the words. “The last thing I remember is Waleski hitting me. I doubt if he would like to see me dead.”
“What’s put all this into your head?”
“Worried?” She pushed her fingers through her hair and drew it tightly back from her face; it increased her beauty. “I thought you were very anxious not to send for the police or have me taken to hospital. I couldn’t believe it was for my sake, so it must be for yours. After all, if I told the police everything I know, you would be suspected, wouldn’t you? Or have you got the police in your pocket?”
“They keep popping out. Why not go steaming ahead and make a job of it? There’s the telephone. Just murmur “police” into it and hotel detectives will come rushing up and the police will arrive in a couple of ticks. You’d be in the fashion, too; Waleski tried to convince the police I’d man-handled him.”
“Didn’t you?”
“We were talking about the telephone. It’s all yours.”
Rollison sauntered to the dressing-table, dragging the easy-chair with him, and sat down. He crossed his legs and lit a cigarette.
“You’d never let me touch it,” Clarissa said.
“Go ahead.”
She frowned, as if puzzled by the challenge in his eyes; then stretched out her hand for the telephone. The graceful turn of her body drew attention to her figure; it was almost voluptuous, the movement unconsciously seductive. She held the receiver close to her ear, watching him all the time.
He kept a poker-face but his heart was thumping. He wasn’t sure what she would do: only sure that if she went ahead it would ruin his chances; Grice would have to hold him on such evidence. But if she were bluffing and he called her bluff, it would prove she wanted to avoid the police.
Clarissa said: “Chelsea 12431, please . . . I thank you.”
She put the receiver down.
Rollison didn’t speak. Clarissa relaxed on I he pillows. There was a sound in the bathroom: Jolly, moving about uneasily. The next sound jarred through the quiet; the ringing of the telephone-bell. She took off the receiver and said: “Can I speak to Mr Waleski?”
Rollison started; for her voice changed completely. She spoke like an American and had he not been there he would have been sure the speaker came from a Southern State. She looked at him steadily while she held on, until he heard a man’s voice faintly.
Clarissa said in the same husky, attractive voice:
“Why, Stan, is that you? . . . You don’t know who I am?” She laughed softly, if you did, you’d be surprised to hear from me . . . Sure, I’ll tell you who I am.” She paused, then slipped back into her normal speaking voice and all she said was: “Surprised, Stan?”
Rollison heard the gasp at the other end of the line; and then the man hung up abruptly.
She said slowly: “Now I believe he did it.”
Then she saw a different Rollison.
He jumped up, called: “Jolly!” and, as Jolly came in, he motioned to the telephone and ordered: “Call Grice. Ask him to find out who lives at the house with telephone number Chelsea 12431. Clarissa—” He bent over her, looking closely, imperiously, into her eyes. “What’s Waleski’s address?”
She didn’t hesitate to answer.
“18, Wilson Street.”
“Stay here until I come back, if you know what’s good for you. Jolly—” Jolly was dialling. “When you’ve finished, take a taxi and come to 18, Wilson Street.”
The last thing he saw in the room was Clarissa’s startled eyes.
* * *
Wilson Street was between the King’s Road and the Thames; short, wide, it had terraces of tall houses on either side. Half an hour after Clarissa had telephoned, Rollison turned the corner and saw a two-seater car, with the rear and sidelights on, a few houses along. As he drew near, the door of the house opened and two men hurried out, each carrying a suitcase. One was Waleski, the other was small and thin: Judith’s assailant.
Rollison drove past and the others didn’t look at him but hurried back for more cases. It was ten minutes or more before they moved off.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Rollison pulled out to round a huge double-decker bus which glowed red in the headlights of a car behind him and saw Waleski’s two-seater, not far ahead.
They were approaching Fulham Palace Road; it was the first time he had seen the other car since it had come out of Wilson Street and turned left into King’s Road.
He slowed down.
When the two-seater passed beneath tall street-lamps he saw that Waleski was at the wheel. Waleski seemed intent on his driving and neither he nor his companion looked round. But that didn’t mean that they had no idea that they were being followed.
Waleski turned left again, towards Putney.
Rollison looked at his petrol-gauge and silently blessed Jolly who must have had the tank filled during the day. He could drive through the night if necessary. He sat back, relaxed and comfortable, letting his mind dwell on
