Kill The Toff

“You’ll change your mind. What a lot of time you’ve wasted, trying to do the impossible.”

“It’s almost the only thing worth trying to do,” Rollison said easily. “Sit down, Clarissa.”

“You stay where you are,” Waleski said, “Dying will be another new sensation for you, Clarry. See where it leads you when you ignore an old man’s advice! If you’d been a good girl, like your uncle told you, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“You seem to know a lot,” said Rollison.

“It wouldn’t be difficult to know more than you do,” Waleski sneered. “But maybe that’s not fair.” He feigned remorse, shook his head, then grinned from sheer animal spirits. “Better be fair, Rollison, hadn’t I? I was listening in to your pretty piece just now and you’ve got it all right. But you didn’t know I had a man watching the cottage, did you? I knew you had Mellor. I reckoned you’d tell the old man and take Mellor to the Lodge or here. I had a couple of other places watched, owned by friends of yours, where you might have gone. I knew Ebbutt and his mob wouldn’t lift a hand to help Mellor, see. Got it all worked out, haven’t I?”

“Not bad.”

“Not bad—it’s hot, Rollison! One of the smartest jobs you’ve ever come across. And I’m good! I could have wiped Mellor and your snub-nosed pal out last night but I thought you’d be along soon. I didn’t think you’d bring Clarry, though. Very obliging of you, Mister Rollison.”

Into a pause, Fryer said: “We haven’t got all day.”

“Why, so we haven’t!” Waleski grinned again. “Hear that, Rollison? We haven’t got all day. It will take half an hour to get your prints on the guns and leave the evidence for old Grice, won’t it?”

“S’right,” grunted Fryer.

“So we’d better get busy. Know where a bullet hurts most, Rollison?” Suddenly he raised his foot and kicked Rollison in the pit of the stomach; not hard, just enough to hurt. “Right there,” he sneered. “Then you can tell me if you’ve ever felt worse. Fryer—”

A sound outside made him break off: the click of a gate, closing. Rollison glanced out of the window. Fryer said: “What’s that?” and Waleski went quickly to the window and stared out.

It was Mrs Begbie with a shopping-basket over her arm. She made sure that the gate was secure, then turned and came slowly up the path, looking right and left, as if to admire the few bright flowers and the pleasant country scene.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A Killing

 

Waleski kept close to the side of the window and hissed. “Wait at the front door, Fryer. Let her come in, then bash her. Don’t waste any time.”

He turned and covered Rollison and Clarissa. Fryer slipped out of the room without making a sound. Mrs Begbie, wearing a black straw hat, her old lined face lit up by the morning sun and her black cotton dress sprigged with little mauve flowers, paused again to look at the antirrhinums and pansies which grew in a small bed, half- way along the path. She bent down slowly to smell the scent.

Waleski said: if you open your mouth, I’ll put a bullet inside it.”

Clarissa said: “Roily, you must—”

“Shut up!” Waleski growled.

“Roily, it doesn’t make any difference whether we’re shot now or in five minutes.”

Waleski said thinly: if you open your trap again I’ll put a bullet right into it. Remember.”

“It won’t help to warn her,” Rollison said quietly. “She couldn’t run away, could she? Hold tight, Clarissa.”

She looked at him reproachfully, almost contemptuously, and then moved swiftly, grabbing a vase from the nearest table. Rollison snatched it away from her, tossed it into a chair and held her arms tightly. Her cheek was close to his and he whispered: “We’ll make it.”

Waleski said: “You’ve got some sense, Rollison.”

Clarissa moved away from Rollison, disbelieving, her face drained of colour—and then she started. Rollison saw why, out of the corner of his eye. A hand appeared at the window and he knew that it was Snub’s hand. He saw the top of Snub’s head, knew that he was pulling himself up by the window-sill. Mrs Begbie, not looking towards the cottage, began to pick some flowers and place them carefully on top of her shopping-basket.

Snub’s other hand appeared with a gun in it.

His face was grey, his eyes half-closed, he swayed on his feet; but he made no sound. Rollison held Clarissa’s arm tightly. Waleski watched them narrowly, ears strained for the approach of the old woman’s footsteps.

Then he glanced towards the window.

Rollison roared: “Get him!”

The meaningless words were to startle Fryer. Rollison leapt forward. Waleski was caught on the turn—and Snub fired. A hole leapt into Waleski’s forehead, over the right eye. He raised his arms and opened his mouth wide. As he fell, Rollison snatched his gun away. Fryer burst into the room and a bullet from Rollison sent the gun flying out of his hand. The roar of the shot made pictures and vases rattle and shake.

Snub swayed again and fell out of sight.

A single word sounded clearly from the garden path.

“Well!” exclaimed Mrs Begbie.

*     *     *