Hammer the Toff Read online

  Mrs Ebbutt could cook, and the food was excellent, but Rollison paid less attention to it than to Bill’s story.

  It gradually came out.

  Bill thought he knew who the Hammer was, but he would do nothing to help the police to catch him. There was no use in believing everything one heard, but take it from him, the Hammer didn’t use a gun and didn’t travel armed. He had a great many helpers. He made a good living, admitted Bill Ebbutt, but he also did much good with his money.

  Into Rollison’s mind there sprang a picture of a man well-liked, beloved perhaps, by people such as Ebbutt. It surprised him only because of the contradictory stories about the Hammer. Bill would hear nothing against the man. No one had ever suffered hardship from his robberies, he declared, and no one ever would. Mr Rollison had not been in the district very much of late, he must have got all his information from the newspapers or the police.

  ‘Yer can’t trust ’em,’ Bill declared. ‘Some of them is all right, Mr Roll’son, but not many. Yer can’t trust ’em, that’s wot I say. There’s been a lot’ve robberies, that’s true. I don’t deny it. An’ the ’Ammer’s done a lot of them, but ’e’s never ’urt a soul. I could tell you a ’undred cases Mr Ar, where the ’Ammer’s ’elped some poor devil. It’s a fact. There’s my missus, too, in the “Harmy”. The “Harmy” does a lot o’ good arahnd ’ere, but they couldn’t do so much if the ’Ammer didn’t send a donation. Anonymous, but we know ’oo sends it.’

  At long last, Rollison interrupted him.

  ‘How long has he been working. Bill?’

  ‘Coupla years.’

  ‘And he’s always worked like this?’

  ‘Allus since I can remember.’

  ‘Does he know that the police think he’s a violent criminal, a murderer, in fact?’

  Bill growled; ‘That ’e never was. The ’Ammer never croaked anyone, Mr Ar.’

  ‘But the police think he did, and someone is trying very hard to prove that he did.’

  ‘I’d like ter wring ’is neck!’

  ‘But you can’t,’ said Rollison reasonably. ‘Bill, if things go on as they are doing now, the Hammer will probably be caught and get a life sentence,’ He was deliberately worsening the situation, goading Ebbutt into confidences. ‘But if I can find out the truth, it might help.’

  Bill looked at him steadily.

  ‘You don’t want ter give a tip to the dicks?’

  ‘No, Bill. But I want to see the Hammer.’

  ‘Well,’ said Ebbutt, ‘I’ll try an’ fix it. I trust you, Mr Ar, but you ’aven’t ever met the ’Ammer. ’E don’t know yer, yer see. ’E might not like the idea. But I’ll try. I’ll give you a ring. That do?’

  ‘That’s fine,’ said Rollison.

  At six o’clock that evening, the telephone rang at the Gresham Terrace flat. Would Mr Rollison be at the Blue Dog, Wapping, at half-past eight, asked Bill Ebbutt.

  The Blue Dog, Wapping, had an unsavoury reputation. It was on the corner of two dank, squalid, streets, near the Hundred Arches. The streets were ill-lit. Furtive figures flitted to and fro. There were odd, stealthy sounds. Windows showed few lights, but the Blue Dog itself was a beacon, spreading a glow for twenty yards or more. There, at half-past eight, the Toff arrived in an old suit, a muffler and a peaked cap. In his pocket was an automatic. The saloon bar was crowded. Someone was playing a mouth-organ, others were singing hoarsely and unmusically. Many were the furtive glances aimed at the stranger.

  The door opened and a child of no more than ten looked in.

  No one appeared to notice him, but the barman whispered to the barmaid. The lad looked round. He was well-fed, his cheeks glowing red, his eyes bright. He singled out Rollison, and gave him a slow, deliberate wink. Then he went out.

  Rollison followed him into the shadowy street.

  ‘You the gent from Mr Ebbutt?’ asked the child.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Foller me.’

  Rollison followed, checking the landmarks. Second right, first left, third right from the Blue Dog.

  The lad said suddenly; ‘Stay right ’ere, mister,’ and slipped off into the darkness.

  Rollison waited, aware of the brooding silence, the stealthy noises, the slivers of light at windows, the hum of traffic on the main road, not far away. In the distance above the docks, there was a yellow glow where ships were loading by flood-lighting, for it was now quite dark. People passed, ignoring him, until out of the darkness came a girl, no older than the boy.

  ‘You from Mr Ebbutt?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Follow me.’

  Again, Rollison followed, until the child reached a street which Rollison calculated could not be far from the Blue Dog. She told him to wait, and disappeared, as the boy had done. Then an older lad arrived and took him on another journey. By that time Rollison had lost his bearings, and, but for his trust in Bill Ebbutt, he would have wondered whether he were wise to follow such guides. It was half-past nine when, once again, he was left on his own. This time he waited for ten minutes. He could see no one near him, yet he sensed a lurking presence.

  He knew why this was being done. The Hammer was making sure that he had not been followed, that when at last he arrived in the Presence, no man in blue would step authoritatively forward from behind him.

  Quick, light footsteps broke the brooding quiet.

  A woman’s voice asked: ‘Are you Mr Rollison?’

  ‘Yes.’

  This time the follow-my-leader preamble was not so long. They turned into a narrow street and soon she opened the door of a small house, fronting the pavement. There was a dim light inside. She led him up the stairs into a comfortably furnished room. For the first time he saw the girl in a good light. There was a filmy scarf over her face which hid her features, but he noticed that her figure was young and pleasing, and that she was well-dressed.

  A man was sitting at a writing-table, his attitude that of a busy man who had ten minutes to spare. He made no attempt to hide his face, which was good-looking and, in a way, disarming.

  ‘Close the door, Janet,’ he said, and as the girl went out, the door closed softly.

  The Hammer pointed to an armchair.

  ‘Sit down, Mr Rollison. What will you drink?’

  ‘Whisky, thanks.’

  ‘Soda?’

  The Hammer poured out drinks, then left the desk and sat in an easy chair opposite Rollison. On the face of it he appeared benevolent, but his expression was not an easy one to read.

  ‘I’m sorry that I am rather difficult to find,’ he said with a smile. ‘But I’m sure you understand the need for a rather circuitous approach. In spite of what Ebbutt told you, I have heard about you. There are not many people from your part of London with such a good reputation, and I did not hesitate to agree to see you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Rollison, dryly. ‘Did Ebbutt say why I wanted this meeting?’

  ‘No, simply that he thought it would be wise for me to see you.’

  ‘Do you know that I am helping the police on the Horniman murder case?’ Rollison asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said the Hammer. He seemed to stiffen, and now there was a touch of wariness that had not been there before.

  ‘Last night, a woman named Kent was arrested and will probably be charged with murdering Dr Finnigan,’ Rollison said, ‘and she told the police that she had been sent to see Finnigan by you.’

  The Hammer said: ‘That is not true.’

  ‘Last night, a hammer was thrown through a window of my flat,’ Rollison said, ‘and that seemed to have a touch of defiance in it.’

  ‘I did not have the hammer thrown.’

  Rollison persisted: ‘At least one of the people concerned in the murder of Horniman and in the murder of Dr Finnigan works at the Hammer Club, off Shepherds Market.’

  ‘I am not associated with the club,’ declared the Hammer, smiling faintly.

  ‘Well, those are three separate attempts to bring suspicio
n on you for the murders,’ said Rollison. ‘Clumsy attempts, perhaps, but they must be taken seriously by the police. The police may or may not believe that you have had anything to do with either, or both, of these murders, but they must redouble their attempts to find and question you. If they find you, they won’t confine their questions to these particular crimes.’

  ‘No,’ said the Hammer, and his smile broadened. ‘They would have a great many other questions, I’ve no doubt! Mr Rollison, you didn’t come to see me just to tell me this.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why did you come?’

  ‘Because it seems to me that someone who has good reason to dislike you would like you blamed for the murders,’ Rollison told him. ‘Murders for which he himself is responsible. He is either impersonating you, or you are responsible. I am assuming that you’re not. So, any known enemy of yours might be the man I want. He doesn’t know where to find you, or he would have given the police that information. He’s doing his best to make sure that the East End is combed thoroughly for you, and a search might be successful. You’ve had a long run.’

  ‘So long a run that, provided I maintain all precautions, it looks as if it may continue,’

  ‘It’s not always wise to underrate the police,’ said Rollison. ‘Have you such a bitter enemy?’

  After a long pause, the Hammer said: ‘Yes, I think so. But I also think I can deal with the gentleman concerned, Mr Rollison. In fact, I assure you that I will.’

  ‘And his name?’

  ‘I am afraid that I cannot give you that,’ said the Hammer. ‘It would not be—’ he paused and shrugged—‘well, ethical. There is honour among thieves you know. And perhaps he knows more than we think,’ added the Hammer. ‘He might, if caught by the police, do me enough harm to prevent me from continuing my work.’

  Rollison said: ‘You’re playing with fire.’

  The Hammer shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

  Rollison said earnestly: ‘The police will get this man, eventually. Short of killing him, you can’t prevent that. And killing, whatever the motive, however benevolent the intention, is murder.’

  ‘I don’t think that will be necessary,’ said the Hammer, ‘and I am quite safe. Don’t misunderstand me,’ he added. ‘I do appreciate your warning and I will take further precautionary steps. And, if I can assist you to find Horniman’s murderer without injuring my own prospects, I will do so.’

  Rollison asked bluntly: ‘Do you know what this other man is doing?’

  ‘I know a little. I will find out more. I will see that justice is done, Mr Rollison.’

  ‘Did you know Horniman?’

  ‘Slightly. I had no time for him. And I know that he was interested in the young man, Bruce Drayton, in whose interests you have been working. I do not know whether Drayton is alive or not. If he is, then I will try to make sure that he remains so.’

  Slowly, Rollison shook his head.

  ‘You can’t walk in mud and remain entirely unspotted,’ he said.

  ‘I can try,’ murmured the Hammer. ‘I doubt whether the police are convinced that there are two Hammers.’

  Rollison said: ‘I’m assuming that there are, and I’m assuming that both will eventually be caught. You know more than you’ve told me, and that knowledge really makes you an accessory after the fact of murder, whether you’ve had anything to do with the crimes or not.’

  The Hammer lifted his glass with a steady hand.

  ‘No, I am not an accessory,’ he said. ‘I have an inkling of what my particular enemy is doing, but I have few facts at my disposal. When, if ever, I do learn more, I will tell you about them. I have no more liking for murder than you have, Mr Rollison.’

  Rollison shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘But you condone it,’ he said. ‘Whatever your motives, the results have proved evil. You built up an organisation which earned you the protection of the people, and as a result, it is being used to harm them, and can only bring disaster. You can stop it by ceasing to work, and telling the people that you have stopped.’

  ‘It is not so easy as that,’ said the Hammer. He stood up and pushed his chair back. And now there was a passionate sincerity in his voice. Rollison found it difficult to believe that it was assumed, that he was lying. The soft, cultured voice was persuasive, the glow in the man’s eyes appeared to be deeply sincere.

  ‘No, it is not so easy as that,’ repeated the Hammer. ‘Mr Rollison, when I first began to work, the lot of the people in this part of London defied imagination. There were patches of such abominable squalor that any humane man seeing it would have been appalled. Yet nothing was done. That is, by the authorities, for there were, and are, dozens of charitable organisations. These are all run by voluntary contributions. So, I decided, authority could not be counted on, and I resolved to help in my own way.’

  The Hammer’s voice had dropped to a whisper. Rollison felt the spell of the man and, more strongly than ever, was convinced of his sincerity. Wrong-headed he might be, but this man believed in the righteousness of his cause.

  ‘Do you understand?’ he asked abruptly.

  Rollison said: ‘Yes, but to understand is not necessarily to agree.’

  As he spoke, the telephone bell rang. The Hammer turned towards it, and Rollison saw a change in his manner, a stiffening, a wariness. He lifted the receiver.

  There was a pause, as he listened. Then he replaced the receiver and turned to Rollison, his expression harsh and menacing. ‘So you brought the police, Mr Rollison!’

  Someone began to bang on a door below.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Raid

  There was a hammer in the man’s hand. Long-handled, heavy-headed, it looked an ugly weapon. Quick footsteps sounded on the stairs, and the banging continued; it grew louder. The door of the room burst open, and the girl who had been addressed as Janet appeared.

  ‘They’re here!’ she gasped, ‘we’re caught, Jim, we’re caught!’

  The Hammer took a step towards Rollison, his weapon raised.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, in a thin voice. ‘Nicely trapped by the helpful Mr Rollison!’

  ‘Jim!’ the girl gasped.

  The man stood, with the hammer raised, and Rollison thought that in the surge of fear and disappointment, the sudden destruction of the safety which he had prized so much and had given him such confidence, he might do desperate things. There was a rending sound from downstairs as if a panel had been broken in.

  ‘The window!’ cried Janet, ‘Jim, try the window, don’t—’

  The hammer swung. Rollison pushed out his foot and the wicked-looking weapon flashed past his shoulder.

  Rollison said sharply: ‘Get behind the door,’ and pushed the man against the wall. ‘Do exactly what I tell you,’ he said to the girl. ‘Sit in that chair, don’t look worried, don’t look frightened.’ He turned rapidly, meeting the Hammer’s startled gaze. ‘Is there anything against Janet?’ he hissed. ‘Quickly!’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘This is her house. I rent part of it.’

  Rollison nodded curtly, and turned towards the door. He could see the head of a man coming upstairs, and recognised Sergeant Barrow. As he went forward, he wondered whether the Hammer would have the good sense to realise that, if he kept quite still, he might yet escape; there was, of course, the risk that the man would believe this to be part of the trap, and would strike at him again.

  He reached the head of the stairs, and Barrow exclaimed: ‘Rollison!’

  ‘Yes,’ smiled Rollison, cheerfully. ‘I chose a good night, apparently.’

  ‘I’ll talk to you later,’ said Barrow brusquely, and looked over Rollison’s shoulder. ‘You know the Hammer lives here, don’t you?’

  ‘He did,’ said Rollison, sadly.

  ‘What do you mean, did?’

  ‘I was to have met him here,’ said Rollison, ‘but he sent a message that he had been compelled to move. I’ve been trying to get some sense out of the
girl here,’ he went on, ‘but I don’t think she knows a great deal, except that the man was a lodger.’

  ‘Lodger!’

  ‘Well of course,’ said Rollison impatiently, ‘you must know what lodgers are!’

  Was there a chance? he wondered. Had there ever been a chance of keeping Barrow out of that room? In the first flush of hope, he had thought so, but now he doubted it. Barrow would have to search the house, that was obvious; and the Hammer could not hide in that small room, and had no chance of getting out of it. He felt sick at heart; rightly or wrongly, he wanted the Hammer to have a chance. He wondered, even as he looked into Barrow’s unfriendly eyes, how much he was influenced by the fact that if the Hammer were caught that night, it would be placed to his ‘credit’. He knew that, if this happened, there would never be a welcome for ‘Mr Ar’ in the East End of London, no matter how he defended himself. A phase in his life seemed about to end, and he realised as he stood there just how much it meant to him.

  Barrow seemed undecided. The last thing he would dream, of course, was that Rollison had just interviewed the suspect. He would take it for granted that the room was empty but for the girl, even if he searched it afterwards for papers or other evidence.

  Then the girl got up and came out on to the landing. Rollison, who had been concerned only with making her appear unruffled by the raid, wondered if he had overdone it, whether some show of alarm or protest would not have been wiser.

  Her voice was icy. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded.

  ‘Det. Sergeant Barrow, of New Scotland Yard,’ Barrow said. ‘And I have a search warrant.’

  ‘There is no need to break down doors in order to execute a search warrant,’ she said, sharply.