John Creasey - Kill The Toff

“Isn’t he sweet?” Clarissa put the cups on the tray, picked up the newspapers and brought everything to the bed. She put it close to Rollison’s right arm and sat at the foot of the bed, leaning forward to pour out. “For the first time, I nearly believe in justice.”

“Justice?”

“Catching you like this, after last night. What could be fairer?”

“I knew there was venom in the woman,” growled Rollison. “A little less milk and rather more hot water, please. I like my morning tea weak. I wish I hadn’t advised you.”

“To do what?”

“Go to bed.”

She started to laugh again and tea spilled into the saucer of his cup.

“Sorry,” she said. “Drink up; I’ll be a good girl and sit quiet.”

She gave him a cup of tea and picked up the Daily Cry, a newspaper which thrived on sensation. Although she pretended to glance at it, she was watching him out of the corner of her eye. Suddenly she opened her large black handbag and gave him a cigarette.

“Gasping for one, aren’t you?”

“No. Thanks. What’s the matter?”

“I came to tell you that I meant all I said last night and now I take some of it back.” She gurgled; it was a delightful, husky sound, making her seem much younger. “And this is a completely new sensation, darling. Yesterday you gave me an inferiority complex. Don’t you feel well?”

“I’ll feel better when I know who Jolly’s arguing with.”

“My uncle, I expect.”

“Why?”

“He was in a foul mood when I left him half an hour ago and crying out for someone’s blood. Probably yours. I don’t know what it was about but he wasn’t thinking kindly of the great Mr Rollison. I shouldn’t worry about my uncle but—”

The second bell began to ring again.

“Is that the front door?”

“Yes. Jolly will see to it. You stay here.”

“I want to be so useful,” said Clarissa.

As she went out she gave him a merry look, showing a gaiety which astonished him. She was younger; or at least happier in her mind which made her seem younger. She had thrown off the effect of the attack with admirable ease and something had put her in high spirits. Was it because of what had happened between them last night? Or had the morning’s events pleased her? Was she telling the truth about Arden, or—

Rollison stopped worrying about that for he heard a familiar voice, raised in some surprise after Clarissa said: “Good morning.”

“Good morning. Is Mr Rollison in?”

“I’ll see. Who are you?” Clarissa asked.

“Superintendent Grice of New Scotland Yard,” said the caller. “Please tell him it’s important.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Shock For Clarissa

Jolly reached the bedroom before Clarissa or Grice. He closed the door firmly and turned the key in the lock. His hair was on end and he looked both ruffled and angry; there was even a flush on his dry cheeks and a sparkle in his doleful brown eyes. “I am extremely sorry, sir.”

“Everything happens at once, doesn’t it? Who were you doing battle with?”

“Sir Frederick, sir. He wanted to speak to you and I felt that as Miss Arden was here it might be wise for me to say that you weren’t available. He was persistent and somewhat irate. In fact, I felt that his temper explained his persistence. I did not get the impression that anything was amiss—or, at all events, not greatly amiss. Did you know that Mr Grice has called?”

“Yes. Let him come in and then pour me out another cup of tea, will you?”

“With your permission, sir, I will pour the tea first.” Jolly drew nearer the bed and put Rollison’s cigarettes and lighter on the bedside table. “Shall I—ah—shall I endeavour to keep Miss Arden out of the room when Mr Grice comes in?”

“Do you think you could without using force?”

“No, sir.”

“Then don’t. What’s the news this morning?”

“I am afraid there is a full but distorted account of your first interview with Waleski in the Daily Record and the Echo , sir. There is little other sensational news and both newspapers have connected the incident with the Mellor affair. In the Stop Press of the Record there is a report that a stranded car was found near the Mile End Road early this morning and that bullet-holes were found in the lamps and windscreen, together with traces of blood. There was some broken glass farther along the road, according to the brief statement.” is the clinic mentioned?”

“No, sir.”

“Let us be thankful for some mercies.”

Rollison sipped his second cup of tea and motioned to the hall. Jolly spent two minutes tidying up Rollison’s clothes and the dressing-table and then unlocked the door.

He disappeared and said stiffly: “Mr Rollison will see you, Mr Grice.”

“He will see us ,” said Clarissa.

“As you wish, Miss.”

Grice came in, smiling faintly; but there was an edge to his smile; he was in earnest, in no mood to be put off by airy explanations.

Clarissa looked fresh and fair and still highly amused.

“Do you two know each other?” asked Rollison.

“We’re going to,” said Clarissa.

Grice said: “You’re in bed late, aren’t you?”

“Is that an indictable offence?” inquired Rollison.

“Whatever kept you up might be,” said Grice. it probably is. Roily, I’ve warned you that you’re playing with fire. If you were responsible for that car smash in the Mile End Road last night, you’re for it. I’m told that—”

“Oh, no! ” cried Clarissa. Grice, who had appeared to welcome her, perhaps because he thought it would be easier to deal with Rollison while she was present, shot her a sour glance.

“Leave this to me, please.”

“I’m sorry, Superintendent,” Clarissa said, submissively.

“I’m told that you were seen in the East End at half-past two. Not long afterwards there was a car chase and some shooting. Where’s your gun?”

“In my pocket.”

“I want to see it.”

“Help yourself,” said Rollison.

He pointed to his coat which was draped over the back of a chair but, in spite of his nonchalance, Grice worried him; as he had at Ebbutt’s. Grice was deadly serious about this business. He would not let up; and if Rollison’s half-made plans went awry, he would be merciless.

“ 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?