High above the din came the shrill blast of a police whistle.
* * *
Ebbutt lifted Mellor up and policemen took him from the stage door while he was still dazed. Near the cellar passage, actually leading to a small props room but not to the street, Clarissa stood leaning against the wall. Rollison took her hands and said gently:
“It’s all over, Clarissa.”
“I—I’m all right. So you knew—about Geoffrey?”
“Yes, I knew or guessed. Full story later; but there are things I must know now. Were those blackmailing letters from Geoffrey?”
“Yes.”
“Did they tell your uncle that Geoffrey led an East End gang and did Arden pay to stop a squeal to the police?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know Mellor was Geoffrey?”
“I—yes,” she said. “Yes, that’s why I hated him. It wasn’t only the things he did to that girl. I didn’t know at first; it wasn’t until I studied Geoffrey’s photograph afterwards that—”/
“Coming,” said the Toff.
He helped Clarissa up the wooden steps into the dance-hall, which was emptied of dancers now but was crowded at the doors by police, some in uniform, some in plain-clothes. They had made several arrests, not all of Mellor’s men. Mellor, handcuffed, stood between two burly sergeants. He looked dazed and sick.
Jolly and Grice stood by the trap-door.
“Hallo, Jolly! I thought you didn’t like trouble,” said Rollison. “Feel like forgiving me?”
“We’ll have the back-chat later,” said Grice but there was no harshness in his tone. “You’re the luckiest devil in England, Roily. Are you hurt?”
“A scratch or two but nothing much. You were quick. Thanks.”
“We’d have been quicker if you’d told us where you were coming.”
“That would have kept Mellor away,” Rollison said. “He made sure the rozzers weren’t gathered here like bees round the old honey-pot.”
“All right—it’s your night tonight,” Grice conceded with good grace. “I’ll give way to the Big Boss. How are you, Miss Arden?”
“Dazed,” said Clarissa. “Dazed and marvelling. I know how people do the impossible now.” She laughed, weakly, it was impossible, wasn’t it? I—I think I’d like a drink, Roily. I must have—” Jolly bent down and opened an attache-case.
“Whisky, gin or brandy, Miss?” he asked.
* * *
Clarissa sat in Sir Frederick Arden’s leather armchair, at his desk; Rollison in the smaller chair; Grice on a corner of the desk. The door leading to the bedroom was closed. In there the doctor was still with Arden, who had not yet come round; he would probably recover from this seizure but his days were running out fast. A nurse was with them. At a small table a detective-sergeant sat with pencil and notebook, working hard. It was nearly one o’clock but none of them seemed tired.
“It’s a long, grim story, Bill, and the primary motive was hatred,” Rollison said quietly. “Clarissa will put me right on details where she can. I know a little and guess a great deal but I don’t think there’ll be much wrong with the general outline. The hating began some years ago, when Geoffrey Arden learned to hate his father. I don’t know why, but—”
Clarissa said: “Geoffrey was always a misfit. I once told you that his father tried to make him a spineless fool but there was strength and a streak of cruelty in him—there always had been. The Commando training brought it out. His father tried to knock it out of him at first, then to protect him against it—and didn’t succeed. I know the old man doted on him; I was always afraid that Geoffrey hated his father.”
Rollison said: “The cruelty was there all right. And it’s obvious now that when Geoffrey started this so-called slumming he actually worked with the Dimond Gang and, with his strong personality, took it over.
“He wanted to hurt his father, to wound him savagely.
“He started by sending anonymous blackmailing letters, saying he was the head of the gang, making his father pay substantial sums so as to keep the secret. A warped mind; but the trick worked well. It reached a stage when Arden discovered who was behind the blackmail. He paid for the silence but altered his will, switching over to his illegitimate son. Not a surprising thing in the circumstances. There must have been a hell of a quarrel and Geoffrey pretended to be burned to death. We’ll probably never know who really died.
“Geoffrey traced Mellor, bought a big interest in Mellor’s firm, through Flash Dimond’s brother, and so had Mellor where he wanted him—always at hand. He arranged that Mellor should spend some time in the East End, mixing with Galloway and other members of the gang; and he himself adopted the name of Mellor. Then he let news trickle through to his father: Mellor, the other son, was as bad as the first. See the fiendish cruelty of it? But Arden wasn’t convinced, couldn’t believe it would happen twice, suspected what might be the truth—remember Geoffrey’s body had been unrecognisable, he’d been identified by pieces of clothing, a ring on his finger and a watch—and he asked me to trace Mellor.
“Geoffrey was still hard at work.
“He schemed to get one of the gang on the staff here, another at Arden Lodge. He knew his father was afraid of his weak heart, worked on that not by poisoning him but, through the treacherous servants, diluting his
