Why the delay?
“You’ve seen some friends of mine,” Wallis said, with sardonic humour. “Any of them talk?”
“None of them talked,” Rollison answered. “Some of them talked,” said Wallis. “I was just asking a rhetorical question. Rickett talk?” Rhetorical was a good word for Wallis. “Nobody talked,” Rollison insisted.
“They name me?”
“I named you, and they wouldn’t confirm or deny it. That was good enough for me, but it wouldn’t be any good in court.”
“No one’s ever going to get me into court,” Wallis said. “You’re lying. Rickett talked. Rickett told you about Bishopps. You want to know how I found that out? I talked to Bert Smith. The only question you asked was whether he did any work for Bishopps. Think that was smart, Rollison? Because I don’t. It proves to me how much wind you are. If you’d been smart you’d have asked a dozen questions.”
Rollison saw the magnitude of that mistake, and prayed that Ebbutt had sent help to Rickett quickly. He had been too keyed up, too viciously angry about what had been done to Jolly, and emotion had overcome logic.
“All right,” he said, “it wasn’t smart.”
“You aren’t so good at anything,” Wallis sneered. “How much do you know about Bishopps?”
“All I know is that everyone except Jones and the Blakes had some association with them,” Rollison said.
“What else?”
“What else is there?”
“There is another thing,” Wallis said heavily.
“You may as well talk.”
Rollison said abruptly: “There’s no other thing, Wallis, and I’ve talked enough.”
Wallis could have struck at him then, and actually fondled the knuckle duster on his right fist, but he did not strike. The cellar was quiet but for the breathing of the four men, although there were sounds from outside: not loud, all muffled but unmistakable. There were people walking, and now and again an extra clang on the iron cover of the coal hole told of someone who actually stepped on to it. Now and again, also a car horn sounded in a strangely subdued note. There was no sound of voices, but the little noise that did come through made Rollison wonder what would happen if he shouted.
They would only let him shout once.
Wallis did not attempt to strike him, and now one thing was clear; he was after information. He would count on the unspoken threat, the fondling of that brass weapon, the presence of the two men behind, to break down Rollison’s resistance and refusal to answer questions.
It was clear now that he was no kind of fool, and could think for himself; but it wasn’t yet clear what information he wanted.
He said: “Rollison, I don’t have to tell you what I can do for you, and I don’t have to tell you I don’t like your face. I’d prefer to see it looking different. Just now I told you I don’t intend to let you go, and that still goes with me. But a lot of things can happen between now and the time you die, and that’s up to you.”
It would make no difference, Rollison knew.
“You wanted to know one thing when you came to my place,” Wallis went on. “You wanted to know who was backing me on these jobs. That right?”
It’s right,” Rollison agreed.
“You found out yet?” Wallis demanded.
* * *
If the Toff said “no’ and so told the truth, he wouldn’t have any kind of chance, and this would soon be over.
If he said ‘yes’, Wallis would want him to prove it, and would want him alive so that he could talk.
And he could prove nothing.
* * *
Rollison said: “I haven’t got any further than Bishopps, and I don’t know much about the firm. They’re big wholesalers who supply a lot of goods to smaller sea-going vessels which are fitted out and provisioned from the docks. That’s as far as I’ve got.”
“Rollison,” Wallis said, raising both hands and nursing the knuckle duster, “you’ve got to think again. You know what happens when I get mad. Don’t get anything wrong: the way you talk will make the difference between dying the hard way or the easy way. You’ve been seeing Ada Jepson.”
“We’re old friends.”
“She went to see the man Jones, and she refurnished that house of the Blakes.”
“There isn’t much wrong with Ada,” Rollison said.
Then Wallis grinned.
It was only the slightest of grins, and vanished almost at once, as if Wallis knew that it was the wrong moment to show that he was amused. But what caused the grin? The simple statement that there wasn’t much wrong with Ada?
Why had she gone to such trouble to recoup the Blakes? Had it been conscience money?
Wallis said more savagely: “Okay, let’s get on with it. Why’ve you been seeing her?” When Rollison didn’t answer, he motioned to the men. Rollison felt his arms gripped from behind, so that he couldn’t move and couldn’t strike out. Wallis drew nearer, all his brutality naked in his face.
“Come on, let’s have it. Why’ve you been seeing her? She under suspicion?”
Rollison managed to say: “You must be crazy.”
“We’ll see if I’m crazy,” Wallis said. He thrust his left hand out, the fingers crooked, and clutched Rollison’s neck with such force that he almost cut off his breathing, and actually made him choke. “You think she’s my sponsor?”
“She can’t be,” Rollison exclaimed. “She can’t—” he broke off again as that hand clutched more tightly, and while the men behind him gripped his arms with fingers like steel bands. “I’ve told you all I know.”
“Okay, Mr. Ruddy Toff, we’ll see if we can’t loosen your tongue a bit more.”
Wallis let Rollison go, and again he stood swaying and helpless. The next few minutes would be the worst.
Then he heard creaking noises somewhere above his head, and a clatter of footsteps, enough to make Wallis turn round to see what was happening.
A woman stumbled into the cellar.
“It’s the cops,” she gasped. “They’re at the front door, three of them. I see them come.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Cops
Rollison could only just see her, over Wallis’s shoulder, but the shrill note of fear in her voice told Rollison that this was true. He felt a quiver run through the arm of the man on his right, and the grip slackened; the other man’s grip tightened.
One moment, there had been dreadful danger.
Now there could be safety, or there could be death.
“. . . I see them come,” seemed to echo about the cellar.
Then there came a different sound, of hammering on a door above.
Wallis and the others seemed paralysed.
Rollison snatched his right arm free from one man and swung round to strike the other as the second man’s grip slackened and fell away. But out of the corner of his eye Rollison saw the blade of his own knife glint as it was driven towards him.
Then Wallis swung round.
“Don’t do that!” he roared, and leapt at the man with the knife. Rollison felt the prick of the needle point, then a slight scratch as Wallis pushed his man’s arm downwards. Then Wallis struck at him, caught him on the side of the head, and sent him staggering. The other man, still behind Rollison, tripped him up.
The hammering on the door was still loud, the woman looked frightened out of her wits.
A crash above them shook the ceiling.
The woman gasped: “They’ve smashed the door down.”