by John Creasey
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 c
areful 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.