Kill The Toff

by John Creasey

  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—soo
n 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 t
o 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.”