John Creasey - Kill The Toff

Rollison thought: “We should be all right now.”

He actually moved to speak to Snub when he saw a car swing out of a side turning and come in their wake. Brilliant headlights shone out, dazzling him. He backed quickly away and dropped his hand to his pocket—but he probably wouldn’t need a gun; this was more likely a police car than one of Waleski’s.

Snub called: “What’s up? Trailed?”

“Yes.”

“Is Mellor snug and tight?”

“Yes. I’ll keep him steady; you shake ‘em off if you can.”

“Right.”

Rollison knelt down by the side of the unconscious man, putting his arms across the divan to make sure that Mellor couldn’t roll off. Snub swung round a corner and the divan shifted; another and it swayed the other way.

Mellor didn’t stir beneath the bedclothes.

The bright light still shone into the back of the van. It disappeared as they swung round another corner then appeared again, casting grotesque shadows.

“They’re clinging,” Snub said. “Police?”

“Afraid so.”

“Have to see it through now. Hold tight.”

They swung right, then sharp left. The divan skidded and would have tilted badly had Rollison not been holding it. He wished he could stand up, to judge the distance between van and car. It wasn’t easy to think and he’d never needed to think faster. If this were a police car, it was probably equipped with radio. Radio patrol cars throughout London and the Home Counties might soon be on the look-out for the van; the call had probably gone out. The chances of escaping were negligible, unless they went to earth somewhere near, stranded the van and hid Mellor.

With anyone else that would have been easy: Ebbutt’s flat, the gymnasium, one of a dozen pubs or Bert’s garage would all have offered sanctuary. But no one would willingly help Mellor against the police.

He heard a splintering sound and glanced round. The glass of the left side window crashed in.

Snub whistled. “That’s Waleski! Hold tight!”

A second shot struck the wing of the van as they turned another corner.

Rollison called: “Get on to a straight road and keep there for a bit.”

“Aye, aye, cappen—we’re on one now.”

“Go as fast as you like,” said Rollison.

He stood up and went to the smashed window. The blinding glare of the following car’s headlights made him narrow his eyes. All he could see was the sheet of light and the twin orbs of the lamps themselves; there was no dark shape behind. He stood to one side and poked his gun out of the window.

He fired, blind. Nothing happened. He raised the gun a shade and fired again. Still no result. The roar of the shot inside the van was deafening, high above the sound of the engine and the rattling of the chassis.

He fired a third time. One of the lights went out and the car swerved. He moved in front of the window and saw the dark outline of the car which was nearly broadside-on. He fired twice towards the driving-seat and heard the squeal of brakes as the report of the shots died down. “Twist and turn about now,” he ordered. “Nice work,” breathed Snub. The van swung round another corner as

Rollison bent over Mellor.

* * *

The car didn’t appear again and they were soon out of London.

* * *

“Well!” gasped Mrs Begbie. “Well, this is a surprise. And at this hour, too: I can’t understand it. Who did you say you are? Mr Rollison? A friend of Sir Frederick’s? Well!”

She blinked at the pale blue note-paper on which Arden had written to her and then blinked at Rollison who stood in the tiny parlour of the cottage. She wore a grey blanket dressing-gown, her thin grey hair was done up tightly in steel curlers, her eyes were bright. She was a small woman with sharp features and full lips—not a kindly soul, judging from appearances; probably an irascible old woman.

“Well! And who is the man you’ve brought? Sir Frederick doesn’t say.”

“A young friend of his,” said Rollison.

“Young friend? Not a woman? ” the old voice sharpened.

“No, a man.”

“Well! Well, I suppose I’d better see what I can do; but it’s a long time since I looked after anyone who was sick—really sick. I’m not so young as I used to be, you know; my old bones don’t like work. But, thanks to Sir Frederick, they don’t have to do much. Bring him in, sir, bring him in. He’ll have to have the box-room; but there’s a window there. It’s quite sweet and clean and my niece slept there only last Sunday, so it’s properly aired. I can’t do less than take him in, can I? But I’ll have to think about it in the morning. I know what I shall do—I shall telephone Sir Frederick, that’s what I shall do. I’ll go and turn the bed down now. Mind the stairs, they’re rather steep, and mind you don’t bang his head, there’s a nasty turn. And he’ll have to sleep in the box-room—”

She went off muttering to herself.

Half an hour later Rollison drove away in the van. Snub was sitting in the parlour, drinking a cup of tea with Mrs Begbie and listening to what she was going to do.

Rollison pulled up half a mile from the cottage and watched the road leading to it. He saw no traffic, no one appeared to be approaching. He doubted whether Mellor would be traced there; if he were—well, Snub was armed now and had strict instructions to send for the police if there were another emergency. There were limits to what Rollison could do alone. He wondered whether he were justified in submitting the old woman to the risk of an attack from Waleski, whether the time had really come for handing Mellor over to the police.

Waleski meant to kill the youth who might be safer in custody.

But the murder of Galloway could still be “proved” against him. Only desperate men would have made the attacks tonight; and if Waleski were desperate he would probably make a fatal mistake. Risk or no risk, he must try to lure the man to go far enough to hang himself.

Jolly, bleary-eyed but still dressed, struggled up from an easy-chair as Rollison came in.

“Sit back and relax,” said Rollison. “You ought to have gone to bed.”

“I simply couldn’t, sir. Is everything all right?”

“No one who matters is dead. The pace is hotting up and we may find it gets too hot. We really started something when we championed young Mellor. Any messages?”

“Only from the taxi-driver, sir!”

“Only!”

“He left Arden Lodge at two-fifteen, just after Waleski’s car was put into the garage.”

“Hardly a trifle,” murmured Rollison and studied Jolly’s lined face. His eyes were heavy with sleep but his shoulders were erect. “Did you look at The Times yesterday?”

“Unfortunately I have done no more than glance at it,” said Jolly, is there anything of interest?”

“Have a look at the Situations Vacant column,” said Rollison and Jolly turned to the desk to pick up the folded copy of The Times. He studied the advertising page carefully, suddenly started and lowered the paper.

“A first footman is required at Arden Lodge. Why, that is remarkable, sir. I could apply—”

“You can apply but it isn’t remarkable and the job’s yours. I fixed it with Sir Frederick last week and arranged with The Times to get it inserted quickly. But that was before Waleski blew in. He’s seen you—one of our mistakes, Jolly. If you go to the Lodge—”

“I don’t think it can be assumed that Waleski is going to take up residence, sir.” Jolly showed surprising eagerness for a new post, it is true that we did meet but he is not likely to have described me in any detail to those persons— if in fact there are more than one—whom he knows at the Lodge. If it were possible for me to examine the situation there at first hand then we might well find that a logical explanation of Waleski’s influence at the house will greatly assist in solving the major problem.”

“Ah,” said Rollison.

“Don’t you agree, sir?”

“I think you might get your neck broken or a bullet where it will hurt.”

“One can hardly expect to achieve results without taking some risk,” said Jolly gravely, “and, if I may say so, it is not your custom to think of the risks before the results. What did happen tonight, sir?”

“Risks came home to roost and I took others, not with myself.”

Rollison explained, briefly, receiving from Jolly an occasional pontifical nod. Then he paused, surveyed his man thoughtfully, touched The Times and said:

“All right. Take the job if necessary but don’t take chances.”

“In so far as the two are separable, sir, I will separate them. Is there anything I can get you before you retire?”

The clock struck six when Rollison got into bed.

* * *

He woke to a medley of sound and confusion of mind.

Bells were ringing, something clattered, Jolly uttered a word surprisingly like an oath, a cup or saucer dropped and broke, papers rustled —and the bells kept ringing: two different sounds, one low and persistent, the other higher-pitched and less regular. Then a door —his door—banged.

He sat up.

A tea-tray was on a chair by the door. A cup, in pieces, lay at the foot of the chair with several newspapers. One of the bells stopped. There were footsteps and then a door opened and Jolly exclaimed:

“Miss!”

He sounded both startled and alarmed.

Rollison sat up, rumpled his hair and yawned, eyed the tea longingly and wondered why he did not feel worried about that “ Miss ” . He pushed back the bedclothes and put one loot tentatively out of bed, glancing at the mantelpiece clock at the same time. It was five minutes past ten—not exactly a satisfying night’s sleep. Craning his head to see the clock, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. It did not please him and he started to smooth his hair down as the door opened.

“Jolly—” he began.

But it was Clarissa.

She held the door open and stared at him— and then began to laugh. Rollison drew his leg back and pulled the clothes up. Clarissa went on laughing and all the time there was an undertone background of Jolly’s voice. Jolly, of course, was answering the telephone.

Rollison resisted a temptation to smooth his hair a little more and ran his fingers over his dark but greying stubble. He recalled that unpleasing picture in the mirror and looked at Clarissa, who might have come straight from a Paris salon. She wore a neat suit of large black-and-white check which became her tall, slim figure; so did the white ruffles at her neck and wrists.

She stopped laughing, only to smile broadly.

“Why not be useful as well as decorative?” said Rollison. “Get a cup from the kitchen and then bring me my tea.”

“Oh, it’s wonderful!” She gurgled. “K-k-kitchen—yes, darling, I will!” She turned.

“Bring two cups,” said Rollison.

“Yes, darling!” She gurgled again. “Would you like a little poison?”

Rollison couldn’t catch what Jolly was saying; it was a long conversation and must be of some importance. Jolly was a past-master in the art of getting rid of importunate callers, either in person or by telephone, but he was having great difficulty now. “ Yes, sir; no, sir; I really can’t , sir, ” came like punctuation marks in someone else’s monologues. Yet he must be on pins to enter the bedroom before Clarissa could invade it again.

He failed, for Clarissa came back.

“ No, sir, ” said Jolly. “ Yes, sir; no, sir— ”