Kill The Toff

“Ah,” said Rollison.

“Don’t you agree, sir?”

“I think you might get your neck broken or a bullet where it will hurt.”

“One can hardly expect to achieve results without taking some risk,” said Jolly gravely, “and, if I may say so, it is not your custom to think of the risks before the results. What did happen tonight, sir?”

“Risks came home to roost and I took others, not with myself.”

Rollison explained, briefly, receiving from Jolly an occasional pontifical nod. Then he paused, surveyed his man thoughtfully, touched The Times and said:

“All right. Take the job if necessary but don’t take chances.”

“In so far as the two are separable, sir, I will separate them. Is there anything I can get you before you retire?”

The clock struck six when Rollison got into bed.

*     *     *

He woke to a medley of sound and confusion of mind.

Bells were ringing, something clattered, Jolly uttered a word surprisingly like an oath, a cup or saucer dropped and broke, papers rustled —and the bells kept ringing: two different sounds, one low and persistent, the other higher-pitched and less regular. Then a door —his door—banged.

He sat up.

A tea-tray was on a chair by the door. A cup, in pieces, lay at the foot of the chair with several newspapers. One of the bells stopped. There were footsteps and then a door opened and Jolly exclaimed:

“Miss!”

He sounded both startled and alarmed.

Rollison sat up, rumpled his hair and yawned, eyed the tea longingly and wondered why he did not feel worried about that “Miss”. He pushed back the bedclothes and put one loot tentatively out of bed, glancing at the mantelpiece clock at the same time. It was five minutes past ten—not exactly a satisfying night’s sleep. Craning his head to see the clock, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. It did not please him and he started to smooth his hair down as the door opened.

“Jolly—” he began.

But it was Clarissa.

She held the door open and stared at him— and then began to laugh. Rollison drew his leg back and pulled the clothes up. Clarissa went on laughing and all the time there was an undertone background of Jolly’s voice. Jolly, of course, was answering the telephone.

Rollison resisted a temptation to smooth his hair a little more and ran his fingers over his dark but greying stubble. He recalled that unpleasing picture in the mirror and looked at Clarissa, who might have come straight from a Paris salon. She wore a neat suit of large black-and-white check which became her tall, slim figure; so did the white ruffles at her neck and wrists.

She stopped laughing, only to smile broadly.

“Why not be useful as well as decorative?” said Rollison. “Get a cup from the kitchen and then bring me my tea.”

“Oh, it’s wonderful!” She gurgled. “K-k-kitchen—yes, darling, I will!” She turned.

“Bring two cups,” said Rollison.

“Yes, darling!” She gurgled again. “Would you like a little poison?”

Rollison couldn’t catch what Jolly was saying; it was a long conversation and must be of some importance. Jolly was a past-master in the art of getting rid of importunate callers, either in person or by telephone, but he was having great difficulty now. “Yes, sir; no, sir; I really can’t, sir,” came like punctuation marks in someone else’s monologues. Yet he must be on pins to enter the bedroom before Clarissa could invade it again.

He failed, for Clarissa came back.

“No, sir,” said Jolly. “Yes, sir; no, sir— ”

“Isn’t he sweet?” Clarissa put the cups on the tray, picked up the newspapers and brought everything to the bed. She put it close to Rollison’s right arm and sat at the foot of the bed, leaning forward to pour out. “For the first time, I nearly believe in justice.”

“Justice?”

“Catching you like this, after last night. What could be fairer?”

“I knew there was venom in the woman,” growled Rollison. “A little less milk and rather more hot water, please. I like my morning tea weak. I wish I hadn’t advised you.”

“To do what?”

“Go to bed.”

She started to laugh again and tea spilled into the saucer of his cup.