He said: “Punch. Oh, Punch!”
Rollison went out and closed the door softly. Clarissa watched from the window for a moment.
* * *
“I’m glad I saw that,” said Clarissa. “Thank you.”
“Life can be good.” Rollison went to the other side of the car which was parked within sight of the window of Mellor’s room. “She’ll stay there for a few hours and the police will see her home.”
They got into the car.
“It’s better without a bodyguard,” Clarissa said.
“Still thinking of wedded bliss?”
“Just seeing the glowing possibilities of it. Roily, I think I shocked you.”
Rollison smiled as he switched on the engine.
“Do you? Jolly would find that hard to believe.”
“Confound Jolly!”
“That won’t get us anywhere; he’s become as important as my own right hand. Clarissa, there was one thing your uncle said which is completely true. That you would try to make me forget the job on hand, which would sink me. If you did that, it would. This job isn’t finished yet. We’ve to find the real Mellor and find out why there were attempts made on your uncle’s life, why my Mellor was identified with the Killer, why so much has been woven around the Arden family, whether you’re right in thinking Geoffrey was murdered. And we’ve also to decide how much of what my Mellor said just now is true.”
Clarissa said: “Why, all of it, surely?”
“Possibly.”
“You don’t mean you doubt him?”
“I doubt everyone, with the possible exception of Judith Lome,” said Rollison, “and I’m going to go on doubting until we know all the answers.”
“I give in,” Clarissa said, and leaned back with her eyes closed. “What do you want me to do?”
“Help.”
“How?”
“By finding out who might want to see your uncle dead. And who will benefit, enough to make murder worth while. Do for me pretty well what you were doing for Waleski but don’t concentrate on the long-lost son any longer. And if you doubt whether I’m justified in keeping my eye on the ball, think over this one. If there is any other beneficiary under the will likely to have benefited from Geoffrey Arden’s death, and who would also want the real Mellor dead, then Jim’s still in danger. Pry and probe, as deeply as you can. Remember there could even be a second love-child.”
“Oh, no!”
“I said, could be.”
“I’ll see what I can find out,” Clarissa promised slowly. “Roily, if I succeed—” she paused.
“Yes.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
They did not talk again until they reached Gresham Terrace. The police car followed them all the way.
* * *
As Rollison turned the corner into the Terrace he saw an antiquated Ford drawn up outside Number 22g. The old Ford seldom penetrated the West End of London and when it did it was because Bill Ebbutt had urgent business with the Toff. In that car most of Bill’s young hopefuls travelled to their early bouts—until such time as they could afford to run their own cars and pay their own managers, when most of them forgot Bill. Billy Manson had been one of those—and Rollison thought of the heavyweight champion, glanced at Clarissa, who smiled and said:
“What have I done wrong now?”
“You’re all right. Did Billy ever talk to you about one William Ebbutt?”
“No.”
“You’d better come and meet him,” Rollison said; “it will be another new sensation.”
He glanced at her face and wished he hadn’t said that; for her smile disappeared and a bleak look replaced it. There seemed to be a barrier between them as they went up to the top floor. She was aloof, distant and withdrawn—much more like the woman he had met at Pulham Gate.
For once Jolly did not open the door.
Rollison let himself in and ushered Clarissa into the hall and Ebbutt’s unlovely voice immediately made itself heard.
“That’s wot I would’a done to ‘im, Mr Jolly. Cut ‘is ‘eart aht. To talk abaht one o’ my boys that way. Won on a foul, did ‘e? Not in all yer nacheral!”
“Indeed,” murmured Jolly.
“You see what I mean,” said Rollison.
Clarissa forced a smile. “Yes, I see. Roily, I think I will go and have a talk with my uncle. I’ll let you know if I
