Another “arf o’ mild, Charlie? Okay. “Am sandwich, yessir.” He toiled and drew the beer and watched over his customers, knowing which were aching to carry the news of the Toffs braggadocio to Tiny Wallis and Micky Clay.
It would not be long before the couple heard of it.
“Going straight back after this, Mr. Ar?” asked Ebbutt, into a lull.
“One or two calls to make first,” said Rollison. “I’ll be back home by about four.” He grinned at Ebbutt, paid his dues and then strolled out, nodding right and left and lording it much more than anyone here had known the Toff lord it before. Many were his friends and most respected him, but there was an uneasy silence while he went out. As soon as the doors swung to behind him, they all began to talk so fast that Ebbutt could not hear the orders.
Every man there believed that the Toff, having asked for trouble, would get it very soon.
* * *
Rollison strolled across to his car, where the youngsters still stood, mostly in awe, but from which the youths had gone. That was surprising. He went to have a word with an old acquaintance at a corner shop; when he came back two men whom he had not noticed before were standing near the car. He took the wheel and started the engine, doing everything with great deliberation, and then moved off slowly towards the docks and the small mean streets, where a Rolls-Royce or a Rolls-Bentley were like red rags to a bull. For here was poverty, even in this age of the welfare state; here was envy, too, and greed and malice—as well as friends, because many people here owed a great deal to the Toff.
He was followed by one of the two men on a motor-bicycle, which kept about fifty yards behind. He could see the man in his driving mirror all the time. He still drove slowly, and was very watchful, for although he had asked for trouble, he did not know which way it was likely to come.
Then he heard the sound of a powerful truck engine, not far away. He peered along the narrow, drab street, and saw two youths at a corner. He could not be sure, but believed that these were the youths who had been outside the Blue Dog, showing such interest in the car.
One of the youths disappeared, waving to someone who was out of sight.
The motor-cyclist put on a burst of speed, so as to draw level with the Rolls-Bentley, and roared past without a glance at Rollison; but as soon as he was ahead, he swung across the big car.
Rollison had to jam on his brakes.
The roar of the unseen truck engine was deafening.
Rollison was within ten yards of the corner and there was little room in the narrow road. He saw the front of a huge lorry sweep round the corner on the wrong side of the road; and fear welled up in him, because death was so near.
In a vivid moment of understanding, he knew that the motor-cyclist was in his way to prevent him from putting his foot down, and hurtling the car out of danger. The lorry was so far over that it left no room for him to pull up to safety; and if he stopped he would be crushed to death.
He saw the driver at the lorry cabin, high above him, the huge wheels, the quivery bonnet; it was like the mouth of a great beast eager to snatch and mangle him. The motor-cyclist was looking over his shoulder, grinning, so sure he had played his part. He was right in Rollison’s path, in the way of deliverance.
Rollison’s body was at a great tension as he accelerated. Even the Rolls-Bentley engine roared, and the grin was wiped off the motor-cyclist’s face. The truck driver vanished from Rollison’s sight, only his hands could be seen, twisting at the wheel as if determined to smash the sleek beauty of the car’s lines.
Rollison judged his moment, and swung hard to the right.
The front of the lorry missed the tail of the car by inches. The whole of Rollison’s driving mirror was filled with the huge green sides and the turning grinding wheels. He could hear the brakes screeching, the beast robbed of its prey. The motor-cyclist tried desperately to get out of the way, Rollison tried as desperately to miss him, but he could not. The Rolls-Bentley’s bumper caught the back of the machine, and sent it hurtling to one side. The driver pitched up in the air and then crashed down. He fell so close to the front of the car that for a moment Rollison thought he had run over him, but there was no jolt.
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.
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.
Another shout came and another. There were men’s voices as well as women’s, youth’s as well as men’s.
