by John Creasey
“I’m sorry,” he said, it’s my baneful influence.”
“This is not funny. He is a very sick man.”
“Yes,” said Rollison. “Yes.” They still faced each other and he was reminded of the challenge which he had seen in Waleski’s eyes. “I think he’ll pull through, though, with luck and a fair deal.”
“Must you talk in riddles?”
“Which was the riddle?” asked Rollison.
She looked away from him.
“I think we should go indoors: we can’t talk here, Mr Rollison.”
She led the way and he followed thoughtfully, wondering whether he had touched her on a sore spot when he had talked of luck and a square deal for Sir Frederick Arden. Perhaps she expected to inherit a substantial sum on the old man’s death; and she might be anxious to remove the next-of-kin. He had not been able to see her during the case until now because she had been in Paris; he did not think she had been expected back so soon. He wished she hadn’t arrived at this moment, he had needed more time to recover from the sudden assault from the phoney policeman.
She opened the front door with a key.
He followed her into the house, thinking again about the assault. The phoney policeman and his companions had known that he was likely to come here, had chosen this spot for their ambush because he wouldn’t expect trouble there; a neat trick. He knew now why the uniformed man had puzzled him: the real plodding gait of a policeman had been missing. The policeman had been armed. As he hadn’t fired, he had obviously come to kidnap, not to kill. The only reason anyone interested in this affair could want to kidnap him was to make him talk. It was safe to say that he had “them” worried, that this was the second false move he had forced in twelve hours, but there was a serious doubt at the back of his mind.
Had they sped away without shooting because they wanted him alive, not dead? Or had the woman’s arrival driven them off?
CHAPTER NINE
The Millionaire
The spacious hall was dimly lighted, great bear-skin rugs were spread over the polished parquet floor, two landscapes in oils hung on the high walls, their beauty half-hidden in the poor light. The curving staircase was on the right, a circular lounge-hall beyond the entrance hall was beautifully furnished. About this house was an air of comfort, luxury and good taste.
A footman appeared and bowed.
“Good evening, Miss Clarissa.”
“William, find out whether Sir Frederick is resting and come and let me know.”
She turned into the drawing-room as the footman bowed again; he only glanced at Rollison. Rollison followed her into a wide, spacious room where two great glass chandeliers glistened and sparkled, although the only light came from wall-lamps. In a far corner a grand piano stood in red-tinged dignity. The colour scheme here was dark red and grey.
Clarissa Arden tugged the rope of a bell.
“I want to know why you don’t wish to send for the police,” she said; her voice was cold enough to sound haughty.
“That’s simple. They would want to know what I was doing here. That would involve your uncle. I think some kinds of excitement would be bad for him.”
She stood, tall and imposing, with her back to a fine Adam fireplace, weighing her words. Before she spoke she glanced towards the door as if to make sure that it was shut. Then she said clearly:
“I don’t think I like you, Mr Rollison.”
“I hope that won’t stop you from offering me a drink,” he said and smiled at her.
The two encounters had stimulated him, lifting the blanket of depression which had dropped after the talk with Grice and Ebbutt.
The door opened and an elderly butler said: “You rang, Miss Clarissa?”
“Whisky?” she asked Rollison.
“Please.”
“Bring whisky, Samuel, and gin,” said Clarissa Arden. When the door closed behind the butler she went on: “I’m not at all sure that you are a good influence on my uncle. I am told that usually after your visits he suffers a relapse. He is not well enough to know what is good for him just now. I think I must ask you not to come again, Mr Rollison.”
“Ah. Did you take medical and legal advice?”
She frowned. “This is no time for facetiousness.”
“That wasn’t facetious; I’m in earnest. Doctors can say and lawyers decide whether a man is in his right mind or whether he isn’t. If your uncle isn’t, I might be persuaded to stay away. If he is, I’d like him to be judge of whether I come or not.”
She said: “How does it feel to be so clever?”
“Between ourselves, it’s a pain in the neck; but we have to learn to bear our burdens, don’t we?”
He offered cigarettes and she took one. As he lit it for her he looked into her eyes and saw the secret smile in them. It remained when she drew her head back and let smoke trickle from her nostrils; he wished she hadn’t done that because it spoiled perfection. She was nearly as tall as he and, standing like that with her head back and looking at him through her lashes, there was a touch of mystery about her; and mockery?
“Who attacked you outside?” she asked.
“Mr Waleski’s comrades,” said Rollison promptly.
He’d been waiting for the chance to speak of Waleski and, although the words came casually, he was alert for any change in her expression. There were two: a quick flash of surprise, almost of alarm; a quicker flash of self-warning when she told herself that she must give nothing away. Then the mask dropped again. He thought of her as being covered by a veil, filmy and hardly noticeable.
She wasn’t quite real.
“Whom did you say?”
“I thought you might know Comrade Waleski,” said Rollison sadly. “He and I had a chat this afternoon and I’ve been told that what he wishes for me is a painful death or a few nights in the lock-up. But he’s really of no account.”
He glanced towards a miniature by the fireplace but watched her closely. Again he saw her quick flash of interest before the veil dropped again.
She overplayed her hand when she said:
“If he’s of no account, you needn’t worry about him.”
“I don’t,” said Rollison.
She started to speak but Samuel came in—a stately man with exactly the right manner; a rival to Jolly.
“That’s all, Samuel,” said Clarissa Arden.
“Very good, miss.”
The butler put the tray on a small table and Rollison went towards it, picking up the gin. There was a large array of bottles: Italian and French vermouth, fruit squashes, whisky, a syphon and a small jug of water, some bitters—everything they might need.
“What will you have with the gin?” asked Rollison. “Oh—may I mix it?”
“Dry vermouth,” she said. “What made you think I might know this Waleski?”
Rollison busied himself with the bottles and glasses.
“Intuition. Didn’t you know about my intuition? It is one of the burdens I have to carry. In vulgar parlance, we say hunches. You know, Miss Arden, you don’t keep abreast of the popular Press. Almost any national newspaper will tell you, sooner or later, that I work by hunches and have a genius for stumbling upon the truth. It’s all done by accident, of course—no praise even where praise is due. I fix a man or woman with my eagle eye, as you’ll see in a minute, and read the truth behind their inscrutable expression.”
“How marvellous!” she said dryly.
“I’ve been at it for so long I ought to be good,” said Rollison blandly. He handed her the gin-and-vermouth, smiled almost inanely, looking for a moment as if he meant every word he said. “Here’s a long life to your uncle!”
He sipped—and as she put the glass to her lips, his expression changed. The bleakness was there; and something more: a cool, cold appraisal, by which he told her that her beauty, her intelligence, her composure, had made no impression on him. It also told her that he believed she knew much more than she had yet admitted and that from now on she would have t
o deal with him.
She held the glass steady but didn’t drink.
Rollison murmured: “Not a toast you approve?”
She drank quickly and put her glass down. She seemed shaken, as if that sudden transformation had alarmed her. There was also speculation in her gaze. Which was the real man: the one she had glimpsed or the amiable fop who now smiled fatuously at her and said:
“What should we do without Scotch?”
The door opened and the footman came in.
“Well, William?” Clarissa’s voice was husky.
“Sir Frederick is awake, Miss, and would like to see Mr Rollison.”
“Will you tell him to say I’ll be up in a few minutes?” Rollison asked.
The woman hesitated; then nodded.
The footman went out. Rollison sipped his drink again then stubbed his cigarette in a heavy glass ash-tray. As he did so, he said:
“You won’t be wise to upset your uncle and it will upset him if you try to keep me away.”
“I don’t think you are half as good as you think you are, Mr Rollison.”
“Even that would be pretty good, wouldn’t it?” murmured Rollison. “Shall I see you again before I go?”
She didn’t answer. He finished his drink and went out. William was at the foot of the stairs and turned and led the way up. The hush about the house seemed to become more intense here, perhaps because the thick carpet on the stairs and landing muffled every sound of their footsteps. William, tall, slender and good-looking, led the way along a wide passage to Arden’s rooms. It was a suite: study, dressing-room, bedroom and bathroom; no other rooms were near it.
Arden sat in his study, wearing a beige-coloured dressing-gown, his thin grey hair standing on end, thick-lensed glasses making his eyes look large. He hadn’t shaved for two or three days and passed his hand over the grey bristles; a nervous habit. His feet were pushed into carpet slippers and he sat in a large hide armchair, his feet close to the fireplace where a small coal-fire burned. The heavy brown curtains were drawn and the room was very warm.
“Ah, Rollison. Where have you been?” Arden’s voice was gruff and he slurred the words—that slurring had started when he had recovered from the seizure which had nearly killed him. “Expected you all day.”
“I’ve been busy,” Rollison said.
“My affairs.”
“Yes.”
“All right, all right, come and sit down.”
Arden motioned to a smaller armchair opposite him. His hands were long and thin, the blue veins stood out, the backs were covered with purply brown freckles. Everything about him was long and thin: face, nose, body, hands and feet. Standing, he was six feet five and at seventy-one showed no sign of a stoop.
The study was friendly: a comfortable man’s room with book-lined walls, an old, carved oak desk on which were two photographs, of a young man and a middle-aged woman. They were the dead son and the dead wife.
He held his hands towards the fire; they had a transparent look.
“Have you found him?”
“I shall,” Rollison said.
“You’ve said that all along. I’m beginning to doubt if you’ll ever succeed. I thought I could rely on you but I’m not happy, Rollison. Not at all happy. Are you sure you’re doing everything you can?”
“Yes. Too much. I shouldn’t have told you his name.”
Arden said slowly:
“I would have known, Rollison. I had a telephone message—telling me Mellor was my son. Someone already knew. Rollison, I’m frightened, sometimes, by the hatred behind all this. I—Never mind! Don’t want to be rude. I know you’re trying but I’m tormented by thoughts of that boy. If I had—” he broke off and grumbled under his breath. “Never mind. It’s ridiculous nonsense to suggest he might have killed anyone. Don’t forget that you’re to find out who did commit the murder. It won’t be enough just to find my son.”
Rollison wondered what Sir Frederick would do if he knew what Grice and Ebbutt thought of Mellor.
“Why don’t you say something? Eh? Look here, Rollison!” The seizure and the constant illness had not dimmed the grey eyes or taken away their fire or affected the alertness of the keen mind. “You’re keeping something back. What is it? What have you done to your hand? Been fighting?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“The enemies of your son.”
“Ah!” Arden drew back his hands and clenched them tightly; like claws. “So you’ve discovered something? You know his enemies. Who are they? Rollison, I want the truth! I don’t want to hear any of that nonsense about keeping bad news away from me. I can stand a shock. What do the fools think I am? A stone image? I want to know, Rollison. What have you found?”
Rollison said slowly: “Your son.”
Arden didn’t speak. His hands tightened upon each other, he peered intently into Rollison’s face and his frail body was rigid. Rollison could hear his breath rattling up and down his wind-pipe. He lost a little colour— and then suddenly his hands unclenched and he ran one over his chin.
“Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“Is he all right?”
“He’ll live.”
“So—he is ill?” The words were like a sigh.
“He’s been ill,” Rollison said. “He’s in good hands now and I’m assured that he’ll be as good as new in a few days.”
“I want to see him.”
“No,” said Rollison. “That wouldn’t do just yet.”
“Nonsense! I’m going to see him.”
“I thought you wanted to help him.”
“Don’t bandy words. What harm will it do if I see him?”
“It’s too early. If you’re going to trust me, you’ll have to trust me all the way.” Rollison took out his cigarette-case, put a cigarette to his lips and flicked his lighter. The flame burned steadily until he remembered that tobacco-smoke upset the old man; was liable to start a paroxysm of coughing which might bring on another heart attack. He put the lighter out. “I’m not the only one seeking your son, you know; but the others haven’t found him yet.”
Arden grunted: “Police?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm. Can you keep him away from the police?”
“I think so. It’s one of the things I want to talk to you about. If they find him, they’ll charge him with Galloway’s murder right away. At the moment he’s in hiding in the East End of London but he can’t stay there for long. I want to move him somewhere safe where he’ll get good attention and be free from prying eyes, from his own enemies and from the police. I don’t know of such a place offhand. Do you?”
Arden barked: “Bring him here!”
“No, that won’t do.”
“Why won’t it?”
“You know why. I don’t trust your household.”
“I’m not sure you’re right about that,” growled Arden, “but I’ve been better since you told me what to do. I sent that advertisement to The Times for a footman at the Lodge. Something’s gone amiss; it’s actually in today.” He sniffed. “My improvement since I’ve measured out my own medicine, as you suggested, might be a coincidence, might be—” He broke off, his voice became querulous. “Expense doesn’t matter, I’ve told you that often enough. Can’t you find a comfortable place where they’ll look after him and ask no questions?”
“I could if he weren’t wanted for murder.”
“The fools!” Arden ran his hand over his chin again. “The damned fools! Murder! My son! Where do you want him to be? In London?”
“Not too far away but not in London proper.”
“He’ll have to go to the Lodge. You can trust the servants for that.”
“I don’t trust your servants anywhere.” He had to be emphatic about that, lest the old man relaxed the precautions he had already taken. “I want a small place—a cottage would do—with someone who’ll do what you tell them and hold their peace. When I suggested that you should go away, you mentioned
an old woman who lives near Woking—your ex-housekeeper. Would she do this?”
Arden said slowly, yet eagerly: “Why, yes, ye-es! Why didn’t I think of Mrs Begbie? Yes, she’ll look after him.” He started to get up. “I’ll give you a note to her, you’re to tell her that nothing will be too good for him. When will you take him? Tonight?”
“Just as soon as I can,” promised Rollison. “You’ve got to understand one thing, Arden.”
“Yes, yes. What is it?”
“The police might find him and that would make me powerless—except to look for the real murderer. I can promise nothing but there’s an even chance that I can get him safely to this cottage.”
“I’ll have to rely on you,” said Arden. If I were ten years younger—Never mind, never mind! I like you, Rollison, trust you. God help me if I’m wrong.”
He stood up to his full height, reached the desk and sat down slowly in a swivel chair. He wrote slowly but in a clear, bold hand. But it was not at the long, thin fingers or the pen held so steadily that Rollison stared; it was at the pale blue note-paper.
CHAPTER TEN
Paper And Ink
Arden gave his full attention to writing the note. Rollison looked away, telling himself that the paper being the same colour as that of the crumpled note which he’d found in Mellor’s room and left with Jolly to test for prints was sheer coincidence. He reached forward, took a sheet of the note-paper from the desk and scribbled on it, as if making a reminder note. He folded it carefully and slipped it into his wallet. The old man’s pen scratched with its slow, regular movements and the wheezing breath rumbled and rattled loudly. A coal fell into the fender but did not disturb Arden’s concentration.
Rollison glanced about the room. His gaze reached the door, passed it, went back again.
The door was open; and he knew that he had closed it. He stood up, still without distracting Arden’s attention, and mechanically put a cigarette to his lips. He remembered not to light it as he crossed the room silently.
Yes, the door was open—very little: no more than half an inch. But anyone outside could hear anything that was being said inside. When had it been opened? His back had been towards it and he’d heard nothing. Whoever was there might have heard about the cottage and Mrs Begbie.