“Tiny,” said Rollison, nursing the gun and leaning forward to emphasise his words, “I’ve told you what I want. If you don’t come across, you’ll have some shocks. Who paid you for the Middleton Street job?”
Wallis sneered.
“Who was it? Donny Sampson?”
Wallis’s lips were still twisted. “You won’t do a thing,” he seemed to say, “you can’t scare me.”
“One more chance and that’s the end of my patience,” said Rollison, and there was menace in his voice, an expression on his face which had scared many a man who had seemed as tough as this one; but he got no reward at all. “All right,” he said, and levelled the gun straight at Wallis’s face. “This is one of your mistakes. You won’t look nice when they find you.” He waited for a few seconds, saw Wallis’s hands tighten, saw him clutch the arms of his chair, saw the dawn of fear. Wallis actually held his breath, but he didn’t speak: and silently he seemed to say, “I’ll call your bluff. Rollison squeezed the trigger.
In that last moment Wallis saw the movement and jumped up wildly, as if he realised that he had been wrong, and great fear blazed up in him. But he was too late.
His eyes showed that fear, and then a kind of fury; next moment the cloud of vapour from the muzzle of the automatic hid his features. He began to gasp and mutter incoherently. His hands went to his eyes which burned and streamed with water. And while the tear gas from the gas pistol stung him, Rollison took out a cosh, and struck on the nape of the bull neck.
The one blow knocked him out.
Rollison said: “We’ll see how you like it,” and looked round the pleasant room, the television set, the books, all the loved things in this home. He thought of old Mrs. Blake of Middleton Street and what she had lost, and of the others who had suffered just as badly. The temptation to deal with this man as he had dealt with so many was almost overwhelming, but Rollison fought it back, and left the room.
He reached the kitchen and opened the larder door.
Stella Wallis looked up at him, as if she was frightened of what she might see. Obviously she had expected her husband.
“Isn’t he—home?”
“He’s home and sleeping it off,” said Rollison, “and he won’t love me much when he comes round.”
She looked utterly astounded.
“You mean that you—” she broke off. “You can’t make me believe you got the best of Tiny!”
“I got the best of Tiny this time and it wasn’t even difficult,” said Rollison. “Now you’re going to help me do it again. You’re coming with me, Stella, for a little holiday. Tiny will wonder where you are. I’m quite touched by his obvious devotion. You’d better wear a hat and coat, and bring anything else you want.”
Her face was a study in disbelief and bewilderment.
“You don’t seriously mean it.”
“Let’s hurry, shall we?” said Rollison, and took her wrist and drew her out of the larder. “There’s a lot to do.” He hustled her up to her bedroom, and she took a coat, a hat and a scarf and some gloves from the wardrobe and a dressing chest; then she picked up a handbag, and turned and looked at him as if she still didn’t really believe that this was happening.
“After this, he’ll kill you.”
“I’ll worry about me. Come on!”
“What about my children?” her voice rose up. “Your neighbours will look after your children,” Rollison said, “they’re not in any trouble. Let Tiny work it out for himself.” He t ook her arm again. “Now let’s hurry.”
At the foot of the stairs he pushed open the door of the living-room. Wallis was sprawled back in the armchair, and his eyes flickered, as if f he was on the point of coming round.
Stella said in a strangled voice: “No,” and looked at Rollison. It was a look he would remember for a long time, because she couldn’t keep the admiration out of her eyes, and in that moment she was quite startlingly handsome.
“Be seeing you, Tiny,” Rollison said, and hurried to the front door. “After you.” He let the woman go first, for he was still uncertain about what he would find here. All he found were neighbours, gaping; no youths, no strong-arm men, nothing to suggest that Wallis had lied. The hired car was still along the road.
CHAPTER TEN
Pieces Of A Puzzle
No one followed Rollison or Stella Wallis.
She sat by his side, subdued and bewildered, and made no attempt to get away, even when they were stopped at traffic lights in the city and the West End, where the evening rush hour was just past its peak. She was still looking as if she could not believe what had happened when Rollison drew up outside Number 22 Gresham Terrace. He glanced up and down, to make sure that he had not been followed, then led Stella to the stairs, and walked up behind her. She had beautiful, quite exceptional legs, and walked very well. At the top landing and outside the flat marked G, she turned and said in a low-pitched voice:
“He’ll kill you. I mean it.”
“I have a friend waiting with my obituary notice,” said Rollison solemnly. “It’s been on ice for seventeen years.” He opened the front door with the key but didn’t go in at once. There was always the possibility that the flat would have been visited by—for instance—Mick Clay.
Jolly appeared.
“Good evening, sir.” He bowed to Stella Wallis, as he would to royalty. “Good evening, madam.”
Rollison said brightly: “Evening, Jolly. This is Mrs. Tiny Wallis.” Jolly did no more than tighten his lips; the casual observer would not have noticed the slightest indication of surprise. “She wants to hide away from an irate husband for a few days. Where do you suggest?” Rollison asked this blandly as he led the way across a small but pleasant lounge-hall and into the big room, while Stella stared at him as if at a madman. “Any notions?”
“I don’t—” Stella began, but broke off.
“I would suggest Mr. Micklem’s place, sir,”
Jolly said promptly.
“Good idea,” approved Rollison, thoughtfully. “Near enough to London for you to take Mrs. Wallis there this evening and get back in time to put me to bed, but far enough to be out of immediate danger. Telephone for a car to be at the back in ten minutes, will you?”
“Very good, sir.”
“B—b—but—” began Stella weakly, and then gave it up.
“What you want is a little pick-me-up,” said Rollison hospitably. “What’s it to be?” He led the way to a cocktail cabinet, and when Stella said: “Gin and tonic, I think,” in a faint voice, he poured out for her, poured a whisky and soda for himself, and said: “To a happy holiday.”
Words burst out of her.
“It’s crazy, you can’t do this to me, you just can’t do it!”
Did you ever see such a piece of sheer exhibitionism as that?” inquired Rollison, and indicated the trophy wall, with all its souvenirs of past crimes, past dangers and past triumphs. “Ignore the rope, that only hanged a man. See that cosh? A toughie who thought he was as good as Tiny used that, and he took the long drop too. That knuckle duster was also intended to break every bone in my body. Not quite large enough for Tiny, would you say?”
“I’m beginning to think you might get away with it,” Stella said chokily, “but don’t make any mistake, if Tiny ever gets you in his hands he’ll never let you go again.”
“I think you’re probably right,” agreed Rollison soberly. “I’ll have to keep away.” He glanced at Jolly, who came into the room again. “All fixed, Jolly?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any special news for me?”
Jolly paused to glance at Stella Wallis, as if wondering whether what news he had could safely be told in her presence; and then decided that it could. His report was a masterly piece of precision and abbreviation. James Matthison Jones was fully conscious again, and showing signs of full recovery; Ada Jepson had telephoned, but left no message; Wilson of the Globe had told him of a dozen London cases of girls having long hair shorn, and believed that many other cases had been reported in the past few months.