Kill The Toff

What is it? What have you done to your hand? Been fighting?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“The enemies of your son.”

“Ah!” Arden drew back his hands and clenched them tightly; like claws. “So you’ve discovered something? You know his enemies. Who are they? Rollison, I want the truth! I don’t want to hear any of that nonsense about  keeping bad news away from me. I can stand a shock. What do the fools think I am? A stone image? I want to know, Rollison. What have you found?”

Rollison said slowly: “Your son.”

Arden didn’t speak. His hands tightened upon each other, he peered intently into Rollison’s face and his frail body was rigid. Rollison could hear his breath rattling up and down his wind-pipe. He lost a little colour— and then suddenly his hands unclenched and he ran one over his chin.

“Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Is he all right?”

“He’ll live.”

“So—he is ill?” The words were like a sigh.

“He’s been ill,” Rollison said. “He’s in good hands now and I’m assured that he’ll be as good as new in a few days.”

“I want to see him.”

“No,” said Rollison. “That wouldn’t do just yet.”

“Nonsense! I’m going to see him.”

“I thought you wanted to help him.”

“Don’t bandy words. What harm will it do if I see him?”

“It’s too early. If you’re going to trust me, you’ll have to trust me all the way.” Rollison took out his cigarette- case, put a cigarette to his lips and flicked his lighter. The flame burned steadily until he remembered that tobacco-smoke upset the old man; was liable to start a paroxysm of coughing which might bring on another heart attack. He put the lighter out. “I’m not the only one seeking your son, you know; but the others haven’t found him yet.”

Arden grunted: “Police?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm. Can you keep him away from the police?”

“I think so. It’s one of the things I want to talk to you about. If they find him, they’ll charge him with Galloway’s murder right away. At the moment he’s in hiding in the East End of London but he can’t stay there for long. I want to move him somewhere safe where he’ll get good attention and be free from prying eyes, from his own enemies and from the police. I don’t know of such a place offhand. Do you?”

Arden barked: “Bring him here!”

“No, that won’t do.”

“Why won’t it?”

“You know why. I don’t trust your household.”

“I’m not sure you’re right about that,” growled Arden, “but I’ve been better since you told me what to do. I sent that advertisement to The Times for a footman at the Lodge. Something’s gone amiss; it’s actually in today.” He sniffed. “My improvement since I’ve measured out my own medicine, as you suggested, might be a coincidence, might be—” He broke off, his voice became querulous. “Expense doesn’t matter, I’ve told you that often enough. Can’t you find a comfortable place where they’ll look after him and ask no questions?”

“I could if he weren’t wanted for murder.”

“The fools!” Arden ran his hand over his chin again. “The damned fools! Murder! My son! Where do you want him to be? In London?”

“Not too far away but not in London proper.”

“He’ll have to go to the Lodge. You can trust the servants for that.”

“I don’t trust your servants anywhere.” He had to be emphatic about that, lest the old man relaxed the precautions he had already taken. “I want a small place—a cottage would do—with someone who’ll do what you tell them and hold their peace. When I suggested that you should go away, you mentioned an old woman who lives near Woking—your ex-housekeeper. Would she do this?”

Arden said slowly, yet eagerly: “Why, yes, ye-es! Why didn’t I think of Mrs Begbie? Yes, she’ll look after him.” He started to get up. “I’ll give you a note to her, you’re to tell her that nothing will be too good for him. When will you take him? Tonight?”

“Just as soon as I can,” promised Rollison. “You’ve got to understand one thing, Arden.”

“Yes, yes. What is it?”

“The police might find him and that would make me powerless—except to look for the real murderer. I can promise nothing but there’s an even chance that I can get him safely to this cottage.”