The Toff And The Stolen Tresses t-38 Read online

  Rollison felt edgy, but said briskly enough: “No charge, then. Can you hold him overnight?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’ll give us a little time to work in. Did you I know that Jepsons now virtually controlled Bishopps?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know that at least one of the men attacked by Wallis questioned Bishopps’ salesman about goods being sold at special discount?”

  Grice said sharply: “No, I didn’t. Who—well, never mind who. You positive?”

  “As sure as I can be,” said Rollison. “And add the others together, Bill. One was a carrier who handled these goods, another worked for Bishopps, two bought from the wholesaler. Supposing each knew that he was dealing in stolen goods, and was going to talk when Wallis paid his visit.”

  Grice was making notes swiftly.

  “It’s a new angle. It could be robbery from Jepsons on a big scale, with Bishopps as the distributors of the goods. Then if a Jepson nominee company bought Bishopps and found out—”

  “Bill,” said Rollison, “there’s a curious parallel here. Jepsons, always big and getting bigger, buying up all the opposition they can. And Donny Sampson, a big landowner, once small but getting much bigger and buying up all the opposition he can. Has Donny been charged?”

  “Yes,” Grice said. “With being in possession of human hair, knowing it to have been stolen.”

  “Think you’ll ever prove that against him?” Rollison asked.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Invitation

  “I think we can prove it,” Grice answered. “One or two of his staff say he knew the hair was stolen. But if you ask me if it makes sense, that’s a different matter. Apart from anything else, there’s the obvious objection that Donny wouldn’t deal in his own daughter’s hair.”

  “Think he’s being framed?” Rollison asked brusquely.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “And blackmailed into saying nothing?”

  “Could be.”

  “Either Donny’s a victim or he’s a cleverer crook than we want to think,” Rollison said abruptly. “If he’s a victim, he’s scared of saying so, and Wallis is an expert at scaring people. Ada Jepson won’t tell me what she knows, either. I fancy she’s scared, and she takes a lot of scaring.”

  “Think her trouble is Wallis or someone else?” asked Grice. “Or just the fear of being found out?”

  “That’s the million dollar question,” said Rollison. He put his hands on the arms of his chair, and sprang up. “Bill, you’re a genius. You’ve given me the glimmering of a new idea. Like to hear it in confidence?”

  “Yes.”

  “And no reminder that you’re a policeman,” marvelled Rollison, sitting on the corner of the big desk. “Wallis is the key. Wallis takes orders and payment and hands out punishment. You can hold him overnight, and he needn’t be in dock until eleven in the morning. We suspect that Donny Sampson and Ada Jepson are being forced to take what’s coming to them. We think they know who’s behind Wallis, and what it’s all about, but dare not disclose the name. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Let’s bring them together,” suggested Rollison softly. “Let’s invite Ada to Wallis’s place, and Donny as well. Let them receive a message supposed to be from Wallis, to go to the house in Dirk Street. If they’re really under his thumb, they’ll go.”

  “What good will it do?”

  “When they get there, let’s try to force a showdown while Wallis is still in the cooler. Was Mick Clay picked up this afternoon?”

  “Yes. He had some jewellery in his pockets which might have been hot, so they held him.”

  “So he’s out of the way, as well. If Ada and Donny jump to an order from Wallis, there’ll be one big happy family at Wallis’s house, a kind of welcome-home party. Right?”

  “What you really mean is that you want to set them at each other’s throats,” Grice said.

  “That’s it.”

  “I don’t see that it would do any harm,” Grice conceded. “We’re holding Wallis, we can get a search warrant for his place now.”

  “Oh, no, William,” said Rollison, briskly. “The police must keep right out of this. I’ll get inside while it’s dark, rig up a tape recorder, and have it running while the talk goes on. I’ll be there myself to prod them into talking.”

  “You’re asking for too much trouble,” Grice objected. “The house will be watched, and everything that happens will be reported to Wallis before he gets home. He’ll know you’re there. If you’ve forced your way in and planted a tape recorder, he would have every excuse to smash you to pulp. We can’t give you authority to break into a man’s house even if we know the man is a dangerous criminal. You’ll have no protection, and Wallis might not wait like he did tonight.”

  “You’ve pointed out the one reason why the police can’t be in on this,” argued Rollison earnestly. “That way, Wallis would have plenty of warning. The police mustn’t be within a mile of the place, but we might lay on one or two of Ebbutt’s men in case I need help again, but this time I shouldn’t. This afternoon I walked into it with my eyes shut, tomorrow morning they’ll be very wide open.”

  Grice said slowly: “I suppose if you’re set on it, I can’t stop you. But now we’ve got the Bishopps and Jepsons angle—”

  “Donny and Ada won’t talk,” Rollison reminded him. “One of them must be made to. They will certainly talk to Wallis. All I’m saying is that we’ve got to get them talking, and make a record.”

  “You’re sticking your neck right out,” Grice said, and added craftily. “Think that’s what Jolly would like?”

  “You might not believe it but I’m thinking more about Tom Rickett,” Rollison said with steely quiet. “Tom and his wife and the dozens of others who might suffer. Donny Sampson’s daughters. Ada Jepson, too.”

  “All right,” said Grice in a clipped voice. “Anything else you plan to do?”

  “I think I’ll take an hour or two off,” said Rollison. “Will you lay on the tape recorder? Make it one I can fix easily, I’m no mechanic.”

  “You’d better get Ebbutt onto that, he’s got a good radio man.”

  So Grice knew more than he often pretended.

  “I will,” said Rollison. “May I see Wallis when you charge him?”

  * * *

  Wallis flatly denied the charge of uttering threats and menaces, and there was cold hatred in the way he looked at Rollison. When they were outside the cell, Grice said with absolute conviction:

  “If he ever gets at you again, he’ll kill you.”

  * * *

  Rollison reached Gresham Terrace a little after eight-thirty. Two of Ebbutt’s men were there, both professional boxers. Ebbutt had supplied them with beer and sandwiches and they were playing with great intentness. Rollison telephoned Ebbutt, laid on the tape recorder, and asked in a voice which the two men couldn’t hear:

  “Think you could find me one or two little bits of hot jewellery, Bill? Something I could plant so that a chap we know would have a job to explain them away?”

  “I’ll ‘ave a damn’ good try!”

  “Thanks,” said Rollison. Now I’m going to send your two chaps home, I don’t need a night shift.”

  “Please yourself,” Ebbutt said.

  The pair went off as soon as their game was over, each richer by five pounds.

  Rollison raided the larder, found ham on the bone, bread and cheese, felt the need for a good hot meal, and told himself that he could worry about that when this was over. He telephoned the hospital again; there was no change in Jolly’s condition, which meant that he had a better chance than ever.

  At half past nine, Rollison left the flat again. A Yard man was on duty outside, but no one else was in sight. No one followed him. He did not go by car, but first on foot, then on a bus, finally in a taxi to Middleton Road, near Sloane Square. He made quite sure that no one was watching him, then went briskly along the ill-lit street towards Nu
mber 24. There was a light on in the fanlight. He pressed the bell, then looked about him, surprised that Mrs. Blake opened the door; the light behind her in the kitchen seemed wispy. A Yard man came hurrying down the stairs, saying:

  “You shouldn’t do that, I told you I would open the door to any callers, Mrs. Blake. Who—oh, it’s you sir.”

  Mrs. Blake said: “Dear me, I quite forgot, I was watching the television. Do you want me, or—?”

  “Just a word with Mr. Jones,” said Rollison. “That’s all right, then I’ll go back. I’ll soon be able to pick up the threads again.” Mrs. Blake bustled off, and the Yard man grinned.

  “She’s tougher than she looks. I was just playing a game of draughts with Jones.”

  “How is he?”

  “He’ll be up and about tomorrow.”

  “Miss Jepson been again?”

  “No, but she sent about twenty books, and some crystallised fruits. She can’t do enough for him.”

  “So it seems,” agreed Rollison. “Mind if I go and have a word with him?”

  “Glad if you do, sir. As a matter of fact I wouldn’t mind stretching my legs outside for ten minutes, I was told that would be okay provided Jones and the house weren’t left unguarded. Ten minutes be long enough?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Just time for a pint at the corner,” the Yard man said, and grinned. “See you later, sir.”

  Rollison watched him go out, then listened to the drone of voices on the television, sounding clear although the kitchen door was closed. He went quietly upstairs, reminding himself again that he now knew pretty well why the other victims had been attacked, but didn’t know the secret of James Matthison Jones.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Burglary

  Jimmy Jones was certainly looking much better. He sat up on his pillows, smoking a cigarette, and by the side of the bed was the draughts board; obviously the Yard man was winning. A small radio in the corner was on, and swing music came softly into the room. Jones’s eyes were clearer, although the bandages looked as heavy as when Rollison had seen him before.

  “Oh, hallo, Mr. Rollison!” He seemed genuinely glad to see his visitor. “Nice of you to look in. Take a pew.” He pointed to another chair, then put his head on one side, and went on in a different tone: “But I should hardly think you’re just sick visiting.”

  “Right in one,” Rollison said. “How’s your memory?” He sat down and took out cigarettes. “Pretty good, I think,” said Jones.

  “You told me and the police that you hadn’t the faintest idea why you were attacked,” Rollison said.

  “And I haven’t.”

  “Misplaced loyalty can be a deadly thing,” Rollison remarked, and lit a cigarette.

  “Talking in riddles can be a damned silly one,” said Jones. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about. Misplaced loyalty to whom?”

  “Jepsons.”

  Jones shook his head, leaned over and stubbed out his cigarette, and said:

  “I still haven’t the faintest idea what you’re driving at.”

  “I’m beginning to believe you,” Rollison said slowly. Will you try to get at it this way? Among the people who have been attacked are . . .” he told Jones of each one, watching the man all the time, and seeing the dawning of understanding come. Jones looked both astonished and bewildered. He waited for Rollison to finish, and then said ruefully:

  “I can see what you’re getting at now, and probably what it was all about. I’d been checking Bishopps’ accounts. They weren’t buying anything like so much from us as they used to, and I couldn’t understand why. Then I went out to see their manager, and found the place stacked out with our products. The manager said he’d over-stocked badly, and that seemed reasonable. But if that was really stolen stuff, and he thought I was on the trail—good lord!”

  “When did you go to Bishopps?”

  “A week before this happened.” Jones drew in a deep breath. “I give you my word, this is the first time I’ve connected the two things!”

  “And I’ll take your word,” said Rollison readily. “Did you report this to anyone else?”

  “Mr. Jepson, of course.”

  “Did you see him personally?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was his reaction?”

  “He told me to keep it to myself, and said he’d have secret inquiries made,” said Jones. “How did he seem?”

  “He looked pretty tired, and it didn’t surprise me to hear that he was going off for a week or two.”

  “Did you notice anything else about him? Did he seem worried?”

  “No. Just tired.”

  “Did he tell you that Jepson had acquired Bishopps through a nominee company?”

  “Oh, that old rumour! It’s been going the rounds for a long time, but it’s never come to anything. One or two big shareholders have wanted to buy Bishopps, but that’s all. The Jepsons have control with about sixty per cent of the shares.”

  “It isn’t a rumour, Bishopps is now owned by Jepsons,” Rollison declared.

  James Matthison Jones looked bewildered.

  “Well, if they own both places, the stuff at Bishopps could hardly have been stolen could it? What the devil’s going on, Rollison?”

  “That’s exactly what we have to find out,” Rollison said very slowly.

  * * *

  Gresham Terrace was watched still by a Yard man, but the flat was empty. Rollison went straight to his bedroom and took an old suit from the wardrobe; one which looked as if he had slept in it, and which would have been third best even for a man at the docks. He put this on; and there was a smell of coal dust about it, also a smell of oil. He rubbed his hands over his face, without making it look too dirty, tied a choker round his neck and pulled on an old cloth cap, with a ragged peak. Next, he put on a pair of rubber-soled shoes which were solid enough but had seen better days.

  He clipped on the knives, put another gun into his pocket, a gas pistol like the one he had first used against Wallis.

  He had a queer feeling about Wallis; it was almost as if the man was watching him, although he was in jail, and as though one of the hooligans who would so readily do what he asked was outside.

  He waited until there was a knock at the front door, went across, opened the door a fraction, and said:

  “Who is it?”

  “There’s a packet here from Radio and Recording Supplies, sir.”

  “Put it down and leave it, will you?”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Rollison waited until the man’s footsteps had gone, then opened the door cautiously: Wallis might have powerful friends ready to attack. The landing was empty. The packet, neatly wrapped up in brown paper, looked innocent enough. Rollison took it into the big room, and undid it cautiously. Inside was a small tape recorder, worked from a battery, extremely sensitive and with enough tape to record for nearly an hour.

  And it would go into his pocket.

  “Thanks, Bill,” said Rollison.

  He went out the back way, and was quite sure that no one who saw him knew who he was.

  He walked to the nearest Tube station and went to Charing Cross, changed there for the train to Whitechapel. It was a little after eleven o’clock when he arrived, and only a dozen people got off at the station. No one looked at him twice. He walked with a kind of swagger, as if he’d had more than enough to drink and stared down at the ground all the time. Outside, he turned first towards the Blue Dog, passing the gymnasium, where lights were still on.

  He headed for Dirk Street and the docks.

  No ships were being worked nearby, all the dockside noises came from some distance off; that was a pity. He walked along Dirk Street, and saw lights at several of the houses, including Wallis’s. He went to the back of the house, using a narrow alley, found out which was the rear entrance, and made himself familiar with the little back yard. Then he went back towards the gymnasium, but did not go too close to the lights.


  “Want anyfink?” a man asked.

  “Ebbutt arahnd?”

  “He’s too busy to touch tonight, mate.”

  “I got information to sell.”

  “Wot abaht?”

  “Rollison.”

  The name worked like a charm. The man hurried into the gymnasium, and Ebbutt soon came out. He approached Rollison, wheezing in the chilly night air, and as he drew near he flashed a torch into Rollison’s face.

  Wot the hell—” he began, and then caught his breath.

  “Easy, Bill,” Rollison whispered. “I want a kip for the night, somewhere I can get away from early in the morning. Can I have a camp bed in the gym?”

  “It’s all yours, Mr. Ar.”

  “Forget the Mr. Ar. Anyone else sleeping there tonight?”

  “No.”

  “Fine. Any news for me?”

  “There are a couple of blokes at Wallis’s place, Wallis ain’t taking no more chances with his wife.”

  “We can’t blame him, can we?” Rollison said, and forced a grin, but he did not feel like smiling. “Let me have the gym key, Bill, will you? And any luck with those sparklers?”

  “Yeah, to both,” said Ebbutt. “Wouldn’t like to tell me wot you’re up to, would you?”

  “No,” Rollison said. He took the key and a small packet which Ebbutt gave him, gripped the huge forearm, said: “Thanks,” and moved off. He reached a telephone kiosk in the Mile End Road, dialled Grice’s home number, and wasn’t surprised to be answered promptly: Grice wasn’t an early-to-bed enthusiast.

  “Rollison,” Rollison said.