasn’t sure whether to believe her or not. The way she formed the word suggested that she was going to say “no’ to whatever he asked. She was a good-looking woman, and that silk blouse was well-filled.
“Mr. Clay?”
“No, they’re both out.”
“Do you mind if I wait?” asked Rollison, and put his foot forward so that she couldn’t close the door, dropped his right hand to her wrist, and thrust her back. His broad shoulders hid all this from view of the person across the road. The woman opened her mouth to protest, but before she could he was inside the house, and the door was closing behind him.
He let her go.
“You . . . !” she spat at him, and struck him sharply across the face.
“That’s the first and the last,” said Rollison, coldly. “Which one of them owns you?”
“If you don’t get out of here I’ll . . .”
“Bring the teddy bears to frighten me,” suggested Rollison, and before she could draw back, took her wrist again and twisted enough to show her that he had complete control of the situation. “You won’t get hurt if you stop struggling and start being civil,” he said. “Quite sure they’re out?”
She didn’t answer.
He believed that the men were out of the house, for there was no movement to suggest that anyone else was here. The passage was high and airy, and doors from the bright-looking rooms opened onto it. The stairs were carpeted, and the passage alongside the stairs and leading to the kitchen and other back rooms was also carpeted. The walls had been papered and the woodwork painted recently; here was all the evidence of prosperity.
“When Tiny gets back he’ll tear you to bits,” the woman threatened, but she was scared.
“I’ll take a chance,” said Rollison. He let her go again, and smiled as if they were friends of a lifetime. “I want to have a little chat with Tiny and Mick. Is there a better place than this?”
She kicked him on the shin.
It hurt.
He grabbed her again and held her very tightly, as if ready to squeeze the life out of her. She was more than scared, she was terrified. Abruptly he let her go. She backed away, breathing heavily and watching him nervously.
He gave her a dazzling smile.
His voice was quite unflurried when he said:
“Now let’s be friendly, shall we? I’m going to wait for Tiny, and you can’t exactly throw me out. I could even tell Tiny that I’d come to see you by appointment.”
Fear stormed in her eyes.
“You mustn’t do that!”
“Jealous, is he?” Rollison murmured. “Which in particular?”
“I’m—I’m Mrs. Wallis.”
“How do you do, Mrs. Wallis,” said Rollison politely. “When is Mr. Wallis likely to be in?”
“He might come in any time, and if he finds you here—” she broke off, still breathing hard, still frightened; but there was a changing look in her eyes. Rollison had often seen a look like it in a woman who had started off by wanting to cut his throat. She was just beginning to forget that he was Richard Rollison, the Toff, and beginning to realise that he was breathtakingly handsome, and had a way with him. “He’ll kill you,” she finished abruptly.
“And that wouldn’t do,” murmured Rollison, and offered her a cigarette. “Sure you don’t know what time he’ll be in?”