The Toff In Town

in the main road.

Rollison went on, apparently oblivious, to Bill Ebbutt’s gymnasium, behind the Blue Dog.

He left the car outside and, watched by two old men sucking at clay pipes, went into the gloomy interior. The only light was in a corner, where a boxing ring was fitted up. Half a dozen men in short pants and singlets were watching a bout, two or three were doing peculiar and violent things with parallel bars and skipping-ropes.

Leaning against a corner post was the mountainous figure of Bill Ebbutt. The light shone on a cauliflower ear, a broad, flat nose and part of his bull-shaped neck. Bill was as nearly shapeless as a human being could be. His coat was too long, reaching half-way down his thighs, and he wore a white choker.

He did not look round as Rollison approached, but occasionally called out in a squeaky voice:

“Use yer right—what yer gotta left for—feet, you elephants, use yer feet.”

These, and sundry other comments, came with split-second timing.

Rollison stood behind Ebbutt and watched the boxers. One was an old, battered, hairy prize-fighter, like Sam. The other was young, powerful, white-skinned, with little or no hair on his chest; the little was golden. This young man boxed with fierce determination and was getting the better of his hit-and-hope opponent.

At last, Ebbutt bellowed: “Stop!”

The boxers dropped their hands as if they were worked by machines, and Bill, climbing laboriously into the ring, took hold of the young man’s arm and lectured him in a voice which carried to every corner of the huge room. Soon the discomfited youth slunk off to the dressing-room, accompanied by his sparring partner.

Ebbutt squeezed through the rope and pricked up a bottle of beer which stood in the corner. He drank from the bottle. And as he drank and, consequently squinted, he caught sight of Rollison. He spluttered, coughed, snatched the bottle away and, having considerable difficulty with his larynx, approached him.

“You mighta told me——” he began reproachfully.

“I was watching the youngster. Useful, isn’t he?”

Bill lowered his voice to a confidential whisper and looked across at the dressing-rooms.

“Useful!” he said. “That boy’s a world-beater. Got a punch that will knock Joe Louis silly. S’trew. But never mind that now, Mr. Ar, ‘ow are you?”

And he extended a massive hand.

Rollison shook it warmly.

“I’m all right, Bill—and getting about a bit again. Your fellows have had a dull time at Byngham Court Mansions, I’m afraid, but things might wake up.”

“Dunno that I want ‘em to,” said Ebbutt, sagely, “big believer in bluff, I am—you know me. Put a coupla toughs outside the flat an’ anyone who comes rahnd looking for trouble, beats it. You know me.”

“My good luck,” said Rollison.

“What’s it all abaht, Mr. Ar?” asked Ebbutt

“A young couple are having a rough time but are scared stiff of asking help from the police. I won’t let it go too far, and if the situation gets out of hand, tell your boys to call the police.”

“Dunno that they want anyfink to do with the busies,” said Bill, frowning, “But Okay, Mr. Ar.”

“And I’ll tell you the whole story one day,” promised Rollison. “Bill.”

“Ess?”

“Is Perky Lowe still about?”

“Cor strike a perishin’ light, o’ course ‘e is. On arternoon and evenin’ shift. If yer want him yer’ll probably find ‘im in the Blue Dog. But ‘e may be at the Crown, always shiftin’ arahnd, Perky is. Makes a fortune aht’ve that cab, ‘e does. Bought ‘is own, did yer know?”

“I didn’t I haven’t time to see him now, Bill, but if he can be at Gresham Terrace—near the Piccadilly corner— by one o’clock, I might find him useful.”

“Call it done,” said Bill. “You know me.”

“That’s wonderful,” said Rollison. “The man who never fails.”

He regretfully refused to go into the Blue Dog and have one, inquired after Bill’s wife, listened patiently to a story about the Salvation Army, and went out, watched by the same two little old men sucking clay pipes.

The taxi was round the corner, in the main road, and it followed him back to the West End.

Rollison parked his car near Blott’s, in Coventry Street, and the girl paid off the taxi and went into the famous restaurant some five minutes after him.

CHAPTER SEVEN

BRIGHT YOUNG LADY

SHE sat at a table near him, so that he could only see her profile, and was given prompt and eager attention. She wore a bottle-green suit with a long coat, and a wide-brimmed, white hat with the curling brim swept upwards off her face and cherries glistening on the crown. Her hair was golden in colour and, even in the comparative gloom that was Blotts in time of austerity, the lights shone in her hair and her eyes were bright.

A cluster diamond ring sparkled on her engagement finger, a diamond clasp was at the neck of her white