A clock with a tinny bell struck the half-hour.
Rollison reached the foot of the stairs and peered upwards, then began to mount. Snub stayed behind, still watchful but he knew that Rollison did not really expect an attack, was afraid only of what he might find here. The stairs creaked under Rollison’s light tread, the landing boards groaned.
Rollison went up the next flight and tapped on the door to the right. There was no answer. He tried the handle and pushed the door but it was locked. He pushed it again, frowning. Doors in this type of house were of flimsy wood and shook and rattled under pressure— but this one was curiously tight fitting.
Snub whispered: “All okay?”
“Stay there,” Rollison called back.
He took out a pen-knife, one of the blades of which was a skeleton key, and inserted that blade into the lock. It was an easy lock to pick but his hand was painful and the handkerchief got in the way. He took it off. The teeth marks showed clearly but only the two canine teeth had broken the skin.
The lock clicked back.
Rollison pushed but the door stuck. He pushed again, the door swung open and gas rushed out at him.
CHAPTER FIVE
Snub came racing up the stairs as Rollison held his breath and rushed into the room. The gas was like an invisible blanket through which he had to force his way. He saw Mellor lying on the floor with his face near the gas-fire and heard the gentle hissing.
Behind him, Snub started coughing.
Rollison turned off the gas, reached the window and saw the flock padding round the sides. He bent his elbow and crashed it through the glass. Then he took out his cigarette-case, shielded his face with one hand and smashed the pieces which stuck out round the sides in spiteful, pointed spikes. The splintering of glass merged with Snub’s coughing. The inrush of air made Rollison begin to cough but he finished his job before he gave way to it.
Snub wasn’t in the room now.
Rollison leaned against the wall, doubled up with the paroxysm, his eyes streaming. Mellor’s face was blurred but a pinky colour. He lay on his side with a pillow beneath his head, his knees bent naturally; he looked as if he were asleep.
Snub came in with a handkerchief tied round his mouth and nose, his eyes bright above it. Rollison pointed at Mellor, went to the window and breathed in the clean, fresh air, held his breath and turned round to help. Snub was lifting Mellor but the dead weight was too much for him. Rollison helped and felt as if his chest were bursting but they got the man on to the landing.
A shrill voice sounded.
“Wot are you doin’ of? Eh? Wot are you doin’ of?”
Snub’s voice was muffled beneath the wet handkerchief.
“Get him on to my shoulder; I can manage.”
He went down three stairs. Rollison hoisted Mellor up a little, Snub twisted round until the unconscious man was over his shoulder, turned unsteadily and went downstairs. Rollison returned to the room and began to cough again; it would take a long time for the gas to clear. He saw the blue sheet of paper and the screwed-up envelope, put them in his pocket and, coughing painfully, went out.
“Answer me, can’t yer?”
“The police will answer you,” Snub said sharply. “Open the door.”
A draught of air swept upwards as the front door opened. Rollison went down and the old woman stood in the doorway, her fists clenched, eyes glaring with fright. Rollison touched her on the shoulder and she spun round. There was fear in her eyes because she knew what had happened to the pink-faced man who was hanging like a corpse over Snub’s shoulder.
Rollison said: “If the police come, don’t tell them that the Toff called.”
“The—
“If they don’t come, just keep your mouth shut about everything,” Rollison said.
He pushed past her, into the street. Farther along, Snub was lifting Mellor into the back seat of the Rolls- Bentley; by the time Rollison arrived, he was getting into the driving-seat. He had taken off the handkerchief and had it in his hand. Two men and a young woman walked past, eyeing them curiously; two or three children stood and watched; there were faces at many of the windows. The silent spectators heard the engine start up but didn’t hear Snub say:
“Nearest hospital?”
“No. The clinic.”
“Oh, sure.”
As the car moved off, the children ran towards it and brushed their fingers along the shiny green wings, poking out their tongues at the driver. The old woman at Number 51 slammed the door. They drove swiftly down Asham Street towards the docks. They could see the masts of shipping and the gaunt outline of cranes at the quayside above the countless roof-tops and the pencil-slim chimneys. At the end Snub turned left into another long, narrow road. The same kind of houses were on either side but this road twisted and turned. Farther along great warehouses with grey brick walls rose up against the sky.
A police constable on a bicycle turned a corner.
