John Creasey - Kill The Toff

“How marvellous!” she said dryly.

“I’ve been at it for so long I ought to be good,” said Rollison blandly. He handed her the gin-and-vermouth, smiled almost inanely, looking for a moment as if he meant every word he said. “Here’s a long life to your uncle!”

He sipped—and as she put the glass to her lips, his expression changed. The bleakness was there; and something more: a cool, cold appraisal, by which he told her that her beauty, her intelligence, her composure, had made no impression on him. It also told her that he believed she knew much more than she had yet admitted and that from now on she would have to deal with him.

She held the glass steady but didn’t drink.

Rollison murmured: “Not a toast you approve?”

She drank quickly and put her glass down. She seemed shaken, as if that sudden transformation had alarmed her. There was also speculation in her gaze. Which was the real man: the one she had glimpsed or the amiable fop who now smiled fatuously at her and said:

“What should we do without Scotch?”

The door opened and the footman came in.

“Well, William?” Clarissa’s voice was husky.

“Sir Frederick is awake, Miss, and would like to see Mr Rollison.”

“Will you tell him to say I’ll be up in a few minutes?” Rollison asked.

The woman hesitated; then nodded.

The footman went out. Rollison sipped his drink again then stubbed his cigarette in a heavy glass ash-tray. As he did so, he said:

“You won’t be wise to upset your uncle and it will upset him if you try to keep me away.”

“I don’t think you are half as good as you think you are, Mr Rollison.”

“Even that would be pretty good, wouldn’t it?” murmured Rollison. “Shall I see you again before I go?”

She didn’t answer. He finished his drink and went out. William was at the foot of the stairs and turned and led the way up. The hush about the house seemed to become more intense here, perhaps because the thick carpet on the stairs and landing muffled every sound of their footsteps. William, tall, slender and good-looking, led the way along a wide passage to Arden’s rooms. It was a suite: study, dressing-room, bedroom and bathroom; no other rooms were near it.

Arden sat in his study, wearing a beige-coloured dressing-gown, his thin grey hair standing on end, thick-lensed glasses making his eyes look large. He hadn’t shaved for two or three days and passed his hand over the grey bristles; a nervous habit. His feet were pushed into carpet slippers and he sat in a large hide armchair, his feet close to the fireplace where a small coal-fire burned. The heavy brown curtains were drawn and the room was very warm.

“Ah, Rollison. Where have you been?” Arden’s voice was gruff and he slurred the words—that slurring had started when he had recovered from the seizure which had nearly killed him. “Expected you all day.”

“I’ve been busy,” Rollison said.

“My affairs.”

“Yes.”

“All right, all right, come and sit down.”

Arden motioned to a smaller armchair opposite him. His hands were long and thin, the blue veins stood out, the backs were covered with purply brown freckles. Everything about him was long and thin: face, nose, body, hands and feet. Standing, he was six feet five and at seventy-one showed no sign of a stoop.

The study was friendly: a comfortable man’s room with book-lined walls, an old, carved oak desk on which were two photographs, of a young man and a middle-aged woman. They were the dead son and the dead wife.

He held his hands towards the fire; they had a transparent look.

“Have you found him?”

“I shall,” Rollison said.

“You’ve said that all along. I’m beginning to doubt if you’ll ever succeed. I thought I could rely on you but I’m not happy, Rollison. Not at all happy. Are you sure you’re doing everything you can?”

“Yes. Too much. I shouldn’t have told you  his name.”

Arden said slowly:

“I would have known, Rollison. I had a telephone message—telling me Mellor was my son. Someone already knew. Rollison, I’m frightened, sometimes, by the hatred behind all this. I—Never mind! Don’t want to be rude. I know you’re trying but I’m tormented by thoughts of that boy. If I had—” he broke off and grumbled under his breath. “Never mind. It’s ridiculous nonsense to suggest he might have killed anyone. Don’t forget that you’re to find out who did commit the murder. It won’t be enough just to find my son.”

Rollison wondered what Sir Frederick would do if he knew what Grice and Ebbutt thought of Mellor.

“Why don’t you say something? Eh? Look here, Rollison!” The seizure and the constant illness had not dimmed the grey eyes or taken away their fire or affected the alertness of the keen mind. “You’re keeping something back. What is it? What have you done to your hand? Been fighting?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“The enemies of your son.”

“Ah!” Arden drew back his hands and clenched them tightly; like claws. “So you’ve discovered something? You know his enemies. Who are they? Rollison, I want the truth! I don’t want to hear any of that nonsense about  keeping bad news away from me. I can stand a shock. What do the fools think I am? A stone image? I want to know, Rollison. What have you found?”

Rollison said slowly: “Your son.”

Arden didn’t speak. His hands tightened upon each other, he peered intently into Rollison’s face and his frail body was rigid. Rollison could hear his breath rattling up and down his wind-pipe. He lost a little colour— and then suddenly his hands unclenched and he ran one over his chin.

“Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Is he all right?”

“He’ll live.”

“So—he is ill?” The words were like a sigh.

“He’s been ill,” Rollison said. “He’s in good hands now and I’m assured that he’ll be as good as new in a few days.”

“I want to see him.”

“No,” said Rollison. “That wouldn’t do just yet.”

“Nonsense! I’m going to see him.”

“I thought you wanted to help him.”

“Don’t bandy words. What harm will it do if I see him?”

“It’s too early. If you’re going to trust me, you’ll have to trust me all the way.” Rollison took out his cigarette-case, put a cigarette to his lips and flicked his lighter. The flame burned steadily until he remembered that tobacco-smoke upset the old man; was liable to start a paroxysm of coughing which might bring on another heart attack. He put the lighter out. “I’m not the only one seeking your son, you know; but the others haven’t found him yet.”

Arden grunted: “Police?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm. Can you keep him away from the police?”

“I think so. It’s one of the things I want to talk to you about. If they find him, they’ll charge him with Galloway’s murder right away. At the moment he’s in hiding in the East End of London but he can’t stay there for long. I want to move him somewhere safe where he’ll get good attention and be free from prying eyes, from his own enemies and from the police. I don’t know of such a place offhand. Do you?”

Arden barked: “Bring him here!”

“No, that won’t do.”

“Why won’t it?”

“You know why. I don’t trust your household.”

“I’m not sure you’re right about that,” growled Arden, “but I’ve been better since you told me what to do. I sent that advertisement to The Times for a footman at the Lodge. Something’s gone amiss; it’s actually in today.” He sniffed. “My improvement since I’ve measured out my own medicine, as you suggested, might be a coincidence, might be—” He broke off, his voice became querulous. “Expense doesn’t matter, I’ve told you that often enough. Can’t you find a comfortable place where they’ll look after him and ask no questions?”

“I could if he weren’t wanted for murder.”

“The fools!” Arden ran his hand over his chin again. “The damned fools! Murder! My son! Where do you want him to be? In London?”

“Not too far away but not in London proper.”

“He’ll have to go to the Lodge. You can trust the servants for that.”

“I don’t trust your servants anywhere.” He had to be emphatic about that, lest the old man relaxed the precautions he had already taken. “I want a small place—a cottage would do—with someone who’ll do what you tell them and hold their peace. When I suggested that you should go away, you mentioned an old woman who lives near Woking—your ex-housekeeper. Would she do this?”

Arden said slowly, yet eagerly: “Why, yes, ye-es! Why didn’t I think of Mrs Begbie? Yes, she’ll look after him.” He started to get up. “I’ll give you a note to her, you’re to tell her that nothing will be too good for him. When will you take him? Tonight?”

“Just as soon as I can,” promised Rollison. “You’ve got to understand one thing, Arden.”

“Yes, yes. What is it?”

“The police might find him and that would make me powerless—except to look for the real murderer. I can promise nothing but there’s an even chance that I can get him safely to this cottage.”

“I’ll have to rely on you,” said Arden. If I were ten years younger—Never mind, never mind! I like you, Rollison, trust you. God help me if I’m wrong.”

He stood up to his full height, reached the desk and sat down slowly in a swivel chair. He wrote slowly but in a clear, bold hand. But it was not at the long, thin fingers or the pen held so steadily that Rollison stared; it was at the pale blue note-paper.

CHAPTER TEN

Paper And Ink

Arden gave his full attention to writing the note. Rollison looked away, telling himself that the paper being the same colour as that of the crumpled note which he’d found in Mellor’s room and left with Jolly to test for prints was sheer coincidence. He reached forward, took a sheet of the note-paper from the desk and scribbled on it, as if making a reminder note. He folded it carefully and slipped it into his wallet. The old man’s pen scratched with its slow, regular movements and the wheezing breath rumbled and rattled loudly. A coal fell into the fender but did not disturb Arden’s concentration.

Rollison glanced about the room. His gaze reached the door, passed it, went back again.

The door was open; and he knew that he had closed it. He stood up, still without distracting Arden’s attention, and mechanically put a cigarette to his lips. He remembered not to light it as he crossed the room silently.

Yes, the door was open—very little: no more than half an inch. But anyone outside could hear anything that was being said inside. When had it been opened? His back had been towards it and he’d heard nothing. Whoever was there might have heard about the cottage and Mrs Begbie.

“Was” there? Or had been?

He opened the door quickly but without a sound—and Clarissa Arden started back, stifling an exclamation.

Arden looked up.

“What’s that?”

“It’s warm in here,” said Rollison without looking round. The woman backed a pace and stared at him. In the half-light of the landing she looked unreal, a figure of ghostly beauty.

“I like it warm. I’ve finished. She’ll—”

“Everything will be all right,” Rollison interrupted and closed the door as Clarissa turned and walked quickly away. He crossed to Arden who was slipping the note into a pale blue envelope. “That’s nice note-paper,” he remarked.

Arden grunted. “Never mind the note-paper. See that Mrs Begbie gets that herself before the boy arrives. Understand me, don’t you? She lives alone. No difficulty—reliable woman. Or I always thought she was reliable, always thought all my servants were.”

“We’ll make sure,” said Rollison.

“Damn the servants! Look after my son.” Arden stood up and peered down on Rollison. There was something pathetic in his gaze, in the way he stretched out a hand and rested it on Rollison’s shoulder. “I know you think I’m a foolish old man. Perhaps I am. But life catches up with you, Rollison. Remember that while you’re still young. Do something wrong, let it fade out of memory for a while, and you’ll think that it’s dead, buried, forgotten; but it isn’t. It’s always there, always ready to haunt you, as this is haunting me. Commit a wrong—and put it right as soon as you can. Do you understand?”

“I know.”

“Yes,” said Arden. “Yes, I really believe you do. Remarkable man, Rollison! I’m glad I asked you to help me. I—Oh, forget it; doesn’t matter. I was going to say something else before I started preaching. What on earth— Oh, yes. Come and sit down—”

“I ought to go.”

“Come and sit down!” Arden went slowly to his chair. Rollison did likewise. “Now listen to me. I sent a cheque for ten thousand pounds to my solicitors today. Kemble, Wright and Kemble, Lincoln’s Inn. They are to cash it at once, place it in a separate account and use it on your instructions if I die before it’s wanted.”

Rollison said slowly: “Why did you do that?”

The man’s voice and his manner were impressive; this was of real importance to him.

“I don’t think I shall live long,” Arden said abruptly. “I shouldn’t be surprised if—Hmm, never mind. The money is to be used for my son’s defence, just for his defence, understand me? That’s if I die before this business is over and he’s not cleared of suspicion. You won’t take any money now, so—well, there it is. Don’t spare any expense, Rollison, and understand that you can use the money for any purpose you like provided it helps the boy.”

“We’ll finish the job while you’re still able to enjoy life,” said Rollison.

“I don’t know—I really don’t know. It’s a safeguard, anyhow. I confess there’s nothing I’d like more than to see him clear of this trouble, happy and settled—nothing! I’ve a dream, Rollison—a silly old man’s dream. I’d like to see the boy married to a good woman before I die. A good woman, like my wife.”

He broke off and gazed dreamily into space.

Rollison murmured: “Your niece?”

The old man started.

“Eh? Clarissa?” he laughed and began to cough, pressed his hand against his chest and breathed wheezily, with great difficulty. Then he regained his breath and his smile twisted his whole face. “I wouldn’t wish any man to marry Clarissa. She’s an empty shell, Rollison. Beautiful, I grant you, but—made of ice. She’s sacrificed her life wantonly to the pursuit of excitement. Mixing my metaphors aren’t I? If she weren’t so well off, I’d say—Never mind, never mind; forget it.”

“Is she wealthy?”

“Her father was; she inherited everything of his only a few years ago. Oh, she’s no motive for wanting me dead!” He laughed again and this time managed without a spasm of coughing. “Even if she were as poor as a church mouse, she’d still have no motive for wanting me dead, although she may think she has. She hasn’t seen my will. She’s just back from Paris. Said she’d heard I was ill and wanted to come and look after me. She meant she was tired of her latest lover. London’s her happy hunting-ground. But never mind Clarissa—except don’t trust her. She’ll try to get her claws into you because you’re an unusual man—something different. She’d stand by and watch me die if it would give her a thrill. Forget her! Why are you sitting there, wasting your time? I thought you had a lot to do.”