John Creasey - Kill The Toff

He poured out a second cup.

“No more,” she said and made a face.

“Two cups to complete the cure. Swallow the aspirins with this. You’re lucky, Clarissa.”

She didn’t answer.

“Ten or fifteen minutes longer and we might have been too late. Certainly we couldn’t have pulled you round ourselves; we’d have needed a doctor, perhaps the hospital, certainly the police. If you want to leave here tonight, drink up.”

She obeyed. It was obviously difficult for her to get the coffee down and she grimaced when she had finished. He took the cup from her and offered a cigarette.

“Thanks.”

“Feeling better?”

“I shall be all right.”

“What happened?”

She said: “Waleski turned on me.”

“I did murmur a warning about bad men, didn’t I?”

She fingered her throat gingerly, felt the ridges and craned up so that she could see her neck in the mirror. She licked her lips again and coughed on the smoke.

“He—he hit me with his cigarette-case. Here.” Her fingers poked gently through the hair at the temple.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Lie number one,” said Rollison.

She held her head back and looked at him through her lashes, the same trick she had used in Pulham Gate. In spite of her ruined make-up, her loveliness was apparent. Shiny, blotchy face, smeared lipstick, rumpled hair, all failed to hide it. She was composed, too; and there was a glimmer of a smile in her eyes. Her self-control was a great tribute to her will-power.

How do you know I haven’t been lying all I he time?”

He said: “I don’t. But someone tried to murder you and Waleski had the opportunity. It might have been someone else.”

“Yes. Possibly even you.”

“Ah,” murmured Rollison. “That’s a bright notion. I almost wish I hadn’t taken the stocking from your neck.”

He didn’t smile; and he didn’t miss the mockery in her expression. She might be bad; he was half-convinced that she was; but he didn’t dislike her. She had too much courage, too quick a mind.

“Well, how do I know you didn’t strangle me and then pretend to save my life?” Her husky voice drawled out the words. “The last thing I remember is Waleski hitting me. I doubt if he would like to see me dead.”

“What’s put all this into your head?”

“Worried?” She pushed her fingers through her hair and drew it tightly back from her face; it increased her beauty. “I thought you were very anxious not to send for the police or have me taken to hospital. I couldn’t believe it was for my sake, so it must be for yours. After all, if I told the police everything I know, you would be suspected, wouldn’t you? Or have you got the police in your pocket?”

“They keep popping out. Why not go steaming ahead and make a job of it? There’s the telephone. Just murmur “police” into it and hotel detectives will come rushing up and the police will arrive in a couple of ticks. You’d be in the fashion, too; Waleski tried to convince the police I’d man-handled him.”

“Didn’t you?”

“We were talking about the telephone. It’s all yours.”

Rollison sauntered to the dressing-table, dragging the easy-chair with him, and sat down. He crossed his legs and lit a cigarette.

“You’d never let me touch it,” Clarissa said.

“Go ahead.”

She frowned, as if puzzled by the challenge in his eyes; then stretched out her hand for the telephone. The graceful turn of her body drew attention to her figure; it was almost voluptuous, the movement unconsciously seductive. She held the receiver close to her ear, watching him all the time.

He kept a poker-face but his heart was thumping. He wasn’t sure what she would do: only sure that if she went ahead it would ruin his chances; Grice would have to hold him on such evidence. But if she were bluffing and he called her bluff, it would prove she wanted to avoid the police.

Clarissa said: “Chelsea 12431, please . . . I thank you.”

She put the receiver down.

Rollison didn’t speak. Clarissa relaxed on I he pillows. There was a sound in the bathroom: Jolly, moving about uneasily. The next sound jarred through the quiet; the ringing of the telephone-bell. She took off the receiver and said: “Can I speak to Mr Waleski?”

Rollison started; for her voice changed completely. She spoke like an American and had he not been there he would have been sure the speaker came from a Southern State. She looked at him steadily while she held on, until he heard a man’s voice faintly.

Clarissa said in the same husky, attractive voice:

“Why, Stan, is that you? . . . You don’t know who I am?” She laughed softly, if you did, you’d be surprised to hear from me . . . Sure, I’ll tell you who I am.” She paused, then slipped back into her normal speaking voice and all she said was: “Surprised, Stan?”

Rollison heard the gasp at the other end of the line; and then the man hung up abruptly.

She said slowly: “Now I believe he did it.”

Then she saw a different Rollison.

He jumped up, called: “Jolly!” and, as Jolly came in, he motioned to the telephone and ordered: “Call Grice. Ask him to find out who lives at the house with telephone number Chelsea 12431. Clarissa—” He bent over her, looking closely, imperiously, into her eyes. “What’s Waleski’s address?”

She didn’t hesitate to answer.

“18, Wilson Street.”

“Stay here until I come back, if you know what’s good for you. Jolly—” Jolly was dialling. “When you’ve finished, take a taxi and come to 18, Wilson Street.”

The last thing he saw in the room was Clarissa’s startled eyes.

* * *

Wilson Street was between the King’s Road and the Thames; short, wide, it had terraces of tall houses on either side. Half an hour after Clarissa had telephoned, Rollison turned the corner and saw a two-seater car, with the rear and sidelights on, a few houses along. As he drew near, the door of the house opened and two men hurried out, each carrying a suitcase. One was Waleski, the other was small and thin: Judith’s assailant.

Rollison drove past and the others didn’t look at him but hurried back for more cases. It was ten minutes or more before they moved off.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Night Ride

Rollison pulled out to round a huge double-decker bus which glowed red in the headlights of a car behind him and saw Waleski’s two-seater, not far ahead.

They were approaching Fulham Palace Road; it was the first time he had seen the other car since it had come out of Wilson Street and turned left into King’s Road.

He slowed down.

When the two-seater passed beneath tall street-lamps he saw that Waleski was at the wheel. Waleski seemed intent on his driving and neither he nor his companion looked round. But that didn’t mean that they had no idea that they were being followed.

Waleski turned left again, towards Putney.

Rollison looked at his petrol-gauge and silently blessed Jolly who must have had the tank filled during the day. He could drive through the night if necessary. He sat back, relaxed and comfortable, letting his mind dwell on Clarissa; and he smiled. Had he been told three hours ago that he would come to like her before the night was out, he would have laughed. Something in her manner when she had come round had touched a spark in him. He hoped he’d startled her by this swift move; and wondered whether she would stay at the hotel.

He doubted it.

Waleski drove straight up Putney Hill.

He knew the green Rolls-Bentley; he could hardly forget it after that morning. But it was difficult to judge colours by night and Rollison kept a hundred yards behind him. But he needed another car. He couldn’t be sure of escaping notice while he remained in this one. There wasn’t a chance of getting one but it was good to dream. Any old crock would do; the two-seater seemed to be going all out and didn’t pass forty-five miles an / hour. For Rollison it was snail’s pace on an empty road.