Stars For The Toff

“I know, Mr Ar,” said Ebbutt, hoarsely. “Helluva thing to happen. Any idea who did it?”

“Not yet.”

“Every mother’s son of us will help.”

“I know,” said Rollison. “As soon as I need help, I’ll tell you. Does Mrs Wray know?”

“Yeh.” Ebbutt gulped. “I told her.”

“Is she at home?”

“Yeh.”

“Come with me, Bill, will you?”

The little home in a narrow street of old grey hovels soon to be demolished was within walking distance. A dozen silent men followed Rollison and Ebbutt round half a dozen corners and then to a front door painted bright yellow—painted, quite recently, by Charlie Wray. Two or three neighbours were in the tiny front parlour which opened on to the street; they stood aside for Rollison and Ebbutt to enter.

Wray’s widow was small and slim, with hair which was still jet black despite her sixty-odd years. She stared at Rollison, her eyes red and swollen, her face streaked with tears.

“Get out of my house,” she said. “Don’t ever come here again.”

“Daisy—” Rollison began.

“Don’t speak to me. Don’t speak to me. If it wasn’t for you, he’d be alive. You killed him.”

“Now, Dais—” began Bill Ebbutt, in distress.

The woman ignored him, her eyes boring into Rollison with frightening intensity. “Get out of my house. Get out of my house, Mr Rollison. And remember—don’t ever come back.”

“You may be badly hurt, Mr Rollison, many of your friends may turn against you

“Daisy,” Rollison said, very quietly, “if I were in your place I would feel exactly as you do. I’m desperately sorry.”

He turned and walked into a street which was now crowded. Many of the faces he saw were those of strangers, although there were some he knew, mostly from Bill Ebbutt’s gymnasium. A little grey-haired woman, struggling to see over the shoulders of those in front of her, shook her fist.

“You as good as killed poor Charlie!” she called out. “You sent him to his death!”

Uneasily, a man said: “Shut up, Ma.”

“I’ll shut up when you’ve shut him up.”

Ebbutt glared at her.

Rollison gripped his arm. “It’s all right, Bill.”

But it wasn’t all right. The silence was too noticeable, the coolness much too marked, as he walked away. There was hatred in his heart for Charlie Wray’s killers, and dismay at the attitude of the people here, so many of them his former friends.

*     *     *

“It’s crazy, Mr Ar,” Ebbutt said, “but the talk started even before you got here. They started to say you should have done the job yourself, not got someone else to do your dirty work. I—hey! I didn’t mean that the way it sounded, I meant . . .”

Bill Ebbutt floundered.

Rollison put a hand on his arm and said: “Don’t worry, Bill.”

He got into the Bentley and drove away, half expecting something to be thrown at the car; but nothing was thrown. The people just stared blankly and the last he saw of them was a miniature of set, troubled faces in the driving mirror. He turned into the Mile End Road and the roar and throb of traffic. Before he reached the tall spire of Whitechapel Church he knew that this was going to be a case that only he should handle.

Or he and Jolly should handle. He must telephone Jolly.

*     *     *

“The body was found only fifty yards from the house where Mrs Abbott lives,” said Jolly. “Do you think you should go and see her?”

“Yes,” said Rollison crisply. “What about Lucifer Stride?”

“He seems to have vanished,” Jolly said, glumly. He paused for a moment, and then added: “There is one other thing, sir. Have you seen the evening newspaper?”

“No.”

“It has a full report of the hearing, and of your generous gesture, sir. As a result there are a great number of people gathered outside, showing very considerable enthusiasm. You might well be advised to come in by the fire escape.”

“Oh,” said Rollison, taken by surprise. “I’ll think about that. Do I hear the other telephone bell ringing?”

“Incessantly, sir,” said Jolly. “Incessantly.”

When Rollison put the telephone down it was with unexpected lightness of heart. And he seemed to hear a gentle voice saying: “. . . but you will get help from unexpected