Kill The Toff

“A receiver of stolen goods. None of the regulars, known to the police, will touch Mellor’s stuff. They know that if the police caught them with it they’d be in a bad way. But Mellor had to sell. Waleski gets around a lot, travels to and from America and the Continent; I should say he’s their contact man. Probably he’s the brains of the gang after Mellor, or even including the Killer Mellor, who’s a man of action rather than a planner. It was essential that a Mellor should die and the police should think the killer out of the way. My Mellor evaded the police for too long, so the others tried to force him to suicide, and sent a note to his girlfriend.”

“The Judith you mentioned?”

“Yes.” Rollison leaned back in his chair.

Talking was an aid to thinking. “The note was sent as “evidence” that he’d killed himself, so that no one should be hunted for his murder. The overall object, I think, was to give evidence that the Mellor gang had been smashed. Thus the police would be lulled into a false sense of security. It hasn’t quite worked out but everything will be all right provided the Mellor upstairs is caught, proved to be the gang-leader—and that can be done by false evidence—and hanged. That’s all logical enough. But I don’t know where your uncle comes in or what Waleski wants with him. He asked just for general information, you say?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing else?”

“I know you’re not convinced but I have told you the truth,” Clarissa said.

“He didn’t give you any clue about any particular piece of information that he wanted about your uncle? Apart from the lost son, I mean.”

“No, I think he was just stringing me along,” said Clarissa. “And I told him about meeting my Mellor. He started to talk about the East End of London and the gangs, because there was an article in the Continental Daily Mail about them: I told him about the girl—all I told you last night. I laughed it off with him, hut—”

“Waleski knows you can identify Killer Mellor, so wants you dead and that puts you on the spot.” Rollison was brusque. “Better accept that and be very careful. Have you ever come across a man named Dimond?”

Clarissa hesitated.

Rollison said sharply: “Have you?”

“Well—”

“This might be vital.”

“I have, yes,” said Clarissa slowly, it’s a name you easily remember, isn’t it? I met him for a few minutes at the Hotel de Paris. Waleski had some business with him and said he was a diamond merchant. He made great play on the name—Dimond the diamond merchant.” She leaned forward, her voice pitched low, her expression eager. “I remember him well, because he was so absurdly handsome in an unpleasant way. He spoke good English, but I thought he was probably part Oriental. Sleek black hair, rather sallow skin— handsome as some Arabs are handsome. Do you know the type I mean?”

“You’re good at descriptions, Clarissa. And you’ve become a vital witness. You can identify Dimond, Waleski and the real Mellor, so we’ll have to take great care of you.”

Clarissa said: “Are you trying to frighten me?”

“No. To warn you. Waleski will almost certainly try again and next time might—”

“Succeed,” said a man at the window.

Rollison sprang up, turning towards the window. Clarissa exclaimed—and Waleski stood at the window covering them with a gun, grinning at them. A heavy footstep sounded in the passage; the door of the room opened and a small, wiry little man appeared, also carrying a revolver which looked too big and heavy for him.

“I’ll succeed all right,” said Waleski. “Watch ‘em, Fryer.”

The little man’s gun covered them as

Waleski disappeared from the window.

*     *     *

He came into the room, still grinning, and the sun shone on his heavily-oiled hair and on the pale bald spot. His broad flat face had an evil look, his wide-spaced teeth showed. He walked with a swagger. His left hand was heavily bandaged and he held his arm up, close to his chest. He crossed to Clarissa’s side and pushed the barrel of the gun against her nose with a jerk which hurt her.

“Not your lucky day, Clarry, is it?” Then he turned to Rollison. The grin disappeared, naked enmity replaced it. “And it certainly isn’t yours, Rollison. Won’t your pal Grice be pleased when he finds the body?”

Rollison said: “Yes, he loves chasing murderers.”

“Still clever, are you?” Waleski backed away, as if he were afraid that Rollison would push the gun aside; but that would have been of no use for Fryer was covering them both from the doorway of the little, crowded room. “Grice won’t have to look for a murderer, see? Mellor’s upstairs. Mellor is going to kill the pair of you and then die of wounds. It’s easy. We’ll do the shooting, wrap your hand round one gun and his round another. The little guy outside will get his, too.”

“Ah,” murmured Rollison. “Snub.”

“We got him with the air-gun,” Waleski boasted. “And we’ll finish him off with something more powerful. Where’s the old woman?”

“Out shopping.”

“She knows a thing or two,” said Waleski and laughed. “Feeling good, Rollison?”

“I’ve felt worse.”