double bed and the doctor bending over it. Rollison waited until the doctor straightened up and caught sight of him.
They had met before and recognition was mutual.
“Come in, will you?” The doctor was elderly, tall, ruddy-faced—and grave.
Arden lay on his back, his lips nose and ears blue, his breathing stertorous. On the bedside table was a hypodermic syringe, on the foot of the bed the doctor’s case, open, showing its chromium contents. No one else was in the room.
Rollison whispered: “What happened?”
“I’m told there was a quarrel.”
“Who with?”
“His niece.”
“Can you pull him round?”
“I can’t. He might do it himself. He ought to have been dead months ago by most standards. There’s no telling with the heart, though, and this man wants to live desperately.” The doctor smoothed his thinning hair. “He was asking for you all the time. You can probably help him more than I.”
“Is Miss Arden still here, do you know?”
“She drove off as I arrived.”
Throughout all this the old man’s eyes remained closed, his blue-veined hands lay motionless on the bedclothes. The doctor moved away from the bed and washed the hypodermic syringe at the hand-basin.
“Have you any good news for him? He thinks you may have.”
“Yes.”
“I should let him know as soon as he comes round,” said the doctor. “Oh, yes, he’ll come round, if only for a little while. This is his third serious attack and they don’t usually get through more than two.” He smiled faintly. “I like a fighter!”
“Yes.”
Rollison sat on the side of the bed and looked into the thin face, the prominent, bony nose, the slack, bluish lips. He thought that the blue tinge was less evident than it had been when he had come in; certainly the breathing seemed a little easier.
“How long will it be before he comes round?”
“Five minutes—or five hours. There’s nothing more I can do. Are you free to stay here?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll tell the butler and send a nurse,” said the doctor. “And I’ll be back in about an hour and a half. You can give him a spot of brandy. There’s some on the table.”
Rollison, left alone with Arden, stood up and went to the study. The drawers of the desk were open—that was unusual. Some papers, seared with age, were spread about the desk; one was on the floor. He picked it up. It was a marriage certificate. Among the papers were birth certificates, including one of the dead Geoffrey.
Had Arden made a rapid search for some paper? Or had someone else been here? Clarissa—doing what Arden had asked of her? He picked up a sheet of pale blue note-paper. That, and the fact that she had listened at the door and knew Waleski, were the reasons for suspecting that she had not yet told all the truth. His feelings were unimportant. The truth must come first, everything else later—if he lived to discover it. How had Waleski got that paper? Why had she really waited at the door? What relationship had there been between her and Waleski?
He peeped into the bedroom. Arden hadn’t moved but the blue tinge was much less marked.
Rollison closed the door and took the telephone off its cradle, dialled Whitehall 1212 and asked for Grice. He had to hold on for several minutes. He looked at the photographs of Arden’s wife and Geoffrey— who had been burned to death, leaving only a few shreds of clothes on the flesh, a ring and a watch to show who he had been.
Someone passed along the passage and the bedroom door opened. It would happen just then. A door closed softly, then the passage door opened and the butler appeared.
“Have you everything you want, sir?”
“Yes, thanks . . . Oh, Grice.” Rollison paused, as Grice spoke and the butler went out. He lowered his voice: the man might be listening. “Grice, have you found out anything about Clarissa Arden’s affairs?”
“Yes,” said Grice. “She’s no motive for wanting Arden dead—no money motive, anyhow.”
“So she’s really wealthy?”
“She’s worth a cool half-million.”
“Thanks. What about Arden?”
“He’s in a very sound position; there’s never been a whisper against his good faith. Where are you?”
“At his home. He’s had another attack, quite a natural one, I’m told.” He didn’t want Grice here yet; no purpose would be served by making him suspicious. “I’ll let you know what happens. Anything else?”
“A nark tells us that the other Mellor is gunning for you. Be careful.”
“Thanks. I’ll be seeing you,” Rollison said.
He went back to the bedroom. Arden’s right hand had moved a few inches and his left hand was twitching.
