There was just the empty street ahead, a few people at the windows, their faces transfixed in horror; the small, grey houses and the dead street lamps, and a long way off, the blank wall of a warehouse. That was all.
The lorry was steady now, but racing away from the corner, the motor-cyclist, and Rollison. In his mirror, Rollison could see the smashed machine and the inert figure on the ground. Then a woman approached him from one of the little houses, first walking, then hurrying. He stopped the car at the kerb, sat for a moment with sweat icy on his forehead, then he got out and walked quickly back. There was no sign of the youths, and the lorry had disappeared round a far corner. In the distance, near the Blue Dog, a crowd seemed to be staring this way, and a policeman came hurrying.
The woman was bending over the motor-cyclist.
Rollison felt nausea, and was touched with the chill of horror. There was blood on the man’s face and on one hand, and he lay so still that he might be dead. The strange thing was the silence from the nearby houses, from which the women stared from their windows; and the silence of the woman now kneeling by the side of the man who lay so still.
Rollison asked heavily: “How is he?” as he joined her.
She looked up, a little woman with thin features and a spiteful face. Her lips were twisted viciously and her eyes were full of hate, and she spat at him:
“He’s dead and you killed him! Murderer, that’s what you are. Murderer! You ought to be strung up.”
As her words fell on the sunlit air, another woman came out of the little doorway of her tiny house and took up the accusing cry.
“Murderer!” she screamed at him. “Murderer!”
Another shout came and another. There were men’s voices as well as women’s, youth’s as well as men’s. Never in his life had Rollison felt such menace or known a greater fear.
Then dozens of youths appeared at a corner, and came slowly, menacingly, towards him.
CHAPTER FIVE
MOB
The Toff could run away.
There was both time and opportunity. The youths were coming from the corner where the lorry had turned, and the car was facing away from them in the other direction. Two or three women and several toddlers were between Rollison and the car, but he could reach it in time to get away; despite their menace the youths were too far off to prevent him.
Or the Toff could stay and face it out.
He knew what that could mean, what it probably would mean. These youths weren’t maddened by the accident, as the woman was; they had come to set upon him when his car had smashed against the truck, in case the job needed finishing. They had lain in wait. Now they had a perfect excuse for going wild, the excuse that they had turned on a motorist for killing one of their friends. No one could argue. No one could support Rollison’s story, for any who would speak for him were too far behind. Before they could come to his aid, it would be all over.
So he could face it out and end up in hospital, like Jimmy Jones; unless he ended up in a morgue.
The first woman was spitting her spite at him, others were joining in, the youths were drawing nearer. They weren’t coming quickly. They were wary, of course, there was a kind of cloak about the Toff, the protecting shield of his reputation. In the East End the name Toff was a byword, and many were frightened of him.
If he ran away, none would ever be frightened again. A reputation built up over twenty years, and which had survived challenge upon challenge, could fade away like a wisp of steam if he turned his back on this mob of youths.
All these things passed through his mind in flashes, like electric sparks. The shrill voices of the women made a background of sound, as did the shuffling of the feet of the youths who were drawing nearer. He saw three youths quicken their pace, and go behind him; they were to cut off his retreat. If he was going to run, this was his last chance.
He needed a means of attack. Not with fists and not with weapons, not even with words. He turned with swift decisiveness upon the woman near the fallen motor-cyclist, and those who were supporting her. His face was set and bleak, and she got up and backed away, as if afraid that he would strike her. He went down on one knee beside the motor-cyclist, a man in his twenties. His forehead was raw and bleeding, the back of his right hand was lacerated, and blood was trickling down his lips. Rollison grasped his left wrist, feeling for the pulse, and stared down into the pallid face, as if he had no other thought in the world and it did not even occur to him that this mob would attack him.
He looked up.
The advance guard of the youths were only a few yards away.
“This man isn’t dead,” Rollison said crisply. “He’s got a good chance if we hurry. Who has a bike?” One youth opened his mouth as if to say “I have’ and Rollison didn’t wait for him to change his mind. “You go and see if Dr. Scott’s in, quick. If he’s not, get Dr. Murphy. Anyone else here with a bike?” No one answered this time, and the first youth hesitated. Then Rollison recognised a little whippet of a boy, not vicious but easily led, and one of the fastest milers in the East End of London. “Here, Rolly, you beat all Olympic records up to the Blue Dog, the nearest telephone. Dial 999 and ask for an ambulance. Let’s see if you can still run!”
The youths wavered.
One of the women shouted at them: “What are you standing there for?”
That worked the miracle.
The youths turned and hurried, Rolly to run like a deer, with nothing in his mind but accepting the challenge, the other to leap on his bicycle as if his life depended on it, and pedal off furiously.
Rollison turned to the woman who had come first, and who was now silent.
“Do you live just here?”
She gave a quick, reluctant kind of nod, as if surprised into acknowledging the question.
“Wonderful! Get some blankets and a couple of hot water bottles, and put a couple of kettles on. They might come in useful.” Rollison was still on one knee beside the injured man, and he looked back at him as if taking it for granted that the woman would obey.
She did.
The danger had passed.
Whoever had urged and almost certainly bribed this East End mob to help against the Toff, had lost the first round. Vicious, spiteful-looking youths, young brutes in a gang and in the right mood, were simply people. Crazy mixed-up kids? Young fools, who needed sharp treatment and firm discipline, who had as much good as bad in them if only it could be brought out. They began to move away, the threatening circle had broken already. The women were back in their houses, and soon one came running with a bright red eiderdown, which looked like the blood of a dozen men as the sunlight streamed upon it. She put it over the injured man and tucked it in, and Rollison stood up, glad to ease his knees. He took a gold case out of his pocket, lit a cigarette, and for the first time wiped his forehead, using the back of his hand. The sweat lay cold on his hand. He drew deeply on the cigarette, then looked at the nearest of three elderly men. Not far away, half a dozen others were running, and behind these Ebbutt came in an old T model Ford, the most ancient in London, and the smartest; the sun was shining brightly on its sky blue sides.
“Who saw that lunatic of a lorry driver?” Rollison asked, as if it did not occur to him that this had been done deliberately. “Anyone get the number?”