John Creasey - Kill The Toff

“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.”

He led Clarissa across the small, crowded room. In the sunlight he saw that it was spotless and freshly dusted. Clarissa didn’t ask questions but followed him submissively up the narrow steep stairs which creaked at every tread.

“Mind your head,” said Rollison and she ducked where the wall jutted out.

They reached a tiny landing. There were three doors, each of them closed; the box-room was immediately opposite the stairs.

Clarissa lowered her voice, as if the hush in the cottage demanded whispering.

“What are you going to show me?”

Rollison gripped her arm.

“Mellor.”

He felt her muscles grow tense, although he gathered that she wasn’t altogether surprised. The name had exactly the same effect on her now as it had before. She didn’t speak as he opened the door. The bed was behind the door with the head against the wall; all they could see was the foot of the iron bedstead, a bow-shaped chest of drawers with a dressing-mirror in a rosewood frame on the top of it and a small window with gay chintz curtains.

Rollison drew Clarissa in.

He stood by the window and watched her intently as she stepped past the door and looked at the sleeping man.

She took one glance, no more, and swung round on him.

“This isn’t Mellor! He’s nothing like Mellor. What are you playing at, Roily?”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Not Mellor?

Mellor stirred at the sound of her voice. “Look again,” whispered Rollison. “I don’t need to.”

But she peered, much more intently, into Mellor’s face. He looked tired; there was no hint of brightness or youth at his eyes and mouth, and his forehead was wrinkled in a frown, as if he could not throw off the weight of his fear, even in sleep. One arm lay over the bedspread, the fist clenched but not tightly. “Of course it isn’t Mellor,” Clarissa insisted. “We’ll go downstairs.”