Kill The Toff - John Creasey

She went back to the window so that she could see outside without being seen.

CHAPTER THREE

The Man With Oily Hair

Rollison let the street door bang behind him and lit a cigarette as he went towards his car. He glanced at the two-seater incuriously, paused and smiled when a puppy came frisking along the road at the end of a long lead attached to a staid and stately woman. Then he got into the driving-seat and pressed the self-starter. The engine purred and the car slid towards the near corner and swung round it.

He didn’t glance up at Judith’s window.

He turned left and left again and yet a third time so that he was back at the far end of Knoll Road. The man in the two-seater still sat at the wheel reading his newspaper and didn’t look round. Rollison slowed down until the Rolls-Bentley was crawling along at ten miles an hour. As he drew nearer he saw the bald patch in the man’s head; it was clear and white, quite unmistakable. He put the brakes on gently. The nose of the big car drew level with the nose of the small one, passed it, then stopped.

The two drivers were alongside each other.

“Good afternoon,” said Rollison.

The man put his newspaper aside and glanced at him uninterestedly. He had a pale square face with high cheekbones, red lips and a flattened nose. The shoulders of his coat were thickly padded, giving him a squat and powerful look.

“What is it?”

“I thought we’d have a chat about Judith Lome,” said Rollison. “Charming girl, isn’t she?”

The dark eyes, fringed with short dark lashes, narrowed a fraction but the man gave no other indication that he knew Judith Lome or was surprised by this encounter.

“Who?”

“Judith Lome—Jim Mellor’s Judy. Remember Jim?”

The man turned back to his newspaper.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “I’m waiting for a friend.”

He pretended to read the paper but shot a swift sideways glance at Rollison.

“I’m the friend,” said Rollison.

He eased off the brakes, slid his car in front of the two-seater, well aware of the other’s gathering tension; but the other made no attempt to start his engine and go into reverse. Rollison jumped out, getting a clear view of the man full-face. The broad, square features weren’t typically English; the clothes seemed to be of American cut. He saw the other’s right shoulder move, as if the driver had shifted his arm, as he drew up by the nearside door.

“Yes, I’m the friend,” he repeated. “Shall we go and see Judith together?”

“You’re crazy,” the man said. His voice showed no trace of an accent; it was hard, rather deep and, now that his lips were parted they revealed small, white, wide-spaced teeth. “Clear out.”

Rollison opened the door of the two-seater.

The man now had his right hand in his coat pocket and the newspaper spread over his lap. The expression in his dark eyes was both wary and aggressive.

“Take a walk,” he said. “Don’t try—”

Rollison drove his fist into the powerful biceps and, as the man’s muscles went limp, pushed the newspaper aside and grabbed his forearm. He jerked the hand out of the pocket and glimpsed the automatic before it slid down out of sight. He jabbed the man’s chin with his shoulder and snatched the gun, all apparently without effort. Then he slipped the weapon into his own pocket and backed away. He pulled the newspaper, rustling it past the driver’s face, half-blinding him and adding to his confusion, screwed it up into a ball and tossed it into the back of the car.

“Shall we go and talk to Judith?” he suggested mildly.

He slid his right hand into his pocket and poked the gun against the cloth, near the big shoulders.

There was a moment of stillness, of challenge. Then the stocky man relaxed and leaned back in his seat. His eyes were dull and his mouth slack.

He said: “You’ve asked for plenty of trouble.”

“I don’t want to have to deal out any more yet,” said Rollison. “Come along.”

He half-expected the man to cut and run for it; but after a pause the other gave way and climbed out of the car. Rollison gripped his arm tightly; he felt the powerful, bulging muscles and knew that it would be no fun if this man turned on him. He kept half a pace behind, still holding the arm, and they crossed the road in step and walked towards Number 23. Outside were two cement-covered posts where a gate had been fixed before scrap iron became a weapon of war. As they reached these Rollison felt the muscles tense, knew that the escape attempt was coming and pulled the man round. At the same time the man back-heeled. Caught on one leg, he stumbled and nearly fell. Rollison stopped him from falling, pulled him upright and bustled him into the porch. The front door was unlocked. Rollison thrust it open and pushed the man in front of him.

He said: “Don’t do that again.”

Keeping his hand in his pocket, he jabbed the gun into the small of the other’s back. They went upstairs slowly, footsteps firm on every tread. A door on the first landing opened and a faded-looking woman appeared, carrying a shopping-basket. She stared into the glowering face of Rollison’s prisoner and started back.

Rollison beamed at her. “Good afternoon!”

“G-g-good afternoon, sir.”

There were three floors. At the top, Judith’s door faced the head of the stairs and, as they reached the landing, the door opened.

“Lock the door when we get in,” said Rollison.

He gave his prisoner a final shove into the room and followed him. Judith closed and locked the door and 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:

““Sorry I’ve messed things up, Judy. There’s nothing I can do now. I didn’t mean to kill him. I just felt I had to let you know that.””

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. Where’s Mellor?”

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.”

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 to meet—to meet Mr Rollison at the corner of Asham Street, Wapping, in half an hour?”

The man at the other end had regained his breath.