John Creasey - Kill The Toff

“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 to 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?”