John Creasey - Kill The Toff

She slowed down as she went towards the top landing. She mustn’t lose her head. She had kept her composure well with Rollison: it mattered whether she impressed him favourably or not; he held her future in his hands. She mustn’t forget that. He had talked of danger and he wouldn’t talk lightly; so there was danger. The way Waleski had said Til kill you for that,” in the cold, dull voice, came back to her and took the edge off her excitement. What kind of affair was this? Who were the people who could frame—frame or blame?—Jim? Who would send her a lying message, a confession note? And then she remembered Rollison saying that if the note meant what he thought it meant, it was a prelude to murdering Mellor—murdering Jim. She felt a wave of nausea as she reached the landing and held tightly on to the top rail of the banisters. The landing was dark and gloomy, for the only light came from downstairs and there was a huge mahogany wardrobe which took up almost the whole of one wall.

She must compose herself.

She moistened her lips and went forward. There was no sound from the room—the men weren’t talking. She raised her hand to tap— and then something moved, to her right, and she glanced round.

A man darted from the corner by the wardrobe and, before she could move or cry out, one of his hands spread over her mouth. The other grabbed at her neck and she felt the tight clutch of his fingers—a sudden, suffocating pressure.

CHAPTER FOUR

The House In Asham Street

Waleski sat in the chair, occasionally dabbing at his split lips and his nose with a bright yellow-and-red handkerchief. His eyes were dull and he didn’t look at Rollison, who stood by the desk glancing through some of the sketches. Now and again Rollison looked up at the photograph of Jim Mellor and smiled faintly.

Judith had been gone a long time; but Jolly would be in; with luck, Snub Higginbottom would be there too. Jolly would look after Mr Waleski; Snub was the better man to have at Asham Street. It was no use speculating on whether Mellor would be alone or whether friends of Waleski would be with him. It wasn’t much use asking Waleski for more information—the man had recovered his nerve and would lie from now on.

He might have lied about Asham Street; but Rollison could usually tell when a man had told the truth. He had forced that information out when Waleski had been suffering from both pain and shock, before he had realised the kind of opposition he was up against. But you couldn’t use shock tactics against this type of man twice within a few minutes.

Here was Judith, running up the stairs.

Rollison glanced at the door.

The footsteps stopped and he frowned. Then they came again, much more quietly, towards the door. He moved across the room, keeping an eye on Waleski who might be pretending to be completely cowed so that he could try shock tactics himself. But Waleski wasn’t tensed to spring from his chair. Rollison actually touched the handle of the door, then heard a faint sound—the sound a scuffle would make. He stopped, hand still poised. He glanced round and saw Waleski sit up sharply, as if he realised the possible significance of this.

There was no further sound outside.

Rollison dropped his right hand to his pocket and the gun; and then Waleski sprang up. Rollison was on the half-turn. He could have shot the man but this wasn’t the moment for shooting. He stepped swiftly to one side as Waleski leapt at him, fists clenched, eyes burning. He anticipated Rollison’s move and changed direction; and he came like a battering-ram. Rollison jabbed out a straight left. Waleski slipped it with a neat head movement and crashed a blow into Rollison’s chest. Then he kicked.

Rollison banged back against the wall.

The glint in Waleski’s dark eyes was murderous. He grabbed at the gun, using both hands. Rollison held on, Waleski forced his hand up, bent his head and sank his teeth into the fleshy part of Rollison’s hand. Pain, sharp and excruciating, went through Rollison. It took much of the power out of a left swing which brushed the back of Waleski’s head.

Waleski leaned all his weight on Rollison, biting harder, drawing blood. The pain made Rollison’s head swim. The room seemed to get a fit of the jitters. He released his hold on the gun and it dropped.

Waleski let him go and grabbed at the gun.

Rollison kicked at it, caught the man’s wrist with his foot and head with his knee. Waleski lost his balance and backed away unsteadily— and Rollison, leaning against the wall, slid a small automatic out of his hip pocket.

“This makes a nasty hole, too, Waleski.”

His voice was unsteady and his head still whirled. Waleski’s face seemed to go round and round. But Waleski moved farther away, the impetus of his effort lost, fear back again. He was afraid not only of the gun but of the deadliness in Rollison’s eyes. Together these petrified the man.

The first gun lay on the floor near Rollison. Keeping Waleski covered, he bent down and picked it up, glancing swiftly towards the door. There was no sound from outside but the handle was turning. He looked at Waleski who was still held at bay. Waleski licked his lips and raised his hands a little, as if imploring Rollison not to shoot.

Rollison said softly: “Go into the kitchen.”

Waleski’s tongue shot out again and he took two steps backwards.

“Hurry, or—”

Waleski turned and disappeared into the kitchen. Rollison stepped swiftly after him and turned the key in the lock.

Now the flat door was opening slowly. Rollison moved to the wall alongside it. The door was open perhaps half an inch. This must be a friend of Waleski’s—a man as deadly and as dangerous and who was fresh for the fight. The moment for shooting had come. Rollison didn’t think of Judith, only of the man outside who must have heard the fight, forced the lock while it was going on and prepared for any violence. Rollison watched for a hand, a finger or a gun; but before anything appeared, a woman screamed.

The scream rasped through Rollison’s head.

He heard a growl and a flurry of movement, another scream which was cut short by a thud. By then he was at the door. He didn’t pull it open but peered round, gun in hand. He saw a small man, with his back to him, striking out at a woman whose hands were raised and who was toppling backwards down the stairs; all he saw of her was a flurry of a black dress and a coil of dark hair; then she fell and screamed again.

The little man swung round.

Rollison said: “If she breaks her neck, you’ll be hanged.”

He went forward, gun thrust out—and the little man turned and raced down the stairs.

If Rollison fired he might hit the woman who was still falling, her heavy body thudding from stair to stair.

The little man leapt over her to the landing and fled down the next flight. Rollison took two steps after him as the woman came to rest; and then he heard a sound from behind him.

It was Judith, getting slowly to her knees, one hand stretched out as if in supplication. In the gloom she looked deathly pale.

He said: “It’s all right, Judith. Take it easy.”

It was too late to stop the little man but he hurried down the stairs to the woman who lay inert, her legs doubled beneath her and one arm bent at an odd angle. Her black hair and clothes threw her pallor into greater relief. He knelt beside her and felt her pulse.

It was beating.

Judith stood at the top of the stairs.

“Where’s that telephone?” called Rollison.

“In her flat. The ground floor. Shall I—”

“You’d better come down with me,” said Rollison.

He straightened Mrs Tirrell’s legs and made sure that no bones were broken; but he didn’t touch her arm which obviously had a fracture. He felt her head and discovered a swelling on the back: she had caught her head on a stair and this had knocked her out.

Judith stood unnaturally still by his side.

“Just knocked out. She’ll be all right,” he assured her. He looked at the bleeding teeth-marks in his hand, wrapped a handkerchief round it and then took Judith’s arm. They went down the next flight of stairs and into the crowded parlour. “No one seems to have noticed the din, Judith. Are they used to rough-houses?”

“All the other tenants are out during the day.”

“Who’s the woman in black?”

“The landlady.”

Any husband about?”

“No, she’s a widow. She— Will she get over it?”

“She hasn’t broken her neck and her pulse is good and strong, so I really don’t think there’s much to worry about.” Rollison glanced at the brass clock and seemed to wince: it said twenty-five minutes past four. “Jolly should be here any minute. I’m going to leave you with him after I’ve telephoned the police. They’ll send a doctor along and look after the landlady and then they’ll ask you a lot of questions. Tell them the truth but don’t mention Asham Street. If they try to make it hot for you, leave them to Jolly. Don’t lie. If they ask a question you don’t want to answer, just keep quiet. I don’t think they’ll be difficult but there are awkward policemen.”

He smiled and squeezed her arm. Then he dialled Whitehall 1212—and as he held the receiver to his ear a taxi drew up outside.

A middle-aged man, dressed in black and wearing a bowler hat, paid off the driver and turned towards the front door.

“That’s Jolly,” said Rollison. “Let him in, will you?”

Judith went out at once and so did not hear what Rollison said to Scotland Yard. It did not seem to matter. The brief period of exhilaration had been short-lived; she felt far worse than she had before. It wasn’t because of Rollison but because of the evidence she now possessed that this might be—this was— dangerous. She glanced up to the next landing and could just see Mrs Tirrell, who hadn’t moved.

If she should die—

Judith opened the door and Jolly removed his hat, revealing thin, grey hair. In a brief glance she studied his face: it was part of her work to study faces and she did so subconsciously. He looked a gloomy man; his pale face was heavily lined and beneath the chin were many sagging wrinkles, as if he had once been much fatter; now he was thin and looked a little frail. He had doe-like brown eyes and when he smiled at her it was with a touch of eagerness merging with anxiety.

“Miss Lome?”

“Yes; do come in.”

He passed her but was facing her as she closed the door. She was used to tension now and recognised it in his manner.

“There’s been—” she began and then stopped, for “accident” seemed the wrong word.

He raised a hand, as if to ward off some sudden rush of fear and she added hastily: “It’s all right now, except that—”

“Is Mr Rollison still here?”

“Oh, yes!”

“I shouldn’t worry, Miss Lome, whatever the trouble is,” said Jolly. His voice was soft and reassuring and his smile was friendly and warming; fear had gone. “Mr Rollison will look after everything.”

“Wrong,” said Rollison, from the front-room door. “You’ll look after everything, Jolly. The police and an ambulance will be here in a few minutes. Miss Lome will tell you what happened. You’ll stay with the injured woman until the police arrive. The moment they come take them up to Miss Lome’s flat and tell them a dangerous customer is in the kitchen— a man who’s lost his gun but might use a kitchen chopper.”

That was the moment when Jolly said the thing which made Judith gasp—and then laugh. Her reaction was absurd but she couldn’t help herself. She laughed weakly and leaned against the wall while Rollison pressed her hand and Jolly opened the door for him.