He’d been ordered to complain.
Who paid Wallis? Who was his “brain’?
“When we know that we’ll know most of the rest,” said Rollison to himself, then finished his drink and went into the kitchen. Jolly had prepared everything for a mixed grill, and there was a note saying:
The meat is in the oven, sir.
Chipped potatoes, white and fresh, were in a basket next to a saucepan of fat, there were some frozen vegetables standing ready for the pot. Rollison shook his head in regretful self-denial, and went out of the kitchen door and down the fire escape; that kitchen door was self-locking, so that no one could tell whether it had been closed from the inside or the outside. His footsteps clanged a little on the iron as he went down, but none of the youths was in the yard.
Rollison crossed this, and went to the corner of Gresham Terrace. A police patrol car with men in plain-clothes was crawling by, and two of the youths moved smartly across Gresham Terrace towards Number 22.
“I hope they don’t have time to do much damage,” Rollison said with feeling, and winked at the driver of the patrol car. Then he walked rapidly towards Piccadilly, and took a taxi to Middleton Street, Chelsea. He had not yet seen the Blakes, who as far as he knew were the only people who might be able to explain the attack on Jimmy Jones.
He knocked at the door of Number 24, and immediately there was a response, but no elderly person opened the door; instead a solid-looking man, obviously a Yard man in plain clothes, barred Rollison’s path. Then he recognised the visitor, and sprang almost to attention.
“Thanks,” said Rollison, and smiled. “Old folk at home?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“How are they?”
“Oh, they’re much better now,” said the plainclothes man. “Nearest thing to a miracle I’ve ever seen.”
“Miracle?” echoed Rollison, blankly.
“That’s the word, sir! When I first saw them they looked ready to pass out, they hadn’t a stick left whole, and the fact that the neighbours were very kind didn’t make all that difference. Of course it helped, but—well, then this morning the new furniture and everything arrived. Wonderful lot of stuff, sir, and a bigger and better television set. Wonderful people, those Jepsons.”
“So the Jepsons did that,” said Rollison, and had a mental image of Ada, so dumb-blondish and yet so shrewd. “Bless their hearts. Ask the Blakes if they can spare me five minutes, will you?”
“I’m sure they’ll be glad to,” the plainclothes man said. “Mr. Blake’s in the kitchen, Mrs. Blake’s upstairs with Jimmy Jones and Miss Jepson. Didn’t you know Jones was back?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Transformation
In the small house there was transformation. Rollison could tell this as he entered the narrow hallway, saw the front room on the right filled with new furniture, a new carpet; everything a home needed. He could see the rough to the kitchen, and a small room also on the right; there was bright newness everywhere. An elderly grey-haired man stood up from a chair, and revealed a television set; it was as if he had been watching the blank screen.
He came forward.
“Mr. Blake, this is Mr. Rollison,” the plainclothes man said. The grey-haired man, with his clear skin and steady blue eyes, looked puzzled for a moment, and then exclaimed:
“The Mr. Rollison? The one they call the Toff?”
The Yard man chuckled.
“That’s him, Mr. Blake.”
“This really is an honour,” Blake said eagerly, and put out his hand, as if not certain that the Toff would take it; his grip was firm, his eyes told of his delight. “Martha will be delighted, she really will. Why, I must have been reading about you for twenty years!” He pumped Rollison’s hand again, and called: “Martha, Martha dear! Come on down at once, we’ve a visitor, you’d never believe . . .”
His wife was small, plump, comely and grey-haired; and obviously a little overwhelmed by the transformation and the generosity of the Jepsons. The Toff was gentle and understanding; and it was Blake who led him upstairs. He could hear Ada talking, in a quick, light voice, which suggested that she hadn’t a serious thought in her head; just prattle. Then Blake opened the door, and said:
“Jimmy, do you think you could stand another visitor for ten minutes?”
Ada jumped up.
“It’s past time I left, I didn’t realise I’d stayed so long, please don’t let me keep anyone away. I—” she looked past Blake at Rollison, and broke off, her eyes widening and her lips pursed in a little O as if of astonishment; that was the way she looked whenever she was really surprised. Then, swiftly and lightly, she went on: “But it’s Rolly! Rolly dear, how nice of you to come as soon as you heard Jimmy was out of hospital. Jimmy, this is Mr. Richard Rollison.”
“The Toff,” whispered Blake, as an echo.
Rollison looked at James Matthison Jones, and greatly liked what he saw, although much of Jones’s head was bandaged, and there was a plastered pad beneath his jaw on the right side. It was only a few days after the attack. There were bruises on his hands and his face which were not bandaged, but his mouth had not suffered, and his eyes were as clear and direct as a man’s could be.
“Hallo,” said Rollison, and took Jones’s hand. “Throw me out if you’re tired of talking, won’t you? Hallo, Ada, nice to see you.”
Jones seemed to find it difficult to make up his mind whether to look at Ada or at his new visitor. He compromised, smiling quickly at the Toff and then turning to the girl and saying: “Please don’t go. I’m perfectly all right now, and company’s good for me.”
“No, really, I must fly,” said Ada, “I’ve promised to see a friend before dinner.” She raised a hand to Jones, and turned and hurried out of the room, casting a swift sideways glance at Rollison. Blake went downstairs with her, and she chattered brightly all the way down, as if she could never be solemn and earnest.
Rollison stood by the open door and watched the man on the bed, who was now looking steadily at him, but his mind wasn’t on that job; it was on the girl, her lilting voice, perhaps on all that she had already done.
The front door opened and closed.
Rollison closed the door, and moved forward, and Jones said hastily.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Please sit down.”
“Thanks,” said Rollison. “Are you as well as you look?”
“Oh, I’m all right now,” said Jones. A new expression surged into his eyes, his jaw seemed to thrust itself forward, and he went on in a hard voice: “All I want is to catch up with those swine. That’s all.”
“I’d leave it for a few days,” advised Rollison lightly. “You wouldn’t like to hit a man when he’s down, would you?”
“I’d gladly knock the living daylights out of them, standing up, sitting up or lying down,” said Jones, in the same hard voice. “I wouldn’t worry about sentiment or the Queensberry Rules. They—” he broke off, and his voice squeaked. “Do you mean that the police have caught them?”
“No, but they ran into some trouble they weren’t expecting,” Rollison said. He let that sink in, enjoying the glint which sprang to Jones’s eyes, and went on before Jones could comment. “You must be sick of questions, and I haven’t come to worry you with many.”
“Ask anything you like,” said Jones, looking at him with a kind of admiration which could not be mistaken. “Did you actually catch up with them?”