“If you’re so nervy, Becky, you’d better go and stay with your mother for a week or two. I can manage here all right. Please don’t make it more difficult than it is already.”
The woman said hoarsely: “I think you’re a crazy fool!”
Then the man appeared in the doorway, and at first sight Rollison thought that he was old. His hair was grey, and his eyes were tired. He was quite short, his nose was broken, and there was an ugly scar over his right eye. But the most noticeable thing was the way he walked: carrying a stick and bent a little from the waist; but he walked firmly.
He looked into Rollison’s face, and smiled in a strangely contented way.
“You were right, Becky,” he called to the woman behind him, “it’s Mr. Rollison. Have you come about the way Wallis and his men attacked me, sir?”
Rollison found himself warming to this man as he had warmed to very few.
“Yes, Rickett,” he said, and looked over the man’s shoulder into the woman’s eyes. She was no more than thirty-five or forty, and attractive in a gipsy way; she had thick, dark hair of which she was undoubtedly proud. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Rickett, I’ll spread it around that neither of you would say a word, and I’ll see that you get some protection, too—protection that won’t be noticeable.” Here at last was a job for Ebbutt’s men. “Just one thing. Have you thought of any reason at all for the beating up, Rickett?”
“Of course he hasn’t!” Mrs. Rickett cried. “He told the police he didn’t know why.”
“The police needn’t know what he’s going to tell me,” Rollison said.
“We’re honest people and there’s nothing,” Mrs. Rickett shrilled. “Yes, Mr. Rollison,” Rickett said, “I think I know why I was attacked.” He moved round I awkwardly, and put his arm round his wife’s shoulders; and she was near to tears. “I didn’t tell the police because I was frightened of what might happen if I did. I wasn’t absolutely sure, either. But the situation’s got much worse since I was questioned. I’m not really positive now of I my facts, but I’ve given it a lot of thought since I came out of hospital. I think I know why it was.”
For a moment he seemed to have real difficulty in making himself go on, for his wife was crying openly, so great was her fear.
“I think that I’d been buying stolen goods from a wholesaler,” Rickett said deliberately, and his grey eyes met Rollison’s frankly and unafraid. “I’d been getting a little extra discount for some time, but that didn’t surprise me, because Jepsons’ stuff is usually sold pretty fine, and I thought they were behind it. Then I discovered, quite by chance, that one of the other dealers in the district wasn’t getting the same discount from his wholesaler, and it wasn’t a Jepsons’ special price offer. It was the wholesaler’s. I knew from experience that this particular wholesaler didn’t often sell at cut price, so I asked their representative how it was that they could offer the discount when others couldn’t.
“That night Wallis and the other man came,” Rickett went on, steadily. “I couldn’t swear who they were. They had scarves over their faces, and cloth caps pulled low down. It wasn’t for over a month after I came out of hospital that I tied the two things up, Mr. Rollison. My memory wasn’t too good when I first came out, but now I’m seeing things straight, and I’ve heard about the other people who’ve suffered in the same way. If anything I say to you will help to put an end to it, then you’re welcome. I hope you won’t have to go to the police, but—”
“No police,” said Rollison quietly. Not about this. Who is the wholesaler?”
“Tom, don’t tell him!” Mrs. Rickett clutched her husband’s arm. “If you tell them they’ll know it was you, they’re bound to.”
“It’s Bishopps, of Penn Street,” Rickett said. His wife turned away, and covered her face with her hands.
“You won’t suffer for this,” Rollison promised Rickett, and prayed that he could make the promise good. “The first job I’m going to do is find some other lead to Bishopps and tell the world how I got on to them. It won’t bring reprisals on you.”
“Oh, you can talk,” the woman said drably.
“Do whatever you think is best,” said Rickett. “Someone had to start this, sooner or later.”
Rollison said: “Yes, someone had to.” He took Rickett’s hand, gripped hard, and then turned and went outside. He wasn’t surprised to see two youths standing at the corner across the road. They were staring insolently, and there was little doubt that they would report where Rollison had been and how long he had stayed. He drove off, watching them in the driving mirror, and telephoned Ebbutt’s gymnasium from the first telephone kiosk he saw.
“I’ll make sure the Ricketts are okay, Mr. Ar,” said Ebbutt, “you needn’t worry at all about that. Anyfink else?”
“Not yet but soon,” said Rollison, hopefully.
* * *
The second on the list of victims was a Herbert Smith, of Docksy Street. Rollison did not waste much time studying the board outside Smith’s small house, or the board over the big yard next to it.
BERT SMITH
Anywhere in London
Two small vans carrying the same wording were in the yard and as Rollison went in, he saw a stocky man get out of one of the vans, obviously with an effort; and when the man came towards him, it was apparent that he limped. He was bigger than Rickett, a tough-looking customer, but he stopped abruptly when he saw who it was.
In a flash, he said: “Don’t stay here, Mr. Rollison, I don’t want any more trouble. Last time they broke my leg in three places, that was bad enough.”
“One question,” said Rollison. “All you have to say is yes or no. Do you handle deliveries or do any work for Bishopps of Penn Street?”
“No harm in answering that,” Bert Smith said. “I’ve been their main delivery for fifteen years. But that’s all I’m
