“Mr. Ar,” said Ebbutt, earnestly, “I don’t want to interfere no more’n I must, and you know how much I want to see the perisher in clink. If I “ad my way I’d see ‘im strung up. But I’ve been thinking a lot abaht this job, and I know Wallis. You’ve got to admit ‘e’s tough. Even if me and a dozen of the boys set on ‘im, I dunno if ‘e’d talk. I’m darn sure that he won’t talk to the police. The important thing is to find aht who’s behind him, Mr. Ar, you agree about that?”
Rollison studied the ugly, earnest features, and the narrowed almost pleading eyes; seeing behind them the smooth Thames bright in the evening sunlight. Not far away was the outline of the buildings of Scotland Yard.
“You do agree, doncher?” Ebbutt insisted. “Go on, Bill,” said Rollison.
“Well, there’s a lot to be said for putting Wallis away, and if you could be sure ‘e’d stay away for a few years that’d be okay. But can you? The buzz has gone rahnd that you attacked ‘im.”
“If the police haven’t anything else against him, they can’t make this one stick,” Rollison agreed.
“That’s wot’s going the rahnds,” said Ebbutt, and it made the Toff marvel that news could spread so quickly throughout the East End. “Well, wot I say is, if you managed to get ‘im sent down for a few weeks, that’s the most that would ‘appen, and when he come out he’d be worse than ever. What I think is that we don’t want to take any chances, we want to put ‘im away for good. And you’ve got to find aht who’s behind him, because there are a lot of ovver brutes nearly as bad as Wallis.”
“The Divisional police wouldn’t tell me much, but Grice will,” said Rollison. “I’ll soon know if they’ve anything else to use against Wallis. If they haven’t, we won’t have any say in it: he’ll be freed. They might have him up before the court if I lay a charge, they might even get an eight-day remand, but that’s the most. Grice might want to get that, too; he could dig a lot in eight days.”
“And anyone who squealed while Wallis was on remand would wish they’d been born dumb,” Ebbutt said, putting a great hand on Rollison’s arm. “I don’t want to persuade you, Mr. Ar, but now this thing’s gone so far, it would be better to try and get right to the bottom of it. Wallis won’t grass, you know that, but he might not feel so good now he’s on the run, and might lead you where you want to go. That’s the way I see it.”
Rollison said slowly: “You could be right, Bill. Anything else new?”
“No.”
“Any word gone round that Bishopps of Penn Street are concerned in this?”
Ebbutt looked astonished. “No, Mr. Ar, not a whisper. You sure abaht that?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but went on thoughtfully: “They’re big people, Bishopps are, biggest wholesalers anywhere near, got a very big business. But you know about Bishopps, don’t you?”
“Tell me, Bill.”
“Dunno’ that I’m exactly a business man,” Ebbutt said, shrugging those great shoulders, “but I get arhand, and I keep my ears to the ground. Old Bishopp’s been retired over a year, now, ‘is son’s still officially the boss, but Bishopps belongs to Jepsons. They bought it—that’s if rumour’s right, Mr. Ar.”
* * *
Rollison spoke quietly into the telephone in the kiosk.
“Ada, answer me one question.”
“I don’t see what good more talking will do,” said Ada.
“I’d like to know why you’ve cooled off the inquiry,” said Rollison, and went on abruptly:
“Have Jepsons bought a controlling interest in Bishopps of Penn Street?”
Jepsons haven’t. Reggie and I bought it under a nominee company.”
“Are you on that company’s board?”
“No,” said Ada.
“Why so shy?”
“If it suits our business to keep our deals quiet for as long as we can, that’s up to us,” Ada said.
“Just business reasons,” Rollison said.
“Yes.”
“Any word from Reggie?”
“No,” Ada said, and rang off.
* * *
Rollison saw the old T-Model Ford chugging its way along the embankment towards Westminster Bridge, as he went up the steps of the Yard. The sergeant on duty was expecting him, and waved him towards the lift. Rollison nodded his thanks, and went on. Few people were about this evening, it was a kind of no man’s hour at the Yard. He was taken up by the liftman who looked tired already, and walked on his own to Grice’s office. He still hadn’t made up his mind how much to tell Grice, and couldn’t be sure what tactics would pay off best. Ebbutt was seriously worried, and that meant that there was good reason for anxiety.
Rollison tapped.
“Come in.” Grice was standing behind his desk. “You’re the nearest thing to a ghost I’ll ever set eyes on. Sit down.” As Rollison took an armchair that was already in position, Grice studied him carefully. “Well, you don’t look as if you’ve got one foot out of the grave!”
Rollison had never felt more wary. This was an overtone of friendliness, too sugary to be genuine. Grice wanted something: so away with recriminations, away with taunts of folly, away with the line that but for the police he, Rollison, would probably be dead.
“Half a foot,” Rollison mumbled. “Thanks to you and all policemen. I’ve never been so glad to hear the word
