“Human hair is moderately valuable, sir.”
“What do you call moderately?”
“About nine or ten pounds a head if average dark hair, that is the present market price on imported hair from India and Pakistan. Some still comes from central Europe, sir. Fair hair will fetch from twenty to thirty per cent more. White or ash-blonde hair, especially if wavy, may fetch as much as twenty guineas a head.”
“At ten or fifteen pounds a time it wouldn’t make a fortune for anyone,” Rollison said. “Would it, Stella?”
She had been watching Jolly as if fascinated, but answered at once.
“It might for a barber,” she said. “Like to know where the best wigs come from around here?”
“You’re going to say Donny Sampson’s.”
“It must be wonderful to have second sight,” Stella Wallis gibed. “Donny’s own daughter had her hair cut off today.”
“Really.”
“And Donny’s a cunning old so-and-so,” the woman went on. “He gets the names and addresses of girls with lovely hair from his competition, and sooner or later they lose their hair—if it’s the best for making wigs. He owns dozens of barber’s shops in London, and this Hair Stylists’ Association is just a name for them, although he keeps in the background. He has those leaflets distributed and advertises where it’ll do most good, in local newspapers and shop windows, and gets more silly little fools to go to his places. He must have pulled in thousands of customers! They can only enter if they go to a shop he owns, whether his name’s on the front or not. He gets hundreds of heads of hair for his wigs that way.”
“Very interesting,” said Rollison gratefully. “We’ll have to check on Donny. Thanks, Stella. Another gin? Right then, off you go! Don’t try any tricks now. Jolly, if Mrs. Wallis should fall asleep in the car, don’t be too surprised,” he added quite unexpectedly. “She’s had a strenuous day.”
“Sleep? I never get tired until after midnight, you’re talking through your—” began Stella Wallis, and then her eyes rounded, she broke off, and her hands raised to her breast. “What was in that drink? Come on, tell me, you beast, what was in it?”
“Good night,” said Rollison, sweetly. “You’ll be all right, as far as I know no one has any quarrel with you.”
She looked as if she could have struck him, but did not try, just followed Jolly out of the room, through the kitchen and down the fire escape to the car which was waiting in a street near Gresham Terrace. As she went, Rollison stood by the window of his large room, with the trophies behind him and the wide street below.
It was probably five minutes after Jolly and the woman had gone that a youth appeared, strolling casually along the street; soon there were three.
“Casing the joint,” Rollison murmured. He grinned, stepped to the telephone, and dialled Scotland Yard. This time Grice was in.
“Bill,” said Rollison quickly, “Jolly’s out, and I’m going out in fifteen minutes. Soon after that I think some gentlemen of the Edwardian period will pay me a visit. I’d hate to have my flat wrecked. If you happened to have a squad car or a Q car nearby—”
Grice was sharp. “Sure about this?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll fix it.”
“Don’t jump down my throat if I ask your chaps to make sure these Teddies have time to break in, will you? The redder the hand the tighter the handcuff, if you know what I mean.”
“They won’t act too soon,” Grice said gruffly. “What’s this about you knocking a motor¬cyclist off his machine in Rockham Street?”
“I did. A lorry chased me. The motor-cyclist was a decoy. How is he?”
“Dead,” said Grice.
“Oh,” said Rollison, very quietly. “Bill, I’m sorry. But it gives you a chance to probe deep. He was one of Tiny Wallis’s men. I don’t know much about Wallis, but in a funny way he’s good. Either he’s one of the ablest crooks I’ve ever come across, with brilliant staff work, or he’s got a clever man behind him.”
“What’s this story that you’ve kidnapped his wife?” Grice interrupted.
Rollison came nearer to making an admission of a felony than he had ever done in his life: Grice had never caught him so deftly on the wrong leg. He took a few seconds to answer, and Grice went on gruffly:
“Let’s have the truth.”
“Don’t tell me that Tiny’s lodged a complaint with the police,” said Rollison, and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.
“A complaint was lodged.”
“Well, well,” said Rollison meekly, “I didn’t think he would have it in him. She came of her own free will, Bill.” When Grice didn’t answer, he went on: “And I think I can produce satisfactory evidence of that.”
“Jolly, I suppose.”
“Jolly.”
“Rolly,” said Grice, suddenly very earnest, “I know that I practically asked you to see what you could find out about Wallis and Clay, but I didn’t expect you to go racing about the East End like a maniac, and as for making Wallis’s wife go off with you—it’s absolutely crazy. Apart from the possibility of a charge of abduction, you’re asking for serious trouble. After this, Wallis will be—”
“Cross, I suppose,” interpolated Rollison mildly. “On the abduction matter Bill, see my solicitor.” He drew his hand across his forehead again. Did you find out anything about the hooligans who cut off Leah Sampson’s hair?”
“Not a thing,” said Grice. “The Division handled it, we kept out as you seemed so anxious that we should. Everyone named has an alibi.”
“I’m told there’s a plague of hair-shearing in London,” Rollison observed.
“There’s a lot more than usual, but we always have some,” Grice said. “Why were you anxious we shouldn’t make too much fuss over Leah’s?”
“The coincidence was remarkable. I called on Donny, and while I was there young Leah came rushing in, so shorn that she’ll have to wear a wig for several weeks. I wondered if it was to show me how little Wallis cares.”
“Could be,” conceded Grice, very slowly. “How well do you know Donny?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Did you know that he’s become one of the biggest land-owners in his part of London?” Rollison said blankly: “Fact?”
“Positive fact. He began by buying up the small shops he had rented for years, then buying up other shops—all barbers’—and in the past year or two he’s bought up shops of all kinds. He’s a really big land-owner.”
“Kindly landlord?” inquired Rollison, as if hopefully.
“We’ve never heard anything different,”
Grice said, “but it’s a trend I don’t much like.”
“How’d he get the money to go into the estate business?”
“He did it by extending his shops, setting the expenses against taxation, and keeping strictly within the law,” Grice answered. “No doubt about that. He works mostly with his own family, although he has a fairly big staff outside the family.”
“The hairdressers’ millionaire.”
“Wealthy, anyhow,” Grice conceded. “What made you go to see him?”
“I was told that he’d put Wallis and Clay on to a job.”
Did you tell him that to his face?”
“Yes, and he didn’t deny it.” Rollison waited, but Grice had nothing to say, so Rollison went on: “You’ll lay that car on, won’t you?”
“I just scribbled a note and the order’s gone out on the other telephone,” Grice said. “And listen—if Wallis presses his charge, we can’t stall him. At the moment I’m told that he looks as if a steam-hammer hit him.”
“Oh, no,” said Rollison, “just a little fist or two. Thanks, Bill.”
He rang off.
He lit a cigarette and poured himself another drink, then glanced out of the window and saw that several of the youths were there now; he had never seen so many people lounging about Gresham Terrace. Possibly they were there to try to make sure that Wallis’s wife was not taken away; as likely that they were coming to get her, and were waiting for a signal. Rollison let thoughts trickle through his mind. Perhaps the most puzzling one was Wallis’s action; for Wallis to complain to the police was remarkable, unless—