The Toff and the Fallen Angels

“The police are already watching Smith Hall in strength, but they will probably be recognised, and I want some strong-arm men who won’t be. Have you ever heard of the Blue Dog?”

“In Wapping? Or is it Whitechapel?”

“Whitechapel,” Rollison said. “So you’ve heard of it.” He turned two corners, and on the next was a public house, the woodwork painted bright blue, and the inn-sign yellow with a blue-painted mongrel. Several people went in and two came out as they passed. Rollison turned this corner, and on the left was a big wooden building, over the front of which ran the legend: Ebbutt’s Gym. Some elderly men and a few youths stood about, the youths sparring. Rollison pulled up near the entrance, and a man called :

“Lumme ! It’s Mr. Ar!”

“Where’s Bill?” called Rollison.

“In the pub, Mr. Ar!”

Rollison was giving Gwendoline Fell a hand.

“Ask him if he can spare me a few minutes here,” said Rollison.

“Sure will, Mr. Ar!” The man, small and with a nutcracker face, hurried towards the back of the Blue Dog. The youths stopped sparring, and stared with great interest at the Toff and his companion. The door of the gymnasium was open and the sound of leather on leather came clearly. Rollison pushed aside a canvas flap, remarking for all to hear :

“I’m bringing in a lady.”

“S’okay,” said another, smaller man in a white polo-necked sweater. “Always welcome, Mr. Ar, with or without!” He beamed welcome at Gwendoline with a grin stretching from cauliflower ear to cauliflower ear.

The gymnasium was much bigger than it looked from outside. There were two boxing rings, both occupied by youngsters, half-a-dozen men gathered around each. The walls were fitted with parallel bars, there were vaulting horses and punch balls, everything, in fact, needed for training in a modern gymnasium. Over in one corner was a small office, partitioned off. In another was a door marked “Showers’. The doorkeeper hovered near as Rollison explained.

“Bill Ebbutt, who owns this and runs the pub next door, used to be a heavyweight,” Rollison began.

“And a bloody good un, too,” interpolated the doorman. “And he trains promising youngsters for nothing or next-to-nothing,” said Rollison.

“Picks the good uns, too,” whispered the doorman. “And a lot of old professionals come in and help with the training. It’s really a kind of club.”

“And a good un, too,” repeated the doorman. Then his voice rose : “Here’s Bill,” he announced with obvious pride, and waved a hand in greeting as Bill Ebbutt came in.

Ebbutt was huge, bald-headed, treble-chinned and wheezy of breath. He wore an enormous polo-necked sweater of a heather-mixture wool; knitting it must have been a year’s labour of love. So big was his jowl and so comparatively small his head that he looked rather like one pear reared upon another. His eyes, deeply buried, were a bright, periwinkle blue.

“Cor lumme, Mr. Ar, you’re a sight for sore eyes.” He engulfed Rollison’s hand. “Glad to see you, always will be, who’s your lady friend?” He towered above Gwendoline, who looked up at him with barely-concealed amazement.

“Miss Gwendoline Fell,” said Rollison.

“Glad to meetcha, Miss Fell, any friend of Mr. Rollison’s—” he extended a vast hand, but before he took Gwendoline’s a change came over his expression, and almost in a whisper, he said: Not the bitch who writes in The Globe?” He raised both hands in an onslaught of horror. “I never ought to ‘ave said that, I’m sorry, I . . .”

“Very well put, Mr. Ebbutt,” said Gwendoline calmly. “That’s what at least half a million readers think of me.” She beamed up at him. “I don’t mind what I say about them, so why should I mind what they say about me?”

“I daresay,” said Bill, still abashed. “All the same, I never ought to say things like that to a guest. Here ! Not come to do a story about me and my boys, have you? I dunno that I want—”

“I just wanted her to know I’m not the nincompoop I sometimes look,” said Rollison. “Can we go into the office?” They crowded in, while sparring and the vaulting, the punching and the jumping continued. “Bill,” went on Rollison, “I need about two dozen of your boys for a job which could be very nasty.” He explained, wasting no words, obviously confident that Bill Ebbutt did not need telling anything twice.

“I get the picture,” Ebbutt said. “If anyone does lay on a kind of all-out attack, you don’t want to be caught napping. What do you really want, Mr. Ar? One man for one girl? Only way to make sure they get absolute protection.”

“If you can manage to find twenty-two—”

“Cor, bless you, there’s so much short time and re-dundancy I could do fifty! Get ‘em over there asking for jobs, no one will be surprised. O.K., Mr. Ar, you leave it to me. The flipping coppers—beg your pardon, Miss—are the first line of attack, we stand by to pick up the pieces. I’ll go over and spy out the land after the pub’s closed. Now, how about coming across to the Blue Dog for a couple, Mr. Ar? And you, Miss—it’ll be a kindness, to prove you’ve no hard feelings.”

“Roily,” said Gwendoline Fell, some time later, “I like your friends very much, and they certainly like you. Perhaps I was a little hasty when I first talked to you. I think I’ve reformed.”

“I don’t mind you reforming, providing you don’t blame me for it,” said Rollison. “I can’t wait to read your column in the morning.”

“If you care to come to Fleet Street, you could see some early editions now,” said Gwendoline.

“Nothing I’d like more,” said Rollison. “But I’ve an appointment I mustn’t miss. Show an unnatural restraint, Gwendoline—and don’t follow me.”