by John Creasey
Rollison grinned across. “That’s what Waleski said.”
The smile faded. “You don’t have to remind me about Waleski. I was talking to Clarissa,” Mellor went on. “Keep your mouth shut or I’ll shut it for you.”
They danced on. The blonde brushed her hair back from her forehead; she was sweating.
“I can’t stand this much longer,” she said. “You were crazy to come here.”
“You won’t have to stand it much longer.” They were near the band again and he winked at the band-leader and then stretched out his hand and touched Clarissa’s arm.
“Enjoying yourself?”
She didn’t answer.
“I told you—” began Mellor.
“Now, young Geoffrey, don’t get cross,” said Rollison. He released the blonde, whispered: “Go to the side,” and at the same moment Mellor dropped his arms from Clarissa. But he didn’t take up a fighting attitude: he just stood there, dumbstruck, as if the “Geoffrey” had drained away all his strength, as it had Clarissa’s.
* * *
Geoffrey Arden.
* * *
Rollison shouted: “Now!”
He grabbed Mellor round the waist and lifted him above his head as he snapped at Clarissa: “On the stage—now!”
He reached the stage a yard behind her and stepped over the low front as the bandsmen stopped playing and scrambled away. Men came rushing towards them, knives flashed, women screamed, the lights went out.
Rollison yelled at Clarissa: “The piano— hurry!”
She stumbled over a chair as torches shot out their bright beams. Mellor was kicking and struggling but still held above Rollison’s head. A glow of light came from the front of the piano, from the ground. Clarissa was outlined against it.
A knife flashed across the room, struck the front of the piano and set the wires tinkling and trembling.
Ebbutt stood at the bottom of a flight of wooden steps leading from the stage trapdoor to the cellar below. Rollison lowered Mellor and pitched him down.
A knife touched his shoulder, another the back of his hand.
Clarissa jumped down into the dimly lighted space below.
In the hall there was wild confusion, shouting, screaming, thudding footsteps. Men sprang on to the stage, cursing and roaring as Rollison jumped down. Ebbutt pulled the trap-door shut and rammed home the bolt. Feet and fists thudded on the door, the floor above their heads shook. A muffled roar rang out and a bullet smashed through the boards and sent a shower of cement chippings over Mellor, who lay helpless with Ebbutt’s knee on his chest.
All right, Bill—the passage,” Rollison said.
Rollison bent down and struck Mellor on the chin—a single blow enough to daze him. Ebbutt sprang towards a passage, where they were safe from shooting, pushing Clarissa in front of him. Rollison dragged Mellor. Several shots came, followed by more thumping.
Rollison brushed his hair back from his forehead.
“How long will it take the police to get here, Bill?”
“They won’t be long,” said Ebbutt, and added fervently “For once I’ll be glad to see the baskets. I—Listen!”
High above the din came the shrill blast of a police whistle.
* * *
Ebbutt lifted Mellor up and policemen took him from the stage door while he was still dazed. Near the cellar passage, actually leading to a small props room but not to the street, Clarissa stood leaning against the wall. Rollison took her hands and said gently:
“It’s all over, Clarissa.”
“I—I’m all right. So you knew—about Geoffrey?”
“Yes, I knew or guessed. Full story later; but there are things I must know now. Were those blackmailing letters from Geoffrey?”
“Yes.”
“Did they tell your uncle that Geoffrey led an East End gang and did Arden pay to stop a squeal to the police?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know Mellor was Geoffrey?”
“I—yes,” she said. “Yes, that’s why I hated him. It wasn’t only the things he did to that girl. I didn’t know at first; it wasn’t until I studied Geoffrey’s photograph afterwards that—”/
“ Rollison! ” Grice bellowed.
“Coming,” said the Toff.
He helped Clarissa up the wooden steps into the dance-hall, which was emptied of dancers now but was crowded at the doors by police, some in uniform, some in plain-clothes. They had made several arrests, not all of Mellor’s men. Mellor, handcuffed, stood between two burly sergeants. He looked dazed and sick.
Jolly and Grice stood by the trap-door.
“Hallo, Jolly! I thought you didn’t like trouble,” said Rollison. “Feel like forgiving me?”
“We’ll have the back-chat later,” said Grice but there was no harshness in his tone. “You’re the luckiest devil in England, Roily. Are you hurt?”
“A scratch or two but nothing much. You were quick. Thanks.”
“We’d have been quicker if you’d told us where you were coming.”
“That would have kept Mellor away,” Rollison said. “He made sure the rozzers weren’t gathered here like bees round the old honey-pot.”
“All right—it’s your night tonight,” Grice conceded with good grace. “I’ll give way to the Big Boss. How are you, Miss Arden?”
“Dazed,” said Clarissa. “Dazed and marvelling. I know how people do the impossible now.” She laughed, weakly, it was impossible, wasn’t it? I—I think I’d like a drink, Roily. I must have—” Jolly bent down and opened an attache-case.
“Whisky, gin or brandy, Miss?” he asked.
* * *
Clarissa sat in Sir Frederick Arden’s leather armchair, at his desk; Rollison in the smaller chair; Grice on a corner of the desk. The door leading to the bedroom was closed. In there the doctor was still with Arden, who had not yet come round; he would probably recover from this seizure but his days were running out fast. A nurse was with them. At a small table a detective-sergeant sat with pencil and notebook, working hard. It was nearly one o’clock but none of them seemed tired.
“It’s a long, grim story, Bill, and the primary motive was hatred,” Rollison said quietly. “Clarissa will put me right on details where she can. I know a little and guess a great deal but I don’t think there’ll be much wrong with the general outline. The hating began some years ago, when Geoffrey Arden learned to hate his father. I don’t know why, but—”
Clarissa said: “Geoffrey was always a misfit. I once told you that his father tried to make him a spineless fool but there was strength and a streak of cruelty in him—there always had been. The Commando training brought it out. His father tried to knock it out of him at first, then to protect him against it—and didn’t succeed. I know the old man doted on him; I was always afraid that Geoffrey hated his father.”
Rollison said: “The cruelty was there all right. And it’s obvious now that when Geoffrey started this so-called slumming he actually worked with the Dimond Gang and, with his strong personality, took it over.
“He wanted to hurt his father, to wound him savagely.
“He started by sending anonymous blackmailing letters, saying he was the head of the gang, making his father pay substantial sums so as to keep the secret. A warped mind; but the trick worked well. It reached a stage when Arden discovered who was behind the blackmail. He paid for the silence but altered his will, switching over to his illegitimate son. Not a surprising thing in the circumstances. There must have been a hell of a quarrel and Geoffrey pretended to be burned to death. We’ll probably never know who really died.
“Geoffrey traced Mellor, bought a big interest in Mellor’s firm, through Flash Dimond’s brother, and so had Mellor where he wanted him—always at hand. He arranged that Mellor should spend some time in the East End, mixing with Galloway and other members of the gang; and he himself adopted the name of Mellor. Then he let news trickle through to his father: Mellor, the other son, was as bad as the first. See the fiendish c
ruelty of it? But Arden wasn’t convinced, couldn’t believe it would happen twice, suspected what might be the truth—remember Geoffrey’s body had been unrecognisable, he’d been identified by pieces of clothing, a ring on his finger and a watch—and he asked me to trace Mellor.
“Geoffrey was still hard at work.
“He schemed to get one of the gang on the staff here, another at Arden Lodge. He knew his father was afraid of his weak heart, worked on that not by poisoning him but, through the treacherous servants, diluting his medicine. Crafty and clever. It was all part of the general plan to hurt and wound his father.”
Grice said: “Yes, I’ve come across that kind of thing.”
“The final crushing stroke was to have Mellor accused of a murder he himself had committed and to have Mellor hanged. And there was cunning behind that, Bill. With Mellor dead, any second will would be discounted and as next-of-kin Geoffrey would inherit. He would have been able to prove his identity; you’ll find he’d arranged that. Men have popped up again after being pronounced dead often enough before. The plan went wrong when my Mellor escaped from the police. On the one hand, Geoffrey was gloating over the torment that the police hunt for Mellor gave his father, he told Arden of Mellor’s identity by telephoning him. On the other hand, he was worried because Mellor was eluding the police. Another factor he hadn’t reckoned on intruded when I began to work for Arden. No one with Geoffrey’s reputation in the East End could fail to know—sorry, Clarissa!—about the Toff. Members of the gang would warn him and get him on edge. He saw the possibility that Mellor mightn’t be convicted. All right then: get rid of him, quickly.”
“Why didn’t he kill him?” asked Grice.
“A straightforward murder wouldn’t have suited his purpose; there was a risk of the murderer being traced. So he tried to drive Mellor to suicide, planned to leave that “confession” note behind. He used Waleski for the job and tried to involve Clarissa. A silly thing but he wouldn’t see it that way. Clarissa had seen him, could identify him, so she had to die sooner or later. But why not add to the total of his father’s mental torment? Give me grounds for thinking Clarissa was also involved—as she was, unwittingly—and make a thorough job of it; and then have Clarissa murdered? More agony—while he himself would be sitting pretty.
“Only it didn’t work out like that.
“When it was known that Jim Mellor was safe and Clarissa’s evidence would prove he wasn’t the gangster, Geoffrey had only one thing to fall back on: his reputation in the East End. He saw that he could establish an impregnable position if he could get rid of me. I gave him the chance, convinced that he wouldn’t be able to resist it. I had two reasons for wanting to catch him, Bill. The ordinary reason, that I don’t like men of Geoffrey’s corruptness holding sway in the East End; another that I may tell you about one day.”
“Tell him now,” urged Clarissa, and went on without giving Rollison a chance to speak. “He thought I was involved, Mr Grice. He wanted to make me break down and confess or give myself away when I met Geoffrey again.”
Grice said: “Hrrrumph!”
Rollison smiled: “Thanks, Clarissa! Bill owes you apologies, too. I don’t think there’s much else, Bill. If Arden recovers enough, he’ll be able to confirm most of it, I think. You’ll get one of the gang to squeal too, although you won’t get much out of Geoffrey.”
“We’ll get enough to have him hanged,” Grice said. “Well, you’ll have to explain again in court—and so will Snub, about the cottage.”
“Gladly,” Rollison assured him.
Grice stood up from the desk and, as he did so, the door opened. The doctor came in, looking weary but smiling and rubbing his hands together.
“Believe it or not, he’s conscious—and asking for you, Mr Rollison.”
* * *
Rollison said to the old man: “Yes, it’s all known, all over. Tomorrow I’ll bring the boy
Mellor to see you.”
* * *
Rollison opened the door of his flat and Clarissa stood there, a vision in dark green with a wide-brimmed hat which set off her beauty to perfection. He took her hands and drew her into the hall. “Where’s Jolly?” she asked. “Out.”
“Discreet Jolly,” murmured Clarissa. “I was wrong about him. You would wither up without your Jolly.”
“Thanks!”
She laughed as they went into the living-room, stepped across to the trophy wall and took a sheet of pale blue notepaper and a drawing-pin from her bag. She fastened the paper on to the noose of the rope and stood back to admire the effect. “Do you like it?”
“I’ll treasure it.”
“I hope you will.”
“Rely on it. Clarissa, why didn’t you tell me about the letters; about Geoffrey?”
“Would you have believed in me then? I don’t think so. There was only one way to convince you.” She looked into his eyes, her own smiling but touched with hurt; or with longing. “Roily, I’ve tried to think clearly during the past three days, since it ended. I’ve some things straight. I want, I need, a quieter life—for a while. You thrive on excitement, sensation; it’s the basis of your life.”
“Proposal withdrawn?” asked Rollison gently.
“Postponed. Until, if ever, it comes from you to me.”
The End
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Document ID: 06f00074-3a2d-4468-9d35-a53598bd54d9
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 2.8.2011
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Document authors :
John Creasey
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