John Creasey - Kill The Toff

“Sober!” choked Ebbutt.

“What was his voice like?”

“I was rather surprised, I must confess. He spoke like an educated man. He did not rant, as might have been expected.” Jolly contrived to bring chillness into the atmosphere of the living-room—the stillness that was Mellor. “He did not threaten wildly or go into any detail. I found the message disturbing and I do hope you will be extremely careful.”

“You gotta be,” Ebbutt said earnestly. “You just gotta be.”

“An educated man,” murmured Rollison. “Yes, that fits in.”

“Fits in wiv wot?” asked Ebbutt.

“A stray notion that’s been running through my mind,” Rollison said. “Bill, there’s a job you can do for me right away—get it started as soon as you reach home and finish before the night’s out.”

“Just say the word, Mr Ar; just say the word!”

“That’s what I want you to do. Use the grapevine and tell Mellor that I’d like to meet him. He can name the place and the time and he’ll probably want to make conditions. If you get a message from him, let me have it quickly.”

Ebbutt sat there with his mouth agape.

“Are you sure that is wise, sir?” Jolly was edgy and anxious.

“If you arst me, it’s crazy,” said Ebbutt emphatically. “Mr Ar, why don’t you berlieve me when I say that Mellor’s bad? Bad as they come! If you want to meet ‘im at any place ‘e’d do yer in and larf like ‘ell while ‘e was doin’ it. Don’t you go seein’ the Killer.”

“Try it out, Bill, will you?”

“Well—”

“The last time I wanted you to do something for—”

“Nar, don’t bring that up, Mr Ar. I shan’t forget it in a n’urry. I’ve warned yer, that man’s poison. But if you hinsist, I’ll spread the word arahnd. There’s one thing.” Ebbutt sniffed and seemed relieved. “I don’t suppose ‘e’ll send any reply. “E’ll fink it’s a trap. If ‘e does, don’t take no chances, Mr Ar. Anyfink else?”

“Not now, Bill; but there will be if we get an answer. Have one for the road?”

“No, I don’t think I will. I don’t like drinkin’ much before drivin’, not even that watery stuff. Where’d yer get the beer from, Mr Jolly? When you run that barrel dry, let me know and I’ll fix some real stuff. You’ll know you are drinking beer then.” He heaved himself out of his chair. “Lil said I was to say ‘alio, Mr Ar.”

“Give her my love,” said Rollison.

Ebbutt chuckled. “That’ll please ‘er, that will. Tickle ‘er to deaf. She’ll tell all the Harmy abaht it, Mr Ar; they’ll be praying for you before you know where you are. But Lil’s orl right when she’s aht’ve that Salvation Harmy uniform. Not that I’m agenst the Harmy. Cheerioh, you two!”

Jolly let him out.

Rollison handled the hangman’s rope again and was holding it lightly when Jolly returned. Jolly’s movements were slow and precise—a sure sign that a matter lay heavily upon his mind and he was not quite sure how to get it off.

“I’ll buy it,” Rollison encouraged.

“Thank you, sir. How badly hurt is Mr Higginbottom?”

“He’ll pull through.”

“And so will Mellor, I understand,” said Jolly. “Mr Rollison, I beg you to take this suggestion seriously. You may not have solved the whole problem but you have found Mellor and carried out your obligation to Sir Frederick. The police are now aware that attempts have been—or may have been—made on his life and they both can and should protect him. We have escaped lightly, in view of the nature of the opposition. Haven’t we done enough?”

“No,” said Rollison.

“Forgive my insistence, sir, but why not? I beg you not to assume a moral obligation which isn’t yours. There is no need to carry on this feud with Mellor. His threats have to be treated with respect but with ordinary caution no harm will befall you. On the other hand, if you were to meet him or if you continue with the case, then it is very likely that you will get hurt. I don’t think the circumstances justify that.”

“You’re probably right.”

“Then why fly in the face of Providence, sir?”

Rollison smiled faintly.

“I want to know whether Miss Arden is as bad as Mellor, Jolly. I don’t know any other way of finding out. It has become a personal issue.”

“In that case, sir,” said Jolly slowly, “there is no more to be said about the matter. Have you yet informed Sir Frederick of the success of your mission?”

“I’m going to see him now,” said Rollison.

*     *     *

Was he going to see Arden? Or Clarissa? He would have made the journey whether

Clarissa were at Pulham Gate or not, whether he had met her or not, but that was begging the question. Did he want to see Clarissa or Arden? As Rollison threaded his way through the West End traffic he tried to answer it; and he wanted to see Clarissa. He wanted to find out what had passed through her mind when she had left him; why the light-hearted thrust about another new sensation had affected her so deeply.

Which was the real Clarissa? The first woman he had met? The new woman who had been born after Waleski’s attack on her? Or some unknown creature—someone he didn’t know and only vaguely suspected to exist?

Had she fooled him completely by her lightness and her gaiety, her surprising lapses into sentiment?

He turned into Pulham Gate. Two or three cars were pulled up near Number 7 but not Clarissa’s. A policeman strolled along and reminded him of the attempt to kidnap him. Mellor had wanted to see him then, doubtless wanted to see him again, or he would not have made that call or spread his threats of vengeance through the grapevine—that tenuous telepathic communication system which ranged all over the East End. By it, a thing which happened in one locality was known in all within half an hour—except to the police.

A footman, William, opened the door.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Good evening,” said Rollison. “Is Sir Frederick up?”

“I’m afraid—I’m afraid he’s had a serious relapse, sir. The doctor is with him now. I believe that he has asked for you: the butler telephoned your flat a few minutes ago. Will you come straight up, please?”

*     *     *

Rollison passed him and hurried up the stairs. All the doors of Arden’s suite were closed. He went into the study. The door leading to the bedroom was open. He stepped through. He could see the foot of Arden’s big double bed and the doctor bending over it. Rollison waited until the doctor straightened up and caught sight of him.

They had met before and recognition was mutual.

“Come in, will you?” The doctor was elderly, tall, ruddy-faced—and grave.

Arden lay on his back, his lips nose and ears blue, his breathing stertorous. On the bedside table was a hypodermic syringe, on the foot of the bed the doctor’s case, open, showing its chromium contents. No one else was in the room.

Rollison whispered: “What happened?”

“I’m told there was a quarrel.”

“Who with?”

“His niece.”

“Can you pull him round?”

“I can’t. He might do it himself. He ought to have been dead months ago by most standards. There’s no telling with the heart, though, and this man wants to live desperately.” The doctor smoothed his thinning hair. “He was asking for you all the time. You can probably help him more than I.”

“Is Miss Arden still here, do you know?”

“She drove off as I arrived.”

Throughout all this the old man’s eyes remained closed, his blue-veined hands lay motionless on the bedclothes. The doctor moved away from the bed and washed the hypodermic syringe at the hand-basin.

“Have you any good news for him? He thinks you may have.”

“Yes.”

“I should let him know as soon as he comes round,” said the doctor. “Oh, yes, he’ll come round, if only for a little while. This is his third serious attack and they don’t usually get through more than two.” He smiled faintly. “I like a fighter!”

“Yes.”

Rollison sat on the side of the bed and looked into the thin face, the prominent, bony nose, the slack, bluish lips. He thought that the blue tinge was less evident than it had been when he had come in; certainly the breathing seemed a little easier.

“How long will it be before he comes round?”

“Five minutes—or five hours. There’s nothing more I can do. Are you free to stay here?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll tell the butler and send a nurse,” said the doctor. “And I’ll be back in about an hour and a half. You can give him a spot of brandy. There’s some on the table.”

Rollison, left alone with Arden, stood up and went to the study. The drawers of the desk were open—that was unusual. Some papers, seared with age, were spread about the desk; one was on the floor. He picked it up. It was a marriage certificate. Among the papers were birth certificates, including one of the dead Geoffrey.

Had Arden made a rapid search for some paper? Or had someone else been here? Clarissa—doing what Arden had asked of her? He picked up a sheet of pale blue note-paper. That, and the fact that she had listened at the door and knew Waleski, were the reasons for suspecting that she had not yet told all the truth. His feelings were unimportant. The truth must come first, everything else later—if he lived to discover it. How had Waleski got that paper? Why had she really waited at the door? What relationship had there been between her and Waleski?

He peeped into the bedroom. Arden hadn’t moved but the blue tinge was much less marked.

Rollison closed the door and took the telephone off its cradle, dialled Whitehall 1212 and asked for Grice. He had to hold on for several minutes. He looked at the photographs of Arden’s wife and Geoffrey— who had been burned to death, leaving only a few shreds of clothes on the flesh, a ring and a watch to show who he had been.

Someone passed along the passage and the bedroom door opened. It would happen just then. A door closed softly, then the passage door opened and the butler appeared.

“Have you everything you want, sir?”

“Yes, thanks . . .   Oh, Grice.” Rollison paused, as Grice spoke and the butler went out. He lowered his voice: the man might be listening. “Grice, have you found out anything about Clarissa Arden’s affairs?”

“Yes,” said Grice. “She’s no motive for wanting Arden dead—no money motive, anyhow.”

“So she’s really wealthy?”

“She’s worth a cool half-million.”

“Thanks. What about Arden?”

“He’s in a very sound position; there’s never been a whisper against his good faith. Where are you?”

“At his home. He’s had another attack, quite a natural one, I’m told.” He didn’t want Grice here yet; no purpose would be served by making him suspicious. “I’ll let you know what happens. Anything else?”

“A nark tells us that the other Mellor is gunning for you. Be careful.”

“Thanks. I’ll be seeing you,” Rollison said.

He went back to the bedroom. Arden’s right hand had moved a few inches and his left hand was twitching. Rollison was longing to smoke. He went into the study and lit a cigarette but drew only half a dozen times before he put it out and returned to the bedroom.

Arden’s eyes were opening and he muttered something unintelligible. Rollison sat on the bed, and spoke quietly.

“Rollison’s here.”

The old eyes opened again, closed, opened in a fixed stare; he looked as if he had difficulty in focusing and his right hand fluttered towards the bedside table. His glasses were there. Rollison picked them up, unfolded them and put them on. Arden muttered a word that might have been “Thanks”. Rollison gave him a teaspoonful of brandy and he gulped it down weakly and licked his lips as if that needed all his strength.

Then Arden said in a clear voice; “I want to see that boy.”

Rollison spoke clearly.

“You will. He’s quite safe. Quite free. He’ll come and see you soon.”

A claw-like hand shot out and gripped

Rollison’s arm with surprising strength. Behind the thick lenses of the glasses, Arden’s eyes were very direct and bright.

“Is that—the truth?”

“Yes. I’ve seen him and seen the police. He isn’t the man they want. It was a case of mistaken identity. You needn’t worry about Jim any more.”

Arden said: “Thank God!”

He closed his eyes again but didn’t move and didn’t take his hand away from Rollison’s arm. Rollison eased his position a little. Arden’s hand was very cold; his breathing was still heavy but there was a great change in him. A smile played about the corners of his lips, the strain at his eyes was gone, his forehead was less wrinkled.

“Look after him, Rollison.”

“You’ll be able to do that yourself.”

“Nonsense!” There was more strength in the frail voice. “Nonsense. Haven’t much longer. I—Rollison. Rollison!” He sat up, alarm sprang into his voice, all ease had gone. “My study— what did she take? What did she take?”

“What did who take?” Rollison asked heavily.

“Clarissa. Clarissa, the besom! I caught her going through my desk. She thought I was asleep. What did she take?”

“What could she have taken that matters?”

“Those lying letters.”

“What letters?”

“They were full of lies, full of lies. I was a fool to pay anything, to—Rollison, go into the study! The top drawer of the desk. Open it. Pull it right out. There is a false back, worked by a spring. You know the kind. There are some letters there. Lying letters. Blackmail letters. See if—see if she took them.”

Rollison said: “Why worry about it now?”

“Go and see!” cried Arden. “I caught her at the desk. I struck her. I told her what she was—a loose woman, a Jezebel, a Delilah. I hate her, Rollison, and she hates me. I’m sure she hates me. Go and look in that desk!”

Rollison said: “All right.”

He wished the doctor were here or the nurse would come; he didn’t know what would happen to Arden if the letters were missing; and a fourth attack might be fatal. Less than half an hour had passed since the doctor had left; he wasn’t likely to be back yet. Where was that nurse? Was there any way of making sure that the old man didn’t suffer another shock?

“Hurry!” Arden urged him.

He looked like a corpse.

Unless the letters were found, there was no way of fending off the shock. Odd twist, that Clarissa should have come here and done what Rollison had asked and forced him into this dilemma. He went quickly across the room, watched closely by the old man. He pushed the door to behind him and Arden called:

“Leave it open.”

He pulled the door open. Arden could see the desk and craned forward, peering into the study. Rollison pulled open the wide, shallow drawer in the middle. To see the back he had to go down on his knees. Arden couldn’t see what he was doing now. The desk was a fine old piece of mahogany, beautifully finished inside. He ran his fingers along the smooth wood, seeking the spring.