John Creasey - Kill The Toff

“Ah,” said Rollison.

“Don’t you agree, sir?”

“I think you might get your neck broken or a bullet where it will hurt.”

“One can hardly expect to achieve results without taking some risk,” said Jolly gravely, “and, if I may say so, it is not your custom to think of the risks before the results. What did happen tonight, sir?”

“Risks came home to roost and I took others, not with myself.”

Rollison explained, briefly, receiving from Jolly an occasional pontifical nod. Then he paused, surveyed his man thoughtfully, touched The Times and said:

“All right. Take the job if necessary but don’t take chances.”

“In so far as the two are separable, sir, I will separate them. Is there anything I can get you before you retire?”

The clock struck six when Rollison got into bed.

* * *

He woke to a medley of sound and confusion of mind.

Bells were ringing, something clattered, Jolly uttered a word surprisingly like an oath, a cup or saucer dropped and broke, papers rustled —and the bells kept ringing: two different sounds, one low and persistent, the other higher-pitched and less regular. Then a door —his door—banged.

He sat up.

A tea-tray was on a chair by the door. A cup, in pieces, lay at the foot of the chair with several newspapers. One of the bells stopped. There were footsteps and then a door opened and Jolly exclaimed:

“Miss!”

He sounded both startled and alarmed.

Rollison sat up, rumpled his hair and yawned, eyed the tea longingly and wondered why he did not feel worried about that “ Miss ” . He pushed back the bedclothes and put one loot tentatively out of bed, glancing at the mantelpiece clock at the same time. It was five minutes past ten—not exactly a satisfying night’s sleep. Craning his head to see the clock, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. It did not please him and he started to smooth his hair down as the door opened.

“Jolly—” he began.

But it was Clarissa.

She held the door open and stared at him— and then began to laugh. Rollison drew his leg back and pulled the clothes up. Clarissa went on laughing and all the time there was an undertone background of Jolly’s voice. Jolly, of course, was answering the telephone.

Rollison resisted a temptation to smooth his hair a little more and ran his fingers over his dark but greying stubble. He recalled that unpleasing picture in the mirror and looked at Clarissa, who might have come straight from a Paris salon. She wore a neat suit of large black-and-white check which became her tall, slim figure; so did the white ruffles at her neck and wrists.

She stopped laughing, only to smile broadly.

“Why not be useful as well as decorative?” said Rollison. “Get a cup from the kitchen and then bring me my tea.”

“Oh, it’s wonderful!” She gurgled. “K-k-kitchen—yes, darling, I will!” She turned.

“Bring two cups,” said Rollison.

“Yes, darling!” She gurgled again. “Would you like a little poison?”

Rollison couldn’t catch what Jolly was saying; it was a long conversation and must be of some importance. Jolly was a past-master in the art of getting rid of importunate callers, either in person or by telephone, but he was having great difficulty now. “ Yes, sir; no, sir; I really can’t , sir, ” came like punctuation marks in someone else’s monologues. Yet he must be on pins to enter the bedroom before Clarissa could invade it again.

He failed, for Clarissa came back.

“ No, sir, ” said Jolly. “ Yes, sir; no, sir— ”

“Isn’t he sweet?” Clarissa put the cups on the tray, picked up the newspapers and brought everything to the bed. She put it close to Rollison’s right arm and sat at the foot of the bed, leaning forward to pour out. “For the first time, I nearly believe in justice.”

“Justice?”

“Catching you like this, after last night. What could be fairer?”

“I knew there was venom in the woman,” growled Rollison. “A little less milk and rather more hot water, please. I like my morning tea weak. I wish I hadn’t advised you.”

“To do what?”

“Go to bed.”

She started to laugh again and tea spilled into the saucer of his cup.

“Sorry,” she said. “Drink up; I’ll be a good girl and sit quiet.”

She gave him a cup of tea and picked up the Daily Cry, a newspaper which thrived on sensation. Although she pretended to glance at it, she was watching him out of the corner of her eye. Suddenly she opened her large black handbag and gave him a cigarette.

“Gasping for one, aren’t you?”

“No. Thanks. What’s the matter?”

“I came to tell you that I meant all I said last night and now I take some of it back.” She gurgled; it was a delightful, husky sound, making her seem much younger. “And this is a completely new sensation, darling. Yesterday you gave me an inferiority complex. Don’t you feel well?”

“I’ll feel better when I know who Jolly’s arguing with.”

“My uncle, I expect.”

“Why?”

“He was in a foul mood when I left him half an hour ago and crying out for someone’s blood. Probably yours. I don’t know what it was about but he wasn’t thinking kindly of the great Mr Rollison. I shouldn’t worry about my uncle but—”

The second bell began to ring again.

“Is that the front door?”

“Yes. Jolly will see to it. You stay here.”

“I want to be so useful,” said Clarissa.

As she went out she gave him a merry look, showing a gaiety which astonished him. She was younger; or at least happier in her mind which made her seem younger. She had thrown off the effect of the attack with admirable ease and something had put her in high spirits. Was it because of what had happened between them last night? Or had the morning’s events pleased her? Was she telling the truth about Arden, or—

Rollison stopped worrying about that for he heard a familiar voice, raised in some surprise after Clarissa said: “Good morning.”

“Good morning. Is Mr Rollison in?”

“I’ll see. Who are you?” Clarissa asked.

“Superintendent Grice of New Scotland Yard,” said the caller. “Please tell him it’s important.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Shock For Clarissa

Jolly reached the bedroom before Clarissa or Grice. He closed the door firmly and turned the key in the lock. His hair was on end and he looked both ruffled and angry; there was even a flush on his dry cheeks and a sparkle in his doleful brown eyes. “I am extremely sorry, sir.”

“Everything happens at once, doesn’t it? Who were you doing battle with?”

“Sir Frederick, sir. He wanted to speak to you and I felt that as Miss Arden was here it might be wise for me to say that you weren’t available. He was persistent and somewhat irate. In fact, I felt that his temper explained his persistence. I did not get the impression that anything was amiss—or, at all events, not greatly amiss. Did you know that Mr Grice has called?”

“Yes. Let him come in and then pour me out another cup of tea, will you?”

“With your permission, sir, I will pour the tea first.” Jolly drew nearer the bed and put Rollison’s cigarettes and lighter on the bedside table. “Shall I—ah—shall I endeavour to keep Miss Arden out of the room when Mr Grice comes in?”

“Do you think you could without using force?”

“No, sir.”

“Then don’t. What’s the news this morning?”

“I am afraid there is a full but distorted account of your first interview with Waleski in the Daily Record and the Echo , sir. There is little other sensational news and both newspapers have connected the incident with the Mellor affair. In the Stop Press of the Record there is a report that a stranded car was found near the Mile End Road early this morning and that bullet-holes were found in the lamps and windscreen, together with traces of blood. There was some broken glass farther along the road, according to the brief statement.” is the clinic mentioned?”