Kill The Toff

“All in one piece?”

“So far.”

“I say, you look a bit grimmish about the gills,” said Snub.

“Just thoughtful,” said Rollison. “Something to drink, Jolly.”

He went into the room and saw Judith standing by an armchair near the window.

He was struck by her pale face and troubled eyes and wondered just how much she knew about Mellor’s reputation, whether he had been wrong in his first good opinion of her. She wore a black two-piece suit with a plain white blouse; it would serve as mourning. When he smiled at her she raised her hands, as if to ward off an impending blow. Immediately he was angry with himself, for he had forgotten the anxiety which she must be feeling. Snub must have told her something of the truth.

“Is he—” she began but couldn’t go on.

“He’ll pull through,” said Rollison.

She caught her breath. “Are you sure?”

“I’m quite sure; I’ve just telephoned the doctor.”

“Oh,” she said.

She put her hands behind her, groping for the chair, and Snub slipped quickly across the room and helped her to sit down. She leaned back, her eyes closed, and Rollison knew that she was fighting against tears. He knew more than that: she believed in Mellor and she had told the truth as she knew it. He did not doubt that again throughout the case.

“Whisky for the lady,” Snub said and came close to Rollison. “Her nerves have been stretched as tight as a drum. You haven’t just tried to cheer her up, have you?”

“No, Mellor will pull through.”

“Fine! A very lucky young man, in my opinion,” said Snub. “How’s everything?”

“Bad.” Rollison took a whisky-and-soda from the tray which Jolly held in front of him, Snub took another and carried it to the girl. “I want you a minute,” Rollison added and went with Jolly into the kitchen.

It was small, spotless, white-tiled; the pans shone, everything was in its appointed place.

Jolly closed the door.

“I hope there has been no trouble, sir.”

“We’re in a jam but we’ll get out of it,” Rollison said. “Nothing really serious. How did you get on with the police? Did they learn anything about Asham Street?”

“Not from us, sir.”

“Good! Were they difficult?”

“Insistent but I think they believed all that we told them.”

“They won’t in future. Grice is on the warpath and there is a general feeling that Mellor is a real bad hat. What’s all this about Waleski?”

Jolly said solemnly: it was really somewhat ridiculous, sir. The man was still in the kitchen when the police arrived and he offered no violence. He accused you of assaulting him and even preferred a charge. I made no comment, thinking you would best be able to deal with the situation. The police took the gun which was found in the flat—his gun, I believe. Miss Lome told them about the man who had attacked her and also about the note which she received. There was some annoyance displayed when the note could not be found.”

Rollison laughed. “They can have it; run it over for prints first, Jolly, and see whether we’ve anything in our private collection. Then ring Grice up and apologise because I absent-mindedly slipped it into my pocket.”

“Very good, sir.”

“And test this other note for prints, too.” Rollison pulled out of his pocket the letter he had picked up in Mellor’s room. “But don’t let the police have that. It’s Exhibit A for the private collection. Very likely you’ll find no prints except Mellor’s and mine. If there are any others, they’ll probably be the same on each.”

“I’ll see to it,” promised Jolly.

“Thanks.”

“I hope the situation isn’t really grave,” said Jolly earnestly, it has already become a very different affair from what we first anticipated. I suppose—” Jolly paused, as if diffident, but actually to give greater emphasis to what he had to say and Rollison eyed him expectantly. “I suppose there is no doubt at all, sir, that James Mellor is Sir Frederick Arden’s son? Because if you are wrong in that assumption then it would greatly alter the complexion of the case, wouldn’t it?”

“No.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Jolly, startled.

“The complexion of the case is the same— Judith Lome having a rough time, funny business in one of the East End gangs and a warning-off both by Grice and Bill Ebbutt. If you mean it’s no longer a gentle inquiry to soothe Sir Frederick Arden’s feelings, you’re right; but that changed when we knew Mellor was wanted for Galloway’s murder, didn’t it?”

“I suppose it did,” conceded Jolly. “May I say I hope you won’t take too many chances, sir.”

“We’ll have a chat about it later,” said Rollison. “I want to hide Mellor. Ebbutt won’t help and he can’t come here. Any idea?”