“Where’s Stella?” he mumbled. “Don’t hurt Stella.”
“She’ll be all right if you do what you’re told,” Rollison said sharply. “Who paid you for the Middleton Street job?”
Wallis echoed: “The Middleton Street job?” as if he hadn’t heard aright.
“That’s what I said.”
Wallis closed his eyes, then cautiously put a hand to his pocket and drew out a handkerchief; it hadn’t been unfolded, and was snow white and perfectly ironed. He dabbed at his lips.
“No one paid me,” he announced at last. “Try telling the truth.”
“No one paid me,” repeated Wallis, and something like a grin twisted his lips. “I did it for love.” He moved so that he could sit down on the arm of a chair, and it would not have surprised Rollison if he had made a dart for the gun. “If you think you can make me talk, you’re crazy.”
“Forgotten your wife?”
“No,” said Wallis, more deliberately, “I haven’t forgotten Stella, but I know all about you. You wouldn’t do anything to a woman.” There was a bravado in his manner now. “You’re too much of a gentleman, that’s what you are. Forget it, Rollison, you won’t get a squeak out of me.”
“Won’t I?” said Rollison, softly.
Not now, or for the next hundred years,” Wallis said. “You might as well save your breath.”
He meant it.
He was not only massive, immensely strong and utterly ruthless, but in his way he was brave; it might be the bravery of a stupid man, but it was still bravery. He wasn’t at all what Rollison had expected to find. Certainly it
It would be useless to threaten him, as useless to use force even if he could bring himself to use it against a man who hadn’t a chance. You could hate: you could want to see such a man punished beyond physical endurance for the things he had done; but it was a different matter if you were appointed the avenger. Wallis knew that. Wallis did not think that he was in any immediate physical danger, and he was not really frightened for his wife.
If he had reasons to believe that he was wrong he might sing a different song.
“Tiny,” said Rollison, nursing the gun and leaning forward to emphasise his words, “I’ve told you what I want. If you don’t come across, you’ll have some shocks. Who paid you for the Middleton Street job?”
Wallis sneered.
“Who was it? Donny Sampson?”
Wallis’s lips were still twisted. “You won’t do a thing,” he seemed to say, “you can’t scare me.”
“One more chance and that’s the end of my patience,” said Rollison, and there was menace in his voice, an expression on his face which had scared many a man who had seemed as tough as this one; but he got no reward at all. “All right,” he said, and levelled the gun straight at Wallis’s face. “This is one of your mistakes. You won’t look nice when they find you.” He waited for a few seconds, saw Wallis’s hands tighten, saw him clutch the arms of his chair, saw the dawn of fear. Wallis actually held his breath, but he didn’t speak: and silently he seemed to say, “I’ll call your bluff. Rollison squeezed the trigger.
In that last moment Wallis saw the movement and jumped up wildly, as if he realised that he had been wrong, and great fear blazed up in him. But he was too late.
His eyes showed that fear, and then a kind of fury; next moment the cloud of vapour from the muzzle of the automatic hid his features. He began to gasp and mutter incoherently. His hands went to his eyes which burned and streamed with water. And while the tear gas from the gas pistol stung him, Rollison took out a cosh, and struck on the nape of the bull neck.
The one blow knocked him out.
Rollison said: “We’ll see how you like it,” and looked round the pleasant room, the television set, the books, all the loved things in this home. He thought of old Mrs. Blake of Middleton Street and what she had lost, and of the others who had suffered just as badly. The temptation to deal with this man as he had dealt with so many was almost overwhelming, but Rollison fought it back, and left the room.
He reached the kitchen and opened the larder door.
Stella Wallis looked up at him, as if she was frightened of what she might see. Obviously she had expected her husband.
“Isn’t
“He’s home and sleeping it off,” said Rollison, “and he won’t love me much when he comes round.”
She looked utterly astounded.
“You mean that you—” she broke off. “You can’t make me believe you got the best of Tiny!”
“I got the best of Tiny this time and it wasn’t even difficult,” said Rollison. “Now you’re going to help me do it again. You’re coming with me, Stella, for a little holiday. Tiny will wonder where you are. I’m quite touched by his obvious devotion. You’d better wear a hat and coat, and bring anything else you want.”
Her face was a study in disbelief and bewilderment.
“You don’t seriously mean it.”
“Let’s hurry, shall we?” said Rollison, and took her wrist and drew her out of the larder. “There’s a lot to do.” He hustled her up to her bedroom, and she took a coat, a hat and a scarf and some gloves from the wardrobe and a dressing chest; then she picked up a handbag, and turned and looked at him as if she still didn’t really believe that this was happening.
“After this, he’ll kill you.”
