“Rollison is hiding one of the most vicious criminals in England. He is deliberately trying to prevent us from finding the man. He had some silly notion that Mellor is a victim of circumstances and not just a scoundrel. Get that into your head, Miss Arden. If you help Rollison, you’ll help Mellor. If you want to be helpful to anyone, convince him that he’s making a fool of himself. He doesn’t seem to believe me when I tell him that helping Mellor might land him in jail where his reputation won’t cut any ice. This man is a killer and we’re going to get him and anyone who helps him. Remember that, Rollison.”
Grice dropped the gun into his pocket and stalked out of the room. He closed the door with a snap and left Clarissa standing very still and looking down at Rollison, as if she were trying to read the truth from his expression. Rollison leaned back and opened his cigarette-case, put a cigarette slowly to his lips and fumbled for the lighter on the bedside table. Neither of them spoke.
The front door closed and Jolly’s footsteps sounded outside.
Rollison called: “Wait there, Jolly.”
“Very good, sir.”
It was astonishing that Clarissa’s eyes should be so clear, her gaze so straight, her body so rigid. She
At last she said: “Are you helping Mellor?”
“We shall have luncheon together and I’ll tell you then. We’ve a job to do before that.”
“If you’re helping Mellor, I’m against you,” said Clarissa. “Don’t make any mistake.”
Rollison shrugged himself into his coat, adjusted his tie and looked at himself in the mirror. The reflection was not displeasing; the shadowy image beside it—the memory of what he had seen an hour before—took the edge off any feeling of vanity. He was nearly forty; he had never realised before just how much that meant. It might be folly to allow Clarissa to make him feel old; it remained true that she had jolted him badly and he half-wished she hadn’t come. Only half-wished.
Why
“Jolly!”
“Sir?” Jolly’s voice came faintly from the kitchen.
“Get Sir Frederick Arden on the telephone for me.”
“Very good, sir.”
Rollison filled his cigarette-case, tapped the pockets of his perfectly-fitting coat and went into the hall. Clarissa was in the living-room, reading an illustrated weekly, and her head was outlined against the noose of the hangman’s rope. She smiled up at him.
“Almost young again, Roily!”
“I hope you fade fast before you’re forty. How old are you?”
“How ungallant! Thirty-four.”
“If you can tell the truth about your age, there’s hope for you yet. Clarissa, be careful. I think you may be playing a very dangerous game. You heard what Grice had to say. He meant every word of it.”
“Wasn’t he warning you?”
“Not only me. Grice is an able chap. Don’t underestimate him and don’t underestimate me. Even when I fail, Jolly always comes to the rescue! Why did you come here this morning?”
“I just wanted to see you. You did me good last night. I haven’t felt so carefree for weeks. Must everything I do have a sinister significance?”
“No. My worry is that it might have. What was your uncle’s bone of contention?”
“I don’t know.”
Jolly said into the telephone: “One moment, Sir Frederick, Mr Rollison is back now.”
Rollison took the telephone while Clarissa turned and studied the trophy wall; but he knew she was listening intently, that she hoped to gather the drift of what her uncle said.
“Rollison here,” Rollison said and pressed the receiver tightly to his ear, trying to make sure that nothing the old man said sounded in the room.
“Where the devil have you been, Rollison?”
“Out and about.”
“More likely slugging abed,” growled Arden. “I want to see you.”
“Gladly. This afternoon—”
“This morning.
“Sorry, but it can’t be done. I’ve an urgent job—”
“Confound you, Rollison; you’re supposed to be helping me, aren’t you?” Arden began to shout and in self- defence Rollison eased the receiver from his ear. “And I want to know what you’re doing, I want to know whether you’re making an utter damned fool of yourself. I want to know—” He paused, then barked: is my niece with you now?”
Clarissa swung away from the trophy wall.
