John Creasey - Kill The Toff

* * *

Arthur Dimond was a director of Jim Mellor’s firm. Flash Dimond had been the leader of the gang Mellor was later supposed to lead. Coincidence could hardly stretch as far as that.

* * *

Judith said: “No, thanks, I couldn’t eat any more. They were delicious.”

She looked almost sorrowfully at the few sandwiches left on the dish.

It was a quarter of an hour since she had named Arthur Dimond and she had answered many more questions since, most of which Rollison had put absently as he thought of this new angle. He had certainly not probed deeply enough into Mellor’s recent past. But the police weren’t blind: they must have noticed the name Dimond on that letter-heading. “Cigarette?”

The telephone bell rang as Rollison held out his case. He put the case in her hand and dropped a lighter by her side, then went to the telephone. “Rollison speaking.”

“Jolly, sir,” said Jolly. “I’m speaking from a call-box near the Oxford Palace Hotel. I thought I ought to communicate with you at once.”

“Yes?”

“A woman answering Miss Arden’s description has called three times to see Waleski, sir, and she’s just come again. Would it be wise for me to follow her?”

“Not just wise—an act of genius,” said Rollison. “But I’ll want to take over as soon as I can get there. Let me know where she goes, especially if she’s likely to stay there any length of time.”

“ Very good, sir,” said Jolly.

* * *

What to do with Judith and what to advise her to do? That was the most urgent problem. Was it safe to let her return to her rooms? Reason said “yes,” instinct “no.” There was no indication of danger for her yet; but the comrades of Waleski weren’t likely to give much notice of their next move. They would want to hurt him and might decide that could best be done through Judith. She wouldn’t be able to stand much more.

Judith decided to wash up.

“Jolly will never forgive you,” said Rollison, “but carry on with the good work.”

He carried the tray into the kitchen for her, told her she would find an infinite variety of make-up in the spare room, left her puzzling why he should keep cosmetics here and went back to the telephone. He dialled a Victoria number and was not kept waiting.

“Grice speaking.”

Rollison made his voice gruff.

“Sorry to worry you, sir, but that there Torf ‘as bin up to ‘is tricks again.”

“Who is—Oh, Roily, you fool.” Grice was still friendly judging from his tone. “Where’s Mellor?”

“Hoodwinking everyone like fun. I’m more interested in his girl-friend. Are you having her flat watched?”

“Why?”

“Because I want to send her home. I don’t think it would be good for her to stay at this den of iniquity and I’m not sure that she’ll be safe alone.”

“Any reason for saying that?”

“A bump of caution but nothing logical, Bill. Waleski was watching her place and someone did nearly strangle her. Talking of the comrade—”

“We’re talking about the girl. You can safely let her go home. You’ll find a sergeant in Gresham Terrace and he’s there to follow her. She’ll be all right.”

“Thanks,” said Rollison. “Sworn that warrant for my arrest yet?”

“No,” said Grice. “We’ve decided that Waleski’s been lying and there isn’t a case but we could change our minds. If you run riot I shall let you cool your heels at Cannon Row for a night or two. That’s clear enough, isn’t it?”

“As crystal. I repeat—what are you doing with Waleski?”

“Letting him go. He’s a licence for the gun and says he drew it in self-defence and didn’t use it.”

“Very subtle,” said Rollison. “You, I mean, letting him go and, I trust, keeping tabs on him. You now need two men to take care of Judith Lome and heaven help you if you let her down. And four to follow Waleski. Bill, I think it’s time we put our heads together.”

“If we don’t, you’ll get yours broken. I didn’t expect you to take much notice of me but, if you play the fool, I won’t give you an inch.”

“This isn’t one of my good days,” sighed Rollison. “No one loves me, no one believes a word I say. When I know Mellor is safely out of your reach I’ll come and see you.”

He rang off, without giving Grice a chance to reply, and turned to find Judith coming in; a grave-faced Judith.

“Who was that?” she asked.

“A wise old bird, my poppet. You’re going home. The police are going to make sure that no one worries you, not because they think anyone will try but because they think Mellor might come to you. If they ask more questions, tell them not a word more than you have already. Refer them to me for everything else. And remember” —he was serious now— “that if you do say too much it might spoil Jim’s only chance.”

“I won’t spoil anything,” she promised.

He went downstairs with her and spoke to the CID man on duty, putting Judy into his charge. The girl looked small and slender beside the burly detective. The sleep and food had refreshed and encouraged her and she held her head high.

Rollison went thoughtfully back to the flat and, as he reached the landing, heard the telephone ringing. He slammed the door behind him and spoke into the extension in the hall.

“Hallo.”

“It is Jolly again, sir,” said Jolly. “This time from the hotel. Waleski has returned and both he and the woman have gone to his room— Number 607. There is every indication that they will be there for some time.”

Rollison said: “Oh,” and then was silent for so long that Jolly prompted him with a courteous: “Are you still there, sir?”

“Yes, Jolly. Tell me, out of the depths of your understanding of human nature, do you think there is even a remote chance that Comrade W and mademoiselle are lovebirds?”

“Most emphatically not, sir.”

“Then I’ll pay them a visit,” said Rollison. “You wait there.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Spoiled Lovely

The large and glittering entrance hall of the Oxford Palace Hotel seethed and bubbled with people and talk. Rollison side-stepped a mountainous woman whose fingers seemed to be made of diamonds and her voice of sandpaper; squeezed past two men who were heartily agreeing that there was a fortune in it; and spotted Jolly.

Jolly stood, an oasis of quiet dignity in the cauldron of garish glitter, between the lifts and the staircase. As Rollison approached, a loud-voiced young woman stopped in front of Jolly and asked:

“Put me right for the Grill Room, will you?”

Jolly looked at her coldly.

“I regret, miss, I am not familiar with this establishment.”

She wilted and fled.

“Bit harsh, weren’t you?” asked Rollison.

“Yes, sir.” Presumably that was not the first time Jolly had been so accosted that night.

“What of Waleski?”

“I am a little concerned about him and Miss Arden,” said Jolly, unbending. “After due consideration I decided that this was the best position to take up but there is another staircase and another lift. However, these are nearest his room—Number 607, sir. Neither of them has appeared again.”

“They’d probably come this way. Is Waleski being watched by the police?”

“I have seen three plain-clothes men but I believe there are always two or three on duty in such hotels as this, ” said Jolly, and the faint emphasis on this was masterly. “I went to the sixth floor, to make sure of the position of the room, and saw no one observing Number 607.”

“Grice wouldn’t let Waleski run around on his own,” Rollison said. “The police are just being cunning. Stay here for another five minutes, in case they come down as I go up, and then join me on the sixth floor.”