John Creasey - Kill The Toff

They turned right at Putney Heath, towards Roehampton and the Kingston Bypass.

Woking—and Surrey—lay ahead.

If Waleski recognised the Bentley, he would probably go anywhere but to his real destination.

A taxi-horn honked behind him. There was nothing on the road except one of London’s cabs, so antediluvian as to have an old-fashioned rubber and brass horn. Rollison pulled over and the taxi-driver honked again. He glanced round as it overtook him then saw a man in the back of the cab, pressing close to the window. There was a pale face and a pair of bright eyes and a waving hand.

Jolly!

Rollison exclaimed: “Wonderful!”

There was open land on either side: Wimbledon Common lay under the stars. In the headlights of cars coming each way, couples showed up, arms linked; two couples sat on a seat near the road. Rollison pulled in just beyond them and the taxi stopped a few yards ahead. Rollison jumped out and Jolly came to meet him.

“Do you need me, sir? Or shall I take the car?”

“Go back to the flat in it,” said Rollison. “And make yourself a medal.”

“Very good, sir. The driver has been well paid and I think he will be satisfactory.”

Rollison was already climbing in.

“He’ll do,” he said. “Everything’s wonderful and you’re a gem. Off we go, George!”

The driver let in the clutch and jolted Rollison forward; and Rollison thought he grinned. The rear light of Waleski’s car was nearly two hundred yards ahead now but the taxi had a fine burst of speed. Rollison leaned forward and opened the partition between him and the driver.

“All set for a night out?”

“Sure.”

“Petrol?”

“Plenty.”

“Have you seen the two-seater?”

“Yep.”

“You wouldn’t like to trust me at the wheel, would you?”

“I wouldn’t mind but it would be against the law, guv’nor.” The driver grinned again. “You just give me your orders and behave like a real toff.”

Rollison laughed. “You’ll do. I don’t want to get too close to the two-seater; I just want to know where it’s going.”

“And the rest, guv’nor!” The taxi-driver took a hand off the wheel and raised it. “I can use my mitts. Glad to, if there’s any trouble. Life’s pretty dull these days. Sure you wouldn’t like to pass ‘em and force ‘em into the side of the road?”

“You calm down and get ready to be disappointed in me.”

The driver chuckled.

They were speeding along the bypass and Rollison judged that they were travelling at fifty miles an hour. He smoked and watched. Now and again the two-seater was held up at traffic lights but the driver of the cab always slowed down in time to avoid getting too close. Sometimes three or four cars were between them and their quarry, sometimes none at all. They were too far away for Rollison to guess whether the men in the two-seater were paying them any attention.

At the end of the bypass they took the Guildford Road. By then Rollison was frowning, trying to guess where Waleski was going. Five miles farther along they turned off the main road along a narrower one. Rollison told his driver to switch off his lights; he no longer had to guess where they were going— he knew: Waleski was heading for Sir

Frederick Arden’s country home.

* * *

Arden Lodge stood on the brow of a hill, a large, gabled house, no more than a dark shape against the sky except where yellow lights shone at long, narrow windows. The cab, still without lights, passed the end of the drive and Rollison could see the two-seater, standing outside the front door.

The cabby slowed down.

“Going in, Guv’nor?”

“No, going home.”

“But, Guv’nor—”

“I told you to get ready to be disappointed,” Rollison said. “I couldn’t improve on this night’s work but I could spoil it.”

“They might go on somewhere else,” said the cabby.

His sharp profile was turned towards Rollison; his expression looked almost pleading in the faint light. Heaven knew what Jolly had told him. If the man were Snub or Jolly, he’d have no doubt what to do but—this was a stranger with no reason to be more loyal to Rollison than to any stranger. And there was danger from Waleski.

“Have a go,” pleaded the cabby.

Rollison said: “All right, I’ll take a chance. Stay here, follow the two-seater if it leaves and let me know where it goes. If nothing’s happened by one o’clock, give it up. Know where to find me?”

“If I don’t I’ll ask Bill Ebbutt.”

“Oh-ho,” said Rollison and doubts about the man dimmed. “Be careful; they’re armed.”

“Your man told me so,” said the cabby. “You don’t have to worry, Mr Rollison. I’m one of Bert’s new drivers. Mr Jolly ‘phoned Bert and asked him to be at the Oxford Palace.” Bert was a taxi and garage owner in the East End who often did work for Rollison. “Bert’s got ‘flu, so he asked me to come along. You don’t have to worry. I’ll keep me lights off and follow them without them knowing I’m around. Done plenty of it in France but you don’t want to hear the story of what I did in the war, do you? Trouble is, what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to take a walk,” said Rollison.

“Coming back?”

“No, you’re in charge here.”

“Hope you get a lift okay,” said the cabby. “I—Ta, Mr Rollison!” His hand closed round five one-pound notes. “You didn’t have to do that but thanks a lot. I won’t let you down. Bert and Bill would tear a strip off me if I did.”

Rollison laughed softly and got out and walked towards the main road, a mile or so away.

* * *

He caught a bus after half an hour’s walking, reached Guildford just after eleven o’clock, found an all-night garage, hired a car and was hack at Gresham Terrace by midnight.

A light was on in the living-room and Jolly, who seemed to sense when he was coming in, opened the door.

“Made that medal?” asked Rollison.

“That is hardly deserved, sir, but—”

“Wrong. But you should have told me it was one of Bert’s men.”

“I thought you would prefer to judge the man yourself as he was a stranger,” said Jolly . “I instructed him not to advise you until—”

“He didn’t. Well, it’s been a good night. Waleski ended up—”

Jolly’s right hand sped to his lips. Rollison broke off—and then looked into the living-room, the door of which was ajar, and saw

Clarissa Arden.

* * *

“Well, well,” Rollison said, heavily. “The lovely lady who couldn’t take advice. How long has Miss Arden been here, Jolly?”

“For about an hour, sir.”

“Has she been difficult?”

“No, sir, quite placid.” Rollison chuckled and Clarissa laughed. Rollison went into the room, noticing that she had made up her face and most of the signs of her ordeal had disappeared. Her blouse was buttoned high at the neck, hiding the red marks and the weals. Her eyes were heavy as if with sleep but only a little bloodshot; there were no blotches on her skin. She was smoking and there was a drink beside her. She sat down as Rollison entered and for the third time looked at him through her lashes with her head held back.

“I’m beginning to think you’re good,” said Rollison.

“Did you find out where Waleski went?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“You haven’t found out yet,” said Rollison dryly.

“If we’re going to work together, I think I ought to be in your confidence—don’t you?”

A glass was warming by a tiny electric fire. Rollison picked it up and poured himself a little brandy, sniffed the bouquet, then whirled the golden liquid round and round in his glass, looking at her all the time.