John Creasey - Kill The Toff

“What time was this shooting?” Clarissa asked humbly.

“Miss Arden, I asked you—”

Rollison looked at her with his head on one side and said: “Grice was told that I was in the East End at half-past two last night.”

“But, darling, you couldn’t have been.”

The “darling” startled Grice, the rest of the sentence made Rollison sit up. Grice lifted the coat from the chair-back and felt the pockets and took out the gun.

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because he couldn’t be in two places at once and he was with me long after half-past two.” Clarissa watched Grice sniff the gun. “Mr Grice, have you known Mr Rollison for long?”

“Too long. Rollison” —the familiar “Roily” was gone— “this gun has been fired recently.”

“Really.”

“Don’t you think he’s ageing rapidly?” asked Clarissa. “He has such a reputation that I thought he could stand the pace but look at him and then look at me.”

In spite of himself, Grice had to repress a smile. “Yes, he’s getting past fast living! When did you use the gun, Rollison?”

“Last night. I drove out into the country and did silly things to rabbits. Clarissa, I dislike you intensely.”

“Never mind, darling,” said Clarissa. “You’ll feel better when you’ve had a bath and shave.”

“I’m going to take this gun with me,” Grice said, pocketing it. “And if the bullets found on the Mile End Road were fired from it, you’ll lie in dock before the day’s out. I’ve told you, I’m not fooling.”

“Oughtn’t you to look for rabbits?” asked Clarissa, sweetly.

Grice said: “And mind you don’t get into trouble for conspiring to defeat the ends of justice.”

“Isn’t that a marvellous phrase?” cooed Clarissa. “Do you mean, am I lying? I wouldn’t compromise myself for nothing, surely? I doubt if I’d have compromised myself at all if I’d seen Roily looking like this.”

The gurgling laugh came again.

Grice looked at her darkly.

“Do you know where Mellor is, Miss Arden?”

Her high spirits faded as fast as the smile. Eyes which had been brimming over suddenly became hard, even frightened. She stood quite still and the change affected Grice quite as much as it did Rollison.

“No,” she said. “I don’t know and don’t want to know.”

“Do you realise that Rollison is hiding him?”

She shot a swift glance at Rollison. “Are you?”

“Grice thinks so.”

“If I thought you were helping that brute—”

“You’d tell me the truth. He is, so you’d better.” Grice drew nearer, holding the gun loosely in front of him, challenging her. It was perhaps the first time she realised he was really an adversary to be reckoned with and again the name of Mellor had shaken her badly. “Were you with Rollison last night, after half-past two?”

“Until four o’clock or later,” she said slowly. “But, Roily, if Mellor—”

“Rollison is hiding one of the most vicious criminals in England. He is deliberately trying to prevent us from finding the man. He had some silly notion that Mellor is a victim of circumstances and not just a scoundrel. Get that into your head, Miss Arden. If you help Rollison, you’ll help Mellor. If you want to be helpful to anyone, convince him that he’s making a fool of himself. He doesn’t seem to believe me when I tell him that helping Mellor might land him in jail where his reputation won’t cut any ice. This man is a killer and we’re going to get him and anyone who helps him. Remember that, Rollison.”

Grice dropped the gun into his pocket and stalked out of the room. He closed the door with a snap and left Clarissa standing very still and looking down at Rollison, as if she were trying to read the truth from his expression. Rollison leaned back and opened his cigarette-case, put a cigarette slowly to his lips and fumbled for the lighter on the bedside table. Neither of them spoke.

The front door closed and Jolly’s footsteps sounded outside.

Rollison called: “Wait there, Jolly.”

“Very good, sir.”

It was astonishing that Clarissa’s eyes should be so clear, her gaze so straight, her body so rigid. She was a lovely creature and could change her moods so suddenly. Was that natural? Or forced? The contrast between the gay, laughing woman of five minutes ago and this cold, purposeful woman now was unforgettable.

At last she said: “Are you helping Mellor?”

“We shall have luncheon together and I’ll tell you then. We’ve a job to do before that.”

“If you’re helping Mellor, I’m against you,” said Clarissa. “Don’t make any mistake.”

Rollison shrugged himself into his coat, adjusted his tie and looked at himself in the mirror. The reflection was not displeasing; the shadowy image beside it—the memory of what he had seen an hour before—took the edge off any feeling of vanity. He was nearly forty; he had never realised before just how much that meant. It might be folly to allow Clarissa to make him feel old; it remained true that she had jolted him badly and he half-wished she hadn’t come. Only half-wished.

Why had she come?

“Jolly!”

“Sir?” Jolly’s voice came faintly from the kitchen.

“Get Sir Frederick Arden on the telephone for me.”

“Very good, sir.”

Rollison filled his cigarette-case, tapped the pockets of his perfectly-fitting coat and went into the hall. Clarissa was in the living-room, reading an illustrated weekly, and her head was outlined against the noose of the hangman’s rope. She smiled up at him.

“Almost young again, Roily!”

“I hope you fade fast before you’re forty. How old are you?”

“How ungallant! Thirty-four.”

“If you can tell the truth about your age, there’s hope for you yet. Clarissa, be careful. I think you may be playing a very dangerous game. You heard what Grice had to say. He meant every word of it.”

“Wasn’t he warning you?”

“Not only me. Grice is an able chap. Don’t underestimate him and don’t underestimate me. Even when I fail, Jolly always comes to the rescue! Why did you come here this morning?”

“I just wanted to see you. You did me good last night. I haven’t felt so carefree for weeks. Must everything I do have a sinister significance?”

“No. My worry is that it might have. What was your uncle’s bone of contention?”

“I don’t know.”

Jolly said into the telephone: “One moment, Sir Frederick, Mr Rollison is back now.”

Rollison took the telephone while Clarissa turned and studied the trophy wall; but he knew she was listening intently, that she hoped to gather the drift of what her uncle said.

“Rollison here,” Rollison said and pressed the receiver tightly to his ear, trying to make sure that nothing the old man said sounded in the room.

“Where the devil have you been, Rollison?”

“Out and about.”

“More likely slugging abed,” growled Arden. “I want to see you.”

“Gladly. This afternoon—”

“This morning. Now.”

“Sorry, but it can’t be done. I’ve an urgent job—”

“Confound you, Rollison; you’re supposed to be helping me, aren’t you?” Arden began to shout and in self-defence Rollison eased the receiver from his ear. “And I want to know what you’re doing, I want to know whether you’re making an utter damned fool of yourself. I want to know—” He paused, then barked: is my niece with you now?”

“Clarissa?” murmured Rollison.

Clarissa swung away from the trophy wall.

“You know who I mean—I haven’t a dozen nieces,” rasped Sir Frederick, is she there?”

Clarissa could surely hear him now.

“She called,” Rollison said.

“And you called here last night. Oh, I know what goes on in my own house. What the devil were you doing here at three o’clock in the morning, closeted with Clarissa? Haven’t I warned you that she’s a heartless baggage and that she can’t be trusted? Are you going to ignore everything I tell you? My God, I didn’t believe you could be such a fool! Keep away from the wench; she’s dangerous.”

Throughout all this Rollison eyed Clarissa and beamed; and Clarissa, after the first shock, forced a smile but did not look gay.

“Do you hear me?” bellowed Arden.

“Yes, and I believe every word you say,” said

Rollison. “I won’t fall for the luscious Clarissa’s wiles. Is that what you rang up about?”

“Isn’t it enough?”

Rollison laughed. “Yes, I suppose it’s plenty. You sound in fine fettle this morning. Keep it up.”

“I’m coming to the conclusion that you’re an insolent young pup,” growled Arden. “Just a moment, Rollison.” His tone altered and was much quieter; Rollison could imagine how his expression had changed too. is there any good news of the boy?”

“He’ll be all right and I am sure we shall get him out of this fix.”

“I want to see that boy, Rollison.”

“You’ll see him,” Rollison said gently. “Goodbye.”

He put down the telephone and Clarissa said: “Home truths,” and left it at that.

Jolly hovered about the door but Rollison motioned him away. Clarissa lit a cigarette and looked as if she wished she need not stay, that she didn’t want to undergo the strain of the next few minutes, the inevitable questioning.

“Why does he feel that way about you, Clarissa?”

“We’ve never got on well,” she answered.

“This isn’t just a question of dislike through getting on each other’s nerves.”

She said: it’s much more than that. He doesn’t approve of what he calls my carryings-on. He’s a Puritan at heart and always will be. He worships money, I worship sensation and the two don’t mix well.” She was earnest now and that was an unaccustomed role for her. It’s deep-rooted animosity because I’ve never listened to his advice. That’s a cardinal sin in my uncle’s eyes. In fact, it’s more. You don’t know him really well—you only know a rather frightened old man who doesn’t like confessing that he’s frightened and knows that I know he is. He resents that. There’s the man I know—the man who hates independence in anyone whom he thinks ought to depend on him. He tried to make a soft fool out of Geoffrey but Geoffrey resisted, and finally revolted, because he had something of the old man in him. That’s why Geoffrey started this slumming; he couldn’t think of anything that his father would hate more. It was the same with his wife, my uncle’s wife. She was a pretty, vapid creature, fifteen years younger than he, lovely to look at but always needing a strong man to cling to. My uncle just can’t stand independence in a woman, and—”

She broke off.

Rollison said slowly: “At heart you hate him, don’t you?”

“That isn’t true. I dislike a lot of the things he does and I resent his contempt for me but he’s not a man to hate, Roily. I can imagine circumstances in which I’d be quite fond of him but that would mean being sorry for him and showing it—and he’d fight against it with all his strength. It’s just a case of relatives of different generations who don’t get on. He’s even sore because I’m financially independent of him—he always thought that my father should have left my money in trust, with him a trustee, instead of leaving it to me without any strings.”

“How wealthy are you?”

“Even by your standards, wealthy,” she replied.

It was difficult not to believe everything she said.

*     *     *

Before they left, Snub telephoned; all was quiet at the cottage, and Mellor seemed to be on the mend.

*     *     *

It was a morning of sunshine and cool winds, when the countryside near London had a green loveliness and a peaceful beauty which made both Rollison and Clarissa quiet. The Rolls-Bentley purred along the broad highway, passing most of the traffic on the road, until they came to the by-road where Mrs Begbie’s cottage stood. The road led uphill and the cottage was hidden for some distance by pine, fir and beech trees. The small leaves of the beech had a delicate translucence which contrasted sharply with the furry darkness of the firs and the shapely gloom of the pines.

The cottage stood close to the road, at the end of a small village. It was not a pretty place; box-like, with a grey slate roof and faded red brick walls, a garden that was tidy but where few flowers grew and those as if in defiance of the two small grass lawns. A rambler, covered with pink buds, softened the severe lines of the front door. A narrow gravel path, straight as a die, led from a wooden gate to the porch.

Rollison pulled up just beyond the gate.

“Ever been here before?” he asked.

“I’ve passed near, on the way to the Lodge. Why?”

“I wondered.”

He opened the door for her and handed her out. She looked at the cottage thoughtfully and shook her head.

“No, I don’t recognise it. Why have you brought me here?”

“A little experiment,” said Rollison. it won’t take long and it won’t do you any harm, although you may get a shock.”

The front door opened and Snub appeared, waving cheerfully; even at that distance Rollison could see that Snub hadn’t shaved.

“A friend of yours?” asked Clarissa.

“Yes, my amanuensis, doing a watchdog act. This has been a grim business, Clarissa.”

“Did you do that shooting last night?”

“I knew it was being done.”

“Won’t Grice be able to prove your gun was used?”

Rollison chuckled. “I’ve been mixed up in this kind of thing before, you know! Hallo, Snub, how are tricks?”

“Fine. The food’s wonderful, the old dear can cook a treat.” Snub eyed Clarissa with unfeigned admiration; he was a most susceptible young man and had no hesitation in showing it. “Visitors for the patient?”

“Miss Arden, Mr Higginbottom,” murmured Rollison.

“Not my fault,” pleaded Snub, it doesn’t mean what it sounds as if it means, either. It means the bottom of a hill, or village, or something like that. How are you?”

Clarissa said: “First Jolly and now Snub! I hope you know how lucky you are, Roily.”

“Oh, he does.” Snub was earnest but his eyes were gleaming. “I keep telling him and he’s a good listener.”

“How’s the patient?” asked Rollison.

“Sleeping again. The Doc said he would sleep a lot and we were not to try to rouse him. He had some bread-and-milk for breakfast, though. He’ll do. Going to see him?”

“Yes. Where’s Mrs B. ?”

“Shopping in the village—she really is a marvellous old dear. Still has all her faculties and she boasts that she’s seventy-six. For some mysterious reason she’s taken a liking to me and you made a hit last night. Shall I lead the way?”

“No, there won’t be room for all three of us,” said Rollison. “Just keep your eyes open, will you? I don’t think we were followed but if the police were on the job they could do a lot by radio.”