John Creasey - Kill The Toff
Rollison drove to Knoll Road.
A plain-clothes detective walked slowly up and down the street, two men in overalls were working at a water hydrant and showing no great enthusiasm for hard labour. Rollison recognised one of Grice’s men and knew that the warning about Judith had been taken seriously.
He pulled up outside Judith’s house.
“I wonder why Grice let you get away with so much,” said Clarissa.
“So does he. The law is flexible when administered by men of common sense and understanding. One way and the other, Grice and I have worked together a great deal. The ice is often thin but Jolly’s saved me from falling through with two red-letter exceptions. Yes, I’ve been jugged twice but they managed to keep me out of the dock.”
“Is it worth the risk?”
“Now you’re becoming fatuous,” declared Rollison.
As they walked across to the house he saw another car turn into Knoll Road; and again he recognised a policeman at the wheel. So Grice was having him followed; perhaps because he thought there was serious danger for him, possibly because he was not yet convinced that Rollison had told him everything he knew.
“May I know who lives here?”
“Judith, the nice girl,” said Rollison.
Judith must have seen the car for she was half-way down the top flight of stairs. She was dressed in her green smock, her hair was untidy, her face bright; for Rollison had telephoned her to talk of good news without telling her exactly what it was. Rollison was leading the way and Judith did not see Clarissa at first.
“I’ve been longing for you to come! Is Jim going to be all right?”
“Yes, he’s cleared,” Rollison said. “Thanks to—”
He stood aside, for Clarissa to reveal herself. The two women eyed each other, tears rising to Judith’s eyes, although she was smiling and happiness glowed in her face.
“Miss Arden,” Rollison finished dryly.
Judith sniffed. “I—I can’t thank—”
“Mr Rollison is revealing a new side of himself,” said Clarissa. “This is false modesty; if there’s anyone to thank, it’s he.”
She took Judith’s arm and they went upstairs to the big room. There dozens of black-and-white sketches littered the drawing-board and Rollison glanced at them and saw that they were drawn much more effectively than those he had seen when he had first come here.
“Genius popping out again?” he murmured.
“Oh, they’re dreadful! When can I see Jim?”
“When would you like to?”
“Now!”
“It will take about an hour, if you’re ready to leave in five minutes,” Rollison said and Judith ran across the room to the tiny recess, separated from the rest of the room by a heavy curtain, and disappeared.
Clarissa looked at Rollison with her head held back.
“You see,” murmured Rollison.
“Yes, it’s worth the risk. She’s sweet.”
“She’s paid a visit to hell and that makes London seem like heaven,” Rollison said. “There are all kinds of hell. Have you been thinking much about Michael?”
“Well—rather more.”
“Has it worked?”
“I can think about him without feeling bitter or desperate and wanting to rush off to find some way of drowning my sorrow. Roily, you’ve already done me a power of good. I think you ought to marry me.”
Rollison raised his eyebrows slowly.
“Original thought. Most people would hate the idea.”
“Would you?”
He considered; and it seemed to him that she was in earnest although the words had doubtless sprung unguardedly from her lips.
She looked beautiful; she was beautiful. Vitality throbbed in her, made her eyes glow, made her lovely face radiant.
“I don’t think I should hate it,” he pronounced. “But Jolly will tell you that I am not the marrying kind.”
“I wonder why you aren’t married.”
“Jolly’s answer will do for that, too.”
“Proposal spurned?” she said lightly.
“No, deferred.”
“You don’t really trust me, yet, do you?”
“No.”
Clarissa said: “Michael didn’t. Michael told me that he wouldn’t marry me while he was still in the RAF because he would be afraid of what I would be up to while he was away. He could have trusted me, he need not have feared that. So can you.”
Her hand moved, to touch his.
Judith called: “I’m ready!” and thrust the curtain aside. Clarissa tossed her head back and laughed.
* * *
Mellor’s skin was clear, his eyes bright; he looked almost well. He sat up against his pillows in a small ward at the Woking Hospital. On a hard, uncomfortable chair in one corner sat a local detective—and at the window stood Clarissa, a little to the left, so that she could not easily be seen from inside.
Rollison tapped at the door and entered and Judith waited in the passage, her hands clenched. She would have rushed in but he had told her that he must break this news gently to Jim Mellor. Mellor said: “Hal-lo!”
“Well, Jim. Feeling on top of the world?”
“I’m a thousand times better,” Mellor said and gave a rather excited laugh. “You’re Rollison, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Who’s been talking?”
“One of the nurses and the flatfoot over there,” said Mellor. The detective smiled affably. “They have quite an opinion of you. I don’t know how you managed it or even what you’ve been doing but if you yanked me out of that Asham Street room I’ll never be able to thank you. It—it’s damned hard, even now, to believe that I needn’t have done it, that everything’s worked out all right.”
Words spurted from him, as if he were making up for the last weeks during which he had said hardly a word to anyone.
Rollison said: “You’ll believe it, as it’s true. Have you told the police everything you can?”
“Everything but I’m afraid it doesn’t amount to much. I didn’t really know Galloway, I’d just done some work for him—printing jobs— not a great deal. I went down to Limehouse on business one afternoon and—well, I must have been drugged. When I came round I was in the room with Galloway and there was blood all over the place. I must have been crazy to run away then but I was scared stiff. I felt pretty groggy, too, and there was a little chap who came in and offered to hide me. He said I’d had a brainstorm, and—no, it’s no use,” Mellor said, and his voice was hoarse, his face strained. “I suddenly found myself on the run—and then the newspapers came out with my photograph and I knew I was for it. I thought if I could keep out of the way long enough, the truth would come out. I know it was crazy, but—”
“Worry about it later,” Rollison said, is there anyone you want to see?”
“Want to see? I’m longing to see Punch— Judith. My fiancee—that is, unless she’s decided that I’m not worth seeing. She might—but I couldn’t have written to her! It would have involved her in the mess, too. Wouldn’t it? Have you met her? The police promised—”
He couldn’t speak quickly enough.
“Yes, I’ve met her,” Rollison said. “She’s here.”
“What?”
Rollison turned his head. “All right, Judith.”
The door swung open. Judith came slowly into the room, her eyes glistening, her arms outstretched, but there was a little hesitancy in her manner, as if this reunion were not quite real. The light in Mellor’s eyes must have convinced her.
He said: “Punch. Oh, Punch!”
Rollison went out and closed the door softly. Clarissa watched from the window for a moment.
* * *
“I’m glad I saw that,” said Clarissa. “Thank you.”
“Life can be good.” Rollison went to the other side of the car which was parked within sight of the window of Mellor’s room. “She’ll stay there for a few hours and the police will see her home.”
They got into the car.
“It’s better without a bodyguard,” Clarissa said.
“Still thinking of wedded bliss?”
“Just seeing the glowing possibilities of it. Roily, I think I shocked you.”
Rollison smiled as he switched on the engine.
“Do you? Jolly would find that hard to believe.”
“Confound Jolly!”
“That won’t get us anywhere; he’s become as important as my own right hand. Clarissa, there was one thing your uncle said which is completely true. That you would try to make me forget the job on hand, which would sink me. If you did that, it would. This job isn’t finished yet. We’ve to find the real Mellor and find out why there were attempts made on your uncle’s life, why my Mellor was identified with the Killer, why so much has been woven around the Arden family, whether you’re right in thinking Geoffrey was murdered. And we’ve also to decide how much of what my Mellor said just now is true.”
Clarissa said: “Why, all of it, surely?”
“Possibly.”
“You don’t mean you doubt him?”
“I doubt everyone, with the possible exception of Judith Lome,” said Rollison, “and I’m going to go on doubting until we know all the answers.”
“I give in,” Clarissa said, and leaned back with her eyes closed. “What do you want me to do?”
“Help.”
“How?”
“By finding out who might want to see your uncle dead. And who will benefit, enough to make murder worth while. Do for me pretty well what you were doing for Waleski but don’t concentrate on the long-lost son any longer. And if you doubt whether I’m justified in keeping my eye on the ball, think over this one. If there is any other beneficiary under the will likely to have benefited from Geoffrey Arden’s death, and who would also want the real Mellor dead, then Jim’s still in danger. Pry and probe, as deeply as you can. Remember there could even be a second love-child.”
“Oh, no!”
“I said, could be.”
“I’ll see what I can find out,” Clarissa promised slowly. “Roily, if I succeed—” she paused.
“Yes.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
They did not talk again until they reached Gresham Terrace. The police car followed them all the way.
* * *
As Rollison turned the corner into the Terrace he saw an antiquated Ford drawn up outside Number 22g. The old Ford seldom penetrated the West End of London and when it did it was because Bill Ebbutt had urgent business with the Toff. In that car most of Bill’s young hopefuls travelled to their early bouts—until such time as they could afford to run their own cars and pay their own managers, when most of them forgot Bill. Billy Manson had been one of those—and Rollison thought of the heavyweight champion, glanced at Clarissa, who smiled and said:
“What have I done wrong now?”
“You’re all right. Did Billy ever talk to you about one William Ebbutt?”
“No.”
“You’d better come and meet him,” Rollison said; “it will be another new sensation.”
He glanced at her face and wished he hadn’t said that; for her smile disappeared and a bleak look replaced it. There seemed to be a barrier between them as they went up to the top floor. She was aloof, distant and withdrawn—much more like the woman he had met at Pulham Gate.
For once Jolly did not open the door.
Rollison let himself in and ushered Clarissa into the hall and Ebbutt’s unlovely voice immediately made itself heard.
“That’s wot I would’a done to ‘im, Mr Jolly. Cut ‘is ‘eart aht. To talk abaht one o’ my boys that way. Won on a foul, did ‘e? Not in all yer nacheral!”
“Indeed,” murmured Jolly.
“You see what I mean,” said Rollison.
Clarissa forced a smile. “Yes, I see. Roily, I think I will go and have a talk with my uncle. I’ll let you know if I find out anything that might help. I’m still glad I saw Judith and Jim.”
“Now, Clarissa—”
She smiled again and, although there was beauty, there was no life with it. She turned and hurried out of the flat and down the stairs, her movements smooth and graceful, her head held high. Rollison stood with a hand on the door, watching her, but she didn’t look round.
Ebbutt was still talking, Jolly murmuring occasional platitudes.
The downstairs door closed.
Rollison turned and went into the living-room.
Ebbutt was sitting in an armchair, his back to the trophy wall, while Jolly stood with a duster in his hand, occasionally moving a paper off the desk and dusting beneath it. Ebbutt overflowed in the big chair, a dazzling sight. He wore a check suit in a larger, louder check than Clarissa’s, a yellow bow tie and a pair of brightly shining brown boots of a yellowish-brown colour. His thin hair, quite grey, was plastered over his cranium and there was a beautiful quiff at the front; and by his side was a tankard of beer.
“Hallo, Bill,” said Rollison.
“Why, Mr Ar!” Ebbutt placed his hands on the arms of the chair and started to get up.
“Stay where you are, Bill. Beer, Jolly.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bill sank back with an audible sigh but did not speak again immediately. He licked his lips, took another swig of his beer and looked as shamefaced as he was ever likely to look. Jolly came in with another tankard of foaming beer, while Ebbutt ran his hand over his mouth, as if that would help to clear his mind, and muttered:
“All I can say is, I’m sorry, Mr Ar—I reely am sorry. I wouldn’t ‘ave ‘ad it ‘appen for a fortune. I ‘opes yer believe that, Mr Ar. You ought to ‘ave ‘eard my Lil. Give me a proper basinful, she did, said I oughta’ve known better than fink you would get up to any funny business like ‘elping the Killer. I’m sorry, Mr Ar, that’s it and all abaht it.”
“Don’t be an ass. You did what you thought you ought to do. What’s the news, Bill?”
“Why, ‘aven’t you ‘eard?”
“I don’t think so. What is it?”
“Why, Mellor’s arahnd. I got the tickle on the grapevine, s’mornin’. “E’s arahnd, an’ there ain’t any fink the matter wiv’ ‘im, so the man you ‘ad couldn’t ‘ve bin ‘im, could ‘e? I just want ter say, Mr Ar, if there’s anyfink I can do to ‘elp, it’s as good as done. I’ll stop ‘im gettin’ you if it’s the last fing I do.”
Rollison said mildly: “So he’s after me, is he?”
“S’right,” said Ebbutt, nodding ponderously. “Says ‘e’s gonna kill you, Mr Ar. “E spread the word arahnd; that’s why I came—to give yer the tip. Don’t forget, that man’s a killer.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Challenge
Rollison drank some beer, Ebbutt banged his empty tankard down on the desk and Jolly looked
at Rollison as if asking permission to speak. Rollison went to the trophy wall and let the noose of the hempen rope slide through his fingers.
“Yes, Jolly?”
“The man Mellor telephoned, sir, just before Mr Ebbutt arrived.”
Ebbutt cried: “Wot?”
“And what did the man Mellor have to say?” asked Rollison.
“He intimated what Mr Ebbutt has already mentioned. He requested me to tell you that if it is the last thing he does, he will get—ah— even with you about this. He seemed sober, sir.”
