Until Rollison said “his father,” Judy had felt more relaxed than she had for twenty-nine days. From then on she had started to tense up again and now her nerves and her muscles were taut and her hands were clenched; she still held the letter.
She said: “Will you please go, Mr Rollison?”
“Not yet.”
“Then will you tell me the truth.”
“I have.”
“That’s another lie. Jim had no father.”
“That’s an illusion; he didn’t know he had a father living.” Rollison smiled faintly. “There’s something wrong about that “a father”, isn’t there?”
“You mean—” she was baffled.
“His name wasn’t—isn’t—Mellor. It’s the name of the family which finally adopted him. Oh, he was known as Jim Mellor, in the eyes of the law he was Jim Mellor, but his real name is Arden. You know it as his second name. His father came to me some time ago and asked me to find him and to prove his identity and afterwards I talked too freely. When I thought I’d found Jim I told the old man and mentioned what name he was living under. There’s quite a story. The family who looked after him for the old man passed him on to these Mellors. After I’d talked, there was a story in the newspapers about the murder and the hunt for Mellor. There was also panic among the old man’s friends for, as a result, he had a seizure. He’s over it now— or as much over it as he’ll ever be. He has an odd notion: that his son isn’t a murderer. He’s as stubborn and illogical about it as you are, with even less reason, because he hasn’t seen his son for twenty-six years. He wants to find him and prove himself right. Old men are like that. So, for different reasons, you and he are after the same thing. As I’m helping him, I don’t see why I shouldn’t help you.” He smiled again and leaned back against the desk. “Why
* * *
Judy told Rollison, and showed him the letter, and explained about “Punch and Judy.” It was surprisingly easy to speak freely, to pour out the whole story. He was a good listener, intent on every word; and he let her finish before making any comment. She felt more relaxed than she had for nearly a month; this man’s visit was good for her. She wasn’t wholly convinced that he’d told her the truth because the story seemed fantastic: but she was glad he was here and that she could talk.
She said: “I’d just realised that Jim would never have written “Judy” when you rang the bell. There isn’t any doubt, he didn’t write that letter.”
“It looks like their big mistake; bad men always make at least one! Did you see the man who delivered the letter?”
“I only caught a glimpse of him, I didn’t see his face. I was at the top of the stairs, he was in the hall. He didn’t look up but—” she broke off.
“Yes?”
“It can’t help but he had a bald patch—very dark, oily hair and a small white bald patch right in the middle. He seemed short and dumpy, too, but that may have been because I was looking down on him.”
“You have a nice, tidy mind,” said Rollison. “Short, dumpy, oily hair and a bald patch. It’s a small world. Did you notice where I stood when I went to the window just now?”
“Yes.”
“I wanted to make sure I couldn’t be seen from the street. Have a look for yourself, will you?”
Judith went towards the window. She moved without any feeling of tension or listlessness, only a quick stir of excitement. She stood close to the wall, very conscious of Rollison’s gaze, and peered into the wide street. Some way along, on the other side of the road, a man sat at the wheel of a small open car and read a newspaper. She couldn’t see a bald patch but his hair was dark and looked very shiny; as it would if it were heavily oiled or greased. Her excitement quickened, became almost unbearable.
“Same man?” asked Rollison.
“I can’t be sure but—”
“I think we’d better make sure. Come away from the window, will you? still taking care that he doesn’t see you.” She obeyed; it felt slightly ridiculous to move back towards the corner and then approach the middle of the room from the fireplace. But Rollison’s manner removed all qualms and her excitement became so intense that she felt suffocated; as if she couldn’t breathe freely because of some impending sensation. “If Jim didn’t kill that man, the murderer wants to frame him. Frame—blame—please yourself. That means an ugly business, Judith, perhaps with more than a little danger. There’s nothing ordinary about all this and, if murder’s been done once, it might be done again. What worries you most? Danger or having Jim damned and consigned to the gallows?”
“What do you want me to do?” she asked.
Rollison laughed.
“Just stay exactly as you are. Jim would hate to find you changed. I’ll be back.”
He moved across the room with the swift ease with which he had moved before and the door closed softly behind him. Judith held her breath. He had braced her, given her new hope, presented her with a picture of a glorious future. It wasn’t just what he had said or how he looked; it was as if a keen, invigorating wind had swept through the room, blowing away dark fears and dread and lethargy.
She went back to the window so that she could see outside without being seen.
CHAPTER THREE
Rollison let the street door bang behind him and lit a cigarette as he went towards his car. He glanced at the two-seater incuriously, paused and smiled when a puppy came frisking along the road at the end of a long lead
