He spun round.
“The telephone is dead, sir,” Jolly stated in an even voice.
Rollison stared—and then hurried towards the back door. He thought he heard footsteps just outside as he rammed the bolts home, then stretched up and put shutters up at the small windows alongside the door. There had been a time when raids on this flat were commonplace, and everything had been reinforced.
There was a heavy knock at the back door.
“It looks as if someone has tumbled to the fact that Angela and I might know too much for their safety,” Rollison said. “They’re pretty slow—and I had the bodyguards sent to the wrong place. If this crowd really means business—and I’ve seen four who look as if they do—we’re really in trouble. They could have that door down in ten seconds flat with a single charge of dynamite. And they’ve used dynamite at least once before.”
As he finished there was another knock at the back door, and a long, loud ring at the front.
Angela appeared, fully dressed, fresh and pink-cheeked.
“Who on earth is that?” she asked in a voice not far from scared.
“The knell of doom,” said Rollison, knowing that she would want no punches pulled. He went to his desk and unlocked the master drawer at the top, took out a small, grey pistol which did not look large enough to cause injury. “I think whoever is behind this knows that you heard the name Bensoni, and might have passed word on to me. They know I’m supposed always to be a lone wolf, and they’ll expect me to try to handle this on my own. So they’ve come to make sure I can’t—and to make sure you can’t pass word on to the police.”
A thunderous knocking drowned the last words, and then clearly from the letter box in the front door, a man called out in a rough, uneducated voice :
“We know you’re in there, Rollison. Open the door or we’ll blow it down.”
CHAPTER 20
“I SEE what you mean,” said Angela in a small voice. “Rollison!” roared the man outside.
“Coming!” called the Toff, as if he hadn’t a worry in the world. He whispered to Angela : “This is tear-gas. Go and help Jolly.” Jolly, with some cigarettes in his hand, also taken from the drawer, was heading for the kitchen.
Angela cast a longing look at Rollison, then went after Jolly.
Rollison reached the front door. The men outside were silent now, quite unaware that they could be seen. Above the front door was a kind of periscope mirror, and glancing up Rollison saw the two who had come from the car standing outside—and two others halfway down the stairs. One of them was laying a trail of gunpowder.
The man nearest to the door bent down, and poked a finger at the letter box.
“Rollison!” he roared. “This is your last chance. Open the door!”
“Just about to,” answered Rollison. He poked the muzzle of the gas pistol through the letter box, squeezed the trigger, and heard the hiss and a cry of alarm, then a thud as the man at the box fell. He fired two more capsules of the tear gas, felt a blow-back of it bite at his nose and eyes—and he heard another man cry out :
“Gawd!”
Yet another gave a choking scream.
Rollison unlocked and unchained the door in three swift movements. On the landing two men were reeling, and another was sprawling halfway down the stairs. The one with the dynamite was backing away, a hazy figure through the gas. Rollison closed his eyes and mouth, nipped his nostrils, and rushed downwards. When he opened his eyes again the man hurled the dynamite at him, then turned and rushed down the second flight of stairs. Rollison simply levelled the gun and the pellet hit the stairs and burst in front of the escaping man.
On the next landing was yet another assailant.
And in his hand was a sledge hammer.
He raised it, to throw, alarm showing in his eyes. Rollison ducked. The hammer flew over his head and crashed against the wall. Instead of using the pistol, which contained two more pellets, Rollison hurled himself at the man, both fists clenched; he had never struck a chin with greater force, and the man simply toppled backwards and slid, head-first, down the next flight of stairs.
At this point the door of one of the flats opened, and an elderly tenant demanded in a deep and authoritative voice :
“What the devil is going on here?”
“Call the police,” Rollison said, over his shoulder.
Then the front door burst open and half-a-dozen men rushed in, enough to have struck terror even into the Toff but for the sight of Bill Ebbutt, leading the way. In Bill’s hand was an old-fashioned black leather cosh, once regarded as a deadly weapon but a toy compared with knuckle-dusters, bicycle chains, iron bars and flick knives. The elderly neighbour withdrew hastily and slammed his door. One of the fallen men crawled to his feet, then backed against the wall, his hands raised.
“Any of your boys at the back?” asked Rollison.
Ebbutt looked up, mouth wide open.
“Gorblimey, Mr. Ar, I thought you was a goner. You okay?” The broadest of grins nearly split his face in two. “I don’t need any telling. I should have known. Strewth, Mr. Ar—”
