Kill The Toff

to meet—to meet Mr Rollison at the corner of Asham Street, Wapping, in half an hour?”

The man at the other end had regained his breath.

“I have the message, Miss. Who is speaking, please?”

“Judith Lome.”

“Did Mr Rollison say anything else, Miss Lome?”

“No! It doesn’t—Oh, yes, he did! He won’t be in to tea.”

It sounded ridiculous but a change in Jolly’s tone when he answered told her that it wasn’t.

“Very good, Miss Lome. I will be there as soon as I can. Good-bye; Mr Higgin—” she heard him call the other man before ringing off.

She stood with the receiver in her hand and Mrs Tirrell prancing about in front of her, desperately eager to know what all this was about.

“You look so pale, dear. Is everything all right?”

“Oh, yes. Yes. Everything’s—wonderful!” Judith squeezed her hand as she went towards the door and suddenly realised that she hadn’t any money with her; it was a rule of the house that all calls were paid for in advance. “I’ll let you have the tuppence, Mrs Tirrell, thank you—thank you!”

She fled and raced up the stairs. She knew that Mrs Tirrell was standing and watching but she didn’t care— nothing mattered but getting to Jim. How long would it take Jolly to reach here? Twenty minutes at the most; as the flat had a Mayfair number, it must be in Mayfair. Wasn’t she bright? She giggled from reaction, reached the second landing and caught sight of Mrs Tirrell disappearing into her flat. It wouldn’t be long before the woman came up to find out what was happening. Her hooked nose was the most curious and intruding one in Knoll Street. Never mind Mrs Tirrell; Rollison could deal with her—Rollison could deal with anyone.”

She slowed down as she went towards the top landing. She mustn’t lose her head. She had kept her composure well with Rollison: it mattered whether she impressed him favourably or not; he held her future in his hands. She mustn’t forget that. He had talked of danger and he wouldn’t talk lightly; so there was danger. The way Waleski had said Til kill you for that,” in the cold, dull voice, came back to her and took the edge off her excitement. What kind of affair was this? Who were the people who could frame—frame or blame?—Jim? Who would send her a lying message, a confession note? And then she remembered Rollison saying that if the note meant what he thought it meant, it was a prelude to murdering Mellor—murdering Jim. She felt a wave of nausea as she reached the landing and held tightly on to the top rail of the banisters. The landing was dark and gloomy, for the only light came from downstairs and there was a huge mahogany wardrobe which took up almost the whole of one wall.

She must compose herself.

She moistened her lips and went forward. There was no sound from the room—the men weren’t talking. She raised her hand to tap— and then something moved, to her right, and she glanced round.

A man darted from the corner by the wardrobe and, before she could move or cry out, one of his hands spread over her mouth. The other grabbed at her neck and she felt the tight clutch of his fingers—a sudden, suffocating pressure.

CHAPTER FOUR

The House In Asham Street

Waleski sat in the chair, occasionally dabbing at his split lips and his nose with a bright yellow-and-red handkerchief. His eyes were dull and he didn’t look at Rollison, who stood by the desk glancing through some of the sketches. Now and again Rollison looked up at the photograph of Jim Mellor and smiled faintly.

Judith had been gone a long time; but Jolly would be in; with luck, Snub Higginbottom would be there too. Jolly would look after Mr Waleski; Snub was the better man to have at Asham Street. It was no use speculating on whether Mellor would be alone or whether friends of Waleski would be with him. It wasn’t much use asking Waleski for more information—the man had recovered his nerve and would lie from now on.

He might have lied about Asham Street; but Rollison could usually tell when a man had told the truth. He had forced that  information out when Waleski had been suffering from both pain and shock, before he had realised the kind of opposition he was up against. But you couldn’t use shock tactics against this type of man twice within a few minutes.

Here was Judith, running up the stairs.

Rollison glanced at the door.

The footsteps stopped and he frowned. Then they came again, much more quietly, towards the door. He moved across the room, keeping an eye on Waleski who might be pretending to be completely cowed so that he could try shock tactics himself. But Waleski wasn’t tensed to spring from his chair. Rollison actually touched the handle of the door, then heard a faint sound—the sound a scuffle would make. He stopped, hand still poised. He glanced round and saw Waleski sit up sharply, as if he realised the possible significance of this.

There was no further sound outside.

Rollison dropped his right hand to his pocket and the gun; and then Waleski sprang up. Rollison was on the half-turn. He could have shot the man but this wasn’t the moment for shooting. He stepped swiftly to one side as Waleski leapt at him, fists clenched, eyes burning. He anticipated Rollison’s move and changed direction; and he came like a battering-ram. Rollison jabbed out a straight left. Waleski slipped it with a neat head movement and crashed a blow into Rollison’s chest. Then he kicked.

Rollison banged back against the wall.

The glint in Waleski’s dark eyes was murderous. He grabbed at the gun, using both hands. Rollison held on, Waleski forced his hand up, bent his head and sank his teeth into the fleshy part of Rollison’s hand. Pain, sharp and excruciating, went through Rollison. It took much of the power out of a left swing which brushed the back of Waleski’s head.

Waleski leaned all his weight on Rollison, biting harder, drawing blood. The pain made Rollison’s head swim.