by John Creasey
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. Y
ou 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.