John Creasey - Kill The Toff

The doctor said: “This is a ridiculous business. First a woman who ought to know better excites him by quarrelling, then you— oh, never mind. Did you give him the good news?”

“Yes.”

“At least he had that,” said the doctor.

He turned away and Rollison went back into the study. He looked quickly through the two wills. One, dated several years ago, left a few minor bequests, a token legacy to Clarissa and the residue of the estate to Geoffrey Arden, described as “my only son”. The other was dated eleven months ago—soon after the death of Geoffrey. Clarissa wasn’t mentioned in it; there were no minor bequests; the estate was left to James Arden Mellor in its entirety. There were instructions about the efforts to be made to trace Jim if he had not been found at the time of Arden’s death.

There was no doubt that old Arden hated Clarissa; yet he had allowed her to stay here.

Rollison went to the door and as he opened it the doctor called softly. “Oh, Rollison.”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry I spoke like that. The collapse must have been unavoidable. There was little I could have done, had I stayed—no one could have anticipated that he would get out of bed.”

“Of course not.”

“He’ll probably want to see you if he comes round.”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Don’t be too long, I beg you.”

The doctor went back and Rollison went quietly to the main landing and looked along the passage towards Clarissa’s room. He went along to the room and pushed open the door but no one was there. The faint smell of perfume persisted. Rollison went downstairs and the butler came hurrying forward, to inquire:

“How is he, sir?” it’s still touch and go. If Miss Clarissa returns I should like her to telephone me at once.”

“Very good, sir.”

Rollison nodded and the butler opened the door. As he did so, the rounded gleaming nose of Clarissa’s car slid into sight. She stopped, glanced at the door, looked quickly away and sat quite still.

“Never mind that message,” Rollison said. “And Miss Clarissa won’t be coming in just yet.”

He went to the car and she drew in her breath and turned to face him. The window was down. He saw every line of her face: its soft loveliness; the strain at her eyes and her lips. Her vitality was at its lowest ebb.

“Where are the letters, Clarissa?”

“Destroyed,” she answered.

“Please don’t lie.”

“That is the truth. How is he?”

“It’s touch and go.”

“And I suppose you blame me for it?” She spoke without bitterness—in a tone of resignation; but the devil of suspicion tormented him. He could not be sure of her. This might be part of the deception which she had acted from the time they had first met.

Rollison said: “Move over, will you?”

She obeyed and he got in, took the wheel and switched on the engine. He drove to Hyde Park, kept close to the near side and let the car move slowly.

“It’s no longer a question of blaming anyone. I asked you to look for papers—so if there’s need to blame, blame me. Where are the letters?”

“I destroyed them.”

“Why did you do that?”

“I thought them best destroyed. No one will know what was in them now. If my uncle hadn’t been an old fool he would have destroyed them a long time ago. They were blackmailing letters. He has been paying blackmail for several years.”

“When did you first know?”

“When I read the letters.”

“What did they say?”

“That is a family secret and I shall not tell you. If he wants to tell you, he can—but I doubt if he will. If he’d wanted to, he would have told you before.”

“If you didn’t know what was in them, why did you take them?”

“I read the first letter and then had to read the others. They were just—blackmailing letters.”

“Written on pale blue paper, like his own?” asked Rollison softly and she turned her head and looked at him sharply. “Like the note to Jim Mellor? And to Judith Lome? I didn’t tell you, did I, that your fingerprints were on those letters? I didn’t tell the police, either, because I hoped there would be an explanation. I don’t know.”

She said: “Waleski asked me for some paper. I gave him several sheets.”

“So you took your note-paper to Paris! Try another version, Clarissa.”

She looked at him angrily.

“You are a hateful creature. I’ve told you the truth. I always take paper and envelopes in my writing-case when I travel. If you don’t believe me, ask my maid.”

There’s too much hate in this business. There has been from the beginning—sheer, personal, malevolent hatred. Not crime for crime’s sake, something even more corrupt and foul. Why was your uncle blackmailed, Clarissa? What crime had he committed in his youth?”

“Crime!” She laughed. “No one is going to know what was in those letters. They’re destroyed, gone for ever, and—”

“Who wrote them?”

“I could guess.”

“Why did you write them?” Rollison asked. The car was crawling now. He pulled into the side of the road, near the trees and the damp, bright grass. A dozen people passed and looked at them curiously but Rollison did not notice them. “That’s the answer, Clarissa, isn’t it? You stole those letters and destroyed them because they were damning evidence against you. You blackmailed him, out of sheer malice: hatred. Why? What has he done to you?”

“Oh, you fool!” cried Clarissa. “You fool!”

* * *

The late evening was cool and pleasant, the fresh green of trees and grass was soothing. Rollison drove three times round the Park. Not another word had been uttered since she had cried, “You fool!” She looked straight in front of her, head held high, while he tried to sort out the confusion in his mind.

Was she still lying?

He wanted to believe her; that was why he was so determined to force her beyond endurance, to make her lose her temper and in so doing tell the truth. But after that one outburst she was composed with an unnatural calm that would not be easy to break.

If she had not written the letters, he believed he knew who had. He no longer thought that Arden might be the villain in some great conspiracy. Arden was the victim. Anxiety, fear, something near despair, had worsened his condition, had made the last years of his life an agony.

Had Clarissa been responsible?

If not, who hated him?

He said suddenly: “I expect to meet your Mellor tonight,” and watched her closely.

She turned her head sharply. “When? I don’t believe you. How do you know him? How could you arrange a meeting?”

“I don’t know him. I’ve asked him to meet me.”

“Oh,” she said, and relaxed, gave a short, mirthless laugh. “You’re so omnipotent, aren’t you? You’ve asked him to meet you and so of course he’ll come cap in hand.”

“Gun in hand, more likely. But he’ll come.”

“Why?”

“If I’ve done nothing else, I’ve switched some of the hatred towards me. It was turned on to my Mellor for a while—for far too long—but he’s free of it now. Do you see what I mean, Clarissa?”

“How much do you know?”

“Nothing. But I think I know why you destroyed those letters.”

“Another bright idea?”

“I’ve told you one guess; there’s another I’ll keep to myself. I don’t know which is right. If I meet Mellor, will you come with me?”

She said slowly: “He’ll never meet you.”

“That’s begging the question. Will you come with me?”

“Yes,” she said.

“I think we’ll go and wait at the flat,” said Rollison. “I don’t propose to let you out of my sight again.”

“I should be careful,” said Clarissa, tensely. “A villainous shrew like me might cut your throat or stick a knife in your ribs. But if you’re at your flat, the good Jolly will look after you, won’t he? I’d forgotten how much you relied on Jolly. Why don’t you take him with you to meet Mellor, instead of me?”