“Her father was; she inherited everything of his only a few years ago. Oh, she’s no motive for wanting me dead!” He laughed again and this time managed without a spasm of coughing. “Even if she were as poor as a church mouse, she’d still have no motive for wanting me dead, although she may think she has. She hasn’t seen my will. She’s just back from Paris. Said she’d heard I was ill and wanted to come and look after me. She meant she was tired of her latest lover. London’s her happy hunting-ground. But never mind Clarissa—except don’t trust her. She’ll try to get her claws into you because you’re an unusual man—something different. She’d stand by and watch me die if it would give her a thrill. Forget her! Why are you sitting there, wasting your time? I thought you had a lot to do.”
The passage was empty.
Rollison walked to the landing and looked along another passage which was at right angles to the first. Three rooms led from it and all the doors were closed. The first was unlocked; it led to a large bedroom which obviously wasn’t in use. The next door was locked. He hesitated outside the third, then tried the handle; the door opened and light showed. He pushed the door a little wider so that he could see into the room. No one spoke so he slipped inside.
It was a large bedroom, beautifully furnished, with a modern silvered oak suite; obviously a woman’s room. On an oval table near the window a bowl of red tulips reminded him of the flowers in the window of 49, Asham Street. The high double bed was spread with gleaming satin, the pale grey carpet had a deep pile; this was a room of luxury. The dressing-table had three long mirrors; a wardrobe occupied most of one wall. There was a faint smell of perfume which he recognised as Clarissa’s.
He closed the door.
Someone moved in another room which led from a corner of this; he could see enough to tell him that it was a bathroom.
Clarissa didn’t come out of there.
He went to the writing-desk, near the tulips; pale blue note-paper and envelopes were in the rack. There were sheets die-stamped 7,
She caught her breath at sight of him.
“Oh, hallo,” said Rollison brightly. “I thought I’d return the call.”
“Leave this room at once!”
“Haughty is as haughty does,” murmured Rollison. “I think we’ve a lot to say to each other, precious. It’s naughty and unhealthy to eavesdrop. I don’t think you quite understand the situation or that I can get tough.”
“I told you to leave this room.”
“All in good time. In spite of your false testimony your uncle has been showing signs of improved health. If he stops improving I shall regard your homecoming as more than a coincidence. You’re very lovely, Clarissa—too lovely to have your neck stretched by a hempen rope. But they do hang women and even your money and position wouldn’t save you from a trial. Remember that, every time you get thoughtless and every time you prowl, won’t you?”
“If you don’t leave at once I shall tell Samuel to send for the police.”
“Well, well!” breathed Rollison. “What a lot you have in common with Comrade Waleski!” She flinched and he went towards her, even took her hands, as if they were old, tried friends. “Clarissa, don’t mix with bad men. There may be a spice of excitement, and you may like the breath of danger, but these are really bad men and I should hate to think you were really a bad woman.”
She took her hands away and slapped his face.
“That must be the touch of the Brontes in you,” murmured Rollison. “One final word. When in need, come and see me. I love listening to damsels in distress.”
Her cheeks were white and her lips quivering, her eyes stormy. He smiled and turned away, crossed the room unhurriedly and looked back at her from the door. His eyes were laughing; hers were still furious.
The ice that was in Clarissa Arden had melted.
Snub hadn’t returned when Rollison reached Gresham Terrace. Jolly, who opened the door, raised a hand to exhort silence and whispered that Miss Lome was sleeping on the sofa in the living-room. Rollison looked in. She was fast asleep, a silken cushion beneath her head, a travelling-rug thrown over her.
“You make a good nurse,” murmured Rollison. “How are you amusing yourself?”
“I’ve been testing the note-paper,” said Jolly. “There are some prints which I can’t identify and which don’t appear to be Mellor’s or Miss Lome’s. Will you come and see, sir?”
Once Jolly’s room had been large—nearly as large as Rollison’s. A few months ago, however, Jolly had suggested that a partition be erected so that he could have both a bedroom and a “den.” The “den” was approached by a low door in the wooden partition. Beyond was Jolly’s idea of heaven. He was an enthusiastic amateur photographer with a talent which had only lately been developed; most of the work he did for Rollison, on such affairs as this. He had also worked diligently on the simpler scientific side of criminal investigation and had equipment here which had once been mildly approved by Grice. On a bench beneath the window was a microscope, a bunsen burner, a number of elementary chemical solutions and in the drawers and cupboards which made the den seem tiny was all the paraphernalia of detection including equipment for taking finger-prints. On top of one case were Jolly’s text-books: Gross’s
Rollison seldom ventured here; never without an invitation./
Some photographs of finger-prints were pinned to a small wooden board and by them was a magnifying- glass.
“These need enlarging but you can see them clearly through the glass,” said Jolly.
