Rollison was longing to smoke. He went into the study and lit a cigarette but drew only half a dozen times before he put it out and returned to the bedroom.
Arden’s eyes were opening and he muttered something unintelligible. Rollison sat on the bed, and spoke quietly.
“Rollison’s here.”
The old eyes opened again, closed, opened in a fixed stare; he looked as if he had difficulty in focusing and his right hand fluttered towards the bedside table. His glasses were there. Rollison picked them up, unfolded them and put them on. Arden muttered a word that might have been “Thanks”. Rollison gave him a teaspoonful of brandy and he gulped it down weakly and licked his lips as if that needed all his strength.
Then Arden said in a clear voice; “I want to see that boy.”
Rollison spoke clearly.
“You will. He’s quite safe. Quite free. He’ll come and see you soon.”
A claw-like hand shot out and gripped
Rollison’s arm with surprising strength. Behind the thick lenses of the glasses, Arden’s eyes were very direct and bright.
“Is that—the
“Yes. I’ve seen him and seen the police. He isn’t the man they want. It was a case of mistaken identity. You needn’t worry about Jim any more.”
Arden said: “Thank God!”
He closed his eyes again but didn’t move and didn’t take his hand away from Rollison’s arm. Rollison eased his position a little. Arden’s hand was very cold; his breathing was still heavy but there was a great change in him. A smile played about the corners of his lips, the strain at his eyes was gone, his forehead was less wrinkled.
“Look after him, Rollison.”
“You’ll be able to do that yourself.”
“Nonsense!” There was more strength in the frail voice. “Nonsense. Haven’t much longer. I— Rollison.
“What did who take?” Rollison asked heavily.
“Clarissa. Clarissa, the besom! I caught her going through my desk. She thought I was asleep.
“What could she have taken that matters?”
“Those lying letters.”
“What letters?”
“They were full of lies, full of lies. I was a fool to pay anything, to—Rollison, go into the study! The top drawer of the desk. Open it. Pull it right out. There is a false back, worked by a spring. You know the kind. There are some letters there. Lying letters. Blackmail letters. See if—see if she took them.”
Rollison said: “Why worry about it now?”
Rollison said: “All right.”
He wished the doctor were here or the nurse would come; he didn’t know what would happen to Arden if the letters were missing; and a fourth attack might be fatal. Less than half an hour had passed since the doctor had left; he wasn’t likely to be back yet. Where was that nurse? Was there any way of making sure that the old man didn’t suffer another shock?
“Hurry!” Arden urged him.
He looked like a corpse.
Unless the letters were found, there was no way of fending off the shock. Odd twist, that Clarissa should have come here and done what Rollison had asked and forced him into this dilemma. He went quickly across the room, watched closely by the old man. He pushed the door to behind him and Arden called:
“Leave it open.”
He pulled the door open. Arden could see the desk and craned forward, peering into the study. Rollison pulled open the wide, shallow drawer in the middle. To see the back he had to go down on his knees. Arden couldn’t see what he was doing now. The desk was a fine old piece of mahogany, beautifully finished inside. He ran his fingers along the smooth wood, seeking the spring.
He found it, pressed and heard a click. The false back of the drawer sprang open.
Arden cried: “That’s it. I heard it!”
The light was poor. Rollison saw some papers and pulled them out. There were two long, legal-looking documents, tied round with red tape. That was all; there were no letters. He could hear Arden’s harsh breathing as he pulled off the tape and unfolded the documents. Both were wills. Neither contained any letters in their folds.
He drew back from beneath the desk.
Arden, standing in the doorway, croaked: “They’re gone,” and pitched forward on his face.
