find out anything that might help. I’m still glad I saw Judith and Jim.”
“Now, Clarissa—”
She smiled again and, although there was beauty, there was no life with it. She turned and hurried out of the flat and down the stairs, her movements smooth and graceful, her head held high. Rollison stood with a hand on the door, watching her, but she didn’t look round.
Ebbutt was still talking, Jolly murmuring occasional platitudes.
The downstairs door closed.
Rollison turned and went into the living-room.
Ebbutt was sitting in an armchair, his back to the trophy wall, while Jolly stood with a duster in his hand, occasionally moving a paper off the desk and dusting beneath it. Ebbutt overflowed in the big chair, a dazzling sight. He wore a check suit in a larger, louder check than Clarissa’s, a yellow bow tie and a pair of brightly shining brown boots of a yellowish-brown colour. His thin hair, quite grey, was plastered over his cranium and there was a beautiful quiff at the front; and by his side was a tankard of beer.
“Hallo, Bill,” said Rollison.
“Why, Mr Ar!” Ebbutt placed his hands on the arms of the chair and started to get up.
“Stay where you are, Bill. Beer, Jolly.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bill sank back with an audible sigh but did not speak again immediately. He licked his lips, took another swig of his beer and looked as shamefaced as he was ever likely to look. Jolly came in with another tankard of foaming beer, while Ebbutt ran his hand over his mouth, as if that would help to clear his mind, and muttered:
“All I can say is, I’m sorry, Mr Ar—I reely am sorry. I wouldn’t ‘ave ‘ad it ‘appen for a fortune. I ‘opes yer believe that, Mr Ar. You ought to ‘ave ‘eard my Lil. Give me a proper basinful, she did, said I oughta’ve known better than fink you would get up to any funny business like ‘elping the Killer. I’m sorry, Mr Ar, that’s it and all abaht it.”
“Don’t be an ass. You did what you thought you ought to do. What’s the news, Bill?”
“Why, ‘aven’t you ‘eard?”
“I don’t think so. What is it?”
“Why,
Rollison said mildly: “So he’s after me, is he?”
“S’right,” said Ebbutt, nodding ponderously. “Says ‘e’s gonna kill you, Mr Ar. “E spread the word arahnd; that’s why I came—to give yer the tip. Don’t forget, that man’s a killer.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Rollison drank some beer, Ebbutt banged his empty tankard down on the desk and Jolly looked
at Rollison as if asking permission to speak. Rollison went to the trophy wall and let the noose of the hempen rope slide through his fingers.
“Yes, Jolly?”
“The man Mellor telephoned, sir, just before Mr Ebbutt arrived.”
Ebbutt cried: “Wot?”
“And what did the man Mellor have to say?” asked Rollison.
“He intimated what Mr Ebbutt has already mentioned. He requested me to tell you that if it is the last thing he does, he will get—ah— even with you about this. He seemed sober, sir.”
“Sober!” choked Ebbutt.
“What was his voice like?”
“I was rather surprised, I must confess. He spoke like an educated man. He did not rant, as might have been expected.” Jolly contrived to bring chillness into the atmosphere of the living-room—the stillness that was Mellor. “He did not threaten wildly or go into any detail. I found the message disturbing and I do hope you will be extremely careful.”
“You gotta be,” Ebbutt said earnestly. “You just gotta be.”
“An educated man,” murmured Rollison. “Yes, that fits in.”
“Fits in wiv wot?” asked Ebbutt.
“A stray notion that’s been running through my mind,” Rollison said. “Bill, there’s a job you can do for me right away—get it started as soon as you reach home and finish before the night’s out.”
“Just say the word, Mr Ar; just say the word!”
“That’s what I want you to do. Use the grapevine and tell Mellor that I’d like to meet him. He can name the place and the time and he’ll probably want to make conditions. If you get a message from him, let me have it quickly.”
Ebbutt sat there with his mouth agape.
“Are you sure that is wise, sir?” Jolly was edgy and anxious.
