John Creasey - Kill The Toff

“S’right,” grunted Fryer.

“So we’d better get busy. Know where a bullet hurts most, Rollison?” Suddenly he raised his foot and kicked Rollison in the pit of the stomach; not hard, just enough to hurt. “Right there,” he sneered. “Then you can tell me if you’ve ever felt worse. Fryer—”

A sound outside made him break off: the click of a gate, closing. Rollison glanced out of the window. Fryer said: “What’s that?” and Waleski went quickly to the window and stared out.

It was Mrs Begbie with a shopping-basket over her arm. She made sure that the gate was secure, then turned and came slowly up the path, looking right and left, as if to admire the few bright flowers and the pleasant country scene.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A Killing

Waleski kept close to the side of the window and hissed. “Wait at the front door, Fryer. Let her come in, then bash her. Don’t waste any time.”

He turned and covered Rollison and Clarissa. Fryer slipped out of the room without making a sound. Mrs Begbie, wearing a black straw hat, her old lined face lit up by the morning sun and her black cotton dress sprigged with little mauve flowers, paused again to look at the antirrhinums and pansies which grew in a small bed, half-way along the path. She bent down slowly to smell the scent.

Waleski said: if you open your mouth, I’ll put a bullet inside it.”

Clarissa said: “Roily, you must—”

“Shut up!” Waleski growled.

“Roily, it doesn’t make any difference whether we’re shot now or in five minutes.”

Waleski said thinly: if you open your trap again I’ll put a bullet right into it. Remember.”

“It won’t help to warn her,” Rollison said quietly. “She couldn’t run away, could she? Hold tight, Clarissa.”

She looked at him reproachfully, almost contemptuously, and then moved swiftly, grabbing a vase from the nearest table. Rollison snatched it away from her, tossed it into a chair and held her arms tightly. Her cheek was close to his and he whispered: “We’ll make it.”

Waleski said: “You’ve got some sense, Rollison.”

Clarissa moved away from Rollison, disbelieving, her face drained of colour—and then she started. Rollison saw why, out of the corner of his eye. A hand appeared at the window and he knew that it was Snub’s hand. He saw the top of Snub’s head, knew that he was pulling himself up by the window-sill. Mrs Begbie, not looking towards the cottage, began to pick some flowers and place them carefully on top of her shopping-basket.

Snub’s other hand appeared with a gun in it.

His face was grey, his eyes half-closed, he swayed on his feet; but he made no sound. Rollison held Clarissa’s arm tightly. Waleski watched them narrowly, ears strained for the approach of the old woman’s footsteps.

Then he glanced towards the window.

Rollison roared: “Get him!”

The meaningless words were to startle Fryer. Rollison leapt forward. Waleski was caught on the turn—and Snub fired. A hole leapt into Waleski’s forehead, over the right eye. He raised his arms and opened his mouth wide. As he fell, Rollison snatched his gun away. Fryer burst into the room and a bullet from Rollison sent the gun flying out of his hand. The roar of the shot made pictures and vases rattle and shake.

Snub swayed again and fell out of sight.

A single word sounded clearly from the garden path.

“Well!” exclaimed Mrs Begbie.

* * *

Rollison carried Snub into the room and put him in an easy-chair opposite Fryer, who WAS unconscious from a blow on the side of the head. Rollison glanced at the man, to make sure that he was still out, then gave his whole attention to Snub.

Snub’s eyes were half-open and he was grinning.

“Where did they get you, Snub?”

Snub licked his lips and raised a hand to his chest. Rollison drew aside the coat. Blood was spreading slowly over Snub’s shirt from a wound rather low down and on the right-hand side; not likely to be fatal. Snub raised his hand again and gritted his teeth; Rollison saw the ugly wound at the back of his head, not caused by a bullet but by some heavy weapon. Blood matted the curly hair.

“You’ll be all right, old chap. Wonderful job.”

Snub grinned and closed his eyes.

Clarissa came in with Mrs Begbie close behind her, a flustered rather than frightened woman. She drew back when she saw two unconscious men. “Well!”

Clarissa turned round sharply and said: “Please hurry with the hot water.” She looked at Rollison as the old woman went out. “How is Snub?”

“Not too good. Take the car and telephone the police, will you? Ask for an ambulance and a police surgeon and utter the magic words, “attempted murder”.”

“The—police?”

“All safe now,” said Rollison. “I’d have taken you straight to Scotland Yard, anyhow—the quicker your story is off your chest the better. Grice won’t ask for more trouble; he’ll believe the story of two Mellors now.”

“You ought to know,” she said. “There’ll be a telephone in the village. I won’t be long.”

She hurried out, soon replaced by Mrs Begbie, carrying towels and a bowl of hot water. She put them down and went out, returning with a can of cold water and some cotton-wool. Rollison had opened Snub’s shirt and blood trickled down the pale skin of his torso. He began to dab at it and Mrs Begbie snorted:

“Let me do that.”

“Better do his head first,” Rollison said.

“I haven’t been a trained nurse all my life for nothing, young man. Get out of my way.”

Rollison said: “Bless you!” and smiled at her—and saw Fryer’s eyelids flutter. He moved across, gripped Fryer’s coat-lapels, dragged him out of the chair and out of the room into the tiny kitchen. He dumped him down on an old Windsor chair, scooped a cupful of cold water out of a pail standing by the brick copper and tossed it into the man’s face. Fryer gasped and straightened up, even tried to lift his injured right hand.

Rollison said: “Now you’re going to talk fast.”

Fryer gabbled: “Sure, sure, I’ll tell you all I know. Sure!”

* * *

Grice sat behind his large desk at New Scotland Yard, listening carefully and without interruption. Clarissa, sitting on his right, saw the ugly red scar on his face which would have disfigured him altogether had it been on the cheek and nose; the wound which had left that scar must almost have blinded him. Rollison sat in an easy-chair, his legs stretched out, his voice quiet and casual. He told Grice what Clarissa had told him: all about the investigations and his suspicions; everything that he had guessed and that Waleski had confirmed in that careless moment when he had thought himself quite safe.

Snub was in Woking Hospital; Waleski in the mortuary attached to Cannon Row Police Station, just across the courtyard of Scotland Yard. Fryer was in a police cell, not far from the mortuary, and Mellor was still at the cottage with detectives guarding him and Mrs Begbie shrilly insistent that he should not be moved that day.

Rollison paused, to take a sip of water from a glass on the desk.

“Feeling happier, Bill?”

“I may be when I’ve heard it all.”

“There isn’t a great deal more. Let’s sum up as far as I’ve gone shall we? You’ll agree there was justification for keeping Mellor away from you? I mean my Mellor, who was not the man you really wanted.”

Grice said: “Legally, you’d get away with it. I think you were a damned fool not to tell me the whole story.”

“Wrong, Bill. Once you’d got Mellor, Waleski and his friends would have faded right out of the picture for a long time. While I had him they were on the go, sticking their necks right out.”