John Creasey - Kill The Toff

“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.”

The passage was empty.

Rollison walked to the landing and looked along another passage which was at right angles to the first. Three rooms led from it and all the doors were closed. The first was unlocked; it led to a large bedroom which obviously wasn’t in use. The next door was locked. He hesitated outside the third, then tried the handle; the door opened and light showed. He pushed the door a little wider so that he could see into the room. No one spoke so he slipped inside.

It was a large bedroom, beautifully furnished, with a modern silvered oak suite; obviously a woman’s room. On an oval table near the window a bowl of red tulips reminded him of the flowers in the window of 49, Asham Street. The high double bed was spread with gleaming satin, the pale grey carpet had a deep pile; this was a room of luxury. The dressing-table had three long mirrors; a wardrobe occupied most of one wall. There was a faint smell of perfume which he recognised as Clarissa’s.

He closed the door.

Someone moved in another room which led from a corner of this; he could see enough to tell him that it was a bathroom.

Clarissa didn’t come out of there.

He went to the writing-desk, near the tulips; pale blue note-paper and envelopes were in the rack. There were sheets die-stamped 7, Pulham Gate, SW8, others which were quite plain—the size of the paper on which the note to Mellor had been written. He took one of the plain sheets and slipped it into his pocket. The small waste-paper basket was half-full of crumpled paper and used envelopes. He picked it up, found three envelopes addressed to Clarissa Arden at this address, put them into his pocket and replaced the waste-paper basket. As he straightened up, she came out of the bathroom.

She caught her breath at sight of him.

“Oh, hallo,” said Rollison brightly. “I thought I’d return the call.”

“Leave this room at once!”

“Haughty is as haughty does,” murmured Rollison. “I think we’ve a lot to say to each other, precious. It’s naughty and unhealthy to eavesdrop. I don’t think you quite understand the situation or that I can get tough.”

“I told you to leave this room.”

“All in good time. In spite of your false testimony your uncle has been showing signs of improved health. If he stops improving I shall regard your homecoming as more than a coincidence. You’re very lovely, Clarissa—too lovely to have your neck stretched by a hempen rope. But they do hang women and even your money and position wouldn’t save you from a trial. Remember that, every time you get thoughtless and every time you prowl, won’t you?”

“If you don’t leave at once I shall tell Samuel to send for the police.”

“Well, well!” breathed Rollison. “What a lot you have in common with Comrade Waleski!” She flinched and he went towards her, even took her hands, as if they were old, tried friends. “Clarissa, don’t mix with bad men. There may be a spice of excitement, and you may like the breath of danger, but these are really bad men and I should hate to think you were really a bad woman.”

She took her hands away and slapped his face.

“That must be the touch of the Brontes in you,” murmured Rollison. “One final word. When in need, come and see me. I love listening to damsels in distress.”

Her cheeks were white and her lips quivering, her eyes stormy. He smiled and turned away, crossed the room unhurriedly and looked back at her from the door. His eyes were laughing; hers were still furious.

The ice that was in Clarissa Arden had melted.

Snub hadn’t returned when Rollison reached Gresham Terrace. Jolly, who opened the door, raised a hand to exhort silence and whispered that Miss Lome was sleeping on the sofa in the living-room. Rollison looked in. She was fast asleep, a silken cushion beneath her head, a travelling-rug thrown over her.

“You make a good nurse,” murmured Rollison. “How are you amusing yourself?”

“I’ve been testing the note-paper,” said Jolly. “There are some prints which I can’t identify and which don’t appear to be Mellor’s or Miss Lome’s. Will you come and see, sir?”

Once Jolly’s room had been large—nearly as large as Rollison’s. A few months ago, however, Jolly had suggested that a partition be erected so that he could have both a bedroom and a “den.” The “den” was approached by a low door in the wooden partition. Beyond was Jolly’s idea of heaven. He was an enthusiastic amateur photographer with a talent which had only lately been developed; most of the work he did for Rollison, on such affairs as this. He had also worked diligently on the simpler scientific side of criminal investigation and had equipment here which had once been mildly approved by Grice. On a bench beneath the window was a microscope, a bunsen burner, a number of elementary chemical solutions and in the drawers and cupboards which made the den seem tiny was all the paraphernalia of detection including equipment for taking finger-prints. On top of one case were Jolly’s text-books: Gross’s Criminal Investigation, Glaiser’s Medical Jurisprudence and Toxicology and works of lesser renown but equal merit and usefulness.

Rollison seldom ventured here; never without an invitation./

Some photographs of finger-prints were pinned to a small wooden board and by them was a magnifying-glass.

“These need enlarging but you can see them clearly through the glass,” said Jolly.

“Yes. Run powder over these, will you?”

Rollison gave him the envelopes addressed to Clarissa Arden and Jolly opened a small bottle containing grey powder over the envelopes. Prints showed up almost immediately. He blew the powder away gently. As the prints became clearer, he glanced swiftly at Rollison and his voice quivered slightly with excitement.

“I think you’ve made a discovery of importance, sir.”

Rollison said: “Same prints?”

“I’m almost sure. Will you kindly use the glass?”

The prints were huge behind the lens. There were several different ones on each envelope but most were badly smudged, whereas some prints were sharp, clear and superimposed on the others. These were probably the prints which Clarissa had made when she had opened the letters. The loops and whorls had characteristics which could not be confused with the broader prints of the people who had first handled the envelopes.

Rollison turned to the note which read: The best way to disappear is to die. Identical prints were there, much fainter, and with other prints superimposed which he guessed were Mellor’s.

Jolly breathed: “Am I right, sir?”

“I think you are,” said Rollison slowly. “Miss Arden handled the note-paper before Mellor received it.”

“So she sent it.”

“Let’s stick to what we know; she handled the paper.”

“And no one else did, sir, except Mellor and you. Your prints show at two of the corners where you held the paper cautiously. Mellor’s are very clear, top right and centre both sides—where you would expect them to be when he took the note out. Hers are on both sides and fairly general, the kind of prints that one would make when writing a letter and folding it for an envelope. Have you met Miss Arden?”

Rollison laughed. “Yes, and we’re not friends. Like some fresh air, Jolly?”

“Exactly as you wish, sir. I have prepared a supper tray.”

“Good. Go to the Oxford Palace Hotel and find out what you can about Waleski. The police may be watching to see if inquiries are made for him but cock a snook at any policemen. I’m anxious to know whether Clarissa Arden has called on Waleski. I’ll wait here until you return or telephone.”

*     *     *

Rollison sat in an armchair, near the desk and the telephone. The wall behind the desk was filled with a remarkable miscellany of souvenirs of criminal cases: weapons used for murder; poisons; odd trophies of the hunt. The star piece was a hempen noose; it was Rollison’s boast that a particularly savage murderer had been hanged with it. This was called the Trophy Wall.

Judith still slept, breathing evenly, looking calm and delightful without any sign of strain—as if she were really resting for the first time for weeks. Jolly could exert a remarkably soothing effect and had doubtless impressed her with his view of Rollison’s omnipotence. Now and again she stirred but didn’t wake. Rollison watched her as he thought of Arden, Clarissa, everyone whom he had seen that day. He was trying to put every incident in its proper perspective, to judge the importance of one against the other; and, finally, to judge when it would be necessary and wise to go to the police. The evidence that attempts had been made on Arden’s life was so slender that he doubted whether the police would pay it much attention. There was no evidence that Arden’s legitimate son had been murdered. The police would say, and rightly because of the facts before them, that Rollison was reading crime into a series of unrelated but coincidental circumstances.

One question mattered above all. If Mellor were arrested and charged, what would be the effect on Sir Frederick Arden? He believed that the tension and anxiety of the trial would kill the old man. That was the strongest single justification for trying to keep Mellor away from the police, for backing his own judgment.

Yes, he would have to do that if he could.

He saw Judith stir again and then the telephone bell gave a slight ring, the preliminary to steady ringing. He took the receiver off quickly before it had time to disturb the girl.

“Rollison speaking.”

“Hallo, Boss!” It was Snub who sounded bright and presumably had good news. “Still in the land of the live and kicking.”

“How did you get on?”

“What a stickler you are for business! All right. The police haven’t heard of the Asham Street incident yet and the Doc hasn’t been worried. Mellor’s out of danger from the carbon monoxide. I don’t think there’s much need for me to haunt this part of the great metropolis tonight.”

“You needn’t. But I want you to hire a shooting-brake or any kind of vehicle which will take a stretcher and garage it somewhere handy to the Doc’s place in the morning, very likely for use before daylight.”

“I’ll be ready at the crack.”

“Thanks,” said Rollison. “Keep a look-out for the police. I don’t want them to know what you’ve been up to. If they discover you’re going to drive a van or what-not, they might tumble to the truth. If your flat is watched, go to a hotel and let me know the telephone number.”

“Oke.”

“Off you go,” said Rollison.

“Oi, have a heart! How’s sweet Judy?”

“Sleeping,” said Rollison and glanced at the girl.

Her eyes, heavy with sleep, were wide open as she stared at him. He smiled at her, said good-bye to Snub and replaced the receiver. She gave an answering smile and eased herself upon the cushion. Her hair was unruly and absently she poked her fingers through it. There were red marks on her cheek where she had been lying on the creased cushion cover.

“Hungry?” asked Rollison.

She was startled. “Well, yes, I am.” She laughed, as if that astonished her.

“Good sign,” said Rollison. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

The sandwiches were under a silver cover, on a tray; the coffee was bubbling gently in the percolator. Rollison took the tray in and, as he pushed the door open with his elbow, saw Judith standing in front of the trophy wall.

Most of his visitors were fascinated by the collection of “exhibits”—the weapons and the souvenirs of old crimes and many modest triumphs. But Judith was paying no attention to the macabre contents of the wall: she was looking into a tiny mirror and powdering her nose.

“A very good sign,” said Rollison.

She turned. “What—Oh! I feel such a wreck.”

“Jim’s out of danger,” said Rollison.

Her whole face became radiant. She didn’t say: “Are you sure?” but closed her eyes for a moment and shook her head, as if she were driving an ugly vision away. Then she looked at him smiling, composed, happy.

“Thank heaven for that! Can I see him?”

“Not yet. You may or may not realise it, young woman, but the mirror you’ve been dolling yourself up in has a famous history. It belonged to a beauty who murdered three husbands with arsenic. The police couldn’t prove she’d ever possessed any arsenic and the mirror betrayed her—some was found along the leather edge. Now perhaps you’ll show a proper respect for that wall.”

Judith laughed. “I thought it seemed a bit grim. Mr Rollison, what are Jim’s chances of being acquitted?”

“Good, if we can stall long enough.”

“You’re not pretending?”

“It’s the simple truth. Eat your supper.” When she began to eat the sandwiches hungrily, he went on: “The police have asked you nearly every question that can be asked and I want to repeat some of them. Had you ever any reason to think that Jim was in difficulties?”

She said: “Absolutely none.”

“How often did you see him?”

“Practically every day. Once or twice he had to go away on business but he was never away for more than two nights. He’s the manager of a small firm of printers, you know.”

“Yes. Did you ever go to the works?”

“Several times.”

“Had he any business worries?”

“He was only worried about one thing, as far as I know, and I think I should have known had there been anything else,” said Judith. “The world situation sometimes got on his nerves. He had a rough time in the war and— well, you know what I mean. He thought everyone who talked of war was crazy and ought to be pole-axed. The news sometimes got him down.”

“ Was it just the news? Are you sure?”

“I’ve never questioned that,” said Judith quietly. “I don’t think there’s any doubt. I could usually guess when he’d been depressed; it would be a day when there was more cock-fighting among the United Nations or a flare-up somewhere in the world. I don’t think it was related to his personal affairs. He always said he felt so helpless—that it wouldn’t have been so bad if he could have done something about it himself.”

“I see,” said Rollison. “Did you know his friends?”

“One or two of them. I don’t think he had many.”