Kill The Toff

He didn’t alter the tone of his voice and didn’t look away from Waleski.

Judith hesitated.

“Hurry, please.”

She turned slowly towards the door of the tiny kitchen and paused with her fingers on the handle. She saw the two men staring at each other, sensed the clash of wills and the working fear in Waleski, opened the door sharply and stepped into the room beyond. She heard Rollison say:

“I’ll give you one minute.”

The door closed.

She stood close against it, her body stiff, staring at the painted wood as if she could see through it into the next room. There was a breathless hush which did not seem to be disturbed by noises from outside. It lasted for what seemed a long time—and then she heard a thud, a cry, a sudden flurry of movement and another thud. She leaned against the door, unable to move and beginning to tremble.

Then Rollison said again: “Where’s Mellor?”

Waleski muttered something; she didn’t hear what it was. But as he finished, Rollison called out: “Judith!”

She flung the door open and went back into the room.

Waleski still sat in the chair; the blood was streaming from his nose and his lips were a red splodge. Blood had spattered his bright tie and his collar and shirt and he leaned back as if he were physically exhausted.

Rollison was rubbing the knuckles of his right hand. His eyes were glowing; obviously he had learned what he wanted.

Yet she burst out: “Has he told you where—”

“Yes. Is there a telephone in the house?”

“Downstairs, I—”

“Hurry down and telephone Mayfair 81871— my flat. The man who answers will be Jolly or Higginbottom. Say I want Jolly to come here at once and Higginbottom to meet me at the corner of Asham Street— Asham Street, Wapping—in half an hour. Have you got that?”

She was already fumbling for the door-key and nodded as she went out.

“Tell Jolly I won’t be in for tea” said Rollison.

*     *     *

It was as if a miracle had happened.

He had found out where Jim was; had almost proved that Jim hadn’t killed Galloway. He had opened up a new, bright world. Judith felt her nerves jumping as she hurried downstairs, slipped on the bottom step and saved herself by grabbing the banister rail. She had to wait for a moment, to get her breath back. Then she tapped on the door of the downstairs flat. The door was opened by Mrs Tirrell, her landlady.

“May I—”

Mrs Tirrell, a short, fat woman with shiny black braided hair, a pendulous underlip and a hooked nose, raised her hands in alarm and exclaimed:

“What on earth’s the matter, Miss Lome? What—”

“I must use your telephone—quickly, please.”

Judith pushed past into a large room crammed with Victorian furniture and bric-a-brac and photographs in sepia and black-and-white. The old-fashioned candlestick telephone was on a round table near the window.

“Well!” gasped Mrs Tirrell.

But Judith was dialling. Mayfair 81871—her finger was unsteady and cold. They knew where Jim was. Brrr-brrr, brr-brr. Would the man never answer?

“Is anything the matter?” Mrs Tirrell’s voice was shrill.

“No, it’s all right.”

Brrr-brrr, brrr-brrr. Perhaps Rollison’s flat was empty. If it were, that would mean serious delay—dangerous delay. It was useless to tell herself there was no hurry; she had to see Jim. Minutes counted—seconds counted. It was as if every moment of twenty-nine days was hanging in the balance, dependent on what happened in the next half-hour. A large brass clock beneath a glass cover stood on a wall-bracket, ticking loudly. Tick-tock, tick-tock; brrr-brrr, brrr- brrr. It was five minutes to four.

Would they never answer? Jolly or Higginbottom, it didn’t matter which—

The ringing sound stopped and a man spoke rather breathlessly: any other time Judith might have smiled at the gasping tone combined with an obvious effort to be precise.

“This is the—residence of—the Hon. Richard—”

“I’m speaking for Mr Rollison. He told me to ask for Mr Jolly or—”

“This is Jolly, madam.”

“You—” She was conscious of the eager gaze from Mrs Tirrell’s protuberant, fishy eyes, of the difficulty of saying exactly what she wanted without telling the woman too much and without being long-winded and so wasting time. “Will you please come here—to 23, Knoll Road, Chelsea—at once? And will you ask Mr Higginbottom