“How is he?”
“He’s got through the night, and has a fair chance,” the Sister told him.
“Thank God for that! May I see him?”
“Dr. Morton is in charge now, and I expect he will allow you to, but Mr. Jolly is unconscious of course.”
“Yes,” said Rollison. “Thanks.” He sat up and took the tea. “You’re very good.”
“It isn’t every day we have the Toff staying here!”
He found himself smiling, sipped the tea, and as she turned to go caught sight of two young nurses at the door, obviously peeping at this visitor. They vanished as the Sister said:
“A Superintendent Grice of Scotland Yard is on his way to see you and the other injured man, Mr. Rollison.”
“The other—” echoed Rollison, and then realised that thought of Jolly had driven everything else out of his mind, he had forgotten that there had been the hire car driver; and now he knew that the driver had been attacked, too. “Yes, of course. How is he?”
“Oh, he wasn’t badly hurt, he’ll be discharged from hospital this morning,” the Sister said. “He’ll have to be careful for a few days, of course.”
“Big mercies,” Rollison said humbly. “Thank you, Sister.” He smiled again, finished his tea as she went out, rasped his hand over his stubble, and was wondering where to wash when a man approached briskly, tapped at the door and came in: a youthful, clean-cut man with sharp grey eyes and briskness in his manner as well as in his step.
“Good morning, Mr. Rollison. I’m Dr. Morton. If you’d care to come along to the doctors’ quarters, we can fix you up with an electric razor and everything you’ll need. Superintendent Grice is due in about twenty minutes, I’m told. I presume you know that your man Jolly is doing very well, everything considered?”
“Yes. Thanks.” The doctor’s briskness was refreshing.
Morton went on in that lively voice: “I saw him when he was brought in, and helped Nott¬Comber with him. Whoever did it ought to be given the cat once a week for the rest of his life.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” said Rollison.
He was taken to a large, bright wash-room, shaved and washed, and looked completely himself in twenty minutes, when a young intern took him to a kind of staff dining room. There at a table overlooking a lawn and some flowers was Grice, and Grice stood up, tall and spare and obviously very worried.
“I want to talk to you on the way back,” he said. “I’ve seen the driver, and we know what happened. I understand you want to see Jolly first.”
“Coming with me?” Rollison asked.
They stood together in the small private ward, with its window overlooking the grounds, its pale green walls, and its spotlessness. They looked at Jolly, whose face was bandaged so that he seemed only half a man; but his nose wasn’t bandaged although it was bruised. He was so pale and still that he might almost be dead, and in Rollison there welled up a great hatred for the men who had done this thing. -
“Come on, Bill,” he said in a stony voice. “I want to know all you’ve got under your hat.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Hero
A plainclothes man drove Grice’s car; Rollison drove the hired Austin, trying not to hurry, intent on learning every fact he could. There were not many, but they filled in several gaps, for instance that Jolly’s driver had not realised that they were being followed until they turned into the narrow road. He was sure that at least three cars had been involved in the chase, changing position so that no one could suspect that anyone had an interest in him and Jolly.
“While they were attacking Jolly, they talked,” Grice went on. “A man made it clear that he’d had the approaches to Gresham Terrace watched by men in cars. A motor-cyclist had acted as a scout, and sent the cars after Jolly.”
“As thorough as we’d expect,” Rollison said. “Know who they were?”
“The usual hooligans doing what they’re told.”
“Wallis there himself?”
“We believe that the man in charge was Wallis, but it’s impossible to prove it,” Grice said. “It was dark, remember. Jolly’s driver, our only witness, couldn’t see this man properly and won’t swear to his voice. And Wallis has seven so-called witnesses to give him an alibi.”
“The same old game. What else?”
“Mrs. Wallis is now back in Dirk Street,” Grice said.
“Here it comes,” Rollison said, bleakly.
“Yes, here it comes,” Grice’s voice sharpened. “Why were you crazy enough to kidnap Stella Wallis? Didn’t you realise that it would drive Wallis berserk?”
“I knew,” said Rollison icily. “I also knew that Wallis had been at his foul business for months. That you couldn’t stop him, and someone had to. I hoped that losing his wife would drive him into a big mistake. I even hoped I might be able to do a deal with him; his wife back in return for the name of the people employing him.”
“I thought that was it,” Grice said, more quietly. “You under-rated Wallis, of course. A lot of people have done that. A man has to be good to keep clear of us when we’re really after him.”
“Or you have to be bad.”
“Rolly, take it easy.”
“Can Jolly take it easy? Can the poor devils whom Wallis beats up, and whose homes he wrecks? Can the girls who lose their hair? Can’t you even guess who’s behind Wallis?”
“We guessed Donny, but haven’t proved it yet,” Grice said. “Human hair is fairly valuable, Donny is undoubtedly behind this competition, and practically every girl who’s been shorn had entered for it.”
“Have you been to Donny’s shops? Examined the wigs and toupees?”
“We’ll go the moment you get us a search warrant,” Grice said dryly. “I can’t, Rolly. I can’t prove anything against Wallis, either. You may hate the man, you may think that he’s the worst of his type we’ve ever had to tackle, but it’s no use blinking at facts. It’s a fact that he is as courageous as a wild beast, and he sticks to his own code. No squealing and no squealers. That’s why he’s so dangerous. He’s never been known to commit any crime except his speciality. We know some of the people who employed him in his early days, but he’s learned to cover up perfectly. Obviously he gets paid big money. Probably he gets most of his results by threats—he doesn’t have to use violence. Now and again he meets strong opposition, and that causes trouble.”
“Have you any idea who he’s fighting now?”
“No.”
“What about these youngsters he uses?”
“If you mean the Teddy Boy types he works with, don’t make any mistake about them,” Grice said. “Wavy hair, broad shoulders, a velvet collar and stove-pipe trousers don’t make a young brute, but a lot of young brutes are wearing the uniform, and far too many haven’t any moral sense. You can’t reason with them. I’m not sure you can frighten them. They’re dangerous because they’re reasonably well educated, they can tell a good tale, they can even impress with party manners. But for a fiver they’ll do anything Wallis wants.”
Rollison said bitterly: “Does he protect them from the police, too?”
Grice didn’t answer.
Rollison put his foot down and the speedometer needle touched eighty along the bypass. Grice stared grimly ahead. As they neared Richmond Park, Rollison slowed down.
“Sorry if I’m rough,” he said. “I blame myself for what happened to Jolly, and it’s hard to take.”
“Don’t I know?” Grice asked. “We’ve been after Wallis for months. Every job he does seems my fault.”
A grin forced Rollison’s lips apart.
“If we can’t stop him between us, we ought to retire. Bill.” The last word was a sharp interrogation.