slipped the key into a pocket of her smock. She looked at Rollison, not at the prisoner who stood with his back to the desk, his hands bunched and held just in front of him. He was shorter than Judith and very broad. The wide spaced teeth showed as he breathed heavily, his nostrils moved, the dark eyes proved to be deep-set and the thick eyelashes gave him an unnatural look. He was spick-and-span: his shoes were highly polished, he wore a brightly coloured tie and a diamond tie-pin. The long jacket of his suit confirmed Rollison’s impression that it was of American cut.
“You’re asking for trouble,” he said again, thickly.
“We won’t go into that again,” said Rollison. “Sit down.” The man didn’t move. “I said sit down.” He didn’t raise his voice but something in its tone made the other shift to a chair and drop into it. “Judith, go and take his wallet out of his coat pocket.”
Judith obeyed, as if it were an everyday request; but there was no wallet, only some letters.
“They’ll do,” said Rollison. “Who are they addressed to?”
She looked at each of the four before she said:
“Stanislas Waleski at the Oxford Street Palace Hotel. Two say “Stanislas”, the others just “S”.”
“Thanks. Put them on the desk, will you? So we’ve a Pole who talks like an Englishman and wears American clothes. Quite a cosmopolitan, isn’t he? Waleski, lean forward —farther than that.”
Waleski’s head was thrust forward; he studied his shoes and the bald patch showed in the middle of the dark head.
“Well, is that him?” asked Rollison.
“Yes!”
“Good. Do you like getting hurt, Waleski?”
The man leaned back in his chair, his face darker for the blood had run to his head, and his eyes flaming. He didn’t speak but clutched the arms of his chair.
“Because you’re going to get hurt if you don’t do what you’re told,” said Rollison. “Let me have that letter, Judith.”
She handed it to him and he read aloud, very slowly:
As the last few words came out, Rollison lowered the letter and looked straight into Waleski’s eyes.
“Who wrote that?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“You delivered it.”
Waleski said: “That’s what you think.”
Then Rollison moved again—a swift lunge, startling Waleski and the girl. His right hand shot out and the fingers spread over Waleski’s face. He pushed the square head back against the chair with a bump and struck Waleski on the nose with the flat of his hand. Tears of pain welled up.
Rollison leaned back, as if admiring his handiwork.
“Who wrote it, Waleski?”
Waleski gulped and swallowed hard as he tried to speak, pressed his hand against his nose, drew a finger across his eyes. The squat, powerful body seemed to be bunched up, as if he were preparing to spring from the chair. Rollison took the automatic from his pocket, squinted down the barrel then flicked the safety catch off and pointed the gun towards Waleski’s feet.
Waleski said: “I’ll kill you for that.”
He didn’t shout, didn’t put any emphasis into the words—just let them come out flatly, as if he meant exactly what he said.
Judith felt her own tension returning; something like fear ran through her.
“Yes, you’re fond of killing,” Rollison said and his voice hardened. “You killed Galloway; Mellor didn’t. If that note means what I think it means, it’s a prelude to the murder of Mellor.” He took no notice of the way Judith drew in her breath. “It’s the kind of note a man might write before killing himself—a confession note. But he didn’t write it; you made one fatal mistake, and—”
“I didn’t write it!”
“You know who did. Where’s Mellor?”
Waleski started, caught off his guard by the sudden switch from one subject to another.
Rollison snapped: “Where’s Mellor? Tell me or I’ll smash your face in. You think I hurt you just now but you’ll find out what it’s like to be really hurt if you don’t tell me.
He levelled the gun at Waleski’s stomach and his face took on an expression of bleak mercilessness which pierced Waleski’s already shaken composure, made him sit there with his eyes scared and his lips parted, his hands grasping the arms of the chair.
But he didn’t answer.
“Get out of the room, Judith,” said Rollison, without looking at the girl. “I don’t want you to see what happens to the obstinate Mr
Waleski. Shut yourself in the kitchen and stuff your ears with cotton-wool.”
