John Creasey - Kill The Toff

Rollison, left alone with Arden, stood up and went to the study. The drawers of the desk were open—that was unusual. Some papers, seared with age, were spread about the desk; one was on the floor. He picked it up. It was a marriage certificate. Among the papers were birth certificates, including one of the dead Geoffrey.

Had Arden made a rapid search for some paper? Or had someone else been here? Clarissa—doing what Arden had asked of her? He picked up a sheet of pale blue note-paper. That, and the fact that she had listened at the door and knew Waleski, were the reasons for suspecting that she had not yet told all the truth. His feelings were unimportant. The truth must come first, everything else later—if he lived to discover it. How had Waleski got that paper? Why had she really waited at the door? What relationship had there been between her and Waleski?

He peeped into the bedroom. Arden hadn’t moved but the blue tinge was much less marked.

Rollison closed the door and took the telephone off its cradle, dialled Whitehall 1212 and asked for Grice. He had to hold on for several minutes. He looked at the photographs of Arden’s wife and Geoffrey— who had been burned to death, leaving only a few shreds of clothes on the flesh, a ring and a watch to show who he had been.

Someone passed along the passage and the bedroom door opened. It would happen just then. A door closed softly, then the passage door opened and the butler appeared.

“Have you everything you want, sir?”

“Yes, thanks . . . Oh, Grice.” Rollison paused, as Grice spoke and the butler went out. He lowered his voice: the man might be listening. “Grice, have you found out anything about Clarissa Arden’s affairs?”

“Yes,” said Grice. “She’s no motive for wanting Arden dead—no money motive, anyhow.”

“So she’s really wealthy?”

“She’s worth a cool half-million.”

“Thanks. What about Arden?”

“He’s in a very sound position; there’s never been a whisper against his good faith. Where are you?”

“At his home. He’s had another attack, quite a natural one, I’m told.” He didn’t want Grice here yet; no purpose would be served by making him suspicious. “I’ll let you know what happens. Anything else?”

“A nark tells us that the other Mellor is gunning for you. Be careful.”

“Thanks. I’ll be seeing you,” Rollison said.

He went back to the bedroom. Arden’s right hand had moved a few inches and his left hand was twitching. Rollison was longing to smoke. He went into the study and lit a cigarette but drew only half a dozen times before he put it out and returned to the bedroom.

Arden’s eyes were opening and he muttered something unintelligible. Rollison sat on the bed, and spoke quietly.

“Rollison’s here.”

The old eyes opened again, closed, opened in a fixed stare; he looked as if he had difficulty in focusing and his right hand fluttered towards the bedside table. His glasses were there. Rollison picked them up, unfolded them and put them on. Arden muttered a word that might have been “Thanks”. Rollison gave him a teaspoonful of brandy and he gulped it down weakly and licked his lips as if that needed all his strength.

Then Arden said in a clear voice; “I want to see that boy.”

Rollison spoke clearly.

“You will. He’s quite safe. Quite free. He’ll come and see you soon.”

A claw-like hand shot out and gripped

Rollison’s arm with surprising strength. Behind the thick lenses of the glasses, Arden’s eyes were very direct and bright.

“Is that—the truth? ”

“Yes. I’ve seen him and seen the police. He isn’t the man they want. It was a case of mistaken identity. You needn’t worry about Jim any more.”

Arden said: “Thank God!”

He closed his eyes again but didn’t move and didn’t take his hand away from Rollison’s arm. Rollison eased his position a little. Arden’s hand was very cold; his breathing was still heavy but there was a great change in him. A smile played about the corners of his lips, the strain at his eyes was gone, his forehead was less wrinkled.

“Look after him, Rollison.”

“You’ll be able to do that yourself.”

“Nonsense!” There was more strength in the frail voice. “Nonsense. Haven’t much longer. I—Rollison. Rollison! ” He sat up, alarm sprang into his voice, all ease had gone. “My study— what did she take? What did she take? ”

“What did who take?” Rollison asked heavily.

“Clarissa. Clarissa, the besom! I caught her going through my desk. She thought I was asleep. What did she take? ”

“What could she have taken that matters?”

“Those lying letters.”

“What letters?”

“They were full of lies, full of lies. I was a fool to pay anything, to—Rollison, go into the study! The top drawer of the desk. Open it. Pull it right out. There is a false back, worked by a spring. You know the kind. There are some letters there. Lying letters. Blackmail letters. See if—see if she took them.”

Rollison said: “Why worry about it now?”

“ Go and see! ” cried Arden. “I caught her at the desk. I struck her. I told her what she was—a loose woman, a Jezebel, a Delilah. I hate her, Rollison, and she hates me. I’m sure she hates me. Go and look in that desk!”

Rollison said: “All right.”

He wished the doctor were here or the nurse would come; he didn’t know what would happen to Arden if the letters were missing; and a fourth attack might be fatal. Less than half an hour had passed since the doctor had left; he wasn’t likely to be back yet. Where was that nurse? Was there any way of making sure that the old man didn’t suffer another shock?

“Hurry!” Arden urged him.

He looked like a corpse.

Unless the letters were found, there was no way of fending off the shock. Odd twist, that Clarissa should have come here and done what Rollison had asked and forced him into this dilemma. He went quickly across the room, watched closely by the old man. He pushed the door to behind him and Arden called:

“Leave it open.”

He pulled the door open. Arden could see the desk and craned forward, peering into the study. Rollison pulled open the wide, shallow drawer in the middle. To see the back he had to go down on his knees. Arden couldn’t see what he was doing now. The desk was a fine old piece of mahogany, beautifully finished inside. He ran his fingers along the smooth wood, seeking the spring.

He found it, pressed and heard a click. The false back of the drawer sprang open.

Arden cried: “That’s it. I heard it!”

The light was poor. Rollison saw some papers and pulled them out. There were two long, legal-looking documents, tied round with red tape. That was all; there were no letters. He could hear Arden’s harsh breathing as he pulled off the tape and unfolded the documents. Both were wills. Neither contained any letters in their folds.

He drew back from beneath the desk.

Arden, standing in the doorway, croaked: “They’re gone,” and pitched forward on his face.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Challenge Accepted

“If he comes round again it will be a miracle,” the doctor said. “You should have kept him in bed at all costs.” His voice was sharp and severe.

Rollison said: it would have helped if you’d stayed.”

“I have other patients. And I could not get a nurse quickly.”

“Let’s stop arguing about it, shall we?” Rollison glanced down at the old man, whose face was blue from forehead to chin and who seemed hardly to be breathing. “Do everything you can for him. If he can be pulled round again, he may be all right—I don’t think there are any more shocks in store for him.”