John Creasey - Kill The Toff
When she reached the porch he was out of sight; the house was near a corner which he had rounded. No one else was in the short street with the tall, terraced houses on either side.
A car turned into the street and she would not have taken much notice of it, except for the fact that it was a Rolls-Bentley—Jim’s idea of what a car should be. He had planned to buy one, in that wonderful world of make-believe, when he was thirty-seven—eleven years hence. It would be green and they would call it the Queen. This was green. The man at the wheel was glancing right and left, as if searching for a particular house. She noticed that he was good-looking—the kind of man one might expect to find at the wheel of a Rolls-Bentley. Then she went inside, carrying a picture in her mind of the dark oily hair and the bald spot.
She went back to her flat, closed the door and picked up the letter. It was addressed to her in pencilled handwriting.
She tore the letter open, heart thumping now, because whenever he was in a hurry, Jim wrote in an almost indecipherable scrawl like this. She unfolded the single sheet of pale blue paper and read:
“Sorry I’ve messed things up, Judy. There’s nothing I can do now. I didn’t mean to kill him. I just felt I had to let you know.”
CHAPTER TWO
The Visitor
The note was signed with a scrawl which might have been “Jim”, might have been almost any short name. The handwriting was shaky—not Jim’s usual swift and confident scribble; but it wasn’t that alone which made her sure he had not written it.
She read the message again, then looked up at the photograph which was turned towards her.
“Judy,” she said, in an odd, squeaky voice. “Judy!” She gave a laugh which sounded as odd as her voice and read the note again. “Judy!” she cried aloud—then started violently as the flat doorbell rang.
She backed away.
Jim had never called her Judy but always— always—Punch. It had started at the moment when they’d been introduced, at a tennis-club dance—she could never remember who had actually introduced them. A casual: “This is Judy, this is Jim,” and the someone had been swept away in the crowd. Smiling eyes in a smiling face had looked at her and a merry voice had said: “Care to dance, Punch?”
The doorbell rang again.
She folded the letter, put it back in the envelope and opened the door. She had no idea whom it might be; she felt breathless from the discovery, sensing a significance which she couldn’t yet understand—and then a tall man appeared in front of her, smiling, vaguely familiar, hatless, wearing a dark grey suit of faultless cut. His eyes held the look that had so often been in Jim’s. She felt, not realising what she felt, that she had much in common with this man; they could get along.
“Miss Lome?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Rollison. I do hope you can spare me a few minutes.”
She had the letter in her hand and wanted desperately to read it again and think about it and try to understand the significance of that “Judy”. She didn’t know this man; for all she knew he had come to sell her something she didn’t want. And yet—
He stepped past her while she hesitated.
“Thank you very much.”
His smile faded and his face became grave as he looked at her. She felt that he was assessing every feature of her face in his calm appraisal. Then he moved, easily and swiftly but without fuss and, before she had started to close the door, he was at the window, looking out. She had a feeling that he had forgotten her—put her out of his mind because he wanted to give his attention to something else. She never got over that feeling with him; she never forgot the way he looked while standing close to the wall. If ever she wanted a model for a gay, gallant adventurer, this was the man. The features were finely chiselled, the preoccupation in his gaze was something quite new to her. His eyebrows were dark and clearly marked, the corner of his mouth that she could see was turned down.
She felt instinctively that it would be a mistake to disturb him. The pause seemed unbearably long, although it could have been only two or three minutes, perhaps not even that. Then he relaxed and turned from the window, taking out his cigarette-case as he approached her again.
“Are the police still watching you?” he asked.
The question shattered the atmosphere of calm which he himself had created and her hand poised motionlessly above the cigarettes in the gold case. He stared into her questioning eyes and this time he was smiling.
“They were, weren’t they?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Are they doing so now?”
“I don’t think so.” She took a cigarette and he lit it for her. “Why?”
“I wanted to be sure whether you were being watched or I was being followed. Now I think I know.”
She said: “Are the police following you?”
He looked startled and then laughed.
“No. They don’t waste their time.”
It was nonsensical to think that he was like Jim. He was half a head taller, his hair so dark that it looked nearly black. Jim’s face was rugged and plain, made attractive by his eyes; this man was handsome; and yet—something about him reminded her vividly of Jim. Her glance strayed to the photograph and he didn’t look round but said:
“Is it a good likeness?”
“Yes, it is. But what do you want?” Her voice sharpened. “I’m busy, Mr—”
“Rollison,” he reminded her. “Why were you downstairs just now?”
She felt inclined to ask him what business it was of his but didn’t. She walked to a chair and sat down, smoothing the skirt of the long, green smock which she always wore when working. She was suddenly conscious of being untidy. Jim always said he preferred her fair, curly hair that way; he thought a conventional set spoiled it. She hadn’t made up that day because she hadn’t been out of doors; she must look dreadful. Her fingers strayed to her hair.
“Don’t bother,” said Rollison and his eyes sparkled, like Jim’s when he had first called her “Punch.”
“Why did you go downstairs? Please tell me.”
She was tempted to say “For a breath of air” but she didn’t; yet she couldn’t think how to tell him why without sounding foolish and perhaps giving something of importance away.
That letter was important. So she said:
“I thought I heard the postman.”
“Expecting a letter from Jim?”
She flared: “What are you getting at? Who are you? I’ve every right—”
But her voice trailed off because he was smiling at her, not mockingly or to make her feel foolish but as if he were amused and asking her to share the joke.
“I’m Richard Rollison, and I’ve heard a lot about you. I wanted to find out what you really looked like, what way you did your hair, whether you cared a hoot about Jim or whether he had almost faded out of your mind—all that kind of thing. You see, I’m interested in Jim Mellor’s disappearance. Not in Jim himself—we weren’t even acquaintances, I’m not a long-lost friend. It still gets you badly, doesn’t it? You can’t believe he ever killed a man, yet the evidence has piled up against him. To make it worse, he hasn’t written and hasn’t telephoned you. That’s almost as bad as a confession.”
She said: “He didn’t kill that man!”
“Do you know for sure or is that just wishful thinking?”
“He couldn’t have done. Not Jim.”
“Why did you look up and down the street?” asked Rollison.
“That’s nothing to do with it!”
Rollison went to the desk and picked up the photograph. She saw him glance at the sketches which were so stiff and wooden but his gaze didn’t linger for long on them. He studied the photograph and spoke while he was doing so.
“You know, I’ve a feeling that your jaunt has something to do with Jim. If you ask me why, I couldn’t tell you. But Jim’s very much on top of your mind just now—more even than usually. He’s always there, ready to pop out at a moment’s notice, but this afternoon he’s in complete possession. Why?”
He put the photograph down and looked at the letter which lay in her lap.
“Is that from him?” he asked gently.
Then suddenly, for no reason at all, hot tears stung her eyes and she turned her face away hastily. She hadn’t talked freely about Jim to anyone for twenty-nine days. She hadn’t met a soul who really understood what was in her mind, how Jim was with her so often, ready to smile at her or sing “Charles, Peter and Anne.” Or, if there were a gloomy headline in a newspaper, how he was likely to frown and become earnest and say that, hell, he didn’t know what the world was coming to.
She blinked away the tears, sniffed and faced Rollison.
“I wish I knew why you’ve come,” she mumbled.
“I want to find Jim.”
“Are you—a policeman?”
“I don’t want to find him so that he can be handed over to the law for what they call taking his medicine. I think there’s real doubt whether he killed that man and the police don’t think there’s any doubt at all. I’d like to know the truth but even that isn’t so important as finding Jim.”
“But—but why, if he’s a stranger to you?”
“I’ve been looking for him for some weeks. Before he disappeared.”
“Why did you want him?”
“I didn’t want him,” said Rollison and paused, as if weighing every word. “His father did. His father is a sick man and by way of being a friend of mine. Let’s say a friend, anyhow.” His eyes were very bright and he seemed to be challenging her to reject all this. “And yet, I do want to find him for myself because I made a shocking mistake over him. I talked too much to his father. Ever paused to think you can never take back any word you’ve said? Trite but true and worth remembering.”
Until Rollison said “his father,” Judy had felt more relaxed than she had for twenty-nine days. From then on she had started to tense up again and now her nerves and her muscles were taut and her hands were clenched; she still held the letter.
She said: “Will you please go, Mr Rollison?”
“Not yet.”
“Then will you tell me the truth.”
“I have.”
“That’s another lie. Jim had no father.”
“That’s an illusion; he didn’t know he had a father living.” Rollison smiled faintly. “There’s something wrong about that “a father”, isn’t there?”
“You mean—” she was baffled.
“His name wasn’t—isn’t—Mellor. It’s the name of the family which finally adopted him. Oh, he was known as Jim Mellor, in the eyes of the law he was Jim Mellor, but his real name is Arden. You know it as his second name. His father came to me some time ago and asked me to find him and to prove his identity and afterwards I talked too freely. When I thought I’d found Jim I told the old man and mentioned what name he was living under. There’s quite a story. The family who looked after him for the old man passed him on to these Mellors. After I’d talked, there was a story in the newspapers about the murder and the hunt for Mellor. There was also panic among the old man’s friends for, as a result, he had a seizure. He’s over it now— or as much over it as he’ll ever be. He has an odd notion: that his son isn’t a murderer. He’s as stubborn and illogical about it as you are, with even less reason, because he hasn’t seen his son for twenty-six years. He wants to find him and prove himself right. Old men are like that. So, for different reasons, you and he are after the same thing. As I’m helping him, I don’t see why I shouldn’t help you.” He smiled again and leaned back against the desk. “Why did you go downstairs?”
* * *
Judy told Rollison, and showed him the letter, and explained about “Punch and Judy.” It was surprisingly easy to speak freely, to pour out the whole story. He was a good listener, intent on every word; and he let her finish before making any comment. She felt more relaxed than she had for nearly a month; this man’s visit was good for her. She wasn’t wholly convinced that he’d told her the truth because the story seemed fantastic: but she was glad he was here and that she could talk.
She said: “I’d just realised that Jim would never have written “Judy” when you rang the bell. There isn’t any doubt, he didn’t write that letter.”
“It looks like their big mistake; bad men always make at least one! Did you see the man who delivered the letter?”
“I only caught a glimpse of him, I didn’t see his face. I was at the top of the stairs, he was in the hall. He didn’t look up but—” she broke off.
“Yes?”
“It can’t help but he had a bald patch—very dark, oily hair and a small white bald patch right in the middle. He seemed short and dumpy, too, but that may have been because I was looking down on him.”
“You have a nice, tidy mind,” said Rollison. “Short, dumpy, oily hair and a bald patch. It’s a small world. Did you notice where I stood when I went to the window just now?”
“Yes.”
“I wanted to make sure I couldn’t be seen from the street. Have a look for yourself, will you?”
Judith went towards the window. She moved without any feeling of tension or listlessness, only a quick stir of excitement. She stood close to the wall, very conscious of Rollison’s gaze, and peered into the wide street. Some way along, on the other side of the road, a man sat at the wheel of a small open car and read a newspaper. She couldn’t see a bald patch but his hair was dark and looked very shiny; as it would if it were heavily oiled or greased. Her excitement quickened, became almost unbearable.
“Same man?” asked Rollison.
“I can’t be sure but—”
“I think we’d better make sure. Come away from the window, will you? still taking care that he doesn’t see you.” She obeyed; it felt slightly ridiculous to move back towards the corner and then approach the middle of the room from the fireplace. But Rollison’s manner removed all qualms and her excitement became so intense that she felt suffocated; as if she couldn’t breathe freely because of some impending sensation. “If Jim didn’t kill that man, the murderer wants to frame him. Frame—blame—please yourself. That means an ugly business, Judith, perhaps with more than a little danger. There’s nothing ordinary about all this and, if murder’s been done once, it might be done again. What worries you most? Danger or having Jim damned and consigned to the gallows?”
“What do you want me to do?” she asked.
Rollison laughed.
“Just stay exactly as you are. Jim would hate to find you changed. I’ll be back.”
He moved across the room with the swift ease with which he had moved before and the door closed softly behind him. Judith held her breath. He had braced her, given her new hope, presented her with a picture of a glorious future. It wasn’t just what he had said or how he looked; it was as if a keen, invigorating wind had swept through the room, blowing away dark fears and dread and lethargy.
She went back to the window so that she could see outside without being seen.
