John Creasey - Kill The Toff

Rollison smiled as he switched on the engine.

“Do you? Jolly would find that hard to believe.”

“Confound Jolly!”

“That won’t get us anywhere; he’s become as important as my own right hand. Clarissa, there was one thing your uncle said which is completely true. That you would try to make me forget the job on hand, which would sink me. If you did that, it would. This job isn’t finished yet. We’ve to find the real Mellor and find out why there were attempts made on your uncle’s life, why my Mellor was identified with the Killer, why so much has been woven around the Arden family, whether you’re right in thinking Geoffrey was murdered. And we’ve also to decide how much of what my Mellor said just now is true.”

Clarissa said: “Why, all of it, surely?”

“Possibly.”

“You don’t mean you doubt him?”

“I doubt everyone, with the possible exception of Judith Lome,” said Rollison, “and I’m going to go on doubting until we know all the answers.”

“I give in,” Clarissa said, and leaned back with her eyes closed. “What do you want me to do?”

“Help.”

“How?”

“By finding out who might want to see your uncle dead. And who will benefit, enough to make murder worth while. Do for me pretty well what you were doing for Waleski but don’t concentrate on the long-lost son any longer. And if you doubt whether I’m justified in keeping my eye on the ball, think over this one. If there is any other beneficiary under the will likely to have benefited from Geoffrey Arden’s death, and who would also want the real Mellor dead, then Jim’s still in danger. Pry and probe, as deeply as you can. Remember there could even be a second love-child.”

“Oh, no!”

“I said, could be.”

“I’ll see what I can find out,” Clarissa promised slowly. “Roily, if I succeed—” she paused.

“Yes.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

They did not talk again until they reached Gresham Terrace. The police car followed them all the way.

* * *

As Rollison turned the corner into the Terrace he saw an antiquated Ford drawn up outside Number 22g. The old Ford seldom penetrated the West End of London and when it did it was because Bill Ebbutt had urgent business with the Toff. In that car most of Bill’s young hopefuls travelled to their early bouts—until such time as they could afford to run their own cars and pay their own managers, when most of them forgot Bill. Billy Manson had been one of those—and Rollison thought of the heavyweight champion, glanced at Clarissa, who smiled and said:

“What have I done wrong now?”

“You’re all right. Did Billy ever talk to you about one William Ebbutt?”

“No.”

“You’d better come and meet him,” Rollison said; “it will be another new sensation.”

He glanced at her face and wished he hadn’t said that; for her smile disappeared and a bleak look replaced it. There seemed to be a barrier between them as they went up to the top floor. She was aloof, distant and withdrawn—much more like the woman he had met at Pulham Gate.

For once Jolly did not open the door.

Rollison let himself in and ushered Clarissa into the hall and Ebbutt’s unlovely voice immediately made itself heard.

“That’s wot I would’a done to ‘im, Mr Jolly. Cut ‘is ‘eart aht. To talk abaht one o’ my boys that way. Won on a foul, did ‘e? Not in all yer nacheral!”

“Indeed,” murmured Jolly.

“You see what I mean,” said Rollison.

Clarissa forced a smile. “Yes, I see. Roily, I think I will go and have a talk with my uncle. I’ll let you know if I find out anything that might help. I’m still glad I saw Judith and Jim.”

“Now, Clarissa—”

She smiled again and, although there was beauty, there was no life with it. She turned and hurried out of the flat and down the stairs, her movements smooth and graceful, her head held high. Rollison stood with a hand on the door, watching her, but she didn’t look round.

Ebbutt was still talking, Jolly murmuring occasional platitudes.

The downstairs door closed.

Rollison turned and went into the living-room.

Ebbutt was sitting in an armchair, his back to the trophy wall, while Jolly stood with a duster in his hand, occasionally moving a paper off the desk and dusting beneath it. Ebbutt overflowed in the big chair, a dazzling sight. He wore a check suit in a larger, louder check than Clarissa’s, a yellow bow tie and a pair of brightly shining brown boots of a yellowish-brown colour. His thin hair, quite grey, was plastered over his cranium and there was a beautiful quiff at the front; and by his side was a tankard of beer.

“Hallo, Bill,” said Rollison.

“Why, Mr Ar!” Ebbutt placed his hands on the arms of the chair and started to get up.

“Stay where you are, Bill. Beer, Jolly.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bill sank back with an audible sigh but did not speak again immediately. He licked his lips, took another swig of his beer and looked as shamefaced as he was ever likely to look. Jolly came in with another tankard of foaming beer, while Ebbutt ran his hand over his mouth, as if that would help to clear his mind, and muttered:

“All I can say is, I’m sorry, Mr Ar—I reely am sorry. I wouldn’t ‘ave ‘ad it ‘appen for a fortune. I ‘opes yer believe that, Mr Ar. You ought to ‘ave ‘eard my Lil. Give me a proper basinful, she did, said I oughta’ve known better than fink you would get up to any funny business like ‘elping the Killer. I’m sorry, Mr Ar, that’s it and all abaht it.”

“Don’t be an ass. You did what you thought you ought to do. What’s the news, Bill?”

“Why, ‘aven’t you ‘eard?”

“I don’t think so. What is it?”

“Why, Mellor’s arahnd. I got the tickle on the grapevine, s’mornin’. “E’s arahnd, an’ there ain’t any fink the matter wiv’ ‘im, so the man you ‘ad couldn’t ‘ve bin ‘im, could ‘e? I just want ter say, Mr Ar, if there’s anyfink I can do to ‘elp, it’s as good as done. I’ll stop ‘im gettin’ you if it’s the last fing I do.”

Rollison said mildly: “So he’s after me, is he?”

“S’right,” said Ebbutt, nodding ponderously. “Says ‘e’s gonna kill you, Mr Ar. “E spread the word arahnd; that’s why I came—to give yer the tip. Don’t forget, that man’s a killer.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Challenge

Rollison drank some beer, Ebbutt banged his empty tankard down on the desk and Jolly looked

at Rollison as if asking permission to speak. Rollison went to the trophy wall and let the noose of the hempen rope slide through his fingers.

“Yes, Jolly?”

“The man Mellor telephoned, sir, just before Mr Ebbutt arrived.”

Ebbutt cried: “Wot?”

“And what did the man Mellor have to say?” asked Rollison.

“He intimated what Mr Ebbutt has already mentioned. He requested me to tell you that if it is the last thing he does, he will get—ah— even with you about this. He seemed sober, sir.”

“Sober!” choked Ebbutt.

“What was his voice like?”

“I was rather surprised, I must confess. He spoke like an educated man. He did not rant, as might have been expected.” Jolly contrived to bring chillness into the atmosphere of the living-room—the stillness that was Mellor. “He did not threaten wildly or go into any detail. I found the message disturbing and I do hope you will be extremely careful.”

“You gotta be,” Ebbutt said earnestly. “You just gotta be.”

“An educated man,” murmured Rollison. “Yes, that fits in.”

“Fits in wiv wot?” asked Ebbutt.

“A stray notion that’s been running through my mind,” Rollison said. “Bill, there’s a job you can do for me right away—get it started as soon as you reach home and finish before the night’s out.”