“So she sent it.”
“Let’s stick to what we know; she handled the paper.”
“And no one else did, sir, except Mellor and you. Your prints show at two of the corners where you held the paper cautiously. Mellor’s are very clear, top right and centre both sides—where you would expect them to be when he took the note out. Hers are on both sides and fairly general, the kind of prints that one would make when writing a letter and folding it for an envelope. Have you met Miss Arden?”
Rollison laughed. “Yes, and we’re not friends. Like some fresh air, Jolly?”
“Exactly as you wish, sir. I have prepared a supper tray.”
“Good. Go to the Oxford Palace Hotel and find out what you can about Waleski. The police may be watching to see if inquiries are made for him but cock a snook at any policemen. I’m anxious to know whether Clarissa Arden has called on Waleski. I’ll wait here until you return or telephone.”
* * *
Rollison sat in an armchair, near the desk and the telephone. The wall behind the desk was filled with a remarkable miscellany of souvenirs of criminal cases: weapons used for murder; poisons; odd trophies of the hunt. The star piece was a hempen noose; it was Rollison’s boast that a particularly savage murderer had been hanged with it. This was called the Trophy Wall.
Judith still slept, breathing evenly, looking calm and delightful without any sign of strain—as if she were really resting for the first time for weeks. Jolly could exert a remarkably soothing effect and had doubtless impressed her with his view of Rollison’s omnipotence. Now and again she stirred but didn’t wake. Rollison watched her as he thought of Arden, Clarissa, everyone whom he had seen that day. He was trying to put every incident in its proper perspective, to judge the importance of one against the other; and, finally, to judge when it would be necessary and wise to go to the police. The evidence that attempts had been made on Arden’s life was so slender that he doubted whether the police would pay it much attention. There was no evidence that Arden’s legitimate son had been murdered. The police would say, and rightly because of the facts before them, that Rollison was reading crime into a series of unrelated but coincidental circumstances.
One question mattered above all. If Mellor were arrested and charged, what would be the effect on Sir Frederick Arden? He believed that the tension and anxiety of the trial would kill the old man. That was the strongest single justification for trying to keep Mellor away from the police, for backing his own judgment.
Yes, he would have to do that if he could.
He saw Judith stir again and then the telephone bell gave a slight ring, the preliminary to steady ringing. He took the receiver off quickly before it had time to disturb the girl.
“Rollison speaking.”
“Hallo, Boss!” It was Snub who sounded bright and presumably had good news. “Still in the land of the live and kicking.”
“How did you get on?”
“What a stickler you are for business! All right. The police haven’t heard of the Asham Street incident yet and the Doc hasn’t been worried. Mellor’s out of danger from the carbon monoxide. I don’t think there’s much need for me to haunt this part of the great metropolis tonight.”
“You needn’t. But I want you to hire a shooting-brake or any kind of vehicle which will take a stretcher and garage it somewhere handy to the Doc’s place in the morning, very likely for use before daylight.”
“I’ll be ready at the crack.”
“Thanks,” said Rollison. “Keep a look-out for the police. I don’t want them to know what you’ve been up to. If they discover you’re going to drive a van or what-not, they might tumble to the truth. If your flat is watched, go to a hotel and let me know the telephone number.”
“Oke.”
“Off you go,” said Rollison.
“Oi, have a heart! How’s sweet Judy?”
“Sleeping,” said Rollison and glanced at the girl.
Her eyes, heavy with sleep, were wide open as she stared at him. He smiled at her, said good-bye to Snub and replaced the receiver. She gave an answering smile and eased herself upon the cushion. Her hair was unruly and absently she poked her fingers through it. There were red marks on her cheek where she had been lying on the creased cushion cover.
“Hungry?” asked Rollison.
She was startled. “Well, yes, I am.” She laughed, as if that astonished her.
“Good sign,” said Rollison. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
The sandwiches were under a silver cover, on a tray; the coffee was bubbling gently in the percolator. Rollison took the tray in and, as he pushed the door open with his elbow, saw Judith standing in front of the trophy wall.
Most of his visitors were fascinated by the collection of “exhibits”—the weapons and the souvenirs of old crimes and many modest triumphs. But Judith was paying no attention to the macabre contents of the walclass="underline" she was looking into a tiny mirror and powdering her nose.
“A very good sign,” said Rollison.
She turned. “What—Oh! I feel such a wreck.”
“Jim’s out of danger,” said Rollison.
Her whole face became radiant. She didn’t say: “Are you sure?” but closed her eyes for a moment and shook her head, as if she were driving an ugly vision away. Then she looked at him smiling, composed, happy.
“Thank heaven for that! Can I see him?”
“Not yet. You may or may not realise it, young woman, but the mirror you’ve been dolling yourself up in has a famous history. It belonged to a beauty who murdered three husbands with arsenic. The police couldn’t prove she’d ever possessed any arsenic and the mirror betrayed her—some was found along the leather edge. Now perhaps you’ll show a proper respect for that wall.”
Judith laughed. “I thought it seemed a bit grim. Mr Rollison, what are Jim’s chances of being acquitted?”
“Good, if we can stall long enough.”
“You’re not pretending?”
“It’s the simple truth. Eat your supper.” When she began to eat the sandwiches hungrily, he went on: “The police have asked you nearly every question that can be asked and I want to repeat some of them. Had you ever any reason to think that Jim was in difficulties?”
She said: “Absolutely none.”
“How often did you see him?”
“Practically every day. Once or twice he had to go away on business but he was never away for more than two nights. He’s the manager of a small firm of printers, you know.”
“Yes. Did you ever go to the works?”
“Several times.”
“Had he any business worries?”
“He was only worried about one thing, as far as I know, and I think I should have known had there been anything else,” said Judith. “The world situation sometimes got on his nerves. He had a rough time in the war and— well, you know what I mean. He thought everyone who talked of war was crazy and ought to be pole-axed. The news sometimes got him down.”
“ Was it just the news? Are you sure?”
“I’ve never questioned that,” said Judith quietly. “I don’t think there’s any doubt. I could usually guess when he’d been depressed; it would be a day when there was more cock-fighting among the United Nations or a flare-up somewhere in the world. I don’t think it was related to his personal affairs. He always said he felt so helpless—that it wouldn’t have been so bad if he could have done something about it himself.”
“I see,” said Rollison. “Did you know his friends?”
“One or two of them. I don’t think he had many.”
“Isn’t he a friendly type?”
“Yes; but he spent a lot of time at business, often worked late and he was rather—well, impatient of most people. He used to call himself the Superior Being. Oh, that wasn’t conceit! He would be laughing at himself because he hadn’t patience with a lot of social chatter and the usual table-talk—any of the conventional things.”