Chapter Sixteen

Brute

The dog was no more than twenty yards away, and coming fast, leaping, heading straight for Rollison. Not far away was a small car, drawn up at the side of the road; there wasn’t much doubt that the dog had come from the car.

It was a Ford Consul.

The first moment of shock was past, but Rollison had lost a second, and the dog was now only ten yards away. Its mouth was open, its great teeth showed: teeth which could lacerate a man as Higgs had been lacerated. Rollison could hear it breathing. He dropped his right hand to his pocket about the gun, but had no time to draw.

He fired through the cloth.

He couldn’t be sure whether he had hit the brute, but darted to one side as he fired, holding the door wide open. The dog staggered; at least it had been hit. It was only a few feet away, and if it turned on him, Rollison couldn’t hope to escape a mauling. Being wounded, it would be even more savage—

It almost fell.

It tried to turn on him, but couldn’t.

He stepped swiftly from the door, and the dog was half-way inside the kiosk, yelping. The door slammed, pushing it right in. It was too badly hurt to find the strength to push the heavy door open, and Rollison swung towards the little black car. He had his gun in his hand now, and levelled to shoot. There was only the car driver, and Rollison saw the tension on the man’s face, heard the engine roar. He didn’t see another man come out of a doorway almost at his side, didn’t know what was going to happen until the man struck at his arm, and cried out: “Drop that gun!”

The sharpness of the blow forced it out of Rollison’s hand; he had no chance to hold it. It clattered as he darted a look at the middle-aged man who had disarmed him. This wasn’t one of Mr. Smith’s aides, but a man who was doing his duty as a citizen.

“Don’t pick it up, or—”

The good citizen broke off.

Rollison, checking his speed, saw why. The Consul was moving very fast, its engine still roaring, and it was only a few yards away. It mounted the pavement, jolting wildly, and came hurtling towards Rollison; and it looked as if he hadn’t a chance to get away.

There was just one.

Between him and the car was the wall of a front garden, and he put his hands on this and vaulted over to the other side. He fell among bushes, staggered and lost his balance, and then thudded heavily to the ground. He heard the engine roaring, men shouting, brakes squealing. Then there came a high-powered roar, as of a car with the engine going at its fastest. That sound faded.

Rollison picked himself up, awkwardly. He was scratched and his clothes were torn, but if the bushes hadn’t been there he would probably have been badly hurt. As he bobbed up above the wall, he saw the man who had disarmed him standing and staring, several people standing on the other side of the road, and two cars pulled up. He could not see the little black car, but not far away was a turning to the right; the driver had probably gone that way.

He said: “How’s the dog?” and brushed himself down as he went to the gate. The man holding the gun hadn’t spoken, but kept staring. “Mine, I think, thanks,” said Rollison, and took the gun from an unresisting hand. “It wasn’t the best moment to be a hero, but that was quite something to do. Supposing I’d been a bad man?” He went towards the telephone kiosk, seeing several people hurrying towards him, and a policeman cycling fast.

The dog lay still and silent on the floor of the kiosk. So the wound had been fatal, or next door to it, and at least Mr. Smith had one dog less.

Rollison waited for the policeman, and while he did so, snapped his fingers and said in tart annoyance: “What the hell’s the matter with me? I didn’t get that car’s number.”

“It—it might have killed you,” breathed the man who had disarmed him, “and all you can say is—”

The policeman came up before he had time to finish.

It was a little after nine o’clock when Rollison reached the landing of 22, Gresham Terrace. He did not move as briskly as he had been known to, felt very hungry, and was regretful that Jolly would not be here with roast duckling. Jolly would be out watching Zana, and there was no way of telling whether he should be allowed to take such risks. The risks had been bad enough before; the disaster to Higgs had sharpened their effect, that was all. Jolly shouldn’t be used on this job, and certainly Maude shouldn’t be.

Would she give up?

Knowing Maude, that was unlikely.

Rollison examined the outside of the lock, and saw no scratches, nothing to suggest that the door had been opened without a key; so he inserted his own. He did this very slowly, and turned it as slowly as if there was a possibility of danger from that simple action.

Nothing happened.

He opened the door cautiously, and still nothing happened, but he heard a sound.

He stood quite still.

This was one thing he hadn’t wanted, the one thing he had almost feared. The pace was too hot. It was no use arguing, it was too hot. Jolly wouldn’t be here as late as this, and no one should be in the flat. He knew exactly what he should do, but the physical effort was repugnant. He ought to go down into the street, hurry to the courtyard at the back, come up the fire escape, as Tiny Joe had done, and then enter by the back door. This would take whoever was inside by surprise. He had done it before a dozen times, and had never felt the same reluctance as he did now.

No duckling, and instead—

A footstep sounded heavily.

“That you, Mr. Ar?” a man called bluffly; it was the voice which Rollison could never mistake, for there was only the one like it in the whole of London.

A huge man appeared from the kitchen. He filled the doorway with his barrel of a stomach and his great height and his massive arms. This was Bill Ebbutt, once a heavyweight who could stand up to terrific punishment in the ring, now the owner of the Blue Dog in the Mile End Road, the owner of Ebbutt’s gymnasium, and manager and trainer of half the hopeful boxers in the East End of London.

“Why, ’allo, glad you’re back,” he greeted. “Wondered wot had detained you, Mr. Ar.” His huge right hand came out and engulfed Rollison’s; then he blinked – for he was very short-sighted – and as he gripped, he frowned. “What’s ’appened to you, Mr. Ar? You look as if you’ve been rolling in the bushes.”

Rollison chuckled. “That’s it, Bill, literally.”

“Why, your face is scratched, too,” said Ebbutt with loud concern. “You bin ’aving a bit’ve a rough and tumble? You’d better go and bathe those scratches while I get a bite of supper ready.”

“Supper,” echoed Rollison. “You never said a nicer word. What’s it to be, fish and chips?”

“Blimey, think you’re in luck tonight, don’t you?” scoffed Ebbutt, and shepherded Rollison into the bathroom.

Rollison inspected himself with some interest. Most of the scratches were underneath his chin, but one ran down the side of his nose. He’d grazed his hand badly, too, and there were scratches on his legs, but he had come off much more freely than his suit. That was beyond invisible mending, and he took it off, washed, and dabbed the scratches with an antiseptic, then put on a royal blue dressing-gown which had fleur de lis worked on it by an aunt since dead and gone. He went into the big room, thinking a little sadly about the roast duckling, and turned to the dining alcove. Ebbutt was standing there, but the table was laid, as only Jolly could lay it.

“Ready, Mr. Ar?”

“Famished, Bill.”

“Lot o’ cutlery for a bit o’ bread and cheese,” said Ebbutt. “Talk about one ’alf the world not knowin’ ’ow the ovver ’alf lives. But you earn your silver plate, I’ll say that for you.” He went out massively, and Rollison helped himself to a gin-and-it.

Ebbutt returned, bearing a silver dish. He placed this in front of Rollison, stood back to survey it, and plucked the lid off. Already the aroma was telling its own tale, and Ebbutt’s grin told another. There on the silver salver was a roast duckling, looking as brown and rich and succulent as any Jolly had ever prepared for him.

“Now I’ll fetch the green peas and the apple sauce,” boomed Ebbutt, and rumbled off, coming back with two steaming dishes, one in each great hand. “Did it hisself, Jolly did, and give me instructions on ’ow long it was to cook for. Give me the perishing willies, he did; he said you’d be ready by ’ar-past eight latest, and here it’s bin, spoiling. But cooking never ’urt duck, Liz says. Look okay?”

“Wonderful.” Rollison’s eyes glowed. “Where’s your plate?”

“I’ve had all I want in the kitchen,” said Ebbutt. “You eat in peace.” He heaved himself towards the kitchen again, and then stopped in the doorway. “I knew there was sunnink, ’ead like a sieve I’ve got. Gricey telephoned.”

Rollison almost forgot roast duckling.

“Any message?”

“He said the young lady’s going where you asked.”

“Oh,” said Rollison, and smiled and relaxed. “Bless his old heart! Bill, there’s a job for you. I want at least half a dozen of your best men to spend the night at Lady Gloria’s place. They’ll have to have shake-downs in the kitchen. There might be trouble, and I’d hate your chaps not to be in it.”

“The old girl still ready to take it on the chin?” marvelled Ebbutt, who had been known to boast that Lady Gloria was his one friend among the aristocracy. “Can’t ’elp admiring ’er, can yer? Well, enjoy your dinner. Never know if you’ll live to ’ave another, do you?”

“No,” agreed Rollison, unexpectedly sober. “No,” he repeated, “I don’t. Come and sit down, Bill.” That tone brooked no denial, and while he ate he told Bill Ebbutt what had happened to Bert Higgs.

He could almost hear Ebbutt asking himself how he was going to break this news to the injured man’s mother. That was the real horror of this affair: the people it was hurting apparently for no good reason.

Who would be hurt next?