“Good evening, Miss Clarissa.”
“William, find out whether Sir Frederick is resting and come and let me know.”
She turned into the drawing-room as the footman bowed again; he only glanced at Rollison. Rollison followed her into a wide, spacious room where two great glass chandeliers glistened and sparkled, although the only light came from wall-lamps. In a far corner a grand piano stood in red-tinged dignity. The colour scheme here was dark red and grey.
Clarissa Arden tugged the rope of a bell.
“I want to know why you don’t wish to send for the police,” she said; her voice was cold enough to sound haughty.
“That’s simple. They would want to know what I was doing here. That would involve your uncle. I think some kinds of excitement would be bad for him.”
She stood, tall and imposing, with her back to a fine Adam fireplace, weighing her words. Before she spoke she glanced towards the door as if to make sure that it was shut. Then she said clearly:
“I don’t think I like you, Mr Rollison.”
“I hope that won’t stop you from offering me a drink,” he said and smiled at her.
The two encounters had stimulated him, lifting the blanket of depression which had dropped after the talk with Grice and Ebbutt.
The door opened and an elderly butler said: “You rang, Miss Clarissa?”
“Whisky?” she asked Rollison.
“Please.”
“Bring whisky, Samuel, and gin,” said Clarissa Arden. When the door closed behind the butler she went on: “I’m not at all sure that you are a good influence on my uncle. I am told that usually after your visits he suffers a relapse. He is not well enough to know what is good for him just now. I think I must ask you not to come again, Mr Rollison.”
“Ah. Did you take medical and legal advice?”
She frowned. “This is no time for facetiousness.”
“That wasn’t facetious; I’m in earnest. Doctors can say and lawyers decide whether a man is in his right mind or whether he isn’t. If your uncle isn’t, I might be persuaded to stay away. If he is, I’d like him to be judge of whether I come or not.”
She said: “How does it feel to be so clever?”
“Between ourselves, it’s a pain in the neck; but we have to learn to bear our burdens, don’t we?”
He offered cigarettes and she took one. As he lit it for her he looked into her eyes and saw the secret smile in them. It remained when she drew her head back and let smoke trickle from her nostrils; he wished she hadn’t done that because it spoiled perfection. She was nearly as tall as he and, standing like that with her head back and looking at him through her lashes, there was a touch of mystery about her; and mockery?
“Who attacked you outside?” she asked.
“Mr Waleski’s comrades,” said Rollison promptly.
He’d been waiting for the chance to speak of Waleski and, although the words came casually, he was alert for any change in her expression. There were two: a quick flash of surprise, almost of alarm; a quicker flash of self- warning when she told herself that she must give nothing away. Then the mask dropped again. He thought of her as being covered by a veil, filmy and hardly noticeable.
She wasn’t quite real.
“Whom did you say?”
“I thought you might know Comrade Waleski,” said Rollison sadly. “He and I had a chat this afternoon and I’ve been told that what he wishes for me is a painful death or a few nights in the lock-up. But he’s really of no account.”
He glanced towards a miniature by the fireplace but watched her closely. Again he saw her quick flash of interest before the veil dropped again.
She overplayed her hand when she said:
“If he’s of no account, you needn’t worry about him.”
“I don’t,” said Rollison.
She started to speak but Samuel came in—a stately man with exactly the right manner; a rival to Jolly.
“That’s all, Samuel,” said Clarissa Arden.
“Very good, miss.”
The butler put the tray on a small table and Rollison went towards it, picking up the gin. There was a large array of bottles: Italian and French vermouth, fruit squashes, whisky, a syphon and a small jug of water, some bitters—everything they might need.
“What will you have with the gin?” asked Rollison. “Oh—may I mix it?”
“Dry vermouth,” she said. “What made you think I might know this Waleski?”
Rollison busied himself with the bottles and glasses.
“Intuition. Didn’t you know about my intuition? It is one of the burdens I have to carry. In vulgar parlance, we
