Kill The Toff

Waleski turned left again, towards Putney.

Rollison looked at his petrol-gauge and silently blessed Jolly who must have had the tank filled during the day. He could drive through the night if necessary. He sat back, relaxed and comfortable, letting his mind dwell on Clarissa; and he smiled. Had he been told three hours ago that he would come to like her before the night was out, he would have laughed. Something in her manner when she had come round had touched a spark in him. He hoped he’d startled her by this swift move; and wondered whether she would stay at the hotel.

He doubted it.

Waleski drove straight up Putney Hill.

He knew the green Rolls-Bentley; he could hardly forget it after that morning. But it was difficult to judge colours by night and Rollison kept a hundred yards behind him. But he needed another car. He couldn’t be sure of escaping notice while he remained in this one. There wasn’t a chance of getting one but it was good to dream. Any old crock would do; the two-seater seemed to be going all out and didn’t pass forty-five miles an / hour. For Rollison it was snail’s pace on an empty road.

They turned right at Putney Heath, towards Roehampton and the Kingston Bypass.

Woking—and Surrey—lay ahead.

If Waleski recognised the Bentley, he would probably go anywhere but to his real destination.

A taxi-horn honked behind him. There was nothing on the road except one of London’s cabs, so antediluvian as to have an old-fashioned rubber and brass horn. Rollison pulled over and the taxi-driver honked again. He glanced round as it overtook him then saw a man in the back of the cab, pressing close to the window. There was a pale face and a pair of bright eyes and a waving hand.

Jolly!

Rollison exclaimed: “Wonderful!”

There was open land on either side: Wimbledon Common lay under the stars. In the headlights of cars coming each way, couples showed up, arms linked; two couples sat on a seat near the road. Rollison pulled in just beyond them and the taxi stopped a few yards ahead. Rollison jumped out and Jolly came to meet him.

“Do you need me, sir? Or shall I take the car?”

“Go back to the flat in it,” said Rollison. “And make yourself a medal.”

“Very good, sir. The driver has been well paid and I think he will be satisfactory.”

Rollison was already climbing in.

“He’ll do,” he said. “Everything’s wonderful and you’re a gem. Off we go, George!”

The driver let in the clutch and jolted Rollison forward; and Rollison thought he grinned. The rear light of Waleski’s car was nearly two hundred yards ahead now but the taxi had a fine burst of speed. Rollison leaned forward and opened the partition between him and the driver.

“All set for a night out?”

“Sure.”

“Petrol?”

“Plenty.”

“Have you seen the two-seater?”

“Yep.”

“You wouldn’t like to trust me at the wheel, would you?”

“I wouldn’t mind but it would be against the law, guv’nor.” The driver grinned again. “You just give me your orders and behave like a real toff.”

Rollison laughed. “You’ll do. I don’t want to get too close to the two-seater; I just want to know where it’s going.”

“And the rest, guv’nor!” The taxi-driver took a hand off the wheel and raised it. “I can use my mitts. Glad to, if there’s any trouble. Life’s pretty dull these days. Sure you wouldn’t like to pass ‘em and force ‘em into the side of the road?”

“You calm down and get ready to be disappointed in me.”

The driver chuckled.

They were speeding along the bypass and Rollison judged that they were travelling at fifty miles an hour. He smoked and watched. Now and again the two-seater was held up at traffic lights but the driver of the cab always slowed down in time to avoid getting too close. Sometimes three or four cars were between them and their quarry, sometimes none at all. They were too far away for Rollison to guess whether the men in the two-seater were paying them any attention.

At the end of the bypass they took the Guildford Road. By then Rollison was frowning, trying to guess where Waleski was going. Five miles farther along they turned off the main road along a narrower one. Rollison told his driver to switch off his lights; he no longer had to guess where they were going— he knew: Waleski was heading for Sir

Frederick Arden’s country home.

* * *

Arden Lodge stood on the brow of a hill, a large, gabled house, no more than a dark shape against the sky except where yellow lights shone at long, narrow windows. The cab, still without lights, passed the end of the drive and Rollison could see the two-seater, standing outside the front door.

The cabby slowed down.

“Going in, Guv’nor?”

“No, going home.”

“But, Guv’nor—”

“I told you to get ready to be disappointed,” Rollison said. “I couldn’t improve on this night’s work but I could spoil it.”

“They might go on somewhere else,” said the cabby.

His sharp profile was turned towards Rollison; his expression looked almost pleading in the faint light. Heaven knew what Jolly had told him. If the man were Snub or Jolly, he’d have no doubt what to do but—this was a stranger with no reason to be more loyal to Rollison than to any stranger. And there was danger from Waleski.

“Have a go,” pleaded the cabby.

Rollison said: “All right, I’ll take a chance. Stay here, follow the two-seater if it leaves and let me know where it goes. If nothing’s happened by one o’clock, give it up. Know where to find me?”

“If I don’t I’ll ask Bill Ebbutt.”

“Oh-ho,” said Rollison and doubts about the man dimmed. “Be careful; they’re armed.”

“Your man told me so,” said the cabby. “You don’t have to worry, Mr Rollison. I’m one of Bert’s new drivers. Mr Jolly ‘phoned Bert and asked him to be at the Oxford Palace.” Bert was a taxi and garage owner in the East End who often did work for Rollison. “Bert’s got ‘flu, so he asked me to come along. You don’t have to worry. I’ll keep me lights off and follow them without them knowing I’m around. Done plenty of it in France but you don’t want to hear the story of what I did in the war, do you? Trouble is, what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to take a walk,” said Rollison.

“Coming back?”

“No, you’re in charge here.”

“Hope you get a lift okay,” said the cabby. “I—Ta, Mr Rollison!” His hand closed round five one-pound notes. “You didn’t have to do that but thanks a lot. I won’t let you down. Bert and Bill would tear a strip off me if I did.”

Rollison laughed softly and got out and walked towards the main road, a mile or so away.

* * *

He caught a bus after half an hour’s walking, reached Guildford just after eleven o’clock, found an all-night garage, hired a car and was hack at Gresham Terrace by midnight.

A light was on in the living-room and Jolly, who seemed to sense when he was coming in, opened the door.

“Made that medal?” asked Rollison.

“That is hardly deserved, sir, but—”

“Wrong. But you should have told me it was one of Bert’s men.”

“I thought you would prefer to judge the man yourself as he was a stranger,” said Jolly . “I instructed him not to advise you until—”

“He didn’t. Well, it’s been a good night. Waleski ended up—”

Jolly’s right hand sped to his lips. Rollison broke off—and then looked into the living-room, the door of which was ajar, and saw

Clarissa Arden.

* * *

“Well, well,” Rollison said, heavily. “The lovely lady who couldn’t take advice. How long has Miss Arden been here, Jolly?”

“For about an hour, sir.”

“Has she been difficult?”

“No, sir, quite placid.” Rollison chuckled and Clarissa laughed. Rollison went into the room, noticing that she had made up her face and most of the signs of her ordeal had disappeared. Her blouse was buttoned high at the neck, hiding the red marks and the weals. Her eyes were heavy as if with sleep but only a little bloodshot; there were no blotches on her skin. She was smoking and there was a drink beside her. She sat down as Rollison entered and for the third time looked at him through her lashes with her head held back.

“I’m beginning to think you’re good,” said Rollison.

“Did you find out where Waleski went?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“You haven’t found out yet,” said Rollison dryly.

“If we’re going to work together, I think I ought to be in your confidence—don’t you?”

A glass was warming by a tiny electric fire. Rollison picked it up and poured himself a little brandy, sniffed the bouquet, then whirled the golden liquid round and round in his glass, looking at her all the time.

“So from now on we’re buddies?”

“I think we’ll do better like that.”

“It’s largely a question of whether I agree,” said Rollison. “I might—when I know your story, Clarissa, and if you can convince me that all you say is true. That might be difficult.”

“I don’t think it will,” she said. “I’ve known for some time that someone is trying to murder my uncle. I’ve come to the conclusion that my cousin Geoffrey was murdered, that he didn’t die by accident. I’ve been trying for weeks to find out why it’s all been going on. That was why I spent so much time in Paris. I met Waleski in Paris. Would you like to hear about that, too?”

* * *

It was nearly two o’clock.

Rollison took Clarissa’s key and opened the front door of 7, Pulham Gate. Then they stood close together on the porch and after a pause she said:

“Why don’t you come in?”

“Fun later,” said Rollison.

“You don’t trust me, do you?”

“No, not quite, yet.”

Her hand moved, sought his, held it; and pulled him closer. Her breath was warm on his cheek, her eyes glowed in the light of a street-lamp.

“I’m quite trustworthy now. I doubted you before. Waleski tried to kill me, as he is trying to kill my uncle and as he did kill Geoffrey. I don’t know why; I don’t know much about it; but I do know that I’m fighting for my life.”

“Very pretty,” murmured Rollison.

“So I’ve failed completely to convince you.”

“Oh, not completely. But there’s more at stake than you, Clarissa. A nice girl named Judith and a lad by the name of Mellor, who—”

“Mellor!” She dropped his hand, and drew back. “Mellor! Do you know that brute?”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

More About Mellor

She wasn’t acting. One moment she had been pleading, using all her wiles and her beauty to break down Rollison’s resistance; then, at the mention of Mellor, she had been shocked, filled with a repugnance which rang clearly in her voice. Into the word ‘brute” she had put a world of loathing and contempt.

Rollison took her arm.

“I think I’ll come in, after all,” he said and led her inside, closed the door and went to the drawing-room.

When he switched on the light, he saw that she was pale and shaken; the effect of Mellor’s name was the same on her as it had been on Grice and Ebbutt. He mixed her a whisky-and-soda from a tray which had been left out.

She watched him intently without speaking.

“Here’s early death to the villain! Sit down, Clarissa, and tell me all about the brutality and villainy of Jim Mellor.”

“He’s—an unspeakable brute.”

“Who said so?”

“I say so. He—” She sipped her drink and sat down slowly; and Rollison was surprised that she flushed, as if at an embarrassing memory, I once knew him. My uncle had probably told you about my hankering after the flesh-pots.”

“He called it excitement.”

“Anything for a new sensation,” said Clarissa, as if talking to herself. “Yes, I suppose that’s right. Life’s unbearably dull—most good people are such fools, such bores. I suppose I was always restless and the war made it worse. I couldn’t settle to anything afterwards. It might have been different if Michael—”

She caught her breath and jumped up.

“I’m getting maudlin!”

“You’re becoming human,” Rollison murmured, i like it. You owe Waleski a lot, Clarissa. When he nearly choked the life out of you he scraped off that veneer of cynicism. Please don’t put it back again; it only smears the lily. Who was Michael?”

Tears were close to her eyes.

It was late; she had been near death; she had been shocked and shaken; and so it might be said that she wasn’t herself and had every excuse for breaking down. She didn’t answer at first but closed her eyes. Suddenly she sat erect, raised her head and finished her drink quickly. Then she spoke in sharp, staccato sentences.

“We were engaged. He was a Pathfinder and didn’t come back. You remind me of him. I couldn’t think who it was when you came here this evening. But the way you behaved at the hotel—yes, you remind me of him. But he’s dead, best forgotten. We were talking about my vices. Anything for a new sensation. That’s really why I started to probe into my uncle’s illness. I suspected that it was attempted murder. When my cousin died I think I was the only one who discovered that he’d spent a lot of time in the East End of London. I think he had your complex. He liked slumming— and new sensations. You do, too—don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Rollison gently.

“So I went down to the East End. Oh, I didn’t go as a ministering angel; it was a new kind of sight-seeing trip. I had an escort.”

“Who?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

“Billy Manson, the boxer,” said Clarissa and her lips twisted wryly. “Another of my sensations. Ugly men fascinate me, so does brute strength, and Billy had them both. I told him I wanted to see how the poor lived. He was born in Limehouse and isn’t ashamed of it, in spite of his fortune. He took me round. I was astonished at how many different people he knew. Criminals!” She laughed. “I wonder if you can imagine the thrill I got when I first met a man who had committed murder and got away with it.”

Rollison said: “I think so.”

“I almost believe you can. Billy did me proud but said there was one man in the East End I’d never be able to meet. Mellor. That was the first time I heard the name. It was impossible to meet him and of course I was determined to do the impossible. Billy was frantic, told me I was playing with fire—poor dear! He didn’t realise that I like fire. It wasn’t through Billy that I met Mellor, though; it was by accident. I went to a dance in Limehouse. It—it was dreadful! The crowd of sweating humanity—Oh, never mind. Mellor was there although I didn’t know it until I had a note from him. A kind of royal command. Billy was to have taken me to the dance but he had a heavy cold and his manager wouldn’t let him out, so I went with two friends of his. They shook at the knees when Mellor’s message came and advised me to leave. Leave! I laughed at them and met Mellor.”

She fell silent again and Rollison gave her a cigarette and lit it for her. She hardly noticed what she was doing; she was re-living the meeting with Mellor in a scene which Rollison knew so well. A dance-hall, dusty, festooned with grimy coloured paper flags, crowded with Lascars, seamen, dockers, factory workers; beer flowing freely, rowdyism, wild dances— and one man who held a kind of court and whom everyone in the room feared. The only remarkable thing about it was the speed with which Mellor had won this position. Rollison had spent some time in the East End only six months ago and had not heard of Mellor then.

He asked: “How long ago was this?”

“About six months. I met Mellor,” she repeated. “I can’t explain how I felt. It was as if I were meeting someone I’d known before and whom I knew to be corrupt. He was quite young. To make himself look older and more manly, he wore a beard. In anyone else it would have been laughable but in Mellor—I’d never met a man who frightened me before and I haven’t met one since. It was in the way he spoke, the way he ordered others about, the way he attacked that girl.”

She clenched her hands in her lap.

“We danced, of course. He was one of the hold-you-tight type, sexy, domineering. A silly little tipsy girl was dancing with a glass of beer in her hand and she tripped up and spilt it over my dress. He seemed to go wild, snatched the glass out of her hand and smashed it in her face. I shall never forget that moment. He just smashed it into her face, cut her cheeks and mouth. It was a miracle she wasn’t blinded. She screamed and tried to run away but he caught her hair and bashed her with his fist— and no one came to her aid. I tried to but they held me back. I did try.”

She sounded almost piteous.

“Yes, I’m sure you did.”

“She was unconscious when he flung her away. Her friends took her out. I was told afterwards that she was in hospital for a month. But—” Clarissa shuddered. “It was quite horrible. The first new sensation that revolted me. I walked out, of course. I haven’t been back to the East End since that night and I don’t want to go again. I stopped trying to find out why my cousin went there so often. I told myself it didn’t matter and I suppose it didn’t. I hardly knew my cousin. He was at school when I left England during the war and we didn’t meet after that. I tried to forget the whole business but couldn’t. It was so obvious that someone was trying to kill my uncle as well. So I worked on Waleski. I’ve told you about that.”

“Tell me again,” said Rollison.

She didn’t object.

“I knew my uncle had business in Paris and he kept hearing from Waleski. I read one of Waleski’s letters and saw the signature. It was an innocuous kind of letter, just saying that he was continuing the investigations and hoped to have some news later. I wondered what the investigations were, whether my uncle realised he was in line for murder. Waleski wrote from the Hotel de Paris so I went and stayed there. He wasn’t a difficult man to meet and—well, you’ve seen him. Ugliness still fascinates me. He wanted to get information out of me about my uncle; and he kept talking about a second son. I still don’t know whether my uncle ever had another son but Waleski talked as if there were no doubt. Waleski” —she laughed, a curious, brittle laugh— “thought that I was interested because if a second son appeared I’d probably get little or nothing from my uncle’s will. I didn’t tell him that I couldn’t care less. I pretended that it mattered. I was to go through the papers at Pulham Gate and the Guildford house, looking for evidence about this love-child and tell Waleski what I’d found. Then Waleski was called to London. I followed after a few days and he called me today and asked me to meet him at the Oxford Palace. He was disappointed that I hadn’t discovered anything yet and I—oh, I suppose I lost my head.” She leaned back and looked at Rollison from beneath her lashes: the familiar trick; she was feeling much more herself now.

“I told him that he’d better be careful or the great Toff would discover his little game. He went mad. He was holding his cigarette-case in his hand, grabbed my hair and struck me with the case. That’s all I remember, all I can tell you. Does it—” She smiled; yes, she was much more herself— “Does it tally with what I told you at the flat?”

“Near enough,” said Rollison.

“It’s the truth. And I still want to work with you.”

“We’ll talk about that in the morning,” Rollison promised.

“Don’t leave it too late,” said Clarissa. She stood up and approached him, taking his hands. “Have I bored you?”

“Terribly!”

“That’s where you’re like Michael: you won’t be serious when I want to be.”

“If I were called on to advise, I’d say: think more about Michael instead of trying to forget him,” said Rollison gently. “There’s more than one man cast in the same mould but not a lot of women like you, Clarissa. I think we can work together. In fact, there’s a job I want you to do in the morning. Go and get some sleep; you might be busy tomorrow.”

“Yes, papa.” She gripped his hands tightly. “Why did you mention Mellor?”

“I think there are two Mellors. We don’t mean the same one,” said Rollison. “We’ll see.”

“I think you’re lying but I don’t really mind,” said Clarissa. “You’ve done me a world of good. Thank you, Richard.”

She kissed him, full on the lips—a lingering kiss with more than a hint of passion—and the soft warmth of her body was close against him.

“Why don’t you stay?”

“I’d rather find you new sensations,” Rollison said dryly. “Good night, Clarissa.”

She laughed and turned away—and the telephone bell rang, startling them both.

* * *

“It’s Jolly,” said Clarissa.

Rollison took the telephone. Jolly would not have called here unless with tidings of trouble.

Judith?

“Yes, Jolly?”

“I’ve just had a message from Dr Willerby, sir,” said Jolly. “Will you please go there at once?”

* * *

Earlier that night Snub drove a tradesman’s van past the clinic, waved to Doc Willerby who was talking to a woman on the steps of his Nissen hut, and stopped at a garage not far away. He drove the van in, poked his head inside the back, rubbed his hands joyously and locked the door. It was dark; the gas street lamps gave only a dim glow. When he reached the clinic again, the woman had gone and the door was closed.

He did not go in at once.

He had no idea where Rollison was but wished vaguely that his own job was different. Being nursemaid to Mellor wasn’t likely to offer much excitement. But Rollison’s training and his own instinct made him careful. He made a complete circuit of the outside of the clinic but saw no lurking figures, nothing to suggest that anything was wrong.

He wished he had a gun; or any weapon.

A light glowed at one end of the Nissen hut.

He rang the bell and Mrs Willerby, a much younger woman than her husband, opened the door.

“Not another emergency, just an extra mouth to feed,” said Snub. “Hope I’m not too late.”

“No, we seldom get to bed before midnight.” She stepped inside and the light from a room beyond fell on her fluffy hair and round, ruddy, friendly face. “The doctor is expecting you.”

“And wishing he wasn’t,” called Willerby from the lighted room.

But when Snub entered he put down a book and offered cigarettes. It was a small, comfortable, homely room and a radio stood in the corner, soft chamber music coming from it. Snub dropped into an easy-chair and clapped his hands boisterously.

“I’ve found just what the doctor ordered, Doc! A tradesman’s van, nicely sprung, used for long distances and fragile merchandise, as they say. Borrowed a divan and fastened it inside the van. Mellor will hardly know he’s on the road. How is he?”

“All right.”

“Did the Boss say why he wanted me to come along here?”

“No. He probably realises by now that Mellor isn’t the most popular man in the East End. I’ve pushed the second bed in the ward near the window and there’s a good lock on the door.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“I’m not exactly expecting trouble,” said the doctor, “but I’ll be glad when you’ve taken

Mellor away.”

“You were a fool to let him stay here,” said Mrs Willerby, coming in with a tray on which were three steaming cups of cocoa. “Can you drink some of this, Mr Higginbottom?”

“My dream of a night-cap,” said Snub. “Thanks, ma’am. Don’t blame the Doc, blame the Toff—he’s at the root of all the trouble.”

“Do you think I need telling that?” asked Mrs Willerby.

It was half-past twelve when Snub went into the ward. There was a tiny electric light on in one corner. Mellor was lying on his back and appeared to be in a natural sleep. The window was open at the top and Snub made a face.

“Must have fresh air,” whispered Willerby.

“Oh, yes. I’ll rig up a booby trap and if anyone comes in they’ll make a hell of a clatter.” Snub looked round the room, brought two chairs to the window and placed a glass tumbler on top of the erection he built up. No one reaching through the open window could fail to knock the glass off. “All will be well if it doesn’t fall of its own volition,” Snub said. “ “Night—” night.”

He kicked off his shoes, took off his collar and tie and lay down; ten minutes later, he was asleep.

* * *

He didn’t know what time it was when the tumbler crashed to the floor but it woke him out of a deep sleep. He sprang up—and the glass of the window fell in. He saw the shadowy figures of two men outside.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Night Attack

Snub muttered: “Here it comes!”

He was conscious of three things at the same time. Mellor had woken up at the crash and was leaning on his elbow, staring towards the window; a man, head protected by his arm, was climbing in; and the dim electric light was just good enough for Snub to see the second man, outside the window, threatening him with a gun.

Snub said: “Good evening,” squirmed round and grabbed a pillow and flung it at the first man who fell back outside, arms waving; and who caught his wrist on a jagged piece of glass. Snub rolled off the bed and, as he touched the floor, heard a soft, coughing sound, as ominous as the report of a shot; it was either from an air-pistol which carried a lethal slug or a silenced automatic; and silencers weren’t as good as all that.

He shouted: “Doc!”

For a moment he knelt behind the bed, safe from a second shot—but he heard the “cough” again, swung his head round and saw Mellor clutch his shoulder. Mellor’s unshaven face and wild eyes were livid with fear. He was in line with the window, an easy target.

Snub yelled: “Doc!” again and sprang across the room, putting himself between Mellor and the assailant.

He felt a sharp pain at the top of his left arm but it didn’t stop him. He grabbed the side of Mellor’s bed and tipped it up. Mellor slid to the floor; blankets and sheets toppled on to him, the bedside table crashed.

A door banged.

Snub ducked; another slug went over his head. He made for the door at a crouching sprint, changed his mind and his direction and joined Mellor behind the bed. As he flung himself on the floor he saw the first man climbing in again; blood showed crimson on the man’s wrist. Mrs Willerby called out: “Be careful!” The door began to open.

“Careful, Doc!” called Snub. “They’re armed. Haven’t got a shotgun handy, have you?”

Mellor was lying in a huddled heap, not moving but gasping for breath and the top of his head stuck out from the bedclothes. The wounded assailant was now in the room. He wasn’t badly hurt for, in his injured hand, he held a knife as if he meant business.

The other man began to climb in.

The door opened wide, the doctor’s arm appeared as he tossed something into the room. It struck the first attacker on the chest and broke. Snub, peering above the upturned bed, saw a cloud of vapour billow up and heard the door slam. Next moment the first assailant began to splutter and cough, the second gave an explosive sneeze—and gas bit sharply at Snub’s eyes and mouth, a gas with a powerful smell: ammonia.

Snub stood up, holding his breath. The two men were beating the air, the knife curving wild arcs through the vapour cloud.

Snub pulled the bed-clothes off Mellor, bent down and lifted him, grunting. His eyes began to water and he wanted to cough. Holding his breath, he staggered to the door as it opened wide. He didn’t see Willerby but heard his calm voice.

“That’s right—this way.”

He felt a steady hand on his shoulder, banged against the open door, then reached the passage. Glass crashed at the window: one of the men was climbing out. Snub wanted to get at them both but had to look after Mellor and his eyes were blinded with tears. He saw a pale shape—Mrs Willerby, in a filmy nightdress—and heard her call urgently:

“Darling, be careful!”

“He’s-all-right,” gasped Snub. “Where can—”

“This way.” Snub couldn’t see the woman’s expression but felt her clutch at his arm. He followed her blindly and knocked against another door. Tut him on the floor,” said Mrs Willerby and there was no hint of alarm in her voice now./

More glass smashed in the other room. There’d be no hope of catching the attackers.

Snub put Mellor down gently and reeled away.

“Just keep your eyes closed; you’ll feel better in a minute,” said Mrs Willerby and hurried out.

* * *

Mellor, thanks to the muffling bedclothes, was hardly affected by the ammonia gas and a flesh wound in his shoulder was much less serious than the shock symptoms.

Snub telephoned the Gresham Terrace flat, bathed his sore eyes, then his own wound; it was no more than a scratch.

* * *

“I was afraid of it but didn’t really expect it,” Rollison said. “Sorry, Doc. And thanks. Did you recognise either of the beggars?”

Willerby said: “No.”

“I think I’d know ‘em if I saw them again,” said Snub. “The lamp gave enough light for that.”

“It might help.” Rollison, looking as wide awake as if it were three o’clock in the afternoon and not the early hours of the morning, bent over Mellor. “Has it set him back far?”

“He’ll need careful nursing.”

“Dangerous to move him?”

“Not if he’s warm and comfortable. You’ll have to get him away from here, Roily; I can’t risk any further trouble. Either that or send for the police. Are you still sure that you’re right?”

“Yes. Snub, go and get that van you’ve been boasting about and keep your eyes open. Our pals might have withdrawn to regroup their forces. Better have this.” He handed Snub an automatic. “Carry one until this show’s over or I’ll be attending your last rites. Doc, I’m really sorry.”

“So you should be,” said Mrs Willerby. She was more jumpy now than she had been when the fight was going on. “I always said that it’s never safe to help Mr Rollison, Tim; you mustn’t do it again. I can’t stand any more of it. Especially for Mellor.” She looked angrily at the sleeping man—Willerby had given him a narcotic injection—and then at Rollison. “We have enough to do without looking after swine.”

“That’s enough, Peggy,” Willerby said gently.

Rollison smiled. “I know, Mrs Willerby. I’ll make amends and I’ll have Mellor out of here in half an hour.”

“It’s all very well to talk.” Mrs Willerby clutched her dressing-gown tightly, glared at the bed again and gulped. “But—but ought he to be moved, Tim?”

The doctor laughed . . .

Mrs Willerby had three rubber hot-water bottles ready by the time the van arrived. Snub backed it into the clinic grounds, then came hurrying in to say that no one was about. No alarm had been raised in a district where strange noises were often heard at night and the wise course was to pretend not to have heard them.

The doors of the van were open.

They carried Mellor in and put him on the divan bed where Mrs Willerby tucked him in with the hot-water bottles. There was something furtive about the operation, carried out in the darkness and in a hush which was somehow ominous. The purring of the engine seemed very loud; the roar as Snub revved it up was shattering.

Rollison sat in the back with the doors closed.

Through a circular hole at the back of the driver’s cabin he could see the shape of Snub’s head. Now that he was inside and they had started off, he wondered whether it would have been wiser to sit next to Snub. He would go there as soon as they were safely away from the clinic; but this was the danger area. There were no windows at the sides so he couldn’t look out except through two small windows in the doors. He stood up, held on to the side of the van and watched the mean, dark streets and the gas-lamps disappearing, only to be replaced by others. Snub drove fast on the straight and slowed down carefully as he approached the corners.

Rollison thought: “We should be all right now.”

He actually moved to speak to Snub when he saw a car swing out of a side turning and come in their wake. Brilliant headlights shone out, dazzling him. He backed quickly away and dropped his hand to his pocket—but he probably wouldn’t need a gun; this was more likely a police car than one of Waleski’s.

Snub called: “What’s up? Trailed?”

“Yes.”

“Is Mellor snug and tight?”

“Yes. I’ll keep him steady; you shake ‘em off if you can.”

“Right.”

Rollison knelt down by the side of the unconscious man, putting his arms across the divan to make sure that Mellor couldn’t roll off. Snub swung round a corner and the divan shifted; another and it swayed the other way.

Mellor didn’t stir beneath the bedclothes.

The bright light still shone into the back of the van. It disappeared as they swung round another corner then appeared again, casting grotesque shadows.

“They’re clinging,” Snub said. “Police?”

“Afraid so.”

“Have to see it through now. Hold tight.”

They swung right, then sharp left. The divan skidded and would have tilted badly had Rollison not been holding it. He wished he could stand up, to judge the distance between van and car. It wasn’t easy to think and he’d never needed to think faster. If this were a police car, it was probably equipped with radio. Radio patrol cars throughout London and the Home Counties might soon be on the look-out for the van; the call had probably gone out. The chances of escaping were negligible, unless they went to earth somewhere near, stranded the van and hid Mellor.

With anyone else that would have been easy: Ebbutt’s flat, the gymnasium, one of a dozen pubs or Bert’s garage would all have offered sanctuary. But no one would willingly help Mellor against the police.

He heard a splintering sound and glanced round. The glass of the left side window crashed in.

Snub whistled. “That’s Waleski! Hold tight!”

A second shot struck the wing of the van as they turned another corner.

Rollison called: “Get on to a straight road and keep there for a bit.”

“Aye, aye, cappen—we’re on one now.”

“Go as fast as you like,” said Rollison.

He stood up and went to the smashed window. The blinding glare of the following car’s headlights made him narrow his eyes. All he could see was the sheet of light and the twin orbs of the lamps themselves; there was no dark shape behind. He stood to one side and poked his gun out of the window.

He fired, blind. Nothing happened. He raised the gun a shade and fired again. Still no result. The roar of the shot inside the van was deafening, high above the sound of the engine and the rattling of the chassis.

He fired a third time. One of the lights went out and the car swerved. He moved in front of the window and saw the dark outline of the car which was nearly broadside-on. He fired twice towards the driving-seat and heard the squeal of brakes as the report of the shots died down. “Twist and turn about now,” he ordered. “Nice work,” breathed Snub. The van swung round another corner as

Rollison bent over Mellor.

* * *

The car didn’t appear again and they were soon out of London.

* * *

“Well!” gasped Mrs Begbie. “Well, this is a surprise. And at this hour, too: I can’t understand it. Who did you say you are? Mr Rollison? A friend of Sir Frederick’s? Well!”

She blinked at the pale blue note-paper on which Arden had written to her and then blinked at Rollison who stood in the tiny parlour of the cottage. She wore a grey blanket dressing-gown, her thin grey hair was done up tightly in steel curlers, her eyes were bright. She was a small woman with sharp features and full lips—not a kindly soul, judging from appearances; probably an irascible old woman.

“Well! And who is the man you’ve brought? Sir Frederick doesn’t say.”

“A young friend of his,” said Rollison.

“Young friend? Not a woman?” the old voice sharpened.

“No, a man.”

“Well! Well, I suppose I’d better see what I can do; but it’s a long time since I looked after anyone who was sick—really sick. I’m not so young as I used to be, you know; my old bones don’t like work. But, thanks to Sir Frederick, they don’t have to do much. Bring him in, sir, bring him in. He’ll have to have the box-room; but there’s a window there. It’s quite sweet and clean and my niece slept there only last Sunday, so it’s properly aired. I can’t do less than take him in, can I? But I’ll have to think about it in the morning. I know what I shall do—I shall telephone Sir Frederick, that’s what I shall do. I’ll go and turn the bed down now. Mind the stairs, they’re rather steep, and mind you don’t bang his head, there’s a nasty turn. And he’ll have to sleep in the box-room—”

She went off muttering to herself.

Half an hour later Rollison drove away in the van. Snub was sitting in the parlour, drinking a cup of tea with Mrs Begbie and listening to what she was going to do.

Rollison pulled up half a mile from the cottage and watched the road leading to it. He saw no traffic, no one appeared to be approaching. He doubted whether Mellor would be traced there; if he were—well, Snub was armed now and had strict instructions to send for the police if there were another emergency. There were limits to what Rollison could do alone. He wondered whether he were justified in submitting the old woman to the risk of an attack from Waleski, whether the time had really come for handing Mellor over to the police.

Waleski meant to kill the youth who might be safer in custody.

But the murder of Galloway could still be “proved” against him. Only desperate men would have made the attacks tonight; and if Waleski were desperate he would probably make a fatal mistake. Risk or no risk, he must try to lure the man to go far enough to hang himself.

Jolly, bleary-eyed but still dressed, struggled up from an easy-chair as Rollison came in.

“Sit back and relax,” said Rollison. “You ought to have gone to bed.”

“I simply couldn’t, sir. Is everything all right?”

“No one who matters is dead. The pace is hotting up and we may find it gets too hot. We really started something when we championed young Mellor. Any messages?”

“Only from the taxi-driver, sir!”

“Only!”

“He left Arden Lodge at two-fifteen, just after Waleski’s car was put into the garage.”

“Hardly a trifle,” murmured Rollison and studied Jolly’s lined face. His eyes were heavy with sleep but his shoulders were erect. “Did you look at The Times yesterday?”

“Unfortunately I have done no more than glance at it,” said Jolly, is there anything of interest?”

“Have a look at the Situations Vacant column,” said Rollison and Jolly turned to the desk to pick up the folded copy of The Times. He studied the advertising page carefully, suddenly started and lowered the paper.

“A first footman is required at Arden Lodge. Why, that is remarkable, sir. I could apply—”

“You can apply but it isn’t remarkable and the job’s yours. I fixed it with Sir Frederick last week and arranged with The Times to get it inserted quickly. But that was before Waleski blew in. He’s seen you—one of our mistakes, Jolly. If you go to the Lodge—”

“I don’t think it can be assumed that Waleski is going to take up residence, sir.” Jolly showed surprising eagerness for a new post, it is true that we did meet but he is not likely to have described me in any detail to those persons— if in fact there are more than one—whom he knows at the Lodge. If it were possible for me to examine the situation there at first hand then we might well find that a logical explanation of Waleski’s influence at the house will greatly assist in solving the major problem.”

“Ah,” said Rollison.

“Don’t you agree, sir?”

“I think you might get your neck broken or a bullet where it will hurt.”

“One can hardly expect to achieve results without taking some risk,” said Jolly gravely, “and, if I may say so, it is not your custom to think of the risks before the results. What did happen tonight, sir?”

“Risks came home to roost and I took others, not with myself.”

Rollison explained, briefly, receiving from Jolly an occasional pontifical nod. Then he paused, surveyed his man thoughtfully, touched The Times and said:

“All right. Take the job if necessary but don’t take chances.”

“In so far as the two are separable, sir, I will separate them. Is there anything I can get you before you retire?”

The clock struck six when Rollison got into bed.

* * *

He woke to a medley of sound and confusion of mind.

Bells were ringing, something clattered, Jolly uttered a word surprisingly like an oath, a cup or saucer dropped and broke, papers rustled —and the bells kept ringing: two different sounds, one low and persistent, the other higher-pitched and less regular. Then a door —his door—banged.

He sat up.

A tea-tray was on a chair by the door. A cup, in pieces, lay at the foot of the chair with several newspapers. One of the bells stopped. There were footsteps and then a door opened and Jolly exclaimed:

“Miss!”

He sounded both startled and alarmed.

Rollison sat up, rumpled his hair and yawned, eyed the tea longingly and wondered why he did not feel worried about that “Miss”. He pushed back the bedclothes and put one loot tentatively out of bed, glancing at the mantelpiece clock at the same time. It was five minutes past ten—not exactly a satisfying night’s sleep. Craning his head to see the clock, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. It did not please him and he started to smooth his hair down as the door opened.

“Jolly—” he began.

But it was Clarissa.

She held the door open and stared at him— and then began to laugh. Rollison drew his leg back and pulled the clothes up. Clarissa went on laughing and all the time there was an undertone background of Jolly’s voice. Jolly, of course, was answering the telephone.

Rollison resisted a temptation to smooth his hair a little more and ran his fingers over his dark but greying stubble. He recalled that unpleasing picture in the mirror and looked at Clarissa, who might have come straight from a Paris salon. She wore a neat suit of large black-and-white check which became her tall, slim figure; so did the white ruffles at her neck and wrists.

She stopped laughing, only to smile broadly.

“Why not be useful as well as decorative?” said Rollison. “Get a cup from the kitchen and then bring me my tea.”

“Oh, it’s wonderful!” She gurgled. “K-k-kitchen—yes, darling, I will!” She turned.

“Bring two cups,” said Rollison.

“Yes, darling!” She gurgled again. “Would you like a little poison?”

Rollison couldn’t catch what Jolly was saying; it was a long conversation and must be of some importance. Jolly was a past-master in the art of getting rid of importunate callers, either in person or by telephone, but he was having great difficulty now. “Yes, sir; no, sir; I really can’t, sir,” came like punctuation marks in someone else’s monologues. Yet he must be on pins to enter the bedroom before Clarissa could invade it again.

He failed, for Clarissa came back.

“No, sir,” said Jolly. “Yes, sir; no, sir—”

“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?

“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.”

Rollison waited for her to lead the way, and studied the homely face and the curly hair for a few seconds. Then he followed Clarissa, closing the door behind him softly. When they reached the parlour, she said:

“What on earth made you think it was Mellor?”

“It is.”

“Nonsense!”

“You didn’t know Mellor well, did you?”

“I shall never forget what that man looked like.”

“A beard makes a lot of difference and this one isn’t wearing a beard.”

“A beard doesn’t make a sharp aquiline nose flat, like the man’s upstairs. It doesn’t make thin lips full and friendly. It doesn’t make small, flat white ears stick out from the side of the head—I can’t understand you. I thought you knew Mellor.”

“That’s the man I know as Mellor—James Arden Mellor.” Rollison gave no emphasis to the Arden, just let the word come out casually, and watched her closely for her reaction. It didn’t come immediately.

“He’s not the Mellor I know. He—what did you say?”

“He is James Arden Mellor.”

She caught her breath. “So that’s it.” She glanced round, as if for a chair and instead sat heavily on a stool; but she didn’t look away from Rollison. “James Arden Mellor—my uncle’s love-child. Am I right?”

“Yes.”

“And that’s—that’s what you’ve been doing for him? Finding his long-lost son?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t you know attempts were being made on his life?”

“Yes. That was incidental.”

“I don’t know why it has shaken me so much,” said Clarissa. “Since Waleski started questioning me, I’ve known there was a son. It amused me—call it malice, if you like. Uncle so strait-laced, so quick to criticise and condemn loose-living, with a bastard child running about somewhere. But after Geoffrey was killed I often wished he had another child. He’s been so desperately lonely since then. After Waleski’s taunts I found myself wondering whether uncle wished he could find the boy, whether he would like to acknowledge him. And I suppose he asked you to trace him?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure it’s the man upstairs?”

“He was taken in by some old servants of your uncle’s who pretended he was their son, actually registered his birth. Then he was adopted by some people named Mellor, a childless couple of good middle-class standing. They were killed in the blitz when Mellor himself was in the Far East. The sticky part was tracing relatives of the Mellors who knew the truth about the child—that they’d taken him from your uncle’s old servants. They had few relatives and most thought he was a child of the marriage. But everything fell into place. There’s no real doubt that this is the natural son of your uncle and the adopted son of the Mellors, the only one they adopted. Until I heard about the East End Mellor, I didn’t think there was any possibility of casting doubt on my fancy. That’s been done with a heavy hand but, although it makes complications, it doesn’t affect Jim Mellor’s identity.”

She said: “Mellor is an unusual name but there must be hundreds of them.”

“There are but this isn’t simply a case of a name. The East End Mellor probably killed the man Galloway. Yet my Mellor is wanted for Galloway’s murder. See the cunning of it? The killer goes to earth, the police get hold of my Mellor’s photograph, the other Mellor’s gang convince the police it’s the man they want and the police go after him. What’s more scarifying, the Killer’s gang goes all out to drive Jim Mellor to suicide, too. It’s pretty obvious that Killer Mellor hopes my Mellor will be taken for him.”

Clarissa said slowly: it can’t be just that, Roily?”

“Why not?”

“You hardly need telling. If I could see at a glance that this isn’t the same Mellor, others can.”

“You didn’t spend enough enough time in the East End to learn their wiles,” said Rollison dryly. “Except for a few close friends, no one ever knew Killer Mellor well. He was seen in public occasionally, as at that dance, but if anyone who saw him that night was questioned by the police, they’d swear they didn’t remember what he looked like. Some would describe him as tall, lean, fair and clean-shaven, others as short, dark, bearded and stocky. The police wouldn’t be able to make head or tail of it. He’s never been through their hands, I doubt if they’ve fingerprints—in fact, I’m sure they haven’t, or they’d have had him before this. The first time Mellor appeared to slip up was over the murder of Galloway. Then prints were found and there was other evidence to point to this Mellor. And the police naturally assume that it’s the same one. They not only want their man for the murder of Galloway but for a lot of other crimes that will never be proved against him. They will be quite ruthless where Mellor is concerned and will take a lot of convincing that they’ve got the wrong man.”

Clarissa said: “I’m sorry if I’m slow-witted. You mean, the police couldn’t get anyone to identify the real Mellor but they’ve got this one’s photograph and they’d be able to get him identified as the killer.”

“That’s it.”

“I could swear that it wasn’t the same man,” said Clarissa. “I would swear it.”

Rollison said slowly: “That’s what makes you important. It probably explains why Waleski tried to kill you.”

“I wonder.” Clarissa wasn’t convinced. “Where does Waleski come into all this?”

“I don’t know but I suspect he’s a fence or a contact man. The Mellor gang gets a big haul and has to sell the stuff quickly. Jewels, paintings, objets d’art, costly furs—all worthless to crooks in themselves—and they can’t be held for long. They’re too hot. I’m told that none of the regular fences—”

“What exactly is a fence?”

“A receiver of stolen goods. None of the regulars, known to the police, will touch Mellor’s stuff. They know that if the police caught them with it they’d be in a bad way. But Mellor had to sell. Waleski gets around a lot, travels to and from America and the Continent; I should say he’s their contact man. Probably he’s the brains of the gang after Mellor, or even including the Killer Mellor, who’s a man of action rather than a planner. It was essential that a Mellor should die and the police should think the killer out of the way. My Mellor evaded the police for too long, so the others tried to force him to suicide, and sent a note to his girlfriend.”

“The Judith you mentioned?”

“Yes.” Rollison leaned back in his chair.

Talking was an aid to thinking. “The note was sent as “evidence” that he’d killed himself, so that no one should be hunted for his murder. The overall object, I think, was to give evidence that the Mellor gang had been smashed. Thus the police would be lulled into a false sense of security. It hasn’t quite worked out but everything will be all right provided the Mellor upstairs is caught, proved to be the gang-leader—and that can be done by false evidence—and hanged. That’s all logical enough. But I don’t know where your uncle comes in or what Waleski wants with him. He asked just for general information, you say?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing else?”

“I know you’re not convinced but I have told you the truth,” Clarissa said.

“He didn’t give you any clue about any particular piece of information that he wanted about your uncle? Apart from the lost son, I mean.”

“No, I think he was just stringing me along,” said Clarissa. “And I told him about meeting my Mellor. He started to talk about the East End of London and the gangs, because there was an article in the Continental Daily Mail about them: I told him about the girl—all I told you last night. I laughed it off with him, hut—”

“Waleski knows you can identify Killer Mellor, so wants you dead and that puts you on the spot.” Rollison was brusque. “Better accept that and be very careful. Have you ever come across a man named Dimond?”

Clarissa hesitated.

Rollison said sharply: “Have you?”

“Well—”

“This might be vital.”

“I have, yes,” said Clarissa slowly, it’s a name you easily remember, isn’t it? I met him for a few minutes at the Hotel de Paris. Waleski had some business with him and said he was a diamond merchant. He made great play on the name—Dimond the diamond merchant.” She leaned forward, her voice pitched low, her expression eager. “I remember him well, because he was so absurdly handsome in an unpleasant way. He spoke good English, but I thought he was probably part Oriental. Sleek black hair, rather sallow skin—handsome as some Arabs are handsome. Do you know the type I mean?”

“You’re good at descriptions, Clarissa. And you’ve become a vital witness. You can identify Dimond, Waleski and the real Mellor, so we’ll have to take great care of you.”

Clarissa said: “Are you trying to frighten me?”

“No. To warn you. Waleski will almost certainly try again and next time might—”

“Succeed,” said a man at the window.

Rollison sprang up, turning towards the window. Clarissa exclaimed—and Waleski stood at the window covering them with a gun, grinning at them. A heavy footstep sounded in the passage; the door of the room opened and a small, wiry little man appeared, also carrying a revolver which looked too big and heavy for him.

“I’ll succeed all right,” said Waleski. “Watch ‘em, Fryer.”

The little man’s gun covered them as

Waleski disappeared from the window.

* * *

He came into the room, still grinning, and the sun shone on his heavily-oiled hair and on the pale bald spot. His broad flat face had an evil look, his wide-spaced teeth showed. He walked with a swagger. His left hand was heavily bandaged and he held his arm up, close to his chest. He crossed to Clarissa’s side and pushed the barrel of the gun against her nose with a jerk which hurt her.

“Not your lucky day, Clarry, is it?” Then he turned to Rollison. The grin disappeared, naked enmity replaced it. “And it certainly isn’t yours, Rollison. Won’t your pal Grice be pleased when he finds the body?”

Rollison said: “Yes, he loves chasing murderers.”

“Still clever, are you?” Waleski backed away, as if he were afraid that Rollison would push the gun aside; but that would have been of no use for Fryer was covering them both from the doorway of the little, crowded room. “Grice won’t have to look for a murderer, see? Mellor’s upstairs. Mellor is going to kill the pair of you and then die of wounds. It’s easy. We’ll do the shooting, wrap your hand round one gun and his round another. The little guy outside will get his, too.”

“Ah,” murmured Rollison. “Snub.”

“We got him with the air-gun,” Waleski boasted. “And we’ll finish him off with something more powerful. Where’s the old woman?”

“Out shopping.”

“She knows a thing or two,” said Waleski and laughed. “Feeling good, Rollison?”

“I’ve felt worse.”

“You’ll change your mind. What a lot of time you’ve wasted, trying to do the impossible.”

“It’s almost the only thing worth trying to do,” Rollison said easily. “Sit down, Clarissa.”

“You stay where you are,” Waleski said, “Dying will be another new sensation for you, Clarry. See where it leads you when you ignore an old man’s advice! If you’d been a good girl, like your uncle told you, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“You seem to know a lot,” said Rollison.

“It wouldn’t be difficult to know more than you do,” Waleski sneered. “But maybe that’s not fair.” He feigned remorse, shook his head, then grinned from sheer animal spirits. “Better be fair, Rollison, hadn’t I? I was listening in to your pretty piece just now and you’ve got it all right. But you didn’t know I had a man watching the cottage, did you? I knew you had Mellor. I reckoned you’d tell the old man and take Mellor to the Lodge or here. I had a couple of other places watched, owned by friends of yours, where you might have gone. I knew Ebbutt and his mob wouldn’t lift a hand to help Mellor, see. Got it all worked out, haven’t I?”

“Not bad.”

“Not bad—it’s hot, Rollison! One of the smartest jobs you’ve ever come across. And I’m good! I could have wiped Mellor and your snub-nosed pal out last night but I thought you’d be along soon. I didn’t think you’d bring Clarry, though. Very obliging of you, Mister Rollison.”

Into a pause, Fryer said: “We haven’t got all day.”

“Why, so we haven’t!” Waleski grinned again. “Hear that, Rollison? We haven’t got all day. It will take half an hour to get your prints on the guns and leave the evidence for old Grice, won’t it?”

“S’right,” grunted Fryer.

“So we’d better get busy. Know where a bullet hurts most, Rollison?” Suddenly he raised his foot and kicked Rollison in the pit of the stomach; not hard, just enough to hurt. “Right there,” he sneered. “Then you can tell me if you’ve ever felt worse. Fryer—”

A sound outside made him break off: the click of a gate, closing. Rollison glanced out of the window. Fryer said: “What’s that?” and Waleski went quickly to the window and stared out.

It was Mrs Begbie with a shopping-basket over her arm. She made sure that the gate was secure, then turned and came slowly up the path, looking right and left, as if to admire the few bright flowers and the pleasant country scene.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A Killing

Waleski kept close to the side of the window and hissed. “Wait at the front door, Fryer. Let her come in, then bash her. Don’t waste any time.”

He turned and covered Rollison and Clarissa. Fryer slipped out of the room without making a sound. Mrs Begbie, wearing a black straw hat, her old lined face lit up by the morning sun and her black cotton dress sprigged with little mauve flowers, paused again to look at the antirrhinums and pansies which grew in a small bed, half-way along the path. She bent down slowly to smell the scent.

Waleski said: if you open your mouth, I’ll put a bullet inside it.”

Clarissa said: “Roily, you must—”

“Shut up!” Waleski growled.

“Roily, it doesn’t make any difference whether we’re shot now or in five minutes.”

Waleski said thinly: if you open your trap again I’ll put a bullet right into it. Remember.”

“It won’t help to warn her,” Rollison said quietly. “She couldn’t run away, could she? Hold tight, Clarissa.”

She looked at him reproachfully, almost contemptuously, and then moved swiftly, grabbing a vase from the nearest table. Rollison snatched it away from her, tossed it into a chair and held her arms tightly. Her cheek was close to his and he whispered: “We’ll make it.”

Waleski said: “You’ve got some sense, Rollison.”

Clarissa moved away from Rollison, disbelieving, her face drained of colour—and then she started. Rollison saw why, out of the corner of his eye. A hand appeared at the window and he knew that it was Snub’s hand. He saw the top of Snub’s head, knew that he was pulling himself up by the window-sill. Mrs Begbie, not looking towards the cottage, began to pick some flowers and place them carefully on top of her shopping-basket.

Snub’s other hand appeared with a gun in it.

His face was grey, his eyes half-closed, he swayed on his feet; but he made no sound. Rollison held Clarissa’s arm tightly. Waleski watched them narrowly, ears strained for the approach of the old woman’s footsteps.

Then he glanced towards the window.

Rollison roared: “Get him!”

The meaningless words were to startle Fryer. Rollison leapt forward. Waleski was caught on the turn—and Snub fired. A hole leapt into Waleski’s forehead, over the right eye. He raised his arms and opened his mouth wide. As he fell, Rollison snatched his gun away. Fryer burst into the room and a bullet from Rollison sent the gun flying out of his hand. The roar of the shot made pictures and vases rattle and shake.

Snub swayed again and fell out of sight.

A single word sounded clearly from the garden path.

“Well!” exclaimed Mrs Begbie.

* * *

Rollison carried Snub into the room and put him in an easy-chair opposite Fryer, who WAS unconscious from a blow on the side of the head. Rollison glanced at the man, to make sure that he was still out, then gave his whole attention to Snub.

Snub’s eyes were half-open and he was grinning.

“Where did they get you, Snub?”

Snub licked his lips and raised a hand to his chest. Rollison drew aside the coat. Blood was spreading slowly over Snub’s shirt from a wound rather low down and on the right-hand side; not likely to be fatal. Snub raised his hand again and gritted his teeth; Rollison saw the ugly wound at the back of his head, not caused by a bullet but by some heavy weapon. Blood matted the curly hair.

“You’ll be all right, old chap. Wonderful job.”

Snub grinned and closed his eyes.

Clarissa came in with Mrs Begbie close behind her, a flustered rather than frightened woman. She drew back when she saw two unconscious men. “Well!”

Clarissa turned round sharply and said: “Please hurry with the hot water.” She looked at Rollison as the old woman went out. “How is Snub?”

“Not too good. Take the car and telephone the police, will you? Ask for an ambulance and a police surgeon and utter the magic words, “attempted murder”.”

“The—police?”

“All safe now,” said Rollison. “I’d have taken you straight to Scotland Yard, anyhow—the quicker your story is off your chest the better. Grice won’t ask for more trouble; he’ll believe the story of two Mellors now.”

“You ought to know,” she said. “There’ll be a telephone in the village. I won’t be long.”

She hurried out, soon replaced by Mrs Begbie, carrying towels and a bowl of hot water. She put them down and went out, returning with a can of cold water and some cotton-wool. Rollison had opened Snub’s shirt and blood trickled down the pale skin of his torso. He began to dab at it and Mrs Begbie snorted:

“Let me do that.”

“Better do his head first,” Rollison said.

“I haven’t been a trained nurse all my life for nothing, young man. Get out of my way.”

Rollison said: “Bless you!” and smiled at her—and saw Fryer’s eyelids flutter. He moved across, gripped Fryer’s coat-lapels, dragged him out of the chair and out of the room into the tiny kitchen. He dumped him down on an old Windsor chair, scooped a cupful of cold water out of a pail standing by the brick copper and tossed it into the man’s face. Fryer gasped and straightened up, even tried to lift his injured right hand.

Rollison said: “Now you’re going to talk fast.”

Fryer gabbled: “Sure, sure, I’ll tell you all I know. Sure!”

* * *

Grice sat behind his large desk at New Scotland Yard, listening carefully and without interruption. Clarissa, sitting on his right, saw the ugly red scar on his face which would have disfigured him altogether had it been on the cheek and nose; the wound which had left that scar must almost have blinded him. Rollison sat in an easy-chair, his legs stretched out, his voice quiet and casual. He told Grice what Clarissa had told him: all about the investigations and his suspicions; everything that he had guessed and that Waleski had confirmed in that careless moment when he had thought himself quite safe.

Snub was in Woking Hospital; Waleski in the mortuary attached to Cannon Row Police Station, just across the courtyard of Scotland Yard. Fryer was in a police cell, not far from the mortuary, and Mellor was still at the cottage with detectives guarding him and Mrs Begbie shrilly insistent that he should not be moved that day.

Rollison paused, to take a sip of water from a glass on the desk.

“Feeling happier, Bill?”

“I may be when I’ve heard it all.”

“There isn’t a great deal more. Let’s sum up as far as I’ve gone shall we? You’ll agree there was justification for keeping Mellor away from you? I mean my Mellor, who was not the man you really wanted.”

Grice said: “Legally, you’d get away with it. I think you were a damned fool not to tell me the whole story.”

“Wrong, Bill. Once you’d got Mellor, Waleski and his friends would have faded right out of the picture for a long time. While I had him they were on the go, sticking their necks right out.”

“You’d still say you were right if you could talk after death,” said Grice dryly.

“There had to be risks.”

Grice shrugged. “I don’t think anyone is going to prefer a charge, so forget it. You haven’t told me what Fryer told you.”

“He fitted in some odds and ends,” Rollison said quietly. “Mellor, the real murderer, is still in hiding. Fryer swears that he doesn’t know where and thinks he’s out of the country. Fryer’s confirmed that Dimond was in the racket. Although Mellor killed his brother, Dimond stayed loyal. You can guess what he’s like from that. He exported a lot of goods abroad and smuggled the proceeds of the Mellor robberies out with his goods. Waleski found the foreign markets. I told the Middlesex police about Dimond—I hope he’s been picked up.”

“He’s being brought in now,” Grice said. “What else?”

“Fryer knows that Sir Frederick Arden is involved somewhere; just how, he swears he doesn’t know. He thinks that one of the staff at Pulham Gate was fiddling with his medicine—giving him diluted doses, which would explain his worsening condition but wouldn’t rouse much suspicion. Waleski was also working with a housekeeper at Arden Lodge; but what the housekeeper was doing for him he doesn’t know. I told the Woking police—”

“The housekeeper skipped. There was a third man at the cottage who also slipped away after the shooting. He presumably telephoned the housekeeper and another servant in London—they’ve both gone. Weil pick ‘em up soon.” Grice spoke with all the confidence of a man backed by the massive machinery of Scotland Yard. “How much are you keeping back?”

“Nothing at all. You’ll find that Fryer will talk as freely to you as he did to me. He’s just longing to be asked to turn King’s Evidence. Oh—he was the man who attacked Judith Lome, of course, and who took part with Waleski in that shindy on the Mile End Road. Sorry about that.”

Grice said: “So you ought to be. Miss Arden, whatever the temptation, lying to a police officer is not only illegal, it’s foolish. I suppose you got rid of the gun you used and fired a few shots out of the one in your pocket, Roily? The bullets we found didn’t come from the gun I took from you.”

“Fancy that!” said Rollison.

“I told you to look for rabbits,” murmured Clarissa. “I’m glad you still think there’s something funny about this.” Grice glowered at her.

“Anyone who can be facetious after today’s packet of trouble and after missing lunch ought to be mentioned in dispatches,” said Rollison. “Bill, there are two urgent jobs. Find out why Sir Frederick Arden figures in this business; and find the real Mellor. Any ideas?”

“We’ll learn all about them both before long,” Grice said slowly. “I suppose you realise that things may not be as simple as you think, Roily. Your Mellor may be quite innocent but may also be involved. How did he come to work for the Dimond gang? Does that tie up with the Arden connection?”

“It could.”

“So you’re not going to talk?”

“I’ve nothing more to talk about,” Rollison said. Grice grunted, i hope I needn’t give you any more warnings. You’ve gone about as far as I dare let you go—you’d probably be better under restraint. Miss Arden” —he turned to Clarissa abruptly— ‘are you prepared to make a statement as to what you know, sign it, and affirm it under oath?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like you to sign it before you leave. I shall want a statement from you, Roily, too. You’d better dictate it.”

“After lunch,” pleaded Rollison.

“No. Now. Unless you care to come to the canteen—”

“Heaven forbid!” shuddered Rollison.

A detective-sergeant came in, was told to take Miss Arden to another room and write out her statement, and Clarissa was led off. Grice and Rollison sat looking at each other, Grice sceptical, Rollison mildly amused; and it was Grice who said abruptly:

“It’s not over by a long way.”

“It won’t be while Killer Mellor’s still alive.”

“Do you think Sir Frederick Arden is criminally involved?”

“He could be.”

“Do you suspect anyone else?”

“Have a guess,” invited Rollison.

Grice stood up and went to the window, overlooking the Embankment and the sluggish Thames. Plane trees, growing from the pavement, spread their branches until some almost touched the window of the office. A constant rumble of traffic and clatter of trams came through the open window.

Grice said: “Sometimes you’re too deep, Roily, sometimes nearly simple. You’ve a big weakness. Clarissa Arden is a beauty and she seems to have you under her thumb.”

“Ah,” said Rollison.

“You’ve told her practically everything you know—you had done so before she came here or I wouldn’t have let her stay. Are you sure she can be trusted?”

“No,” said Rollison.

“Then why trust her?”

“The sweeter the bait, the bigger the bite.

Bill, I’d like you to set your financial wizards at work and find out how much she inherited, whether she’s had any heavy losses on the Stock Exchange or anywhere, what people she mixes with apart from the Smart Set, how well she really knows Dimond and knew Waleski. Then, if you’ve really a kind heart, tell me what you find out. You might get to work on Sir Frederick Arden, too. I don’t think the old boy has told me everything and he’s very anxious I should suspect Clarissa of leading a murky life. Feel happier?”

“I wish I knew what you really think,” said Grice.

“I wish I knew myself.”

“Have you any reason to believe that anyone else, besides Arden, is in danger?”

“I don’t know of any logical reason why they should be. But is Killer Mellor logical? Will he just accept his conge and retire gracefully or will he hit back? If he hits, who will he go for? Answer: Anyone who’s responsible for his failure. How does that sound?”

Grice said grimly: “Yes, you’re on the spot.”

“And not only me. Clarissa, possibly; the real Mellor.”

“That brings a leading question,” Grice said. “Are you quite sure that the man you found is the real Mellor? Could there be a mistake in the identity? Is the man we want really the missing son?”

“Doing well, aren’t we?” asked Rollison. i don’t think there’s been a mistake. I do think that the Arden establishment is much more deeply involved than we’re supposed to know. Suspicion switches, as they say, from the old man to Clarissa. There’s even a third possibility: another relative whom we haven’t yet heard about.”

“What’s your bet?” asked Grice. “The unknown, the old man, or Clarissa?”

“I wouldn’t risk my money,” Rollison said. “But if I were you, I’d keep a watchful eye on my Mellor, his Judith, Clarissa and Sir Frederick. And I shouldn’t lose any time.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Word From Ebbutt

“Now what are you going to do?” Rollison asked Clarissa a little later. “Go home and make peace with your uncle or come for a drive with me?”

“Come for a drive with you.”

“I ought to break the news that we shan’t be alone.”

“I was afraid of that,” said Clarissa. “Grice and my uncle made you nervous. Who are you going to bring for a bodyguard?”

“You’ll see.”

The Rolls-Bentley, green and shining in a burst of bright sunshine, stood outside Botts, where Rollison had taken Clarissa for a meal half-way between luncheon and dinner. The chef, although officially off-duty, had fed them well. He had been delighted to see Rollison and as delighted to see Miss Arden.

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.”

“Sober!” choked Ebbutt.

“What was his voice like?”

“I was rather surprised, I must confess. He spoke like an educated man. He did not rant, as might have been expected.” Jolly contrived to bring chillness into the atmosphere of the living-room—the stillness that was Mellor. “He did not threaten wildly or go into any detail. I found the message disturbing and I do hope you will be extremely careful.”

“You gotta be,” Ebbutt said earnestly. “You just gotta be.”

“An educated man,” murmured Rollison. “Yes, that fits in.”

“Fits in wiv wot?” asked Ebbutt.

“A stray notion that’s been running through my mind,” Rollison said. “Bill, there’s a job you can do for me right away—get it started as soon as you reach home and finish before the night’s out.”

“Just say the word, Mr Ar; just say the word!”

“That’s what I want you to do. Use the grapevine and tell Mellor that I’d like to meet him. He can name the place and the time and he’ll probably want to make conditions. If you get a message from him, let me have it quickly.”

Ebbutt sat there with his mouth agape.

“Are you sure that is wise, sir?” Jolly was edgy and anxious.

“If you arst me, it’s crazy,” said Ebbutt emphatically. “Mr Ar, why don’t you berlieve me when I say that Mellor’s bad? Bad as they come! If you want to meet ‘im at any place ‘e’d do yer in and larf like ‘ell while ‘e was doin’ it. Don’t you go seein’ the Killer.”

“Try it out, Bill, will you?”

“Well—”

“The last time I wanted you to do something for—”

“Nar, don’t bring that up, Mr Ar. I shan’t forget it in a n’urry. I’ve warned yer, that man’s poison. But if you hinsist, I’ll spread the word arahnd. There’s one thing.” Ebbutt sniffed and seemed relieved. “I don’t suppose ‘e’ll send any reply. “E’ll fink it’s a trap. If ‘e does, don’t take no chances, Mr Ar. Anyfink else?”

“Not now, Bill; but there will be if we get an answer. Have one for the road?”

“No, I don’t think I will. I don’t like drinkin’ much before drivin’, not even that watery stuff. Where’d yer get the beer from, Mr Jolly? When you run that barrel dry, let me know and I’ll fix some real stuff. You’ll know you are drinking beer then.” He heaved himself out of his chair. “Lil said I was to say ‘alio, Mr Ar.”

“Give her my love,” said Rollison.

Ebbutt chuckled. “That’ll please ‘er, that will. Tickle ‘er to deaf. She’ll tell all the Harmy abaht it, Mr Ar; they’ll be praying for you before you know where you are. But Lil’s orl right when she’s aht’ve that Salvation Harmy uniform. Not that I’m agenst the Harmy. Cheerioh, you two!”

Jolly let him out.

Rollison handled the hangman’s rope again and was holding it lightly when Jolly returned. Jolly’s movements were slow and precise—a sure sign that a matter lay heavily upon his mind and he was not quite sure how to get it off.

“I’ll buy it,” Rollison encouraged.

“Thank you, sir. How badly hurt is Mr Higginbottom?”

“He’ll pull through.”

“And so will Mellor, I understand,” said Jolly. “Mr Rollison, I beg you to take this suggestion seriously. You may not have solved the whole problem but you have found Mellor and carried out your obligation to Sir Frederick. The police are now aware that attempts have been—or may have been—made on his life and they both can and should protect him. We have escaped lightly, in view of the nature of the opposition. Haven’t we done enough?”

“No,” said Rollison.

“Forgive my insistence, sir, but why not? I beg you not to assume a moral obligation which isn’t yours. There is no need to carry on this feud with Mellor. His threats have to be treated with respect but with ordinary caution no harm will befall you. On the other hand, if you were to meet him or if you continue with the case, then it is very likely that you will get hurt. I don’t think the circumstances justify that.”

“You’re probably right.”

“Then why fly in the face of Providence, sir?”

Rollison smiled faintly.

“I want to know whether Miss Arden is as bad as Mellor, Jolly. I don’t know any other way of finding out. It has become a personal issue.”

“In that case, sir,” said Jolly slowly, “there is no more to be said about the matter. Have you yet informed Sir Frederick of the success of your mission?”

“I’m going to see him now,” said Rollison.

* * *

Was he going to see Arden? Or Clarissa? He would have made the journey whether

Clarissa were at Pulham Gate or not, whether he had met her or not, but that was begging the question. Did he want to see Clarissa or Arden? As Rollison threaded his way through the West End traffic he tried to answer it; and he wanted to see Clarissa. He wanted to find out what had passed through her mind when she had left him; why the light-hearted thrust about another new sensation had affected her so deeply.

Which was the real Clarissa? The first woman he had met? The new woman who had been born after Waleski’s attack on her? Or some unknown creature—someone he didn’t know and only vaguely suspected to exist?

Had she fooled him completely by her lightness and her gaiety, her surprising lapses into sentiment?

He turned into Pulham Gate. Two or three cars were pulled up near Number 7 but not Clarissa’s. A policeman strolled along and reminded him of the attempt to kidnap him. Mellor had wanted to see him then, doubtless wanted to see him again, or he would not have made that call or spread his threats of vengeance through the grapevine—that tenuous telepathic communication system which ranged all over the East End. By it, a thing which happened in one locality was known in all within half an hour—except to the police.

A footman, William, opened the door.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Good evening,” said Rollison. “Is Sir Frederick up?”

“I’m afraid—I’m afraid he’s had a serious relapse, sir. The doctor is with him now. I believe that he has asked for you: the butler telephoned your flat a few minutes ago. Will you come straight up, please?”

* * *

Rollison passed him and hurried up the stairs. All the doors of Arden’s suite were closed. He went into the study. The door leading to the bedroom was open. He stepped through. He could see the foot of Arden’s big double bed and the doctor bending over it. Rollison waited until the doctor straightened up and caught sight of him.

They had met before and recognition was mutual.

“Come in, will you?” The doctor was elderly, tall, ruddy-faced—and grave.

Arden lay on his back, his lips nose and ears blue, his breathing stertorous. On the bedside table was a hypodermic syringe, on the foot of the bed the doctor’s case, open, showing its chromium contents. No one else was in the room.

Rollison whispered: “What happened?”

“I’m told there was a quarrel.”

“Who with?”

“His niece.”

“Can you pull him round?”

“I can’t. He might do it himself. He ought to have been dead months ago by most standards. There’s no telling with the heart, though, and this man wants to live desperately.” The doctor smoothed his thinning hair. “He was asking for you all the time. You can probably help him more than I.”

“Is Miss Arden still here, do you know?”

“She drove off as I arrived.”

Throughout all this the old man’s eyes remained closed, his blue-veined hands lay motionless on the bedclothes. The doctor moved away from the bed and washed the hypodermic syringe at the hand-basin.

“Have you any good news for him? He thinks you may have.”

“Yes.”

“I should let him know as soon as he comes round,” said the doctor. “Oh, yes, he’ll come round, if only for a little while. This is his third serious attack and they don’t usually get through more than two.” He smiled faintly. “I like a fighter!”

“Yes.”

Rollison sat on the side of the bed and looked into the thin face, the prominent, bony nose, the slack, bluish lips. He thought that the blue tinge was less evident than it had been when he had come in; certainly the breathing seemed a little easier.

“How long will it be before he comes round?”

“Five minutes—or five hours. There’s nothing more I can do. Are you free to stay here?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll tell the butler and send a nurse,” said the doctor. “And I’ll be back in about an hour and a half. You can give him a spot of brandy. There’s some on the table.”

Rollison, left alone with Arden, stood up and went to the study. The drawers of the desk were open—that was unusual. Some papers, seared with age, were spread about the desk; one was on the floor. He picked it up. It was a marriage certificate. Among the papers were birth certificates, including one of the dead Geoffrey.

Had Arden made a rapid search for some paper? Or had someone else been here? Clarissa—doing what Arden had asked of her? He picked up a sheet of pale blue note-paper. That, and the fact that she had listened at the door and knew Waleski, were the reasons for suspecting that she had not yet told all the truth. His feelings were unimportant. The truth must come first, everything else later—if he lived to discover it. How had Waleski got that paper? Why had she really waited at the door? What relationship had there been between her and Waleski?

He peeped into the bedroom. Arden hadn’t moved but the blue tinge was much less marked.

Rollison closed the door and took the telephone off its cradle, dialled Whitehall 1212 and asked for Grice. He had to hold on for several minutes. He looked at the photographs of Arden’s wife and Geoffrey— who had been burned to death, leaving only a few shreds of clothes on the flesh, a ring and a watch to show who he had been.

Someone passed along the passage and the bedroom door opened. It would happen just then. A door closed softly, then the passage door opened and the butler appeared.

“Have you everything you want, sir?”

“Yes, thanks . . . Oh, Grice.” Rollison paused, as Grice spoke and the butler went out. He lowered his voice: the man might be listening. “Grice, have you found out anything about Clarissa Arden’s affairs?”

“Yes,” said Grice. “She’s no motive for wanting Arden dead—no money motive, anyhow.”

“So she’s really wealthy?”

“She’s worth a cool half-million.”

“Thanks. What about Arden?”

“He’s in a very sound position; there’s never been a whisper against his good faith. Where are you?”

“At his home. He’s had another attack, quite a natural one, I’m told.” He didn’t want Grice here yet; no purpose would be served by making him suspicious. “I’ll let you know what happens. Anything else?”

“A nark tells us that the other Mellor is gunning for you. Be careful.”

“Thanks. I’ll be seeing you,” Rollison said.

He went back to the bedroom. Arden’s right hand had moved a few inches and his left hand was twitching. Rollison was longing to smoke. He went into the study and lit a cigarette but drew only half a dozen times before he put it out and returned to the bedroom.

Arden’s eyes were opening and he muttered something unintelligible. Rollison sat on the bed, and spoke quietly.

“Rollison’s here.”

The old eyes opened again, closed, opened in a fixed stare; he looked as if he had difficulty in focusing and his right hand fluttered towards the bedside table. His glasses were there. Rollison picked them up, unfolded them and put them on. Arden muttered a word that might have been “Thanks”. Rollison gave him a teaspoonful of brandy and he gulped it down weakly and licked his lips as if that needed all his strength.

Then Arden said in a clear voice; “I want to see that boy.”

Rollison spoke clearly.

“You will. He’s quite safe. Quite free. He’ll come and see you soon.”

A claw-like hand shot out and gripped

Rollison’s arm with surprising strength. Behind the thick lenses of the glasses, Arden’s eyes were very direct and bright.

“Is that—the truth?”

“Yes. I’ve seen him and seen the police. He isn’t the man they want. It was a case of mistaken identity. You needn’t worry about Jim any more.”

Arden said: “Thank God!”

He closed his eyes again but didn’t move and didn’t take his hand away from Rollison’s arm. Rollison eased his position a little. Arden’s hand was very cold; his breathing was still heavy but there was a great change in him. A smile played about the corners of his lips, the strain at his eyes was gone, his forehead was less wrinkled.

“Look after him, Rollison.”

“You’ll be able to do that yourself.”

“Nonsense!” There was more strength in the frail voice. “Nonsense. Haven’t much longer. I—Rollison. Rollison!” He sat up, alarm sprang into his voice, all ease had gone. “My study— what did she take? What did she take?”

“What did who take?” Rollison asked heavily.

“Clarissa. Clarissa, the besom! I caught her going through my desk. She thought I was asleep. What did she take?”

“What could she have taken that matters?”

“Those lying letters.”

“What letters?”

“They were full of lies, full of lies. I was a fool to pay anything, to—Rollison, go into the study! The top drawer of the desk. Open it. Pull it right out. There is a false back, worked by a spring. You know the kind. There are some letters there. Lying letters. Blackmail letters. See if—see if she took them.”

Rollison said: “Why worry about it now?”

“Go and see!” cried Arden. “I caught her at the desk. I struck her. I told her what she was—a loose woman, a Jezebel, a Delilah. I hate her, Rollison, and she hates me. I’m sure she hates me. Go and look in that desk!”

Rollison said: “All right.”

He wished the doctor were here or the nurse would come; he didn’t know what would happen to Arden if the letters were missing; and a fourth attack might be fatal. Less than half an hour had passed since the doctor had left; he wasn’t likely to be back yet. Where was that nurse? Was there any way of making sure that the old man didn’t suffer another shock?

“Hurry!” Arden urged him.

He looked like a corpse.

Unless the letters were found, there was no way of fending off the shock. Odd twist, that Clarissa should have come here and done what Rollison had asked and forced him into this dilemma. He went quickly across the room, watched closely by the old man. He pushed the door to behind him and Arden called:

“Leave it open.”

He pulled the door open. Arden could see the desk and craned forward, peering into the study. Rollison pulled open the wide, shallow drawer in the middle. To see the back he had to go down on his knees. Arden couldn’t see what he was doing now. The desk was a fine old piece of mahogany, beautifully finished inside. He ran his fingers along the smooth wood, seeking the spring.

He found it, pressed and heard a click. The false back of the drawer sprang open.

Arden cried: “That’s it. I heard it!”

The light was poor. Rollison saw some papers and pulled them out. There were two long, legal-looking documents, tied round with red tape. That was all; there were no letters. He could hear Arden’s harsh breathing as he pulled off the tape and unfolded the documents. Both were wills. Neither contained any letters in their folds.

He drew back from beneath the desk.

Arden, standing in the doorway, croaked: “They’re gone,” and pitched forward on his face.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Challenge Accepted

“If he comes round again it will be a miracle,” the doctor said. “You should have kept him in bed at all costs.” His voice was sharp and severe.

Rollison said: it would have helped if you’d stayed.”

“I have other patients. And I could not get a nurse quickly.”

“Let’s stop arguing about it, shall we?” Rollison glanced down at the old man, whose face was blue from forehead to chin and who seemed hardly to be breathing. “Do everything you can for him. If he can be pulled round again, he may be all right—I don’t think there are any more shocks in store for him.”

The doctor said: “This is a ridiculous business. First a woman who ought to know better excites him by quarrelling, then you— oh, never mind. Did you give him the good news?”

“Yes.”

“At least he had that,” said the doctor.

He turned away and Rollison went back into the study. He looked quickly through the two wills. One, dated several years ago, left a few minor bequests, a token legacy to Clarissa and the residue of the estate to Geoffrey Arden, described as “my only son”. The other was dated eleven months ago—soon after the death of Geoffrey. Clarissa wasn’t mentioned in it; there were no minor bequests; the estate was left to James Arden Mellor in its entirety. There were instructions about the efforts to be made to trace Jim if he had not been found at the time of Arden’s death.

There was no doubt that old Arden hated Clarissa; yet he had allowed her to stay here.

Rollison went to the door and as he opened it the doctor called softly. “Oh, Rollison.”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry I spoke like that. The collapse must have been unavoidable. There was little I could have done, had I stayed—no one could have anticipated that he would get out of bed.”

“Of course not.”

“He’ll probably want to see you if he comes round.”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Don’t be too long, I beg you.”

The doctor went back and Rollison went quietly to the main landing and looked along the passage towards Clarissa’s room. He went along to the room and pushed open the door but no one was there. The faint smell of perfume persisted. Rollison went downstairs and the butler came hurrying forward, to inquire:

“How is he, sir?” it’s still touch and go. If Miss Clarissa returns I should like her to telephone me at once.”

“Very good, sir.”

Rollison nodded and the butler opened the door. As he did so, the rounded gleaming nose of Clarissa’s car slid into sight. She stopped, glanced at the door, looked quickly away and sat quite still.

“Never mind that message,” Rollison said. “And Miss Clarissa won’t be coming in just yet.”

He went to the car and she drew in her breath and turned to face him. The window was down. He saw every line of her face: its soft loveliness; the strain at her eyes and her lips. Her vitality was at its lowest ebb.

“Where are the letters, Clarissa?”

“Destroyed,” she answered.

“Please don’t lie.”

“That is the truth. How is he?”

“It’s touch and go.”

“And I suppose you blame me for it?” She spoke without bitterness—in a tone of resignation; but the devil of suspicion tormented him. He could not be sure of her. This might be part of the deception which she had acted from the time they had first met.

Rollison said: “Move over, will you?”

She obeyed and he got in, took the wheel and switched on the engine. He drove to Hyde Park, kept close to the near side and let the car move slowly.

“It’s no longer a question of blaming anyone. I asked you to look for papers—so if there’s need to blame, blame me. Where are the letters?”

“I destroyed them.”

“Why did you do that?”

“I thought them best destroyed. No one will know what was in them now. If my uncle hadn’t been an old fool he would have destroyed them a long time ago. They were blackmailing letters. He has been paying blackmail for several years.”

“When did you first know?”

“When I read the letters.”

“What did they say?”

“That is a family secret and I shall not tell you. If he wants to tell you, he can—but I doubt if he will. If he’d wanted to, he would have told you before.”

“If you didn’t know what was in them, why did you take them?”

“I read the first letter and then had to read the others. They were just—blackmailing letters.”

“Written on pale blue paper, like his own?” asked Rollison softly and she turned her head and looked at him sharply. “Like the note to Jim Mellor? And to Judith Lome? I didn’t tell you, did I, that your fingerprints were on those letters? I didn’t tell the police, either, because I hoped there would be an explanation. I don’t know.”

She said: “Waleski asked me for some paper. I gave him several sheets.”

“So you took your note-paper to Paris! Try another version, Clarissa.”

She looked at him angrily.

“You are a hateful creature. I’ve told you the truth. I always take paper and envelopes in my writing-case when I travel. If you don’t believe me, ask my maid.”

There’s too much hate in this business. There has been from the beginning—sheer, personal, malevolent hatred. Not crime for crime’s sake, something even more corrupt and foul. Why was your uncle blackmailed, Clarissa? What crime had he committed in his youth?”

“Crime!” She laughed. “No one is going to know what was in those letters. They’re destroyed, gone for ever, and—”

“Who wrote them?”

“I could guess.”

“Why did you write them?” Rollison asked. The car was crawling now. He pulled into the side of the road, near the trees and the damp, bright grass. A dozen people passed and looked at them curiously but Rollison did not notice them. “That’s the answer, Clarissa, isn’t it? You stole those letters and destroyed them because they were damning evidence against you. You blackmailed him, out of sheer malice: hatred. Why? What has he done to you?”

“Oh, you fool!” cried Clarissa. “You fool!”

* * *

The late evening was cool and pleasant, the fresh green of trees and grass was soothing. Rollison drove three times round the Park. Not another word had been uttered since she had cried, “You fool!” She looked straight in front of her, head held high, while he tried to sort out the confusion in his mind.

Was she still lying?

He wanted to believe her; that was why he was so determined to force her beyond endurance, to make her lose her temper and in so doing tell the truth. But after that one outburst she was composed with an unnatural calm that would not be easy to break.

If she had not written the letters, he believed he knew who had. He no longer thought that Arden might be the villain in some great conspiracy. Arden was the victim. Anxiety, fear, something near despair, had worsened his condition, had made the last years of his life an agony.

Had Clarissa been responsible?

If not, who hated him?

He said suddenly: “I expect to meet your Mellor tonight,” and watched her closely.

She turned her head sharply. “When? I don’t believe you. How do you know him? How could you arrange a meeting?”

“I don’t know him. I’ve asked him to meet me.”

“Oh,” she said, and relaxed, gave a short, mirthless laugh. “You’re so omnipotent, aren’t you? You’ve asked him to meet you and so of course he’ll come cap in hand.”

“Gun in hand, more likely. But he’ll come.”

“Why?”

“If I’ve done nothing else, I’ve switched some of the hatred towards me. It was turned on to my Mellor for a while—for far too long—but he’s free of it now. Do you see what I mean, Clarissa?”

“How much do you know?”

“Nothing. But I think I know why you destroyed those letters.”

“Another bright idea?”

“I’ve told you one guess; there’s another I’ll keep to myself. I don’t know which is right. If I meet Mellor, will you come with me?”

She said slowly: “He’ll never meet you.”

“That’s begging the question. Will you come with me?”

“Yes,” she said.

“I think we’ll go and wait at the flat,” said Rollison. “I don’t propose to let you out of my sight again.”

“I should be careful,” said Clarissa, tensely. “A villainous shrew like me might cut your throat or stick a knife in your ribs. But if you’re at your flat, the good Jolly will look after you, won’t he? I’d forgotten how much you relied on Jolly. Why don’t you take him with you to meet Mellor, instead of me?”

Rollison said: “Because he doesn’t hate Mellor.”

That pierced the brittle facade which she had built up about herself and they drove to

Gresham Terrace in silence.

* * *

Grice had telephoned three times: would Rollison please ring him immediately he returned? Rollison went to the telephone and Jolly took Clarissa’s hat and gloves, told her with his customary solemnity that she would find the mirror in the spare room best for making-up.

Grice was in his office, although it was after eight o’clock.

“Hallo, Bill,” Rollison said in a tone of near humility.

“What the devil’s got into you now?” Grice barked: he was an angry Grice. “What’s this madness about challenging Mellor to meet you?”

“I thought you wanted to find him.”

“Don’t play with words. I don’t want you to commit suicide. I warned you he was gunning for you. You’ve gone completely crazy over this affair.”

“Oh, yes. As events have proved.”

“You’re not to go to see Mellor. Understand?”

“Now, Bill, take it easy. You’ve had a man on my tail all the afternoon and I haven’t shaken him off. If you want to put another squad on, do that. You’ve got the districts hotted up to look for Mellor—have ‘em switched to me. But don’t talk drivel, old chap. If I get a chance to see Mellor, I’m going to see him. It’s the only hope I have of catching him. If you like to act the fool and follow me wherever I go, Mellor won’t play and I can’t win. If you think that will be a help, carry on.”

Grice said: “I can’t understand what’s got into you.”

“You will,” said Rollison. “Sorry I can’t stop now.”

He put the receiver down and turned to see Clarissa coming from the hall. An appetising smell came from the kitchen and Jolly flitted across the room to the small dining-alcove where the table had been laid for one and was now laid for two.

“What wine will you drink, sir?” asked Jolly.

“Any choice, Clarissa?” asked Rollison.

“I’ll leave it to you.”

“And I’ll leave it to Jolly.”

“I hope you’ve given him instructions about your funeral,” Clarissa said.

There was iced melon; a meat pate; roast chicken; trifle and Scotch woodcock; and first sherry, then champagne. The sight of the silver ice-bucket made Clarissa raise her eyebrows and she looked at Jolly as if understanding him at last. When he had gone she said: “He has a grisly sense of humour.”

“He likes serving champagne at the end of the hunt.”

“You’re sure it’s over, aren’t you?”

“Bar the last killing,” Rollison declared. They were at the savoury when the telephone bell rang and Rollison betrayed his tension when he half-rose to answer it. Jolly came swiftly from the kitchen. Clarissa watched him intently. Jolly did not hurry, coughed as he put the receiver to his ear and announced solemnly: “This is Mr Rollison’s home.” Rollison put a morsel of Scotch woodcock into his mouth. Clarissa fiddled with the long stem of the champagne glass.

Jolly said: “Very well, Mr Ebbutt, I will tell him.” He put the receiver on the desk and turned; and tension was in him as well as the others, it is Mr Ebbutt, sir. He informs me that Mellor will meet you.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Low Dive

“Mr Ar,” said Ebbutt into the telephone, “if you take my tip, you won’t go. You just won’t go. It’s arskin’ for trouble. I wouldn’t send a rozzer there to meet Mellor. It’ll be your big mistake, Mr Ar, and the last one.”

“Where does he want me to go?” asked Rollison.

“Old Nob’s. It’s a low dive, Mr Ar—abaht the lowest in London. I wouldn’t advise a friend o’ mine to go there even if Mellor wasn’t arahnd. You know the place—cor blimey, you know it, Mr Ar, if anyone does! It’s where they ‘ad that riot coupla’ yers ago. The rozzers closed it up, remember; but it’s opened again. New owner, same low dive. Two blokes neely got rubbed aht there. The dicks keep away from it mostly—never see one nowhere arahnd: they know it’s not safe. You arsk Gricey, ‘e’ll tell yer.” Rollison chuckled.

“He’s told me. Old Nob’s just the place, Bill. When am I to go there?”

“Arter ten o’clock tonight, but—”

“Any conditions?”

“No, Mr Ar. I got the squeak from a kid. Doan know ‘ow Mellor got it to ‘im. You know wot it’s like: you never can trace back when anything comes along the vine. And becos there’s no conditions I say it’s dang’rous, Mr Ar. It’s a trap. What could Mellor wanter see yer for if it wasn’t to rub you aht?”

“No reason at all, Bill.”

“You don’t get any better as you get older,” complained Ebbutt. “Well, I s’pose I’ll ‘ave ter let yer go. But I’ll ‘ave that ‘all packed—”

“Oh, no, you won’t. Have two or three of your tougher boys there, if they volunteer to go—don’t use any pressure on them, Bill. And you can spread your men round the hall outside—not too close. There are plenty of places they can go: all the pubs, Joey’s—I needn’t tell you. I’ll call in at the Lion on my way; if the police are concentrating on the area, you can let me know there.”

“Okay,” said Ebbutt resignedly.

“You know the new owner at the place, don’t you?”

“Yes. “E don’t want no trouble, neiver.”

“Tell him to have the stage trap-door clear,” Rollison said. “That’s important, Bill. I might lose if that’s covered up.”

“I’ll see to it, Mr Ar. But I tell you—”

“I’ll come straight to you afterwards, Bill.”

“And ‘oo’s goin’ ter carry you?” muttered Ebbutt. “I wish you wouldn’t go, Mr Ar.”

“So does Jolly,” said Rollison. “I’ll be seeing you.”

He put the receiver down and heard Clarissa say: “I’ve no influence at all with him, Jolly.” She looked at Jolly. “Well? You’ve fallen for it, have you?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you to meet him, sir?”

“At Old Nob’s.”

“Old Nob’s!” exclaimed Clarissa. “That’s where I met him before.”

She stood up and knocked a champagne glass over. The champagne spread, still bubbling, over the cloth, gradually soaked in and became a dull wet patch.

“It is the most verminous, disreputable and dangerous haunt in the East End of London,” declared Jolly and drew in his breath. He stood at attention and trembled slightly, i think you must be out of your right mind to contemplate going there to-night, Mr Rollison, and I would be doing less than my duty if I failed to say so.”

“You certainly would, Jolly. Care to change your mind, Clarissa?”

“I’ll come,” she said.

“Sir! You can’t take Miss Arden, you really can’t!”

“We’ll leave at nine o’clock and I’ll make a few calls first,” Rollison said. “I shall go in these clothes. I want the palm-pistol fully charged both with ammonia pellets and bullets—no shoulder holster, no ordinary pistol. I’ll take the sword-stick, too. Miss Arden won’t be armed.”

Jolly bowed, trembling.

“We’ll have coffee now,” said Rollison. “Then fetch the car from Pulham Gate. I want to be recognised by everyone.”

* * *

“I suppose if I ask you whether you really ought to go or whether you’re planning it out of sheer stubbornness, you’ll think I’ve lost my nerve or else have some sinister purpose,” Clarissa said. “Can the police, the man Ebbutt and Jolly all be wrong?”

It was five minutes to nine.

“They’re all quite right,” said Rollison.

“So you are crazy?”

“As crazy as Mellor. He may not turn up, of course. He probably won’t. That’s what the others fear. They think someone else will be waiting to cut me up. Old Nob’s is notorious, if you need telling that. Probably Mellor’s best move would be to stage another riot there with two or three toughs ordered to get me while the fun’s going on. The police wouldn’t be able to pin it on to anyone then. But my money’s on his turning up.”

“Can you give me one good reason why he should?”

“Yes,” said Rollison. “But you have to know your East End so as to understand it. You have to know your crooks, your gangs, the mentality of the leaders. You have to know that the one besetting sin of them all is vanity. Mellor’s gone all out to make himself a Big Boss. We’ve had few others in London but none has lasted so long. Every now and again someone who thinks he’s cleverer than the rest has a cut at running the East End with all its profitable rackets. There are two ways to do it. One to work well in with everyone, be friendly, bribe your way. That takes a long time. The other way is to build yourself up a reputation for terrorising everyone else. Mellor’s done that. He had two big plans; one has gone sour on him but the second might work because he still has his reputation. He hates my guts because I killed Waleski and saved “my” Mellor. That gives him one good reason for wanting me out of the way. There’s a stranger reason still. Jolly should really tell you about it. I’m fairly well known in the East End. By a mixture of luck and judgment I’ve slapped down several of these would-be Big Boys. Now, if Mellor can slap me down— follow me?”

Clarissa actually laughed.

“That would set the seal to his fame?”

“He’s crazy enough to think so, which makes us both crazy.” Rollison stood up.

“One more question,” said Clarissa. “Why do you want me to come with you?”

“Why did you destroy those letters?”

“I think we’d better go.” Clarissa put out her cigarette as Jolly came in to say that it was four minutes past nine and that the car was waiting.

“Good,” said Rollison to Jolly. “I’ll be back late.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jolly did not say another word but, as the car moved off, Rollison saw him standing at the window of the sitting-room, looking out.

No police car followed them through the West or the East End; but Rollison knew that the police were on the look-out and reports of his progress were flashed back to the Yard and the Division by every policeman who saw the car.

* * *

By half-past nine the East End of London seethed with the news of the coming confrontation. Everyone in or on the fringe of the so-called underworld was agog with the story. Discussion in pubs and dives waxed hot, bookmakers did a brisk trade; and the betting was even, slightly in favour of the Toff, for purely sentimental reasons. A curious phenomenon became apparent as the hours passed. Men who hated the Toff as much as they feared him, and who hated and feared the police, hoped that he would win. Now and again a copper’s nark slipped out of a pub and passed this information on to a detective; and it was sent back to Grice who was at

Divisional Headquarters. Excitement and disquiet bubbled everywhere but few knew where the meeting was to take place, although many guessed. No rumour that it was to be at Old Nob’s reached Grice, who concentrated men near all known danger-spots and knew that nothing he could do would be in time to prevent trouble—only to clear up after it. When Mellor struck—and he would strike—it would be swift and merciless. Grice did not think Rollison had one chance in ten.

Probably the most worried man in the East End was Bill Ebbutt. He had given instructions to his countless cronies and had two or three reliable men at Old Nob’s, where the dancing had started at half-past eight and by now was working itself up to its nightly, furious climax. He also had three men at the Lion, a dockside pub a few hundred yards away from the dance-hall.

One of them was Charlie who sported his canary polo sweater and a light brown cap and, for once, drank whisky: he needed something to keep his nerves steady. The Lion wasn’t crowded: few pubs were that night. There were even fewer than usual at Old Nob’s for many preferred to keep out of trouble, both for its own sake and because the lurking police would certainly raid as soon as the outbreak started.

No one doubted that the outbreak would come.

At twenty minutes to ten the door of the Lion swung open and a little man rushed into the smelly, smoky public bar.

“Charlie! Where’s Charlie? Charlie, ‘e’s comin’! Car just turned the corner—’ear it?”

The gentle purr of Rollison’s car sounded clearly through the hush which fell upon the room. Three men finished their beer and went out quickly, anxious to be clear of trouble; for the attack might come here. The car stopped and the twenty people in the room stood and watched the door; there was no pretence at normality. The barmaid, a middle-aged, tight-lipped woman, stood with her hand resting on her husband’s big arm, also watching. No one drank; no one moved until Rollison stepped in and held the door open for Clarissa.

A gasp went up.

Rollison raised his silver-handled stick and said.

“Hallo, folks! Not drinking?”

No one answered but two or three people stirred. Eyes switched to Clarissa. Rollison laid his hand on her arm and led the way to the bar.

“Whisky, I think. Singles, Mrs Morley.”

The tight-lipped woman moved to the row of gleaming colourful bottles behind her and her hand shook as she measured out the whisky. Her husband put a jug of water and a bottle of soda-water on the bar. Charlie sidled up to Rollison and said:

“Bill says it’s not too late to change yer mind, Mr Ar; an’ no one will think any the worse of yer if you go back right now.”

“I’ve a call to make before I go home,” Rollison said. “What’ll you have, Charlie?”

“Double. The trap-door’s fixed.”

“Good. Any police about?”

“Well, there is and there ain’t,” said Charlie. “They don’t know where it’s comin’ off, so they’ve split up. “Arf-a-dozen ‘ere, ‘arf-a-dozen there. You know ‘ow it is.” He lowered his voice. “You ain’t takin’ ‘er, are you?”

“We’re sight-seeing, Charlie.”

Charlie gulped. A low murmur of conversation buzzed, eyes turned from Rollison and Clarissa towards the clock which was five minutes fast. Clarissa seemed fascinated by the company, looked about her and said little to Rollison. She stood out among the cheaply-dressed women like a lily in a pond full of weeds. Her cheeks were slightly flushed and her eyes bright with excitement as much as nervousness.

The click ticked loudly.

Rollison finished his drink.

“I think we’ll take a walk,” he said. “Good night, all!” He took Clarissa’s arm as the hands of the clock pointed to ten and Charlie slipped ahead and opened the door. He didn’t speak again. They stepped out into the darkness of the street and the door closed behind them. At intervals gas-lamps broke the gloom; there was hardly a sound.

They turned right.

“If we have to run for it, we shan’t have time to start the car. They’ll probably slash the tyres to ribbons if we take it too near Old Nob’s, anyhow.”

“You ought to know.”

“I’ve a feeling that Mellor will be there,” Rollison said. But he said it largely to reassure her and with his free hand gripped the sword-stick lightly. The hand on Clarissa’s arm was ready to move away in a flash at the first sign of trouble. The quietness of the night was sinister, secretive. Here and there were lighted windows and at most of the windows shadows of men and women. Sometimes they saw a couple standing against a door— watching. Everyone watched; no one spoke. Clarissa’s footsteps rang out clearly as she kept pace with Rollison. A car passed the end of the road, headlights making a brilliant blaze.

“We turn left here,” said Rollison. “Now listen carefully. When I shout “now!” scramble up on to the stage near the piano. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“Your life may depend on it.”

“And my reputation, Roily, so that I can be trusted. Please believe in me.”

“You’re here to prove I can,” Rollison said.

They turned the corner. Lights shone over the facade of a building which showed clearly against the stars. That was Old Nob’s and it was less than a hundred yards away. The sound of music came floating gaily through the air and Rollison felt Clarissa’s arm go tense; but she didn’t slacken her pace. Three cars stood outside the dance-hall with sidelights on. Half a dozen men stood about the entrance. As Rollison drew nearer, one of them slipped inside with the tidings. The lobby was poorly lit. Photographs of the band and the cabaret “stars” who appeared nightly were stuck behind the glass fronts of small show-cases.

A strip of threadbare carpet led from the entrance to the pay-box and along a wide passage to the hall itself. A man with a broad, ugly face and oily dark hair, not unlike Waleski, sat in the pay-box, glowering as Rollison approached.

Rollison placed two half-crowns on the pay desk.

“You don’t have to go in,” the man said.

“I do, Tick.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Is Mellor here yet?”

The man named Tick did not answer but thrust two small pink tickets through the hatch. Rollison took them and gave them to Clarissa. She still wore the black-and-white check two-piece; her face was flushed and her eyes were even brighter than at the Lion. Music welled up—a rumba. The sliding noise of many feet on the polished floor came through the partly open door. A little man in a soiled, soup-spotted dinner-jacket stood by the door. He gulped as he took the tickets and opened the door for them to go through.

At the far end, on a low stage, a five-man band played frenziedly in the spotlight. On the floor, which was not overcrowded, a hundred couples danced with wild rhythmic abandon, laughing, grinning—or deadly earnest. A crowd gathered round the bar, in a corner near the door.

As if by clockwork, every head turned towards the door; even the band checked its swing and dancers missed their step. That was only for a second; they went on again swiftly; but there was less laughter, fewer people grinned or smiled and everyone watched Rollison and his partner, furtively or openly.

“Shall we dance?” asked Rollison.

Clarissa nodded.

Rollison hooked the sword-stick over his arm, led her to the floor and immediately whirled her into the thick of the dance. He knew in those few seconds that she was good; in spite of her tension, in spite of the watching eyes and the impending crisis, she danced easily and well; and gradually she began to warm up. They reached the stage and Rollison waved to the band-leader.

“Keep this one up, will you?”

The man didn’t answer but the music went on. Couples dropped out, too tired to go on, others came on the floor. Rollison seemed to give all his attention to the dancing, not to Clarissa; but he was watching as well as being watched. Not a face escaped his notice, hardly a movement. And Clarissa watched, too— looking for the sharp features and the beard of the man she knew as Mellor.

On and on; on and on—

Then a door by the side of the stage opened and Mellor came in with three men, one on either side and one behind him. He stood for a moment on the fringe of the dancefloor, then stepped on to it, towards Rollison and Clarissa.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The Big Boss

Tension sprang in the room—something which could be felt, which affected everyone from the band to the barkeeper, from the giddiest girl to the oldest man. More people left the floor, cautiously, anxious not to be noticed by Mellor. None came on; no more than fifty couples danced now. The band played with a new frenzy, in keeping with the moment of crisis.

Mellor reached Rollison and tapped his shoulder.

Rollison said: “Hallo,” and smiled and went on dancing; but Clarissa moved stiffly now and kept missing her step.

“My partner,” Mellor said.

“Oh—yes, of course. It must be an “excuse me”, Clarissa.” Rollison surrendered her and Mellor took Clarissa in his arms. A sigh went up round the walls. Rollison glanced swiftly round, saw one of Ebbutt’s men dancing with a blonde who had known younger days, went up to them. “My dance?”

Ebbutt’s man made a queer noise in his throat.

The blonde said: “You’ve arst for it; you’ll get it.”

“Scared?”

“You bet I’m scared!”

“Prefer not to dance with me?”

“I’ll chance it,” she said. “You can dance.”

She smiled tautly and swung her body to the rhythm. Rollison whisked her across the floor, slipped in between Mellor and Clarissa and the couple next to him. Clarissa was like a wooden block. Mellor held her tightly to him. More couples dropped out: the floor seemed empty now. Rollison scanned the doors and saw two men at each, powerful men, most of them obviously on guard. They were Mellor’s men. So he had taken over Old Nob’s. If the police came, if Ebbutt’s men tried a raid, they would be unable to take anyone by surprise.

Outside there were runners, ready to rush in with the news of police approach. Mellor would not have taken the slightest chance tonight.

Mellor was grinning.

His dark, pointed beard made his face seem pale. His eyes glittered and he looked as if he had been drinking heavily. He was well-dressed—better than any man here, after Rollison. Except for the beard, there was nothing unusual about him.

He said clearly:

“You’ll see who’s the boss around here, sweetie.”

Clarissa didn’t answer.

“Rollison thinks he’s clever but he’s going to find out his mistake.”

Rollison grinned across. “That’s what Waleski said.”

The smile faded. “You don’t have to remind me about Waleski. I was talking to Clarissa,” Mellor went on. “Keep your mouth shut or I’ll shut it for you.”

They danced on. The blonde brushed her hair back from her forehead; she was sweating.

“I can’t stand this much longer,” she said. “You were crazy to come here.”

“You won’t have to stand it much longer.” They were near the band again and he winked at the band-leader and then stretched out his hand and touched Clarissa’s arm.

“Enjoying yourself?”

She didn’t answer.

“I told you—” began Mellor.

“Now, young Geoffrey, don’t get cross,” said Rollison. He released the blonde, whispered: “Go to the side,” and at the same moment Mellor dropped his arms from Clarissa. But he didn’t take up a fighting attitude: he just stood there, dumbstruck, as if the “Geoffrey” had drained away all his strength, as it had Clarissa’s.

* * *

Geoffrey Arden.

* * *

Rollison shouted: “Now!”

He grabbed Mellor round the waist and lifted him above his head as he snapped at Clarissa: “On the stage—now!”

He reached the stage a yard behind her and stepped over the low front as the bandsmen stopped playing and scrambled away. Men came rushing towards them, knives flashed, women screamed, the lights went out.

Rollison yelled at Clarissa: “The piano— hurry!”

She stumbled over a chair as torches shot out their bright beams. Mellor was kicking and struggling but still held above Rollison’s head. A glow of light came from the front of the piano, from the ground. Clarissa was outlined against it.

A knife flashed across the room, struck the front of the piano and set the wires tinkling and trembling.

Ebbutt stood at the bottom of a flight of wooden steps leading from the stage trapdoor to the cellar below. Rollison lowered Mellor and pitched him down.

A knife touched his shoulder, another the back of his hand.

Clarissa jumped down into the dimly lighted space below.

In the hall there was wild confusion, shouting, screaming, thudding footsteps. Men sprang on to the stage, cursing and roaring as Rollison jumped down. Ebbutt pulled the trap-door shut and rammed home the bolt. Feet and fists thudded on the door, the floor above their heads shook. A muffled roar rang out and a bullet smashed through the boards and sent a shower of cement chippings over Mellor, who lay helpless with Ebbutt’s knee on his chest.

All right, Bill—the passage,” Rollison said.

Rollison bent down and struck Mellor on the chin—a single blow enough to daze him. Ebbutt sprang towards a passage, where they were safe from shooting, pushing Clarissa in front of him. Rollison dragged Mellor. Several shots came, followed by more thumping.

Rollison brushed his hair back from his forehead.

“How long will it take the police to get here, Bill?”

“They won’t be long,” said Ebbutt, and added fervently “For once I’ll be glad to see the baskets. I—Listen!”

High above the din came the shrill blast of a police whistle.

* * *

Ebbutt lifted Mellor up and policemen took him from the stage door while he was still dazed. Near the cellar passage, actually leading to a small props room but not to the street, Clarissa stood leaning against the wall. Rollison took her hands and said gently:

“It’s all over, Clarissa.”

“I—I’m all right. So you knew—about Geoffrey?”

“Yes, I knew or guessed. Full story later; but there are things I must know now. Were those blackmailing letters from Geoffrey?”

“Yes.”

“Did they tell your uncle that Geoffrey led an East End gang and did Arden pay to stop a squeal to the police?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know Mellor was Geoffrey?”

“I—yes,” she said. “Yes, that’s why I hated him. It wasn’t only the things he did to that girl. I didn’t know at first; it wasn’t until I studied Geoffrey’s photograph afterwards that—”/

“Rollison!” Grice bellowed.

“Coming,” said the Toff.

He helped Clarissa up the wooden steps into the dance-hall, which was emptied of dancers now but was crowded at the doors by police, some in uniform, some in plain-clothes. They had made several arrests, not all of Mellor’s men. Mellor, handcuffed, stood between two burly sergeants. He looked dazed and sick.

Jolly and Grice stood by the trap-door.

“Hallo, Jolly! I thought you didn’t like trouble,” said Rollison. “Feel like forgiving me?”

“We’ll have the back-chat later,” said Grice but there was no harshness in his tone. “You’re the luckiest devil in England, Roily. Are you hurt?”

“A scratch or two but nothing much. You were quick. Thanks.”

“We’d have been quicker if you’d told us where you were coming.”

“That would have kept Mellor away,” Rollison said. “He made sure the rozzers weren’t gathered here like bees round the old honey-pot.”

“All right—it’s your night tonight,” Grice conceded with good grace. “I’ll give way to the Big Boss. How are you, Miss Arden?”

“Dazed,” said Clarissa. “Dazed and marvelling. I know how people do the impossible now.” She laughed, weakly, it was impossible, wasn’t it? I—I think I’d like a drink, Roily. I must have—” Jolly bent down and opened an attache-case.

“Whisky, gin or brandy, Miss?” he asked.

* * *

Clarissa sat in Sir Frederick Arden’s leather armchair, at his desk; Rollison in the smaller chair; Grice on a corner of the desk. The door leading to the bedroom was closed. In there the doctor was still with Arden, who had not yet come round; he would probably recover from this seizure but his days were running out fast. A nurse was with them. At a small table a detective-sergeant sat with pencil and notebook, working hard. It was nearly one o’clock but none of them seemed tired.

“It’s a long, grim story, Bill, and the primary motive was hatred,” Rollison said quietly. “Clarissa will put me right on details where she can. I know a little and guess a great deal but I don’t think there’ll be much wrong with the general outline. The hating began some years ago, when Geoffrey Arden learned to hate his father. I don’t know why, but—”

Clarissa said: “Geoffrey was always a misfit. I once told you that his father tried to make him a spineless fool but there was strength and a streak of cruelty in him—there always had been. The Commando training brought it out. His father tried to knock it out of him at first, then to protect him against it—and didn’t succeed. I know the old man doted on him; I was always afraid that Geoffrey hated his father.”

Rollison said: “The cruelty was there all right. And it’s obvious now that when Geoffrey started this so-called slumming he actually worked with the Dimond Gang and, with his strong personality, took it over.

“He wanted to hurt his father, to wound him savagely.

“He started by sending anonymous blackmailing letters, saying he was the head of the gang, making his father pay substantial sums so as to keep the secret. A warped mind; but the trick worked well. It reached a stage when Arden discovered who was behind the blackmail. He paid for the silence but altered his will, switching over to his illegitimate son. Not a surprising thing in the circumstances. There must have been a hell of a quarrel and Geoffrey pretended to be burned to death. We’ll probably never know who really died.

“Geoffrey traced Mellor, bought a big interest in Mellor’s firm, through Flash Dimond’s brother, and so had Mellor where he wanted him—always at hand. He arranged that Mellor should spend some time in the East End, mixing with Galloway and other members of the gang; and he himself adopted the name of Mellor. Then he let news trickle through to his father: Mellor, the other son, was as bad as the first. See the fiendish cruelty of it? But Arden wasn’t convinced, couldn’t believe it would happen twice, suspected what might be the truth—remember Geoffrey’s body had been unrecognisable, he’d been identified by pieces of clothing, a ring on his finger and a watch—and he asked me to trace Mellor.

“Geoffrey was still hard at work.

“He schemed to get one of the gang on the staff here, another at Arden Lodge. He knew his father was afraid of his weak heart, worked on that not by poisoning him but, through the treacherous servants, diluting his medicine. Crafty and clever. It was all part of the general plan to hurt and wound his father.”

Grice said: “Yes, I’ve come across that kind of thing.”

“The final crushing stroke was to have Mellor accused of a murder he himself had committed and to have Mellor hanged. And there was cunning behind that, Bill. With Mellor dead, any second will would be discounted and as next-of-kin Geoffrey would inherit. He would have been able to prove his identity; you’ll find he’d arranged that. Men have popped up again after being pronounced dead often enough before. The plan went wrong when my Mellor escaped from the police. On the one hand, Geoffrey was gloating over the torment that the police hunt for Mellor gave his father, he told Arden of Mellor’s identity by telephoning him. On the other hand, he was worried because Mellor was eluding the police. Another factor he hadn’t reckoned on intruded when I began to work for Arden. No one with Geoffrey’s reputation in the East End could fail to know—sorry, Clarissa!—about the Toff. Members of the gang would warn him and get him on edge. He saw the possibility that Mellor mightn’t be convicted. All right then: get rid of him, quickly.”

“Why didn’t he kill him?” asked Grice.

“A straightforward murder wouldn’t have suited his purpose; there was a risk of the murderer being traced. So he tried to drive Mellor to suicide, planned to leave that “confession” note behind. He used Waleski for the job and tried to involve Clarissa. A silly thing but he wouldn’t see it that way. Clarissa had seen him, could identify him, so she had to die sooner or later. But why not add to the total of his father’s mental torment? Give me grounds for thinking Clarissa was also involved—as she was, unwittingly—and make a thorough job of it; and then have Clarissa murdered? More agony—while he himself would be sitting pretty.

“Only it didn’t work out like that.

“When it was known that Jim Mellor was safe and Clarissa’s evidence would prove he wasn’t the gangster, Geoffrey had only one thing to fall back on: his reputation in the East End. He saw that he could establish an impregnable position if he could get rid of me. I gave him the chance, convinced that he wouldn’t be able to resist it. I had two reasons for wanting to catch him, Bill. The ordinary reason, that I don’t like men of Geoffrey’s corruptness holding sway in the East End; another that I may tell you about one day.”

“Tell him now,” urged Clarissa, and went on without giving Rollison a chance to speak. “He thought I was involved, Mr Grice. He wanted to make me break down and confess or give myself away when I met Geoffrey again.”

Grice said: “Hrrrumph!”

Rollison smiled: “Thanks, Clarissa! Bill owes you apologies, too. I don’t think there’s much else, Bill. If Arden recovers enough, he’ll be able to confirm most of it, I think. You’ll get one of the gang to squeal too, although you won’t get much out of Geoffrey.”

“We’ll get enough to have him hanged,” Grice said. “Well, you’ll have to explain again in court—and so will Snub, about the cottage.”

“Gladly,” Rollison assured him.

Grice stood up from the desk and, as he did so, the door opened. The doctor came in, looking weary but smiling and rubbing his hands together.

“Believe it or not, he’s conscious—and asking for you, Mr Rollison.”

* * *

Rollison said to the old man: “Yes, it’s all known, all over. Tomorrow I’ll bring the boy

Mellor to see you.”

* * *

Rollison opened the door of his flat and Clarissa stood there, a vision in dark green with a wide-brimmed hat which set off her beauty to perfection. He took her hands and drew her into the hall. “Where’s Jolly?” she asked. “Out.”

“Discreet Jolly,” murmured Clarissa. “I was wrong about him. You would wither up without your Jolly.”

“Thanks!”

She laughed as they went into the living-room, stepped across to the trophy wall and took a sheet of pale blue notepaper and a drawing-pin from her bag. She fastened the paper on to the noose of the rope and stood back to admire the effect. “Do you like it?”

“I’ll treasure it.”

“I hope you will.”

“Rely on it. Clarissa, why didn’t you tell me about the letters; about Geoffrey?”

“Would you have believed in me then? I don’t think so. There was only one way to convince you.” She looked into his eyes, her own smiling but touched with hurt; or with longing. “Roily, I’ve tried to think clearly during the past three days, since it ended. I’ve some things straight. I want, I need, a quieter life—for a while. You thrive on excitement, sensation; it’s the basis of your life.”

“Proposal withdrawn?” asked Rollison gently.

“Postponed. Until, if ever, it comes from you to me.”

The End