“Miss Arden is a very handsome woman, sir,” said Jolly, dispassionately. “Do you mind if I wash my hands?”
“Carry on.”
“I hope to finish before the coffee arrives,” said Jolly and disappeared into the bathroom.
He was still there when the waiter arrived. Rollison took the tray at the passage door, tipped the man enough to satisfy him and not enough to make himself noticeable and carried it into the bedroom. He remembered carrying the tray into Judith and smiled—and saw Clarissa’s eyelids flicker.
He went out again.
“Stay where you are for a few minutes, Jolly.”
“Very good, sir.”
Her eyes were wide open when he went back and he saw the fear in them, fear which didn’t disappear when she recognised him. She caught her breath and her hands clenched beneath the clothes; they made two little mounds. He thrust his hands into his pockets, put his head on one side and murmured:
“I don’t like Comrade Waleski either.”
She licked her lips.
“My—my throat is sore.”
“Nylon is bad for throats,” said Rollison. He picked up the twisted stocking and held it up and her eyes glistened with horror, it was tied very tightly; they didn’t want you to live. Was it Waleski?”
“I—I suppose it must have been.”
“Sit up and have some coffee,” Rollison said and then called out: “Jolly! Any aspirins?”
“Yes, sir.”
Rollison took them at the door. When he turned round, Clarissa was sitting up and looking at herself in the dressing-table mirror which was opposite the bed. She put her hands to her hair and smoothed it down while Rollison poured out black coffee, put half the sugar into the one cup and made her drink it. Now and again she glanced at him; more often into the mirror.
He poured out a second cup.
“No more,” she said and made a face.
“Two cups to complete the cure. Swallow the aspirins with this. You’re lucky, Clarissa.”
She didn’t answer.
“Ten or fifteen minutes longer and we might have been too late. Certainly we couldn’t have pulled you round ourselves; we’d have needed a doctor, perhaps the hospital, certainly the police. If you want to leave here tonight, drink up.”
She obeyed. It was obviously difficult for her to get the coffee down and she grimaced when she had finished. He took the cup from her and offered a cigarette.
“Thanks.”
“Feeling better?”
“I shall be all right.”
“What happened?”
She said: “Waleski turned on me.”
“I did murmur a warning about bad men, didn’t I?”
She fingered her throat gingerly, felt the ridges and craned up so that she could see her neck in the mirror. She licked her lips again and coughed on the smoke.
“He—he hit me with his cigarette-case. Here.” Her fingers poked gently through the hair at the temple.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Lie number one,” said Rollison.
She held her head back and looked at him through her lashes, the same trick she had used in Pulham Gate. In spite of her ruined make-up, her loveliness was apparent. Shiny, blotchy face, smeared lipstick, rumpled hair, all failed to hide it. She was composed, too; and there was a glimmer of a smile in her eyes. Her self-control was a great tribute to her will-power.
How do you know I haven’t been lying all I he time?”
He said: “I don’t. But someone tried to murder you and Waleski had the opportunity. It might have been someone else.”
“Yes. Possibly even you.”
“Ah,” murmured Rollison. “That’s a bright notion. I almost wish I hadn’t taken the stocking from your neck.”
He didn’t smile; and he didn’t miss the mockery in her expression. She might be bad; he was half-convinced that she was; but he didn’t dislike her. She had too much courage, too quick a mind.
“Well, how do I know you didn’t strangle me and then pretend to save my life?” Her husky voice drawled out
