Kill The Toff

“Yes. Run powder over these, will you?”

Rollison gave him the envelopes addressed to Clarissa Arden and Jolly opened a small bottle containing grey powder over the envelopes. Prints showed up almost immediately. He blew the powder away gently. As the prints became clearer, he glanced swiftly at Rollison and his voice quivered slightly with excitement.

“I think you’ve made a discovery of importance, sir.”

Rollison said: “Same prints?”

“I’m almost sure. Will you kindly use the glass?”

The prints were huge behind the lens. There were several different ones on each envelope but most were badly smudged, whereas some prints were sharp, clear and superimposed on the others. These were probably the prints which Clarissa had made when she had opened the letters. The loops and whorls had characteristics which could not be confused with the broader prints of the people who had first handled the envelopes.

Rollison turned to the note which read: The best way to disappear is to die. Identical prints were there, much fainter, and with other prints superimposed which he guessed were Mellor’s.

Jolly breathed: “Am I right, sir?”

“I think you are,” said Rollison slowly. “Miss Arden handled the note-paper before Mellor received it.”

“So she sent it.”

“Let’s stick to what we know; she handled the paper.”

“And no one else did, sir, except Mellor and you. Your prints show at two of the corners where you held the paper cautiously. Mellor’s are very clear, top right and centre both sides—where you would expect them to be when he took the note out. Hers are on both sides and fairly general, the kind of prints that one would make when writing a letter and folding it for an envelope. Have you met Miss Arden?”

Rollison laughed. “Yes, and we’re not friends. Like some fresh air, Jolly?”

“Exactly as you wish, sir. I have prepared a supper tray.”

“Good. Go to the Oxford Palace Hotel and find out what you can about Waleski. The police may be watching to see if inquiries are made for him but cock a snook at any policemen. I’m anxious to know whether Clarissa Arden has called on Waleski. I’ll wait here until you return or telephone.”

*     *     *

Rollison sat in an armchair, near the desk and the telephone. The wall behind the desk was filled with a remarkable miscellany of souvenirs of criminal cases: weapons used for murder; poisons; odd trophies of the hunt. The star piece was a hempen noose; it was Rollison’s boast that a particularly savage murderer had been hanged with it. This was called the Trophy Wall.

Judith still slept, breathing evenly, looking calm and delightful without any sign of strain—as if she were really resting for the first time for weeks. Jolly could exert a remarkably soothing effect and had doubtless impressed her with his view of Rollison’s omnipotence. Now and again she stirred but didn’t wake. Rollison watched her as he thought of Arden, Clarissa, everyone whom he had seen that day. He was trying to put every incident in its proper perspective, to judge the importance of one against the other; and, finally, to judge when it would be necessary and wise to go to the police. The evidence that attempts had been made on Arden’s life was so slender that he doubted whether the police would pay it much attention. There was no evidence that Arden’s legitimate son had been murdered. The police would say, and rightly because of the facts before them, that Rollison was reading crime into a series of unrelated but coincidental circumstances.

One question mattered above all. If Mellor were arrested and charged, what would be the effect on Sir Frederick Arden? He believed that the tension and anxiety of the trial would kill the old man. That was the strongest single justification for trying to keep Mellor away from the police, for backing his own judgment.

Yes, he would have to do that if he could.

He saw Judith stir again and then the telephone bell gave a slight ring, the preliminary to steady ringing. He took the receiver off quickly before it had time to disturb the girl.

“Rollison speaking.”

“Hallo, Boss!” It was Snub who sounded bright and presumably had good news. “Still in the land of the live and kicking.”

“How did you get on?”

“What a stickler you are for business! All right. The police haven’t heard of the Asham Street incident yet and the Doc hasn’t been worried. Mellor’s out of danger from the carbon monoxide. I don’t think there’s much need for me to haunt this part of the great metropolis tonight.”

“You needn’t. But I want you to hire a shooting-brake or any kind of vehicle which will take a stretcher and garage it somewhere handy to the Doc’s place in the morning, very likely for use before daylight.”

“I’ll be ready at the crack.”

“Thanks,” said Rollison. “Keep a look-out for the police. I don’t want them to know what you’ve been up to. If they discover you’re going to drive a van or what-not, they might tumble to the truth. If your flat is watched, go to a hotel and let me know the telephone number.”

“Oke.”

“Off you go,” said Rollison.

“Oi, have a heart! How’s sweet Judy?”

“Sleeping,” said Rollison and glanced at the girl.

Her eyes, heavy with sleep, were wide open as she stared at him. He smiled at her, said good-bye to Snub and replaced the receiver. She gave an answering smile and eased herself upon the cushion. Her hair was unruly and absently she poked her fingers through it. There were red marks on her cheek where she had been lying on the creased cushion cover.