The Toff In Town

“You mean—you’ll send for the police? Please don’t——”

Rollison said: “See, Allen? You just don’t deserve it. No, not the police, Mrs. Allen, some other friends of mine. May I use the telephone?”

“Of course,” said Barbara, jumping up, and her eyes were much brighter.

“I know where it is,” said Rollison.

He went out, closing the door behind him.

His last glimpse of the couple then, was of Barbara standing by the side of the bed and Allen, his eyes closed and his face set.

He lifted the telephone and dialled an Aldgate number.

For many years Bill Ebbutt had been a prize-fighter; for many more he had been the owner of the Blue Dog, in the Mile End Road. During most of this period he had known Rollison, whom he sometimes called “Mr. Ar” and sometimes “The Torf” and occasionally something meaty and to the point. He was inordinately fond of Rollison, who was persona grata in Bill’s flat above the Blue Dog, and also at the gymnasium. Bill was passionately devoted to the fistic art, and it was his dream not only that England should win world championships again, but that the world-beaters should receive their early training “in the gym”. Ebbutt lavished as much care and attention, devotion and selflessness on the gym and his “boys” as his wife did on the Salvation Army; and her devotion to that was so great that she had once persuaded Bill to be “saved”. She had even tried to interest Mr. Ar.

Rollison knew the gymnasium, which was in its way a club, very well. He frequently stepped in for a word with Ebbutt and a bout with a young hope who stroked him gently round the ring, afraid of releasing a real punch, because of Bill’s watchful eye.

Although Bill Ebbutt did not keep early hours, he slept heavily, and he was asleep when the telephone bell rang at nearly one o’clock that morning.

His wife did not stir.

The telephone bell kept ringing.

With a gargantuan sigh, Ebutt heaved his seventeen stone off the massive iron bedstead. He kicked his foot on a chair, swore and crept to the door. The bell kept on and on, sounding much louder when he opened the door.

He crept on to the small landing.

“William!” called his wife.

“S’orl right, telephone,” growled Ebbutt

“Never you mind the telephone,” said Mrs. Ebbutt, “using language what you ought to be ashamed of in the middle of the night, you ought to be ashamed of——”

“For Pete’s sake shut your mouth,” said Ebbutt, with some impatience.

When he reached the hall-passage, the bell stopped. He switched on a light and blinked in the glare, his good humour spent. In a pair of vividly-striped red-and-blue pyjamas, his wispy grey hair standing on end and his calloused feet bare, he was a remarkable sight

“Come orn, if you’re going to,” he growled, and put out his hand to switch off the light. Immediately darkness fell, the bell began to ring again. “Cor!” he exploded. When at last he lifted the receiver, he barked: “ ‘Oo in perishin’ ‘ell is it? . . . Oo? . . . I can’t ‘ear . . . Mr. Ar!” he breathed as if syrup had poured into his mouth. “Strike a light I never thought it was you! . . . S’orl right, Mr. Ar, I wasn’t asleep . . .What?”

He listened attentively, closing one eye and staring at the ceiling. He nodded, as if Rollison could see him. He grunted and finally said:

“ ‘Ow many? . . . Two enough? . . . Okay, Mr. Ar, you just leave it ter me . . . sure, right away, I ‘eard you say it ‘ad to be right away. Take me abaht three-quarters of a n’our—they’ll be there all right, Mr. Ar. Anyfink up?”

And what Rollison said then made him shake with gusty laughter.

A little more than three-quarters of an hour later Rollison left Byngham Court Mansions. He ,had with him all the contents of Blane’s pockets and the knife, which was wrapped in a serviette, to preserve the finger-prints.

In the doorway of a house near-by was a shadowy figure, who emerged from the gloom and called to him in a hoarse whisper.

“It’s me. Mr. Ar.”

“Hallo, Sam,” greeted Rollison, making out the tall figure of one of Bill’s one-time “white hopes”. “Nice night, isn’t it?”

“Loverly. Any special orders, Mr. Ar?”

“Top landing, Sam. There’s a chair outside, I’ve fixed it, and the people there know you’re going to be around. Who’s at the back?”

“Bert Dann,” said Sam. “Bill fought you’d better ‘ave a little ‘un for the back, ‘e can nip up the fire-escape pretty quick.”

“Wonderful!” praised Rollison. “If the couple in Flat 31 ask for help, get cracking. If nothing happens, Bill’s going to send someone to relieve you in the morning. Don’t let the police see you if you can help it, but if you get in a jam, blame me for it—that’ll get you out!”

“You needn’t worry abaht me,” declared Sam confidently, ‘or abaht Bert, Mr. Ar.”

“I know I needn’t,” said Rollison.

He walked to the entrance to the next block of flats, where he had left his Sunbeam-