The Toff and the Golden Boy by John Creasey

Author:John Creasey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: House of Stratus

Chapter Twelve

Escape

Downstairs at Danny’s, Rollison said: ‘Watch him, Bill.’

‘Wherever he goes, I’ll know,’ Ebbutt promised.

‘And I’ll see Grice,’ Rollison went on.

‘If Grice’s boys watch they might give themselves away,’ said Ebbutt.

‘Grice would love to hear you say that,’ said Rollison drily.

‘You know the risk,’ Ebbutt said. ‘But I daresay you’re right. This isn’t a job we can handle without telling the Yard. If it blew up in our faces we’d only have ourselves to blame. Okay, Mr. Ar. There’s one thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘You’ve stuck your neck out again.’

‘It does rather look as if that’s its natural position.’

‘It won’t make any difference whether we bury you as Wardle or Rollison,’ said Ebbutt with heavy humour.

Rollison said appeasingly: ‘But there’s no immediate danger, Bill. It can’t start until Micky Moses has got through to Goldy. Take it easy!’

Ebbutt looked at him squarely, and said: ‘Don’t know what fear is, Mr. Ar, do you?’

Rollison gripped his arm, said: ‘Don’t I, Bill?’ and turned away. Soon he was on a bus heading for Aldgate; and every brown-haired youth he passed seemed to be a potential victim of Golden Boy, and every fair-haired one his own potential murderer. He took a train at Aldgate East for Charing Cross, then walked along the busy Embankment towards the Yard. The tulips were nearly over, phlox and aster and antirrhinum were in the beds, a glory of colour. He went into the Yard, and although most of the policemen he saw knew him as Rollison, none seemed to recognise him. The sergeant on duty in the hall asked: ‘Is Mr. Grice expecting you?’

‘No. But tell him I’ve a message from Lady Gloria Hurst.’

The sergeant said: ‘Okay, then.’

Soon, he was saying: ‘Mr. Grice will send out for you. He won’t keep you a minute.’

Rollison stood at the window by the big round reception table, looking out on the river. Almost at once a big, youthful-looking man came into the hall.

‘Mr. Wardle?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mr. Grice can see you now, sir.’ The big man was a stranger to Rollison.

Rollison walked with him along the familiar passage, stopped at the familiar door, and followed the other in.

‘Mr. Wardle, sir,’ he said.

Grice was standing behind the big desk on which were placed in neat precision an in and out and pending tray. The door faced the window, and Rollison was acutely aware of the bright light and the detective’s searching gaze. The door closed. Grice did not offer his hand, but motioned to the chair which Rollison normally hitched round. This time he simply sat down. Once again he wondered how an old friend would behave to a stranger; whether Grice had one manner for cronies, one for others.

‘I understand you’ve a message from Lady Gloria Hurst.’

‘That’s right,’ said Rollison in his Wardle voice.

‘What is it?’

Rollison said: ‘Apparently Mr. Rollison left a tape-recorded message for you and told her about it before his murder,’ Rollison said. ‘She didn’t think it wise to tell you about it personally.’

‘Why did she think it wise to tell you about it?’ Grice asked.

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