“On the whole, I prefer Miss Lome,” said Rollison.
“Miss Arden is a very handsome woman, sir,” said Jolly, dispassionately. “Do you mind if I wash my hands?”
“Carry on.”
“I hope to finish before the coffee arrives,” said Jolly and disappeared into the bathroom.
He was still there when the waiter arrived. Rollison took the tray at the passage door, tipped the man enough to satisfy him and not enough to make himself noticeable and carried it into the bedroom. He remembered carrying the tray into Judith and smiled—and saw Clarissa’s eyelids flicker.
He went out again.
“Stay where you are for a few minutes, Jolly.”
“Very good, sir.”
Her eyes were wide open when he went back and he saw the fear in them, fear which didn’t disappear when she recognised him. She caught her breath and her hands clenched beneath the clothes; they made two little mounds. He thrust his hands into his pockets, put his head on one side and murmured:
“I don’t like Comrade Waleski either.”
She licked her lips.
“My—my throat is sore.”
“Nylon is bad for throats,” said Rollison. He picked up the twisted stocking and held it up and her eyes glistened with horror, it was tied very tightly; they didn’t want you to live. Was it Waleski?”
“I—I suppose it must have been.”
“Sit up and have some coffee,” Rollison said and then called out: “Jolly! Any aspirins?”
“Yes, sir.”
Rollison took them at the door. When he turned round, Clarissa was sitting up and looking at herself in the dressing-table mirror which was opposite the bed. She put her hands to her hair and smoothed it down while Rollison poured out black coffee, put half the sugar into the one cup and made her drink it. Now and again she glanced at him; more often into the mirror.
He poured out a second cup.
“No more,” she said and made a face.
“Two cups to complete the cure. Swallow the aspirins with this. You’re lucky, Clarissa.”
She didn’t answer.
“Ten or fifteen minutes longer and we might have been too late. Certainly we couldn’t have pulled you round ourselves; we’d have needed a doctor, perhaps the hospital, certainly the police. If you want to leave here tonight, drink up.”
She obeyed. It was obviously difficult for her to get the coffee down and she grimaced when she had finished. He took the cup from her and offered a cigarette.
“Thanks.”
“Feeling better?”
“I shall be all right.”
“What happened?”
She said: “Waleski turned on me.”
“I did murmur a warning about bad men, didn’t I?”
She fingered her throat gingerly, felt the ridges and craned up so that she could see her neck in the mirror. She licked her lips again and coughed on the smoke.
“He—he hit me with his cigarette-case. Here.” Her fingers poked gently through the hair at the temple.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Lie number one,” said Rollison.
She held her head back and looked at him through her lashes, the same trick she had used in Pulham Gate. In spite of her ruined make-up, her loveliness was apparent. Shiny, blotchy face, smeared lipstick, rumpled hair, all failed to hide it. She was composed, too; and there was a glimmer of a smile in her eyes. Her self-control was a great tribute to her will-power.
How do you know I haven’t been lying all I he time?”
He said: “I don’t. But someone tried to murder you and Waleski had the opportunity. It might have been someone else.”
“Yes. Possibly even you.”
“Ah,” murmured Rollison. “That’s a bright notion. I almost wish I hadn’t taken the stocking from your neck.”
He didn’t smile; and he didn’t miss the mockery in her expression. She might be bad; he was half-convinced that she was; but he didn’t dislike her. She had too much courage, too quick a mind.
“Well, how do I know you didn’t strangle me and then pretend to save my life?” Her husky voice drawled out the words. “The last thing I remember is Waleski hitting me. I doubt if he would like to see me dead.”
“What’s put all this into your head?”
“Worried?” She pushed her fingers through her hair and drew it tightly back from her face; it increased her beauty. “I thought you were very anxious not to send for the police or have me taken to hospital. I couldn’t believe it was for my sake, so it must be for yours. After all, if I told the police everything I know, you would be suspected, wouldn’t you? Or have you got the police in your pocket?”
“They keep popping out. Why not go steaming ahead and make a job of it? There’s the telephone. Just murmur “police” into it and hotel detectives will come rushing up and the police will arrive in a couple of ticks. You’d be in the fashion, too; Waleski tried to convince the police I’d man-handled him.”
“Didn’t you?”
“We were talking about the telephone. It’s all yours.”
Rollison sauntered to the dressing-table, dragging the easy-chair with him, and sat down. He crossed his legs and lit a cigarette.
“You’d never let me touch it,” Clarissa said.
“Go ahead.”
She frowned, as if puzzled by the challenge in his eyes; then stretched out her hand for the telephone. The graceful turn of her body drew attention to her figure; it was almost voluptuous, the movement unconsciously seductive. She held the receiver close to her ear, watching him all the time.
He kept a poker-face but his heart was thumping. He wasn’t sure what she would do: only sure that if she went ahead it would ruin his chances; Grice would have to hold him on such evidence. But if she were bluffing and he called her bluff, it would prove she wanted to avoid the police.
Clarissa said: “Chelsea 12431, please . . . I thank you.”
She put the receiver down.
Rollison didn’t speak. Clarissa relaxed on I he pillows. There was a sound in the bathroom: Jolly, moving about uneasily. The next sound jarred through the quiet; the ringing of the telephone-bell. She took off the receiver and said: “Can I speak to Mr Waleski?”
Rollison started; for her voice changed completely. She spoke like an American and had he not been there he would have been sure the speaker came from a Southern State. She looked at him steadily while she held on, until he heard a man’s voice faintly.
Clarissa said in the same husky, attractive voice:
“Why, Stan, is that you? . . . You don’t know who I am?” She laughed softly, if you did, you’d be surprised to hear from me . . . Sure, I’ll tell you who I am.” She paused, then slipped back into her normal speaking voice and all she said was: “Surprised, Stan?”
Rollison heard the gasp at the other end of the line; and then the man hung up abruptly.
She said slowly: “Now I believe he did it.”
Then she saw a different Rollison.
He jumped up, called: “Jolly!” and, as Jolly came in, he motioned to the telephone and ordered: “Call Grice. Ask him to find out who lives at the house with telephone number Chelsea 12431. Clarissa—” He bent over her, looking closely, imperiously, into her eyes. “What’s Waleski’s address?”
She didn’t hesitate to answer.
“18, Wilson Street.”
“Stay here until I come back, if you know what’s good for you. Jolly—” Jolly was dialling. “When you’ve finished, take a taxi and come to 18, Wilson Street.”
The last thing he saw in the room was Clarissa’s startled eyes.
* * *
Wilson Street was between the King’s Road and the Thames; short, wide, it had terraces of tall houses on either side. Half an hour after Clarissa had telephoned, Rollison turned the corner and saw a two-seater car, with the rear and sidelights on, a few houses along. As he drew near, the door of the house opened and two men hurried out, each carrying a suitcase. One was Waleski, the other was small and thin: Judith’s assailant.