“Go on.”
“Inquiries were made discreetly. Mellor had no idea that he was a rich man’s son, no idea that the rich man was waiting to present him with a fortune. But someone knew. The someone framed Mellor for Galloway’s murder. I’ve been through the evidence thoroughly and had counsel’s opinion and counsel’s opinion is that nothing except fresh evidence can prevent Mellor from being hanged. I’ve some fresh evidence but it isn’t complete yet. If the police get it, there’s a grave risk that they’ll let whoever is behind the crimes know that they’re on a new trail. Two possibilities arise from that, Doc. Either the crooks will get a move on and the old man will die very quickly— an attempt at a
“You worried them—I’ll believe that!”
Thanks. I think they discovered that I’d discovered that Mellor was this long-lost son. So they made a hasty move and also their first major mistake. I think I can now prove that they were prepared to murder Mellor and that alone would cast some doubt and bring new evidence. But they also showed something else. This is not what it looked like in the first place—simply a nasty domestic business with an avaricious next-but-one-of-kin getting rid of the but-one. I won’t say this is gangster stuff hut some pretty hardened bad men are involved. If the police take Mellor these gentlemen will know exactly where they stand. If Mellor disappears again they’ll be at sixes and sevens and they’ll do more desperate things to find him.”
“Hmm,” grunted the doctor. “And you’ll stick your neck right out.”
“That’s it.”
“Well, if the police don’t ask me whether I’ve seen Mellor, I won’t tell them,” said the doctor. “If they ask whether I’ve seen you, I shall tell them all about it.”
“I hope they don’t ask until I’ve got Mellor away from here. When can he be moved?”
“To-morrow, at the earliest. You’ll have to arrange for an ambulance or a shooting-brake—I don’t want him jolted about too much, even to-morrow. And of course he may not pull through,” added the doctor. “In that case —”
“The show’s over,” said Rollison. “But he’ll pull through. Thank you, Doc.”
“No one can help being born a fool,” said the doctor. “I’ll give him another quarter of an hour and if he isn’t showing signs of improvement by then I’ll have to do a blood test. There’s no need for you to wait. I’ll telephone you when I can be sure which way he’ll turn. Get my wife to dress that bite in your hand before you go and give my love to the other buccaneer.”
Rollison looked puzzled. “The other one?”
The doctor chuckled, and said: “Bill Ebbutt.
Who else? Tell him I said so, won’t you?”
* * *
To the stranger passing through there is only a drab greyness in the East of London, relieved here and there by garish brightness in the shops, at the cinemas and the more prosperous public-houses. Rollison, who knew the district well, saw beyond the surface to the heart of the East End, knew its colour and gaiety, its careless generosity, its pulsating life.
The district had grown upon him over the years until it was to him the real heart of London and the West End was a city apart. When he had first come he had been full of the impetuosity of youth, a born adventurer seeking adventure and seeking criminals at the same time. Then he had believed the East End to be a haunt of vice, had seen almost every man as a potential criminal. He had discovered that the East Enders presented a solid front against the police, an iron curtain behind which lawlessness prevailed. But even that was false. The curtain was there, thick, almost impenetrable. There remained parts of the East End where policemen always went in pairs because it was dangerous for them to patrol the streets alone. But the great majority of the people had no more to do with crime than the great masses in the dormitory suburbs; less than many in the West End.
Their distrust of the police was born of what they considered injustice; from the days when the police had harassed and pestered them about petty, insignificant misdemeanours; from the days, in fact, when a man could be hanged for stealing a lamb and when sheep had grazed within easy distance of the East End, easy for the taking by hungry folk.
Over the years a kind of wary armistice had sprung up between the East Enders and the police. The curtain remained but was less thick, less formidable.
Rollison had penetrated beyond the curtain when it had been discovered that he bore no malice against small-part crooks but had a burning hatred for murderers, blackmailers, white-slavers, dope-runners—the motley collection of rogues who gathered for their own protection behind the curtain, emerging only to raid the West End or the provinces, then sneaking back. There was no love lost between the average Cockney and these parasites; nor was there betrayal for they had a common enemy: the law.
After a while Rollison had made friends with many East Enders and among the first was Bill Ebbutt. It was said that Ebbutt had first nicknamed him “The Toff.” Whoever it had been, the soubriquet had stuck. Many people would look blank if they heard the name Rollison but would relax and nod genially when “The Toff” was mentioned. For he did much for them quietly, often anonymously, and did not hesitate to take up their cause even if it were unpopular. So he was accepted by most and hated by some—the real criminals, the gang-leaders, the vice kings.
Sometimes fear of what the Toff might do led to a widespread campaign to discredit him in the East End; once or twice it had come near to success. It might happen again but, as he drove from the clinic to Bill Ebbutt’s place, Rollison did not think it would happen for a long time.
He did know that already the whisper of his latest visit was spreading, in rooms, houses, pubs, billiards- saloons, doss-houses, warehouses, shops and factories, throughout the docks and along the Thames and the Thames-side. A simple, good-humoured whisper, creating the same kind of feeling that came when you went to bed with the knowledge that you would awaken to a fine, bright day. He would have been less than human had it not pleased him.
* * *
