“Mr. Ar.” No one could imitate Bill Ebbutt’s voice, or the asthmatic way he breathed when he was agitated on the telephone. “Mr. Ar, is that right about Jolly? There’s a rumour going around that—”
“It’s right, yes.”
“He’s not dead?”
“He’s got a fighting chance.”
“Well,” said Ebbutt after a pause, “if that’s the case, my money’s on Jolly. If ever there was a fighter, ‘e’s one. You okay?”
“So far, Bill.”
“Mr. Ar, why don’t you let me do something to ‘elp?” pleaded Ebbutt. “I know the argument, and I couldn’t agree wiv you more, you don’t want to spark off a lot of gang fighting between my chaps and these Teddy Boys or Wallis’s chaps, but this is above that kind’ve fing, Mr. Ar. This is personal. Any attack on Jolly is.”
“Here’s something you can do,” said Rollison, quietly. “Send a couple of chaps to my flat, to stay here and take telephone calls and messages, and hand out treatment if any one tries to do what they shouldn’t.”
“I know, the kind wot c’n read and write,” said Ebbutt brightly. “That’s okay, they’ll be on their way in a brace of shakes. Next?”
“I’m going to see Donny Sampson when I leave here, and I’ll have a list of names and addresses with me— Wallis’s recent victims. Study it, get your chaps to have a look at it, and try to find out any unusual connection among them—among all or any of them.”
“Okay,” said Ebbutt. “Will you drop the list in?”
“Have someone to pick it up outside Donny’s, will you? I’ll put a key of the flat in the same envelope.”
“We’ll pick it up.”
“Thanks a lot, Bill.”
“I don’t mind so long as I c’n do somefink,” Ebbutt said. “I don’t like sitting back and watching you being pushed arahnd.” Then unexpectedly he chuckled. “Mind you, I can’t say I’m pessimistic, not after what ‘appened to Stella Wallis and Wallis hisself yesterday. That kind’ve fing’s never happened to him before.” Then came the sting in the tale. “But ‘e’ll get you arter this, Mr. Ar. Don’t take the slightest chance, will you?”
Rollison said: “I’ll take every chance that looks as if it might come off, Bill. Did you know that the firm Jepsons was involved in any way?”
“First I’ve ‘eard of it, except that one of their lorries was used yesterday morning, I meant to tell yer. My chaps saw the name on it. Could’ve bin stolen or borrowed, though. Watch out, Mr. Ar.”
“Thanks, Bill,” Rollison said.
Ten minutes later, he delivered the list at Jepson Buildings, and went from there to the barber’s where Jimmy Jones had had his hair cut. Two chairs were full, but a bright-faced Italian-looking man was standing idle and hopeful. Rollison saw the
“Ever cut this man’s hair?” he asked, and a pound note appeared as if by magic in his hand.
The barber took one look at the photographs, and backed away.
“No, I haven’t! I have nevair seen heem!” Fear was in his voice, the kind that Wallis always engendered.
The other barbers swore that they had never seen Wallis or Clay, either, but Rollison did not believe them.
They might be made to talk, but that could wait until everything else failed.
A little after one o’clock, Rollison reached Donny’s. A tall, elderly man wearing a cap to cover a completely bald head, a grey polo sweater and a pair of old, patched but spotless grey flannels, was waiting outside.
“You got that note for Bill, Mr. Ar?”
“Yes, Micky. How are you keeping?”
“Oh, I don’t get no worse,” the man said, wrinkling his big nose, “and I don’t get no better. I can still walk.” He smiled and turned and hobbled off, a Bill Ebbutt pensioner suffering grievously from rheumatoid arthritis.
Rollison went into the shop.
Obviously it was very busy. Machines hummed, each chair in sight through open doors was occupied, smartly- dressed and well-made-up girls were flitting about. It was equally obvious that there was tension here. The queen of yesterday was not behind the desk; another girl was wearing a turban round her head, almost as if she had just had her hair washed; but Donny would not allow the staff or a customer to sit like that behind the cash desk.
Rollison said: “Good morning. Is Mr. Sampson in?”
The girl didn’t answer at once, but stared with her eyes narrowed, her lips set tightly; the way that Ada might have looked had he met her this morning; or Stella Wallis, last night. It seemed a long time before she spoke.
“Why don’t you go back to your part or London and forget the slumming?” she asked bitterly.
“I’d prefer to see Donny,” Rollison said mildly.
“He doesn’t want to see you. None of us wants to see you any more. If you hadn’t put your big nose in, this wouldn’t have happened.”
“What wouldn’t have happened?” asked Rollison in the same mild voice, but now his heart was beginning to thump again: there seemed no end to the trouble that came without him knowing.
She snatched off the towelling turban and showed her fair hair, cropped close to the scalp. A woman without hair could look more naked than a nude.
