John Creasey - Kill The Toff

“You’d still say you were right if you could talk after death,” said Grice dryly.

“There had to be risks.”

Grice shrugged. “I don’t think anyone is going to prefer a charge, so forget it. You haven’t told me what Fryer told you.”

“He fitted in some odds and ends,” Rollison said quietly. “Mellor, the real murderer, is still in hiding. Fryer swears that he doesn’t know where and thinks he’s out of the country. Fryer’s confirmed that Dimond was in the racket. Although Mellor killed his brother, Dimond stayed loyal. You can guess what he’s like from that. He exported a lot of goods abroad and smuggled the proceeds of the Mellor robberies out with his goods. Waleski found the foreign markets. I told the Middlesex police about Dimond—I hope he’s been picked up.”

“He’s being brought in now,” Grice said. “What else?”

“Fryer knows that Sir Frederick Arden is involved somewhere; just how, he swears he doesn’t know. He thinks that one of the staff at Pulham Gate was fiddling with his medicine—giving him diluted doses, which would explain his worsening condition but wouldn’t rouse much suspicion. Waleski was also working with a housekeeper at Arden Lodge; but what the housekeeper was doing for him he doesn’t know. I told the Woking police—”

“The housekeeper skipped. There was a third man at the cottage who also slipped away after the shooting. He presumably telephoned the housekeeper and another servant in London—they’ve both gone. Weil pick ‘em up soon.” Grice spoke with all the confidence of a man backed by the massive machinery of Scotland Yard. “How much are you keeping back?”

“Nothing at all. You’ll find that Fryer will talk as freely to you as he did to me. He’s just longing to be asked to turn King’s Evidence. Oh—he was the man who attacked Judith Lome, of course, and who took part with Waleski in that shindy on the Mile End Road. Sorry about that.”

Grice said: “So you ought to be. Miss Arden, whatever the temptation, lying to a police officer is not only illegal, it’s foolish. I suppose you got rid of the gun you used and fired a few shots out of the one in your pocket, Roily? The bullets we found didn’t come from the gun I took from you.”

“Fancy that!” said Rollison.

“I told you to look for rabbits,” murmured Clarissa. “I’m glad you still think there’s something funny about this.” Grice glowered at her.

“Anyone who can be facetious after today’s packet of trouble and after missing lunch ought to be mentioned in dispatches,” said Rollison. “Bill, there are two urgent jobs. Find out why Sir Frederick Arden figures in this business; and find the real Mellor. Any ideas?”

“We’ll learn all about them both before long,” Grice said slowly. “I suppose you realise that things may not be as simple as you think, Roily. Your Mellor may be quite innocent but may also be involved. How did he come to work for the Dimond gang? Does that tie up with the Arden connection?”

“It could.”

“So you’re not going to talk?”

“I’ve nothing more to talk about,” Rollison said. Grice grunted, i hope I needn’t give you any more warnings. You’ve gone about as far as I dare let you go—you’d probably be better under restraint. Miss Arden” —he turned to Clarissa abruptly— ‘are you prepared to make a statement as to what you know, sign it, and affirm it under oath?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like you to sign it before you leave. I shall want a statement from you, Roily, too. You’d better dictate it.”

“After lunch,” pleaded Rollison.

“No. Now. Unless you care to come to the canteen—”

“Heaven forbid!” shuddered Rollison.

A detective-sergeant came in, was told to take Miss Arden to another room and write out her statement, and Clarissa was led off. Grice and Rollison sat looking at each other, Grice sceptical, Rollison mildly amused; and it was Grice who said abruptly:

“It’s not over by a long way.”

“It won’t be while Killer Mellor’s still alive.”

“Do you think Sir Frederick Arden is criminally involved?”

“He could be.”

“Do you suspect anyone else?”

“Have a guess,” invited Rollison.

Grice stood up and went to the window, overlooking the Embankment and the sluggish Thames. Plane trees, growing from the pavement, spread their branches until some almost touched the window of the office. A constant rumble of traffic and clatter of trams came through the open window.

Grice said: “Sometimes you’re too deep, Roily, sometimes nearly simple. You’ve a big weakness. Clarissa Arden is a beauty and she seems to have you under her thumb.”

“Ah,” said Rollison.

“You’ve told her practically everything you know—you had done so before she came here or I wouldn’t have let her stay. Are you sure she can be trusted?”

“No,” said Rollison.

“Then why trust her?”

“The sweeter the bait, the bigger the bite.

Bill, I’d like you to set your financial wizards at work and find out how much she inherited, whether she’s had any heavy losses on the Stock Exchange or anywhere, what people she mixes with apart from the Smart Set, how well she really knows Dimond and knew Waleski. Then, if you’ve really a kind heart, tell me what you find out. You might get to work on Sir Frederick Arden, too. I don’t think the old boy has told me everything and he’s very anxious I should suspect Clarissa of leading a murky life. Feel happier?”

“I wish I knew what you really think,” said Grice.

“I wish I knew myself.”

“Have you any reason to believe that anyone else, besides Arden, is in danger?”

“I don’t know of any logical reason why they should be. But is Killer Mellor logical? Will he just accept his conge and retire gracefully or will he hit back? If he hits, who will he go for? Answer: Anyone who’s responsible for his failure. How does that sound?”

Grice said grimly: “Yes, you’re on the spot.”

“And not only me. Clarissa, possibly; the real Mellor.”

“That brings a leading question,” Grice said. “Are you quite sure that the man you found is the real Mellor? Could there be a mistake in the identity? Is the man we want really the missing son?”

“Doing well, aren’t we?” asked Rollison. i don’t think there’s been a mistake. I do think that the Arden establishment is much more deeply involved than we’re supposed to know. Suspicion switches, as they say, from the old man to Clarissa. There’s even a third possibility: another relative whom we haven’t yet heard about.”

“What’s your bet?” asked Grice. “The unknown, the old man, or Clarissa?”

“I wouldn’t risk my money,” Rollison said. “But if I were you, I’d keep a watchful eye on my Mellor, his Judith, Clarissa and Sir Frederick. And I shouldn’t lose any time.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Word From Ebbutt

“Now what are you going to do?” Rollison asked Clarissa a little later. “Go home and make peace with your uncle or come for a drive with me?”

“Come for a drive with you.”

“I ought to break the news that we shan’t be alone.”

“I was afraid of that,” said Clarissa. “Grice and my uncle made you nervous. Who are you going to bring for a bodyguard?”

“You’ll see.”

The Rolls-Bentley, green and shining in a burst of bright sunshine, stood outside Botts, where Rollison had taken Clarissa for a meal half-way between luncheon and dinner. The chef, although officially off-duty, had fed them well. He had been delighted to see Rollison and as delighted to see Miss Arden.

Rollison drove to Knoll Road.

A plain-clothes detective walked slowly up and down the street, two men in overalls were working at a water hydrant and showing no great enthusiasm for hard labour. Rollison recognised one of Grice’s men and knew that the warning about Judith had been taken seriously.