by John Creasey
“Yes, sir.”
Rollison took them at the door. When he turned round, Clarissa was sitting up and looking at herself in the dressing-table mirror which was opposite the bed. She put her hands to her hair and smoothed it down while Rollison poured out black coffee, put half the sugar into the one cup and made her drink it. Now and again she glanced at him; more often into the mirror.
He poured out a second cup.
“No more,” she said and made a face.
“Two cups to complete the cure. Swallow the aspirins with this. You’re lucky, Clarissa.”
She didn’t answer.
“Ten or fifteen minutes longer and we might have been too late. Certainly we couldn’t have pulled you round ourselves; we’d have needed a doctor, perhaps the hospital, certainly the police. If you want to leave here tonight, drink up.”
She obeyed. It was obviously difficult for her to get the coffee down and she grimaced when she had finished. He took the cup from her and offered a cigarette.
“Thanks.”
“Feeling better?”
“I shall be all right.”
“What happened?”
She said: “Waleski turned on me.”
“I did murmur a warning about bad men, didn’t I?”
She fingered her throat gingerly, felt the ridges and craned up so that she could see her neck in the mirror. She licked her lips again and coughed on the smoke.
“He—he hit me with his cigarette-case. Here.” Her fingers poked gently through the hair at the temple.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Lie number one,” said Rollison.
She held her head back and looked at him through her lashes, the same trick she had used in Pulham Gate. In spite of her ruined make-up, her loveliness was apparent. Shiny, blotchy face, smeared lipstick, rumpled hair, all failed to hide it. She was composed, too; and there was a glimmer of a smile in her eyes. Her self-control was a great tribute to her will-power.
How do you know I haven’t been lying all I he time?”
He said: “I don’t. But someone tried to murder you and Waleski had the opportunity. It might have been someone else.”
“Yes. Possibly even you.”
“Ah,” murmured Rollison. “That’s a bright notion. I almost wish I hadn’t taken the stocking from your neck.”
He didn’t smile; and he didn’t miss the mockery in her expression. She might be bad; he was half-convinced that she was; but he didn’t dislike her. She had too much courage, too quick a mind.
“Well, how do I know you didn’t strangle me and then pretend to save my life?” Her husky voice drawled out the words. “The last thing I remember is Waleski hitting me. I doubt if he would like to see me dead.”
“What’s put all this into your head?”
“Worried?” She pushed her fingers through her hair and drew it tightly back from her face; it increased her beauty. “I thought you were very anxious not to send for the police or have me taken to hospital. I couldn’t believe it was for my sake, so it must be for yours. After all, if I told the police everything I know, you would be suspected, wouldn’t you? Or have you got the police in your pocket?”
“They keep popping out. Why not go steaming ahead and make a job of it? There’s the telephone. Just murmur “police” into it and hotel detectives will come rushing up and the police will arrive in a couple of ticks. You’d be in the fashion, too; Waleski tried to convince the police I’d man-handled him.”
“Didn’t you?”
“We were talking about the telephone. It’s all yours.”
Rollison sauntered to the dressing-table, dragging the easy-chair with him, and sat down. He crossed his legs and lit a cigarette.
“You’d never let me touch it,” Clarissa said.
“Go ahead.”
She frowned, as if puzzled by the challenge in his eyes; then stretched out her hand for the telephone. The graceful turn of her body drew attention to her figure; it was almost voluptuous, the movement unconsciously seductive. She held the receiver close to her ear, watching him all the time.
He kept a poker-face but his heart was thumping. He wasn’t sure what she would do: only sure that if she went ahead it would ruin his chances; Grice would have to hold him on such evidence. But if she were bluffing and he called her bluff, it would prove she wanted to avoid the police.
Clarissa said: “Chelsea 12431, please . . . I thank you.”
She put the receiver down.
Rollison didn’t speak. Clarissa relaxed on I he pillows. There was a sound in the bathroom: Jolly, moving about uneasily. The next sound jarred through the quiet; the ringing of the telephone-bell. She took off the receiver and said: “Can I speak to Mr Waleski?”
Rollison started; for her voice changed completely. She spoke like an American and had he not been there he would have been sure the speaker came from a Southern State. She looked at him steadily while she held on, until he heard a man’s voice faintly.
Clarissa said in the same husky, attractive voice:
“Why, Stan, is that you? . . . You don’t know who I am?” She laughed softly, if you did, you’d be surprised to hear from me . . . Sure, I’ll tell you who I am.” She paused, then slipped back into her normal speaking voice and all she said was: “Surprised, Stan?”
Rollison heard the gasp at the other end of the line; and then the man hung up abruptly.
She said slowly: “Now I believe he did it.”
Then she saw a different Rollison.
He jumped up, called: “Jolly!” and, as Jolly came in, he motioned to the telephone and ordered: “Call Grice. Ask him to find out who lives at the house with telephone number Chelsea 12431. Clarissa—” He bent over her, looking closely, imperiously, into her eyes. “What’s Waleski’s address?”
She didn’t hesitate to answer.
“18, Wilson Street.”
“Stay here until I come back, if you know what’s good for you. Jolly—” Jolly was dialling. “When you’ve finished, take a taxi and come to 18, Wilson Street.”
The last thing he saw in the room was Clarissa’s startled eyes.
* * *
Wilson Street was between the King’s Road and the Thames; short, wide, it had terraces of tall houses on either side. Half an hour after Clarissa had telephoned, Rollison turned the corner and saw a two-seater car, with the rear and sidelights on, a few houses along. As he drew near, the door of the house opened and two men hurried out, each carrying a suitcase. One was Waleski, the other was small and thin: Judith’s assailant.
Rollison drove past and the others didn’t look at him but hurried back for more cases. It was ten minutes or more before they moved off.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Night Ride
Rollison pulled out to round a huge double-decker bus which glowed red in the headlights of a car behind him and saw Waleski’s two-seater, not far ahead.
They were approaching Fulham Palace Road; it was the first time he had seen the other car since it had come out of Wilson Street and turned left into King’s Road.
He slowed down.
When the two-seater passed beneath tall street-lamps he saw that Waleski was at the wheel. Waleski seemed intent on his driving and neither he nor his companion looked round. But that didn’t mean that they had no idea that they were being followed.
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.