That pierced the brittle facade which she had built up about herself and they drove to
Gresham Terrace in silence.
* * *
Grice had telephoned three times: would Rollison please ring him immediately he returned? Rollison went to the telephone and Jolly took Clarissa’s hat and gloves, told her with his customary solemnity that she would find the mirror in the spare room best for making-up.
Grice was in his office, although it was after eight o’clock.
“Hallo, Bill,” Rollison said in a tone of near humility.
“What the devil’s got into you now?” Grice barked: he was an angry Grice. “What’s this madness about challenging Mellor to meet you?”
“I thought you wanted to find him.”
“Don’t play with words. I don’t want you to commit suicide. I warned you he was gunning for you. You’ve gone completely crazy over this affair.”
“Oh, yes. As events have proved.”
“You’re not to go to see Mellor. Understand?”
“Now, Bill, take it easy. You’ve had a man on my tail all the afternoon and I haven’t shaken him off. If you want to put another squad on, do that. You’ve got the districts hotted up to look for Mellor—have ‘em switched to me. But don’t talk drivel, old chap. If I get a chance to see Mellor, I’m going to see him. It’s the only hope I have of catching him. If you like to act the fool and follow me wherever I go, Mellor won’t play and I can’t win. If you think that will be a help, carry on.”
Grice said: “I can’t understand what’s got into you.”
“You will,” said Rollison. “Sorry I can’t stop now.”
He put the receiver down and turned to see Clarissa coming from the hall. An appetising smell came from the kitchen and Jolly flitted across the room to the small dining-alcove where the table had been laid for one and was now laid for two.
“What wine will you drink, sir?” asked Jolly.
“Any choice, Clarissa?” asked Rollison.
“I’ll leave it to you.”
“And I’ll leave it to Jolly.”
“I hope you’ve given him instructions about your funeral,” Clarissa said.
There was iced melon; a meat pate; roast chicken; trifle and Scotch woodcock; and first sherry, then champagne. The sight of the silver ice-bucket made Clarissa raise her eyebrows and she looked at Jolly as if understanding him at last. When he had gone she said: “He has a grisly sense of humour.”
“He likes serving champagne at the end of the hunt.”
“You’re sure it’s over, aren’t you?”
“Bar the last killing,” Rollison declared. They were at the savoury when the telephone bell rang and Rollison betrayed his tension when he half-rose to answer it. Jolly came swiftly from the kitchen. Clarissa watched him intently. Jolly did not hurry, coughed as he put the receiver to his ear and announced solemnly: “This is Mr Rollison’s home.” Rollison put a morsel of Scotch woodcock into his mouth. Clarissa fiddled with the long stem of the champagne glass.
Jolly said: “Very well, Mr Ebbutt, I will tell him.” He put the receiver on the desk and turned; and tension was in him as well as the others, it is Mr Ebbutt, sir. He informs me that Mellor will meet you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Mr Ar,” said Ebbutt into the telephone, “if you take my tip, you won’t go. You just won’t go. It’s arskin’ for trouble. I wouldn’t send a rozzer there to meet Mellor. It’ll be your big mistake, Mr Ar, and the last one.”
“Where does he want me to go?” asked Rollison.
“Old Nob’s. It’s a low dive, Mr Ar—abaht the lowest in London. I wouldn’t advise a friend o’ mine to go there even if Mellor wasn’t arahnd. You know the place—cor blimey, you know it, Mr Ar, if anyone does! It’s where they ‘ad that riot coupla’ yers ago. The rozzers closed it up, remember; but it’s opened again. New owner, same low dive. Two blokes neely got rubbed aht there. The dicks keep away from it mostly—never see one nowhere arahnd: they know it’s not safe. You arsk Gricey, ‘e’ll tell yer.” Rollison chuckled.
“He’s told me. Old Nob’s just the place, Bill. When am I to go there?”
“Arter ten o’clock tonight, but—”
“Any conditions?”
“No, Mr Ar. I got the squeak from a kid. Doan know ‘ow Mellor got it to ‘im. You know wot it’s like: you never can trace back when anything comes along the vine. And becos there’s no conditions I say it’s dang’rous, Mr Ar. It’s a trap. What could Mellor wanter see yer for if it wasn’t to rub you aht?”
“No reason at all, Bill.”
“You don’t get any better as you get older,” complained Ebbutt. “Well, I s’pose I’ll ‘ave ter let yer go. But I’ll ‘ave that ‘all packed—”
“Oh, no, you won’t. Have two or three of your tougher boys there, if they volunteer to go—don’t use any pressure on them, Bill. And you can spread your men round the hall outside—not too close. There are plenty of
