against Wallis, either. You may hate the man, you may think that he’s the worst of his type we’ve ever had to tackle, but it’s no use blinking at facts. It’s a fact that he is as courageous as a wild beast, and he sticks to his own code. No squealing and no squealers. That’s why he’s so dangerous. He’s never been known to commit any crime except his speciality. We know some of the people who employed him in his early days, but he’s learned to cover up perfectly. Obviously he gets paid big money. Probably he gets most of his results by threats—he doesn’t have to use violence. Now and again he meets strong opposition, and that causes trouble.”
“Have you any idea who he’s fighting now?”
“No.”
“What about these youngsters he uses?”
“If you mean the Teddy Boy types he works with, don’t make any mistake about them,” Grice said. “Wavy hair, broad shoulders, a velvet collar and stove-pipe trousers don’t make a young brute, but a lot of young brutes are wearing the uniform, and far too many haven’t any moral sense. You can’t reason with them. I’m not sure you can frighten them. They’re dangerous because they’re reasonably well educated, they can tell a good tale, they can even impress with party manners. But for a fiver they’ll do anything Wallis wants.”
Rollison said bitterly: “Does he protect them from the police, too?”
Grice didn’t answer.
Rollison put his foot down and the speedometer needle touched eighty along the bypass. Grice stared grimly ahead. As they neared Richmond Park, Rollison slowed down.
“Sorry if I’m rough,” he said. “I blame myself for what happened to Jolly, and it’s hard to take.”
“Don’t I know?” Grice asked. “We’ve been after Wallis for months. Every job he does seems my fault.”
A grin forced Rollison’s lips apart.
“If we can’t stop him between us, we ought to retire. Bill.” The last word was a sharp interrogation.
“Yes.”
“Suspect the Jepsons?”
“I’ve only one reason to.”
“What’s that?”
“Some of Wallis’s victims are indirectly associated with Jepsons.”
“The family or the business?”
“The business.”
“Any idea why their place was attacked last night?”
“I hoped you’d know,” Grice said.
“I think Ada does, but she hasn’t talked, and she isn’t friendly with me any more.” Rollison was trying to get himself into a less savage mood. “Check her, Bill, and check her brother Reginald, who decided to give himself a holiday in Ibiza. That’s about as difficult a place to get to as he could find.”
“Think he knew this was coming?”
“I think he might.”
“Get anything out of the man Jones?” Grice asked abruptly.
“No. There’s a thing I’d like to know more about, all the people who’ve been victimised, Bill. What’s the link?”
“Association with Jepsons or customers of Jepsons,” Grice said, “but as one person in four seems to fit that bill, it doesn’t get us anywhere. The victims won’t talk, I’ve tried each one myself.”
“I can try, too,” Rollison said dryly.
They were at the top of Putney High Street, a quarter of an hour’s drive away from Scotland Yard. It was warm enough to drive with both windows down, and Rollison felt sticky round the neck. A big lorry loomed up in the mirror behind him, and there was a small car in front of him, the driver of which seemed to be nervous; his brake light kept going on and off. Rollison changed gear on the steep hill, and the lorry loomed closer behind them, its driver pulling out to pass.
Rollison saw the red light of the little car in front of him go on again as if the driver had jumped on his brakes. Rollison braked sharply, glanced in the mirror, and felt his heart beat violently in fear.
The lorry was just behind him, getting nearer and there was no driver at the wheel. It was out of control, and Rollison couldn’t go fast enough to avoid it because of the little car in front.
Grice began: “What the devil?” Then turned round, and gasped: “My God!”
“Jump for it,” Rollison said with fierce urgency. “Open that door and jump for it.”
He turned his wheel sharply, to pull out beyond the little car. In a split second he could be sandwiched between it and the lorry, and this car could be crushed like a concertina.
There was just room to squeeze through. The little car turned out, and baulked him.
Grice drew in a sharp, hissing voice.
“All right,” Rollison said, tautly. “Hold tight, we’ll have to let it hit us.” The front of the lorry was no more than a yard behind, and the driving wheel without its driver seemed to mock at him.
Then another car drew alongside the lorry, and a man actually
