The Toff In Town

“I don’t want anyone’s help!”

Rollison looked at him dispassionately, and could not feel much sympathy. Allen had become completely spineless— was sorry only for himself.

“I might let you have your own way if only you were concerned,” he said. “But Snub——”

“Don’t blame me for that! It’s your own fault.”

“Anyone’s fault but yours. Allen, I’m going on with this whatever you say or do. That’s final.”

There was silence . . .

Allen stared out of the window.

“What are you going to do with me?” he muttered at last.

“You’ll be told in due course,” said Rollison.

Allen didn’t protest. He’d lost all self-respect and every claim to help, and—Pauline Dexter had helped to make him the wreck he was. Sweet Pauline!

Perky took the back streets and came upon the Mile End Road by way of the Minories, then, driving along another narrow street, eventually reached the rear entrance to the gymnasium. Allen, slumped down in the corner, showed no interest in where he was going.

Rollison opened the door and jumped down.

“I’ll be back in a couple of jiffs,” he said, and added sotto voce to Perky: “Keep an eye on him.” He wondered, as he entered the comparative darkness of the big gym, if Allen would try to take this opportunity to escape.

In the corner, beneath the only lights, the fair-skinned young boxer was going for a man who had the advantage of two stones, years of experience and two inches in reach. The youngster gave an astonishing performance, knocking the other man about the ring as if he were a sack. Bill Ebbutt, gripping the rope tightly, stared with glistening eyes without offering a word of advice.

Rollison reached his side.

“Cor, strewth !” exclaimed Bill in a whisper, as he glanced round, “I told yer so, Mr. Ar, I told yer so—we got a champ there all right. Ain’t ‘e improved? Even in a coupla days, ain’t ‘e improved? Almost a miracle, the way ‘e’s improved.”

“He’s certainly good,” said Rollison. “Has he boxed in public yet?”

“Free times, before I got at ‘im,” said Bill Ebbutt. “Silly mugs, they’d ‘a let ‘im be knocked silly, all the guts would’a been knocked out’ve ‘im, ‘e wanted trainin’.” He raised his voice: “Okay, okay, Willie, leave a bit of ‘im fer ‘is missus. I’ll see yer in a minute,” he added as the boxers dropped their arms, “go an’ get a rub dahn. Not at all bad,” he added, for he was not a believer in excessive praise. Then he turned to Rollison. “You’re givin’ yerself quite a time, Mr. Ar, aincha?”

“One way and another, yes. Jolly phoned you about a hideaway, didn’t he?”

“Ho, yes.” Bill grinned, displaying his uneven, discoloured teeth. “I never would’a believed it, but Jolly’s getting’ quite pally. Want the man ye’ve brought now to keep that dead chap comp’ny?”

“No, Bill, this one’s alive. Young Allen. He might try to get away,” he warned, “I can’t quite make him out, but officially he’s hiding away from the police and from a woman who’s making merry-hell. If he does escape, don’t stop him—have him followed.”

“O-kay,” breathed Bill.

“And I’ll ring up for a report on how he’s behaving,” said Rollison. “Where are you going to send him?”

“ ‘E could stay ‘ere,” said Bill, but shook his head when he saw the frown on Rollison’s face. No? First spot the busies would look, I s’pose. Okay, then, ‘e’ll ‘ave to go into Dinky’s place. Know Dinky, don’t you?”

“That’ll do fine,” said Rollison. “Same address?”

“Same address,” said Bill. “Feed ‘im up like a prince, I s’pose?”

“Just look after him,” said Rollison. “I’ll tell Perky to go straight there, shall I?”

“Better not use Perky’s cab all the way, eyes at the back o’ their ‘eads, these flicking busies, an’ you never know wot the flamin’ narks might see. Coin’ with him?”

“Perhaps I’d better,” said Rollison.

“Okay. Tell Perky ter drive as far as Old Wattle’s,” said Bill, “I’ve told Wattle to ‘ave a van ready.”

Rollison nodded, patted Ebbutt on the shoulder, and went to the door. Before he reached it, Ebbutt was on his way to the dressing-rooms. Rollison smiled reflectively, then glanced into the cab and found Allen still hunched up in his corner.

“Old Wattle’s,” he said to Perky.

“Oke,” said Perky.

The drive to “Old Wattle’s took a quarter of an hour. They went through the dingier streets of the East End, passed row upon row of little houses, where children, some bare-footed and many of them in rags, played in the roadway and jeered and gestured at the passing taxi, and where women leaned against their doorways and talked with their neighbours and looked with furtive curiosity at it. Perky, who knew this district as well as he knew the West End, took a bewildering series of short cuts, drove under railway arches and down streets which looked as if they were dead-ends, skidded round corners, waved his hand at two policemen who were standing before a gaunt warehouse near the river, and eventually pulled up near a railway arch on which were the words: “Wattle—Storage—Removals— Garage.”