Chapter One
The Fleeing Woman
A door opened, bright light shone into the dark street, and a woman appeared. Her shadow, sharp and clear, was thrown across the narrow road. She wore a light-coloured dress with short sleeves; and it was bitterly cold. She turned and ran, not looking where she was going, her high-heeled shoes rapping sharply on the pavement. Once she stumbled, steadied herself, clutched at her flowing dress and ran on.
Her mouth was open and her teeth parted.
At the first corner she turned left. As she did so, two men appeared at the open doorway, one roughly dressed, the other in a dark suit. The roughly dressed man came out first, and caught a glimpse of the woman.
“There she is!” He raced after her, and the man in the dark suit followed, but gradually dropped behind. Pounding footsteps now sounded above the clack-clack-clack of the woman’s heels.
As the woman ran, blindly, fear-stricken, a door opened in the next narrow street, and a dim yellow light shone out. A small man stepped from the house, heard the woman running, and stood and stared. She was only ten yards away from him. He heard the men approaching, but could not see them.
“Wot’s up?” he demanded.
The woman missed a step, and looked towards him. The light from his door was sufficient to show the terror in her eyes. Fast as thought, he said: “In ’ere, quick!”
He put out a hand to guide her. She turned to look over her shoulder, but neither of the men in pursuit had rounded the corner yet. She turned into the doorway, and the man who had spoken slammed and locked the door. He stood outside, she was in, when the roughly dressed man turned the corner and came pelting along. His companion reached the corner soon afterwards, but was already slowing down.
The little man stopped and put a cigarette to his lips as the runner drew up. “Seen anyone?”
“Who, me?”
“You heard. Seen anyone?”
“Police arter you?” asked the little man, as he flicked a match away.
“Did you see a woman come past here?”
“A woman,” echoed the little man, and the second runner laboured up, gasping for breath, although the dim light from a distant street lamp suggested that he was young. “Come ter think, I did. Passed me like a streak o’ light, she did.”
“Where did she go?”
“Forgot me fags and ’ad to go back,” said the little man promptly. “Only took me a tick, but she wasn’t in the street when I come aht again.”
“Think she went into one of the houses?” The roughly dressed man, who had a harsh voice, was thick-waisted and barrel-chested, looked doubtingly into the other’s eyes. The second runner, breathing more evenly now but making plenty of noise, snapped his fingers as if with impatience.
“Well, I couldn’t say, I’m sure,” the little man said.
His questioner muttered: “She couldn’t have gone far,” and moved on. The man in the dark suit followed, without a word, and the little man turned in the other direction and walked briskly away. He didn’t go far, but waited at the corner from which the woman had run, and peered along the street. He saw the other two reach the next corner, and hesitate. Then they drew close together, and appeared to confer. One went straight on, the other turned right. The light was too dim for the little man to see more.
He turned up the collar of his overcoat, to hide a white muffler, and walked back. He kept close to the walls of the houses, and made no sound. When he reached his own house, he bent down and opened the letter-box; no light shone through. He opened the door with his key, and stepped swiftly inside. By the time the door was closed and re-locked, his own breath was coming quickly.
There was silence in the little house.
He called: “It’s okay, it’s only me.”
No one responded.
“It’s okay,” he insisted. “I’ll look after yer. You can switch the light on again.”
There was still no response.
He frowned in the darkness, took out his matches, but didn’t strike one. He stood peering along the narrow passage. There was a smell of cabbage and fried onions and of an antiseptic. Somewhere, a tap dripped steadily. His breathing quietened, and deliberately he held his breath. He heard no other noise, and walked slowly forward, putting out a hand to save himself from banging into door or wall. The door at the end of the passage was opposite the front door, and was closed; there was no light beneath it. He turned the handle and pushed the door gently, then stood quite still.
He heard a sound of breathing.
“You needn’t worry,” he whispered. “They don’t know you’re ’ere. I’ll look after you.”
No one else had been in the house when he had left it, so it was certainly the fugitive in this tiny kitchen; but she gave no answer.
He pushed the door back quietly, stepped through, and groped for the light-switch. The sound of breathing became more pronounced, and was behind him. He pressed the switch down, and heard a gasp.
Terrified eyes, brown and velvety, stared at him from the corner. The girl’s glossy hair was beautiful but untidy; she was well made-up and she was lovely. She had a good figure which her dress emphasised, she would have looked at home in any society. There was a single string of pearls round her neck, and in her right hand she clenched the handle of a saucepan, which was raised like a hammer.
The little man’s gape turned slowly into a grin. He was ugly, and the front of his head was completely bald; sleek black hair, carefully brushed, lay flat over the back. His face was small and round, he had a snub nose and no chin to speak of; that little was lost in the white muffler. In spite of his ugliness there was friendliness in his smile, and the girl lowered the saucepan slowly.
“Cor lumme,” said the little man, “Bert Noddy won’t hurt yer. That’s me—Bert Noddy. You don’t ’ave to worry any more, lidy. Anyfink Downing wants I don’t want ’im to ’ave. Get me? I know Sam Downing, and I don’t know anyfink good abaht him. Take it easy. ’Ave a fag.”
He held out a plastic cigarette-case. Her only movement was to lower the saucepan still farther, and it clanged against the green-painted wall behind her. She looked as incongruous in this tiny kitchen as a lily growing out of a clump of dandelions. There was a dresser with a flat top, on which were other saucepans; on the shelves were cups, saucers and plates. On the other side of the room was a gas-stove and a sink, with a small draining board. The smell of cooking was stronger in here, and the tap was dripping into the sink.
“Look,” said Noddy earnestly, “I won’t ’urt yer.”
Her fear still robbed her of the freshness of her beauty. It showed in her eyes, in the tension at her lips and the rigidity of her body. She kept a hold on the saucepan, and Noddy sensed that she would raise it again if he drew nearer.
“Look,” he said again, “you ’aven’t lost your tongue, ’aveyer?”
She didn’t speak.
“Strike me,” muttered Noddy, “you give me the creeps. Listen. I know Sam Downing, that was the feller who run arter you, and I don’t like ’im. He’s up to no good. ’E never did no good, and ain’t likely to start now. You running away from ’im was plenty to make me want to lend a ’and, see? I couldn’t say anyfink plainer than that, could I?”
She swayed, making the saucepan clang against the wall again. Noddy moved in a flash, snatched the saucepan away before she could straighten up, then drew back. He put the saucepan on the gas stove.
“Can’t you understand plain English?” he demanded.
He looked less self-assured than when he had first come in, and scratched his nose. The cigarette drooped from the corner of his lips, the paper scorched almost down to the end. He rolled it with his tongue from one side to the other, and frowned.
Then her lips moved. She said: “No speak Engleesh.”
“Well,” breathed Noddy. “Strike a light!”
But he looked relieved.
“I know a language you will speak,” he said. “Half a tick.” He disappeared, went into the small front room and took a bottle of whisky and a glass out of the flimsy sideboard. Back in the kitchen, he held them up in front of the girl who didn’t speak English. “’Ave a drink.”
She didn’t answer, but he poured her out a nip, added a little water from the tap, and held the glass towards her. She took it and drank half at one gulp, then breathed hard and leaned against the wall, more relaxed.
Noddy made a thumbs-up sign.
“You’re okay,” he assured her. “Now don’t worry, I’m goin’ ter call me missus.”
He went out of the room again, and knocked sharply on the wall opposite the stairs. After a pause, a responding tapping came from the house next door. He didn’t switch on the light, but waited until he heard footsteps in the street, then opened the door. A faint glow from the kitchen shone upon a woman so large that she almost filled the doorway.
“Now wot’s the matter?” she demanded impatiently. “Can’t go aht for ten minutes wiv-vaht—”
“Can it,” said Noddy. “We’ve got a visitor.”
“Wot, at this time o’ night?” The woman came in and closed the door. She had three chins, plentiful dark and greasy hair and an enormous bosom, and was dressed in a black silk blouse and a light grey skirt. “Your old man? If—”’
“One o’ these days you’ll use your tongue so much it’ll come orf,” growled Noddy. “Listen, Rosie.” He held her arm tightly. “I was just goin’ aht when I see Sam Downing, chasing a woman. Young woman, she was, frightened aht of ’er wits. So I brought ’er in. Sam didn’t know where she went; ’e’s searchin’ for ’er. She’s in the kitchin. She don’t speak English, and I’d better see what I can do. Sam Downing’s no good to ’er, and she’s so scared she jumps if you speak. Now, understand?”
Rosie’s eyes, rounding with astonishment at first, soon settled to normal.
“Don’t you get into no trouble with a man like Downing,” she said.
“If that ain’t like a woman,” Bert growled. “I’m going to see Bill Ebbutt. You just keep an eye on the girl. If anyone comes, Downing or a cove wiv a dark suit an’ a bow tie, you ’aven’t seen anyone. Don’t forget.”
He opened the front door again and slipped out, giving his wife no time to speak.
Chapter Two
S.O.S.
The Honourable Richard Rollison was amusing himself.
He sat in a large easy-chair, with a brandy glass cupped in his hand, and surveyed a remarkable wall in front of him. If one could forget the three other deep-cream walls each with two landscapes in oils hanging on them, the excellent if orthodox furnishing of a room which was half drawing-room, half study, and forget also the normality of Rollison’s reposeful figure, it was possible to imagine that this was part of a museum. In fact, the only known counterpart was not much more than a mile away from this Mayfair flat: the Black Museum at Scotland Yard.
Rollison was recalling the histories of some of the exhibits.
There were the bloodstained chicken feathers, which reminded him of a chicken farm and murder; a top hat with a hole in the crown, worn when he had been within an inch of a bullet in the head; there were guns, knives, glass phials containing innocent looking but deadly powders; and there was also a hangman’s rope, which had once been placed round the neck of a man who now knew all the secrets of the next life.
Rollison occasionally gave a gentle, reminiscent smile, which suggested that in spite of the recollections of violence, he was in peaceful mood. A door opened, and his man came in.
“Hallo, Jolly. Bedtime?”
“Unless there is anything else you require, sir?”
“Nothing,” said Rollison. “I’m a little sad, Jolly. Thinking of all the things I used to do, and how reformed I am. No, I am not hankering after excitements, just mildly regretting that they weren’t spread out more evenly.”
“They seem to have been consistent, sir,” said Jolly, and smiled faintly. Until that moment he had looked a doleful man, with a lined face and a myriad crows feet at his eyes, a rather scraggy jowl and a thin neck, which looked thinner on account of a wide collar at least two sizes too large. He had thin grey hair and brown eyes which were mournful in spite of the smile; they were also deceptive.
“Consistent?” mused Rollison. “I doubt it. But we had infinite variety. I wonder what really started me chasing after bad men, Jolly. Have you ever plumbed the depths of your philosophy to form an opinion?”
“I have not, sir,” said Jolly; “I don’t need to.”
“You know me as well as all that? Come and sit down, help yourself to a drink and tell me all about myself.”
“Thank you, sir, but I have just had my nightcap,” said Jolly. Nevertheless, he pulled up another arm-chair and sat down, fully at ease; which he knew Rollison would expect. “It doesn’t often happen that a man is born with quite the same simplicity.”
“Simplicity?” Rollison looked startled.
“Simplicity,” insisted Jolly. There was a hint of a twinkle in his eyes, suggesting that he was enjoying this. “It is simplicity in this way, sir—you have a clear conception of the line between right and wrong. You are sentimental, which makes you take up lost causes with alacrity, and when you find a thing that is bad, you believe that it should be cut out, as a piece of wasp-bitten apple.”
“Oh,” said Rollison. “That’s all?”
“That is what has made you the most respected, and I use the word advisedly, amateur detective of your generation,” said Jolly, mildly. “Of course there are other attributes—”
The telephone bell rang.
“Timely,” said Rollison, who now looked crestfallen. “I couldn’t bear any more tonight. Tell whoever it is that I’m not at home, and then go to bed.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jolly got out of his chair quickly, and with an ease worthy of a much younger man, lifted the telephone receiver from the instrument, which was on a table just out of Rollison’s reach. He listened; and he frowned.
“I am sorry, but Mr. Rollison isn’t in, he—”
He stopped, obviously because the caller didn’t believe him. His frown deepened, as he said: “One moment, please; I think I hear him coming in now.”
He covered the mouthpiece with his hand, and added in a low-pitched voice: “I don’t think you’ll want to speak to him tonight, sir. It’s—ah—Mr. Ebbutt.”
“And why shouldn’t I want to speak to Bill?”
“He doubtless wishes to urge you to change your mind about that prize-giving at his boxing-school,” Jolly said unhappily, “and you have so many engagements that—”
“It’s the first time I’ve heard of a prize-giving at the Academy,” said Rollison. “Jolly, you’re a menace.”
He took the receiver.
“Hallo, Bill.”
“Hal-lo, Mr. Ar!” A foghorn appeared to be at the other end of the line. “Glad I just ’appened to catch yer; got a little job that’s right up your street. The minnit I ’eard abaht it, I said, Mr. Ar’s the man, no doubt abaht it at all. So ’ere I am. It was a question of going to the dicks, I mean the police, or you, Mr. Ar, and I thought you’d like a go at it. Besides, Bert Noddy, you remember ’im, it’s really ’is show, an’ Bert wouldn’t go narkin’, even if it is abaht Sam Downing. What I mean to say is—“
“Hold on a minute, Bill,” said Rollison, and turned to Jolly: “Nip along and get the car, I think I’m going out … Yes, Bill, carry on.”
The sleek Lagonda, with Rollison at the wheel, slid through the quiet streets of the West End and the City, reaching Aldgate Pump a little after midnight. Here, where the East End and the City met, there was a hushed silence which would remain until the early workers came out of their burrows and began to throng the streets. Soon, in a wider thoroughfare, there were some people about. A hot-chestnut man crouched over his glowing red fire, and seemed indifferent to the possibility of business. Most of these people watched the car as it purred along the Mile End Road; and many of them recognised Rollison.
He drove on until he reached a corner building, larger than most of the others along here. A street lamp immediately outside shone on the fascia board and displayed the fact that this was the Blue Dog, a public-house of fair repute. Rollison turned the corner and pulled up at the back of the building. Farther along, shown up by another street lamp, was a large corrugated-iron building outside which a large sign declared:
BOXING ACADEMY
B. Ebbutt, Prop.
Champs. Taught.
As Rollison got out, his tall figure thickened by a heavy belted overcoat of navy blue, a side door of the public-house opened and a large man called: “You didn’t lose much time, Mr. Ar. Glad to see yer.” He came forward, in his shirt sleeves, a mammoth with a vast stomach, a large, fleshy face, a corrugated forehead, small eyes and a flat nose; a villain, to look at. His great hand crushed Rollison’s. “Proper do, ain’t it?”
“Where is she?”
“Still at Bert’s. But she’s okay, I got a coupla the boys keeping their eyes open. Question is, ought you to go there, or ought we ter bring ’er away? Bring ’er away, I say, but she’s so frightened. Every time Bert tries ter get ’er to leave the ’ouse, she gets ’ysterical. I fought of sending me wife to try, but you can never tell wiv Lil. Might frighten the lights aht of the kid.”
“Bill Ebbutt!” came the shrill voice of his wife, from inside the pub and obviously some distance above their heads: “have you lost your senses? Out on a night like this wiv no coat on, you’ll catch your death. Come in at once!”
“See what I mean?” said Ebbutt.
Rollison chuckled.
“Yes, Bill. Can you find me an old coat and a cap just about my size? I’ll go along and see what I can do with her.”
“Sure—’ere, take the key, they’re just inside the front door. You can’t miss ’em.”
Ebbutt thrust a key into Rollison’s hand, while the scolding voice of his wife came again, in tart rebuke. Rollison, smiling, walked along to the Academy and opened the front door. When he pressed down a switch, a big room, with the two rings, the punchbags and all the equipment of a gymnasium, showed in a bright light. Hanging on the wall were several coats, hats and other oddments of clothing, kept by Bill Ebbutt for the benefit of those unfortunates who needed clothes and couldn’t afford to buy them.
Rollison tried on a coat; it was large, but otherwise fitted tolerably well. He wound a grey muffler round his neck, put on a peaked cap and pulled the peak low over his eyes, and drew on his gloves. Then he went out and stamped about on a patch of freshly dug ground outside the building, to smear his shoes. That done, he put his own coat into his car, and walked briskly along the street towards the home of Bert Noddy, whom he knew slightly.
On the telephone, Rollison had been told everything Ebbutt knew, and Ebbutt had never been a man to repeat words for their own sake. It was a curious affair, and the girl who couldn’t speak English was obviously in distress.
Rollison knew Downing by reputation as one of the nastier characters of the East End. He also knew that it was rumoured that Downing sometimes moved in High Society. At others, he moved on a rather lower scale, at Pentonville, Wandsworth or Dartmoor.
Rollison had to take two turnings right and one left before he reached Brill Street, where Bert Noddy lived. A gas-lamp shone at the corner, but the light was poor; all the street lighting in these East End side streets was bad. Yet he turned the corner cautiously. The rubber heels of his shoes muffled the noise. He peered along, expecting only to see one of Bill Ebbutt’s boys lurking near Noddy’s house. He saw no one.
The man was probably hiding.
He walked quickly but with little sound. There were a few lighted windows, but most of the street was in darkness. Near one window he saw a heap on the ground; it looked like an old coat, flung carelessly away; but coats were not as cheap as that in the East End of London. He kept close to the wall, to lessen the risk of being seen. As he drew nearer, he saw that it was more than a coat; it was a man. He began to whistle, very softly, and stopped to look farther along. There was no sign of movement. He reached the man and bent down on one knee; and his whistling stopped abruptly. There was blood over the man’s head, more smeared on his cheeks.
Rollison didn’t feel for his pulse or do anything to see whether he was alive, but went on, still close to the houses.
He heard a car engine, and headlights shone along the road which intersected this one.
He stepped into a doorway; by flattening himself against it, there was room to hide. The car turned the corner, and the narrow street was bathed in its silvery light. He heard it stop; but the engine wasn’t switched off. He peered along and saw a man in a dark suit jump from the car and dash into a house.
Rollison moved swiftly.
By the time he reached the doorway of Bert Noddy’s house, where light shone out, he heard a muted whisper: “Put that light out!”
Someone obeyed; only the headlamps of the car now gave light, and that did not touch the front of the house. There were heavy footsteps, and then a man appeared, carrying a woman over his shoulder. He held her round the knees, and her hair fell towards the ground; Rollison could just see that. The man carrying her looked neither right nor left, but reached the car and pulled open the near door.
Another man hurried from the house.
Rollison, pressed close against the wall, let him pass, then shot out his right arm and clutched his shoulder, pulling him round. He struck with his left, a jab to the chin. He felt the pain of the blow through his gloves. The man grunted, and his knees bent – and as he fell, the man carrying the woman put her into the car, dumping her on the back seat, and turned round.
He was a split second too soon for Rollison.
He started: “What—” and then his right hand flashed to his pocket, and he dodged to one side. The man – Downing – pulled out a life preserver, came forward and smashed at Rollison. Rollison moved his hand, but the blow caught him on the shoulder, numbing it. Downing brought his knee up, towards Rollison’s groin. Rollison dodged to one side, and Downing was momentarily on one leg. Rollison hit him, not hard enough to hurt but quite hard enough to bowl him over; but as Downing fell, another man rushed at Rollison from behind. Rollison heard him coming, but was too late to escape a blow on the back of the head. The cap saved him from the worst effect, but he reeled away, only capable of feeble defence. He turned instinctively so that his back was against the car and he couldn’t be attacked from behind again. He saw a man leap at him, and heard metal smash against the car.
He shot out his foot, and fended the assailant off. The man he had knocked out first was getting to his feet. Out of the corner of his eye, Rollison saw Downing. Downing didn’t join in the fight, but opened the car door. It came within a few inches of Rollison. Rollison fended the other man off, and slammed the door. It hit Downing’s hand; he heard a gasp of pain, saw a big, vicious face twisted with rage and agony. But at three to one he couldn’t hold out for long, and—
A whistle sounded shrilly, and suddenly men pounded along the street towards the car, from the direction from which Rollison had come. Downing started and stared towards this new threat. He had his right hand under his arm, but moved and spoke as if he were in no pain.
“Run for it. Run.”
“But—” protested one of the other men.
“I said run.”
All three turned and raced towards the corner, while the others came on from the far end. Rollison straightened up. The police had their moments, even if Bill Ebbutt and Bert Noddy preferred to avoid them, on principle.
In fact there were no police; only three men, dressed much as Rollison was then.
“Okay, Mr. Ar?” One man burst out, as they drew near.
“Yes. Get after them.”
“Sure!” They sped past, while Rollison pushed back his cap, rubbed his head gingerly, and wished that his shoulder would stop aching. The sound of footsteps faded, he had no idea whether the second trio would catch up on the first; he doubted it. Bill Ebbutt had doubtless sent him a bodyguard, and one of its members had used a police whistle. Rollison opened the rear door of the car, groped for the light, and pressed the switch down.
The girl sat huddled in a corner, her eyes closed. There were puffy red marks at her throat, but she was breathing normally. He found a big lump on her right temple, but no other signs of injury.
Then her lips moved.
“Madame!” she moaned. “Madame Thysson. Madame …”
Her voice trailed off; and she didn’t speak again, showed no reaction when he spoke to her.
