him and printed the name STANISLAS WALESKI. “And then find out if any of the Mellor gang have turned against Mellor. Whatever he’s done in the past, he’s having a rough time now and he’s been on the run from someone. Have you heard anything about him for the past month?”
“Not since ‘e ducked,” admitted Ebbutt. “I got to say it’s a funny fing, Mr Ar. I thought ‘e was sittin’ pretty, waitin’ for the flap to blow over.”
“He’s been hard on the run and he’s dead beat.”
“You know what these gangs are,” said Ebbutt with a shrug. “ ‘E bumped Flash off; now someone else comes along an’ ‘as it in for ‘im. Flash ‘ad a lot o’ friends. If you arst me, Mellor killed Galloway and the boys knew ‘e’d never get away wiv it, so they turned ‘im aht. That’s abaht the size of it, Mr Ar. I don’t mind admitting I feel bad, but—well, if the missus noo it was Mellor—”
“Don’t tell her,” advised Rollison. “Just say that the stranger isn’t coming and look after the other job for me. Waleski is important. He’s been staying at the Oxford Palace Hotel so he may be a newcomer. He’s about five feet six, Block Jensen’s build, with black eyelashes that look as if they’ve been stuck on. Black, heavily oiled hair with a bald patch about the size of a tea-cup. Got all that?”
“If I get a whisper you’ll know abaht it, Mr Ar.”
“Thanks,” said Rollison. “Now I’d better be off, there’s a lot to do.”
* * *
With the police and the voice of the East End calling the same tune about Jim Mellor, it was going to be hard going. When Rollison got into the car, the group of people watching him were puzzled and silent. He looked much as he had when he had tackled Waleski at Judith’s flat: bleak, uncompromising, aggressive, even angry. There was a rustle of comment when he drove off, for Bill Ebbutt came to the door and watched him, but Rollison didn’t glance round. So the whisper spread that there had been trouble between the Toff and Bill Ebbutt.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Policemen whom Rollison passed did not salute or smile but just watched him. The change in their demeanour was so marked that he knew that word had already been spread among them, that he was to be watched and his movements reported—and that the official attitude was hostile. He drew up outside Aldgate Station, between two barrow-boys with their barrows piled up with fruit, and walked to the station entrance, making for a telephone booth. A constable saw him but took no notice until he was inside the box; then the man made a note on a pad which he took from his breast pocket.
Rollison dropped in his two pennies and dialled Doc Willerby’s number. Willerby answered himself.
“How’s the patient?” asked Rollison.
“He’ll do,” said the doctor.
“I’ve heard a lot more about him than I knew before.”
“I wondered when you’d get round to that. Changed your mind?”
“No. But if you’d rather be shot of him right away, just say the word.”
“He mustn’t be moved again to-night,” said Willerby. if the police get round to me they’ll have to take over. If they don’t—I don’t know who the man is.”
“That’s sweeter music than you know.”
“I didn’t think you’d cut much ice with Mellor in the East End; Ebbutt was your only chance. Doesn’t he feel buccaneer enough?”
Rollison laughed. “Don’t forget he’s reformed. What’s the best time to collect Mellor in the morning?”
“Before nine o’clock.”
“Right, thanks,” said Rollison. “I’ll be seeing you.”
He rang off, nodded at the constable as he stepped from the box and went more cheerfully towards his car. The interview with Ebbutt had shaken him: he had taken Ebbutt’s aid for granted. He was dissatisfied with himself. He had heard of the trouble in the Dimond gang but not the name of the new leader. He had traced Mellor through his Army record and his foster-parents and had only made cursory inquiries into his post-war record. He knew that Mellor had his own small flat, played a lot of tennis and was a go-ahead manager of a small printing firm in the North-West of London.
The new information couldn’t be ignored, though the Mellor he had traced seemed to be a completely different man from the Mellor Ebbutt knew. Had he stumbled upon a new Jekyll and Hyde?
When he turned into Gresham Terrace a heavily-built man was opposite Number 22g where he had his flat; the man was from the Yard although Rollison couldn’t recall his name. Rollison nodded and received a blank stare in return. He let himself into the house and then went back to the pavement to survey the street and find out whether there was another Yard man about. He didn’t see one.
Gresham Terrace, near Piccadilly, was a wide road with stately terraced houses on either side—a sharp contrast to the mean streets from which he had just come. The house was near a corner. Three shallow stone steps led up to a small porch. The entrance hall was long and narrow and carpeted from wall to wall. The first flight of stairs was also carpeted—the higher flights were of bare stone. He walked up thoughtfully and, when he reached the top landing which served only his flat, the door opened and Jolly appeared.
“Good evening, sir.”
“Hallo, Jolly. Everyone here?”
“Yes, sir, if you mean Miss Lome and Mr Higginbottom.”
“I do.”
Rollison passed into the square hall, off which led all five rooms of the flat. Immediately opposite the landing was the living-room and he heard voices as that door opened and Snub beamed at him.
