John Creasey - Kill The Toff

“I suppose it did,” conceded Jolly. “May I say I hope you won’t take too many chances, sir.”

“We’ll have a chat about it later,” said Rollison. “I want to hide Mellor. Ebbutt won’t help and he can’t come here. Any idea?”

Jolly said: “That makes it very difficult.”

“Meaning, no ideas,” Rollison smiled. “All right, Jolly, I think I know where we can park him. There are a few don’ts for the list. Don’t let the police know that I’m doing anything for Sir Frederick Arden. Tell Miss Lome not to mention the name Arden to them. They won’t necessarily tie it up with Sir Frederick. Don’t say anything to the Press if anyone comes or rings up; don’t let her leave the flat and don’t leave it yourself until I get back.”

“Very good, sir. Are there any positive instructions?”

Rollison chuckled. “You do me more good than a bottle of champagne! Yes. Tell Snub that I want him to go East and find out whether there’s any talk in Asham Street, whether the police have discovered there was funny business at Number 51. He’s to report immediately if the police have got that far. And if anyone wants me, you don’t know where I am.”

“Where will you be, sir?”

“At Pulham Gate,” said Rollison; “and I hope to come straight back here.”

*     *     *

He spent ten minutes talking to Judith and trying to reassure her. He judged that she was dangerously near a collapse: the strain of the past month had taken a heavy toll of her nervous resistance and today’s shock had shaken her badly. She presented a problem in herself, the greater because he knew that she had no close relatives and was dependent entirely on her own resources. When he left for 7, Pulham Gate, where Sir Frederick Arden lived, he was in a pessimistic mood; there was so much he didn’t know and couldn’t see.

At least the police didn’t follow him.

*     *     *

Dusk was falling when he reached Kensington, the lamps in the wide thoroughfare of Pulham Gate were lit and over this district of large, pale-grey houses and private squares there was the hush of evening. Lights showed at some of the tall windows and Rollison switched on the sidelights of the Rolls-Bentley before he left the car. He looked up and down, almost by habit, and the only person near by was a policeman. He saw the man coming towards him and was puzzled without knowing why. He turned to the steps leading to the front door of Number 7 and the police man called out:

“Excuse me, sir.” He had a reedy voice.

“Hallo?”

“Aren’t you Mr Richard Rollison? The Honourable Richard Rollison?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so,” said the policeman in a tone of great satisfaction. Tm afraid I must ask you to come along with me, sir. I hope you won’t give any trouble.”

“So do I,” said Rollison. The reedy voice and the puzzling fact which he couldn’t quite place took on a greater significance. “What’s all this about?”

“They’ll tell you at the station.”

“Which station?”

“Now don’t be awkward,” said the constable; “it won’t do you no good.” He glanced past Rollison who heard a car coming towards him. “Here’s the squad car, there’s a call out for you. Don’t be awkward,” he repeated.

He now sounded almost pleading—and the warning note rang loudly in Rollison’s mind.

The car pulled up.

Rollison glanced at it. There were two men inside and they made no attempt to get out. They were small men and the warning became a clarion call. These were not policemen.

The man in uniform gripped his arm.

“Here we are, so don’t give us no trouble. It will only be the worse for you if you do.”

“So this is a pinch,” said Rollison, mildly.

“That’s it,” said the constable. He pulled Rollison towards the car—a pre-war Morris of a kind which the police had used for the Flying Squad but had turned in years ago— and opened the door. One of the men—the man next to the driver—looked round, inside, please.”

Rollison lowered his head, started to get in—and then moved his left arm and tipped the heads of the two men forward. Their hats fell off and he gripped their heads and cracked them together. The crack resounded; one man gasped and the other made a curious grunting sound. Rollison back-heeled, catching the constable on the shin and, as the man let him go, he darted back and straightened up. The policeman was swaying on one leg and putting his right hand into his pocket at the same time; there was an evil glint in his eyes. Rollison swung a left to his chin, jolting his arm when the blow connected.

He heard nothing of the next approaching car until brakes squealed. He glanced round to see a gleaming American model, sleek and streamlined back and front, pulling in behind the Morris. A woman was at the wheel—a lovely creature. The thing which most surprised him was her composure: she showed no sign of alarm.

“Stay there!” he called. “Stay where you are!”

She opened the door of the car and swung slim, nylon-sheathed legs on to the pavement. The policeman had recovered but he made no further attack, simply rushed to the Morris. The engine was turning over, the men inside had recovered from the collision. As the constable bent down to get inside, the car began to move.

“Aren’t you going to stop them?” asked the woman.

She was tall. As she reached Rollison he was aware of a delicate perfume, of a pair of gleaming, beautiful blue eyes—yes, a lovely creature. His hand throbbed and he was short of breath.

“No,” he said, shortly.

“The police—” she began, only to break off.

“Wasn’t he a policeman?” Rollison asked.

“What is all this?” she demanded.

“Rehearsals for a fancy-dress ball,” said Rollison. it’s being photographed—the camera is on the roof.”

She glanced upwards while the Morris swung round a corner, engine roaring.

There was a sharp edge to the woman’s voice when she spoke next.

“Are you playing the fool?”

“Yes. In fact this was a hold-up. Thank you for coming in the nick of time.” He smiled more freely and there was laughter in his tone. “Haven’t we met before?”

She drew back.

“I don’t think so,” she said but suddenly her expression changed; she came nearer, as if trying to study his face more clearly. “Are you—Mr Rollison?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Has this anything to do with” —she looked at Number 7— “the work you are doing for my uncle.”

“I doubt it. I always try to do too many things at once and sometimes they overlap.”

He had placed her as Arden’s niece, of whom he had heard but whom he had met only once, and that some time ago at a Charity Ball. He knew her by reputation as a leader of the Smart Set which had defied austerity; as one of the beauties of the day and a woman of keen intelligence and incomparable selfishness. He hadn’t realised that she knew he was working for Arden but didn’t think much about that then. As he waited for her to speak again, he was thinking about the welcome he’d received, the speed of the attempt to kidnap him and all the implications.

But she gave him little time to think.

Aren’t you going to send for the police?”

“No one’s hurt,” he said, “and I probably asked for it.”

They eyed each other for some seconds and a youth passed, staring at them as he went by. It was darker now. The dusk filmed her face and gave it an ethereal glow. She was perfectly dressed, her poise and carriage were delightful—and he felt that her reputation for keen intelligence was not falsely founded.

“If I hear aright, one day you will probably ask for more than you want to get,” she said dryly. “Were you going to see my uncle or coming away?”

“Going.”

“When I left this afternoon he was very poorly. I’m not sure that you ought to see him. The doctors have warned him against excitement and you always seem to excite him.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, it’s my baneful influence.”

“This is not funny. He is a very sick man.”

“Yes,” said Rollison. “Yes.” They still faced each other and he was reminded of the challenge which he had seen in Waleski’s eyes. “I think he’ll pull through, though, with luck and a fair deal.”

“Must you talk in riddles?”

“Which was the riddle?” asked Rollison.

She looked away from him.

“I think we should go indoors: we can’t talk here, Mr Rollison.”

She led the way and he followed thoughtfully, wondering whether he had touched her on a sore spot when he had talked of luck and a square deal for Sir Frederick Arden. Perhaps she expected to inherit a substantial sum on the old man’s death; and she might be anxious to remove the next-of-kin. He had not been able to see her during the case until now because she had been in Paris; he did not think she had been expected back so soon. He wished she hadn’t arrived at this moment, he had needed more time to recover from the sudden assault from the phoney policeman.

She opened the front door with a key.

He followed her into the house, thinking again about the assault. The phoney policeman and his companions had known that he was likely to come here, had chosen this spot for their ambush because he wouldn’t expect trouble there; a neat trick. He knew now why the uniformed man had puzzled him: the real plodding gait of a policeman had been missing. The policeman had been armed. As he hadn’t fired, he had obviously come to kidnap, not to kill. The only reason anyone interested in this affair could want to kidnap him was to make him talk. It was safe to say that he had “them” worried, that this was the second false move he had forced in twelve hours, but there was a serious doubt at the back of his mind.

Had they sped away without shooting because they wanted him alive, not dead? Or had the woman’s arrival driven them off?

CHAPTER NINE

The Millionaire

The spacious hall was dimly lighted, great bear-skin rugs were spread over the polished parquet floor, two landscapes in oils hung on the high walls, their beauty half-hidden in the poor light. The curving staircase was on the right, a circular lounge-hall beyond the entrance hall was beautifully furnished. About this house was an air of comfort, luxury and good taste.

A footman appeared and bowed.

“Good evening, Miss Clarissa.”

“William, find out whether Sir Frederick is resting and come and let me know.”

She turned into the drawing-room as the footman bowed again; he only glanced at Rollison. Rollison followed her into a wide, spacious room where two great glass chandeliers glistened and sparkled, although the only light came from wall-lamps. In a far corner a grand piano stood in red-tinged dignity. The colour scheme here was dark red and grey.

Clarissa Arden tugged the rope of a bell.

“I want to know why you don’t wish to send for the police,” she said; her voice was cold enough to sound haughty.

“That’s simple. They would want to know what I was doing here. That would involve your uncle. I think some kinds of excitement would be bad for him.”

She stood, tall and imposing, with her back to a fine Adam fireplace, weighing her words. Before she spoke she glanced towards the door as if to make sure that it was shut. Then she said clearly:

“I don’t think I like you, Mr Rollison.”

“I hope that won’t stop you from offering me a drink,” he said and smiled at her.

The two encounters had stimulated him, lifting the blanket of depression which had dropped after the talk with Grice and Ebbutt.

The door opened and an elderly butler said: “You rang, Miss Clarissa?”

“Whisky?” she asked Rollison.

“Please.”

“Bring whisky, Samuel, and gin,” said Clarissa Arden. When the door closed behind the butler she went on: “I’m not at all sure that you are a good influence on my uncle. I am told that usually after your visits he suffers a relapse. He is not well enough to know what is good for him just now. I think I must ask you not to come again, Mr Rollison.”

“Ah. Did you take medical and legal advice?”

She frowned. “This is no time for facetiousness.”

“That wasn’t facetious; I’m in earnest. Doctors can say and lawyers decide whether a man is in his right mind or whether he isn’t. If your uncle isn’t, I might be persuaded to stay away. If he is, I’d like him to be judge of whether I come or not.”

She said: “How does it feel to be so clever?”

“Between ourselves, it’s a pain in the neck; but we have to learn to bear our burdens, don’t we?”

He offered cigarettes and she took one. As he lit it for her he looked into her eyes and saw the secret smile in them. It remained when she drew her head back and let smoke trickle from her nostrils; he wished she hadn’t done that because it spoiled perfection. She was nearly as tall as he and, standing like that with her head back and looking at him through her lashes, there was a touch of mystery about her; and mockery?

“Who attacked you outside?” she asked.

“Mr Waleski’s comrades,” said Rollison promptly.

He’d been waiting for the chance to speak of Waleski and, although the words came casually, he was alert for any change in her expression. There were two: a quick flash of surprise, almost of alarm; a quicker flash of self-warning when she told herself that she must give nothing away. Then the mask dropped again. He thought of her as being covered by a veil, filmy and hardly noticeable.

She wasn’t quite real.

“Whom did you say?”

“I thought you might know Comrade Waleski,” said Rollison sadly. “He and I had a chat this afternoon and I’ve been told that what he wishes for me is a painful death or a few nights in the lock-up. But he’s really of no account.”

He glanced towards a miniature by the fireplace but watched her closely. Again he saw her quick flash of interest before the veil dropped again.

She overplayed her hand when she said:

“If he’s of no account, you needn’t worry about him.”

“I don’t,” said Rollison.

She started to speak but Samuel came in—a stately man with exactly the right manner; a rival to Jolly.

“That’s all, Samuel,” said Clarissa Arden.

“Very good, miss.”

The butler put the tray on a small table and Rollison went towards it, picking up the gin. There was a large array of bottles: Italian and French vermouth, fruit squashes, whisky, a syphon and a small jug of water, some bitters—everything they might need.

“What will you have with the gin?” asked Rollison. “Oh—may I mix it?”

“Dry vermouth,” she said. “What made you think I might know this Waleski?”

Rollison busied himself with the bottles and glasses.

“Intuition. Didn’t you know about my intuition? It is one of the burdens I have to carry. In vulgar parlance, we say hunches. You know, Miss Arden, you don’t keep abreast of the popular Press. Almost any national newspaper will tell you, sooner or later, that I work by hunches and have a genius for stumbling upon the truth. It’s all done by accident, of course—no praise even where praise is due. I fix a man or woman with my eagle eye, as you’ll see in a minute, and read the truth behind their inscrutable expression.”