Kill The Toff

She said: “Are the police following you?”

He looked startled and then laughed.

“No. They don’t waste their time.”

It was nonsensical to think that he was like Jim. He was half a head taller, his hair so dark that it looked nearly black. Jim’s face was rugged and plain, made attractive by his eyes; this man was handsome; and yet—something about him reminded her vividly of Jim. Her glance strayed to the photograph and he didn’t look round but said:

“Is it a good likeness?”

“Yes, it is. But what do you want?” Her voice sharpened. “I’m busy, Mr—”

“Rollison,” he reminded her. “Why were you downstairs just now?”

She felt inclined to ask him what business it was of his but didn’t. She walked to a chair and sat down, smoothing the skirt of the long, green smock which she always wore when working. She was suddenly conscious of being untidy. Jim always said he preferred her fair, curly hair that way; he thought a conventional set spoiled it. She hadn’t made up that day because she hadn’t been out of doors; she must look dreadful. Her fingers strayed to her hair.

“Don’t bother,” said Rollison and his eyes sparkled, like Jim’s when he had first called her “Punch.”

“Why did you go downstairs? Please tell me.”

She was tempted to say “For a breath of air” but she didn’t; yet she couldn’t think how to tell him why without sounding foolish and perhaps giving something of importance away.

That letter was important. So she said:

“I thought I heard the postman.”

“Expecting a letter from Jim?”

She flared: “What are you getting at? Who are you? I’ve every right—”

But her voice trailed off because he was smiling at her, not mockingly or to make her feel foolish but as if he were amused and asking her to share the joke.

“I’m Richard Rollison, and I’ve heard a lot about you. I wanted to find out what you really looked like, what way you did your hair, whether you cared a hoot about Jim or whether he had almost faded out of your mind—all that kind of thing. You see, I’m interested in Jim Mellor’s disappearance. Not in Jim himself—we weren’t even acquaintances, I’m not a long-lost friend. It still gets you badly, doesn’t it? You can’t believe he ever killed a man, yet the evidence has piled up against him. To make it worse, he hasn’t written and hasn’t telephoned you. That’s almost as bad as a confession.”

She said: “He didn’t kill that man!”

“Do you know for sure or is that just wishful thinking?”

“He couldn’t have done. Not Jim.”

“Why did you look up and down the street?” asked Rollison.

“That’s nothing to do with it!”

Rollison went to the desk and picked up the photograph. She saw him glance at the sketches which were so stiff and wooden but his gaze didn’t linger for long on them. He studied the photograph and spoke while he was doing so.

“You know, I’ve a feeling that your jaunt has something to do with Jim. If you ask me why, I couldn’t tell you. But Jim’s very much on top of your mind just now—more even than usually. He’s always there, ready to pop out at a moment’s notice, but this afternoon he’s in complete possession. Why?”

He put the photograph down and looked at the letter which lay in her lap.

“Is that from him?” he asked gently.

Then suddenly, for no reason at all, hot tears stung her eyes and she turned her face away hastily. She hadn’t talked freely about Jim to anyone for twenty-nine days. She hadn’t met a soul who really understood what was in her mind, how Jim was with her so often, ready to smile at her or sing “Charles, Peter and Anne.” Or, if there were a gloomy headline in a newspaper, how he was likely to frown and become earnest and say that, hell, he didn’t know what the world was coming to.

She blinked away the tears, sniffed and faced Rollison.

“I wish I knew why you’ve come,” she mumbled.

“I want to find Jim.”

“Are you—a policeman?”

“I don’t want to find him so that he can be handed over to the law for what they call taking his medicine. I think there’s real doubt whether he killed that man and the police don’t think there’s any doubt at all. I’d like to know the truth but even that isn’t so important as finding Jim.”

“But—but why, if he’s a stranger to you?”

“I’ve been looking for him for some weeks. Before he disappeared.”

“Why did you want him?”

“I didn’t want him,” said Rollison and paused, as if weighing every word. “His father did. His father is a sick man and by way of being a friend of mine. Let’s say a friend, anyhow.” His eyes were very bright and he seemed to be challenging her to reject all this. “And yet, I do want to find him for myself because I made a shocking mistake over him. I talked too much to his father. Ever paused to think you can never take back any word you’ve said? Trite but true and worth remembering.”