John Creasey - Kill The Toff

But she gave him little time to think.

Aren’t you going to send for the police?”

“No one’s hurt,” he said, “and I probably asked for it.”

They eyed each other for some seconds and a youth passed, staring at them as he went by. It was darker now. The dusk filmed her face and gave it an ethereal glow. She was perfectly dressed, her poise and carriage were delightful—and he felt that her reputation for keen intelligence was not falsely founded.

“If I hear aright, one day you will probably ask for more than you want to get,” she said dryly. “Were you going to see my uncle or coming away?”

“Going.”

“When I left this afternoon he was very poorly. I’m not sure that you ought to see him. The doctors have warned him against excitement and you always seem to excite him.”

“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.”