“Sure of him?”
“Them.”
“Who are they?”
“It will interest you to know that we checked up on Tiny Wallis and Mick Clay, but their alibis were so perfect that no one in his right mind would believe it. The court, judge and jury would have to accept it as evidence, though. That hint broad enough for you?”
“So gentle,” mused Rollison. “Any idea why Jones was singled out?”
“No, and he swears he doesn’t know. He has a good reputation, and there’s no reason to think he’s lying.”
“Hm. The other six cases?”
“We’ve checked them all closely but haven’t found any connection, except that they’re indirectly associated with the firm of Jepsons,” said Grice, “although I’m pretty sure there is another link. Every victim says he’s no idea why he was attacked. If they’re lying, we haven’t been able to prove it.” He put his hand on a pile of manilla folders on the desk. “Here is a full account of every one, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t look at them. You could get the information from any newspaper office if you put your mind to it.”
“Thanks for saving me the trouble,” murmured Rollison. “May I . . . ?”
He studied the cases for nearly an hour, and when he left Grice’s office, did not go straight to Gresham Terrace. At the wheel of a demure grey and cream Rolls-Bentley, at that juncture his favourite motor car, he drove along the Embankment, the narrow thronged streets of the City, and through the noisy, bustling brashness of the East End. He attracted more and more attention the poorer the neighbourhood, and was making people gape by the time he reached the Blue Dog, in the Mile End Road. It was nearly one o’clock. When he went into the saloon bar of the pub, leaving the magnificent motor car outside, a throng of boys and youths promptly surrounded it, and a policeman kept a protective eye on it from a corner.
Behind the bar was an enormous man wearing pincenez, serving pints of beer in pewter tankards and half pints in glasses, while a youth and a little man with a twisted nose served drinks at the other end; and with the drinks, pork pies, cheese rolls and sandwiches. Everything was normal and everyone seemed to be talking at once when the door opened to admit Rollison. From the moment he entered, the silence was so complete that the big man, Bill Ebbutt, looked up to see what it was all about. He was near-sighted, and peered intently before recognising Rollison. Then he gave an expansive grin, and rumbled:
“Always a pleasure to see you, Mr. Ar! Come on private business or a snifter?” He would drop his work behind the bar and give all his time to Rollison, if it were necessary.
“Later, Bill,” said Rollison, reaching the bar; and they shook hands. “I happened to be passing, and felt like some of your pork pies.”
“Help yourself,” said Ebbutt. “What are you going to wash ‘em down with?”
“Still keep that 4 X?”
“Don’t be daft,” said Ebbutt, “arf me business is with 4 X.” He took down a tankard, pulled a handle, and placed a foaming head of the beer in front of Rollison. Then he turned to a small man who had been waiting patiently for several minutes. “Your turn now, Charlie, and give Mr. Ar elbow room, there’s a good little boy.”
He served and wheezed and sweated, the saloon bar became more crowded and the smell of beer became much more pronounced. Then he said in a whisper which only Rollison could hear:
“Anyfink you want?”
“Bill,” said Rollison, in a loud, clear voice, “I am interested in a gentleman named Tiny Wallis and another named Mick Clay.”
For the second time in the past twenty minutes a hush fell upon all the people present, and into the hush a worried Bill Ebbutt said:
“You be careful, Mr. Ar, that Wallis is a killer, and Clay ain’t far behind.”
“Oh, they’re just a couple of blowhards,” said Rollison casually, and bit into a pie from which the jelly oozed enticingly. “Liz still make these with her own fair hands, Bill?”
“Never mind the pies,” Ebbutt said urgently, “Don’t you go and take chances with that pair, and whatever you do, don’t under-rate them, Mr. Ar. I’m see-rious.” He looked not only serious but solemn, and lowered his voice for greater effect. “You watch your step and don’t go an’ forget it.”
Rollison looked at him straightly, and when no one else could possibly see, gave the plainest of winks.
“. . . and from what the police have told me, I can’t understand why you let them worry you,” he went on, quite regardless. “Wallis is the big shot and Clay’s his yes-man, isn’t that the set-up? Can you tell me where to find the pair?”
“No, Mr. Ar, I can’t, and that’s flat.”
“Can but won’t,” mused Rollison, and finished the pie and quaffed his beer, took another pie and completely changed the subject. “Why don’t you bring Liz over for an hour or so this weekend, Bill? It’s a good time. Jolly will be away and I’m on my own. Don’t know of a really good daily, do you?”
Ebbutt said huskily: “No, Mr. Ar, not one who’d come as far as your place every day. I’ll ask Liz, and if she can come it’ll be a pleasure. Friday’s the best day for me.”
“Day after tomorrow,” said Rollison blandly, and looked about him, as if he was completely at peace with the world and thoroughly enjoying life. He leaned forward so that his ear was close to Ebbutt, and he heard the big man whisper:
“Now you’ve done it, Mr. Ar, nothing will keep ‘em away. Would you like a couple of my chaps?”
“No, Bill,” Rollison said. “If I get any visitors, I’d like to welcome them myself.” He beamed and winked again, looked longingly at another pie, but slowly shook his head. Then with great precision he spoke so that only Ebbutt could hear. “You and your boys keep out of it for the time being, Bill. I’ll telephone if I want any help.”
“I dunno that I like it,” Ebbutt grumbled, “but I suppose you know what you’re doing.
