Kill The Toff

“Spend another hour checking up,” advised Rollison, “and if you can give me chapter and verse for my movements since I left Knoll Road I’ll hand it to you. If you can’t—lone-wolfing might have its points.”

“So it might,” agreed Grice, smiling at Ebbutt. “He’s a tough customer, isn’t he? You might warn him that we could stop his act by holding him on Waleski’s charge, Ebbutt. The warrant’s probably been sworn. Tell him what it’s like to spend a night in the cooler.”

He nodded casually and went out and the crowd near the entrance to the gymnasium broke up into ones and twos, suddenly interested only in themselves, while Bill Ebbutt fiddled with his glasses and looked like a bewildered bull. Neither he nor Rollison spoke. After Grice had driven off the flapping and punching re-started, skipping-ropes whirled, a man began to speak in short, snappy sentences, giving advice to the boys in the ring.

Then Ebbutt squared his great shoulders.

“Are you arter Mellor, Mr Ar? Is ‘e the stranger? I don’t mind sayin’ I ‘ope Gricey’s got it all wrong. That Mellor’s a bad lot, a real bad lot, Mr Ar.”

*     *     *

“Yes, Bill,” said Rollison. “It’s Mellor.”

Bill said awkwardly: “I’m sorry abaht that; I am, reely.”

“Don’t you feel you can hide him?”

“I don’t fink I oughta, Mr Ar, that’s a fack.”

“So Grice is right and I’m wrong this time.” Rollison spoke quietly without any hint of reproach.

“It ain’t a question of Grice bein’ right, it’s wot we know abaht Mellor. If you’d ‘ad a word wiv me before, Mr Ar, I could’ve put yer wise. That Mellor—strewth, they don’t grow any worse. Anuvver of these Commando boys wot went wrong. It ain’t that I blame ‘em, Mr Ar, you know me; but they was brought up in a tough school, wasn’t they? Taught all kinds of dirty tricks. Most of them forgot all abaht it but there’s some ‘oo can’t forget an’ like to make their money the easy way. Why didn’t you arst me?” Ebbutt was almost pleading. “I could’ve told yer that Mellor’s a killer, Gricey’s right enough abaht that. I don’t ‘ave to tell yer abaht Flash Dimond, do I?” He paused and, when Rollison held his peace, went on slowly: “Now I never ‘ad no time for Flash. ‘E was a gangster an’ ‘e didn’t mind killin’ but ‘e wasn’t all bad. “Is gang was tough but they never went aht to kill.”

Rollison said; “I thought Flash was dead.”

“S’right. Mellor cut ‘is throat.”

“Oh,” said Rollison heavily. “I certainly should have come to see you before, Bill; I’ve been away from here for too long. Are you trying to tell me that Mellor murdered Flash and took over the gang?”

“S’right.”

“And the gang’s got worse?”

Ebbutt shifted his bulk from one foot to the other.

“I got to say yes, Mr Ar, I’ve got to say the gang’s got worse. Mind yer, it ain’t done so much—you never ‘ear a lot abaht it. Mellor’s clever. “E pushed ‘arf the gang orf. They wasn’t unscrooperlous enough for him. There’s abaht a dozen of them left—the worst gang in London. They don’t work like a gang no longer. They do their own jobs separate but they’re organised orl right. I’m telling you Gawd’s trufe, Mr Ar. Remember that Kent job when the old gent got ‘is ‘ead bashed in and they got away wiv nine tharsand pounds worf o’ sparklers? That was a Mellor job. Remember that rozzer that got ‘is—shot in the guts when he questioned a coupla boys ahtside a big ‘ouse? That was a Mellor job. There’s been plenty an’ one is worse than all the others put togewer.” Ebbutt’s voice was hoarse and in his earnestness he put a hand on Rollison’s shoulder and pressed hard. “There was that job at Epping. Remember? Coupla boys broke into a n’ouse where there was only a girl of twelve at ‘ome. Woke ‘er up an’ when she started to scream, croaked ‘er. That was a Mellor job. Mellor’s aht to become the big boss. Maybe ‘e’ll make it. An’ that’s a good reason why you didn’t oughter ‘elp him. Sooner or later you’ll come up against ‘im. You always ‘ave a go at gang leaders if they git too powerful. For your own sake, cut it aht, Mr Ar.”

Rollison said: “I can’t, Bill.”

Ebbutt shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, I’m afraid I can’t ‘elp Mellor, Mr Ar. You know wot I mean, don’tcher? It isn’t anyfink against you but you ain’t bin arahnd much lately, you’ve got a bit be’ind wiv’ the news.”

Rollison said: “So it seems. You may have got hold of the wrong end of the stick, Bill.”

Ebbutt shrugged, as if to say that he was little certain of his facts.

“Is Mellor the kind to commit suicide?” asked Rollison.

“Nark it, Mr Ar.”

“Well, I found him, dying in front of a gas-lire that wasn’t alight, Bill. I don’t think it was attempted murder; I think he tried to do himself in. He may die. If he doesn’t he’ll be a pretty sick man and can’t do any harm. And if he’s the man you think he is then he’s better under cover than running around loose.”

Ebbutt looked uneasy.

“If you’ve got Mellor, you ought ter turn ‘im in,” he said. “Sorry, Mr Ar, but that’s the way I feel abaht it.”

“All right, Bill, that’s the way it is.” Rollison was brisk. “You may be right and you’re certainly wise.”

“Now come orf it, Mr Ar! I’m not scared o’ the dicks. If I fought there was a chance to do some good, I’d cover ‘im; but—well, it’s Mellor. If there’s anyfink else I can do, I’m all for you, Mr Ar. Anyfink.”

Rollison smiled and clapped the old prizefighter on the shoulder.

“I’ll keep you so busy you’ll feel like a spinning top. Find out if anyone has ever heard of a man named Waleski and let me know, will you? I’ll write the name down.” He pulled the Sporting Life towards