“Wrong. But you should have told me it was one of Bert’s men.”
“I thought you would prefer to judge the man yourself as he was a stranger,” said Jolly . “I instructed him not to advise you until—”
“He didn’t. Well, it’s been a good night. Waleski ended up—”
Jolly’s right hand sped to his lips. Rollison broke off—and then looked into the living-room, the door of which was ajar, and saw
Clarissa Arden.
* * *
“Well, well,” Rollison said, heavily. “The lovely lady who couldn’t take advice. How long has Miss Arden been here, Jolly?”
“For about an hour, sir.”
“Has she been difficult?”
“No, sir, quite placid.” Rollison chuckled and Clarissa laughed. Rollison went into the room, noticing that she had made up her face and most of the signs of her ordeal had disappeared. Her blouse was buttoned high at the neck, hiding the red marks and the weals. Her eyes were heavy as if with sleep but only a little bloodshot; there were no blotches on her skin. She was smoking and there was a drink beside her. She sat down as Rollison entered and for the third time looked at him through her lashes with her head held back.
“I’m beginning to think you’re good,” said Rollison.
“Did you find out where Waleski went?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“You haven’t found out yet,” said Rollison dryly.
“If we’re going to work together, I think I ought to be in your confidence—don’t you?”
A glass was warming by a tiny electric fire. Rollison picked it up and poured himself a little brandy, sniffed the bouquet, then whirled the golden liquid round and round in his glass, looking at her all the time.
“So from now on we’re buddies?”
“I think we’ll do better like that.”
“It’s largely a question of whether I agree,” said Rollison. “I might—when I know your story, Clarissa, and if you can convince me that all you say is true. That might be difficult.”
“I don’t think it will,” she said. “I’ve known for some time that someone is trying to murder my uncle. I’ve come to the conclusion that my cousin Geoffrey was murdered, that he didn’t die by accident. I’ve been trying for weeks to find out why it’s all been going on. That was why I spent so much time in Paris. I met Waleski in Paris. Would you like to hear about that, too?”
* * *
It was nearly two o’clock.
Rollison took Clarissa’s key and opened the front door of 7, Pulham Gate. Then they stood close together on the porch and after a pause she said:
“Why don’t you come in?”
“Fun later,” said Rollison.
“You don’t trust me, do you?”
“No, not quite, yet.”
Her hand moved, sought his, held it; and pulled him closer. Her breath was warm on his cheek, her eyes glowed in the light of a street-lamp.
“I’m quite trustworthy now. I doubted you before. Waleski tried to kill me, as he is trying to kill my uncle and as he did kill Geoffrey. I don’t know why; I don’t know much about it; but I do know that I’m fighting for my life.”
“Very pretty,” murmured Rollison.
“So I’ve failed completely to convince you.”
“Oh, not completely. But there’s more at stake than you, Clarissa. A nice girl named Judith and a lad by the name of Mellor, who—”
“Mellor!” She dropped his hand, and drew back. “Mellor! Do you know that brute?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
More About Mellor
She wasn’t acting. One moment she had been pleading, using all her wiles and her beauty to break down Rollison’s resistance; then, at the mention of Mellor, she had been shocked, filled with a repugnance which rang clearly in her voice. Into the word ‘brute” she had put a world of loathing and contempt.
Rollison took her arm.
“I think I’ll come in, after all,” he said and led her inside, closed the door and went to the drawing-room.
When he switched on the light, he saw that she was pale and shaken; the effect of Mellor’s name was the same on her as it had been on Grice and Ebbutt. He mixed her a whisky-and-soda from a tray which had been left out.
She watched him intently without speaking.
“Here’s early death to the villain! Sit down, Clarissa, and tell me all about the brutality and villainy of Jim Mellor.”
“He’s—an unspeakable brute.”
“Who said so?”
“I say so. He—” She sipped her drink and sat down slowly; and Rollison was surprised that she flushed, as if at an embarrassing memory, I once knew him. My uncle had probably told you about my hankering after the flesh-pots.”
“He called it excitement.”
“Anything for a new sensation,” said Clarissa, as if talking to herself. “Yes, I suppose that’s right. Life’s unbearably dull—most good people are such fools, such bores. I suppose I was always restless and the war made it worse. I couldn’t settle to anything afterwards. It might have been different if Michael—”
She caught her breath and jumped up.
“I’m getting maudlin!”
“You’re becoming human,” Rollison murmured, i like it. You owe Waleski a lot, Clarissa. When he nearly choked the life out of you he scraped off that veneer of cynicism. Please don’t put it back again; it only smears the lily. Who was Michael?”
Tears were close to her eyes.
It was late; she had been near death; she had been shocked and shaken; and so it might be said that she wasn’t herself and had every excuse for breaking down. She didn’t answer at first but closed her eyes. Suddenly she sat erect, raised her head and finished her drink quickly. Then she spoke in sharp, staccato sentences.
“We were engaged. He was a Pathfinder and didn’t come back. You remind me of him. I couldn’t think who it was when you came here this evening. But the way you behaved at the hotel—yes, you remind me of him. But he’s dead, best forgotten. We were talking about my vices. Anything for a new sensation. That’s really why I started to probe into my uncle’s illness. I suspected that it was attempted murder. When my cousin died I think I was the only one who discovered that he’d spent a lot of time in the East End of London. I think he had your complex. He liked slumming— and new sensations. You do, too—don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Rollison gently.
“So I went down to the East End. Oh, I didn’t go as a ministering angel; it was a new kind of sight-seeing trip. I had an escort.”
“Who?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“Billy Manson, the boxer,” said Clarissa and her lips twisted wryly. “Another of my sensations. Ugly men fascinate me, so does brute strength, and Billy had them both. I told him I wanted to see how the poor lived. He was born in Limehouse and isn’t ashamed of it, in spite of his fortune. He took me round. I was astonished at how many different people he knew. Criminals!” She laughed. “I wonder if you can imagine the thrill I got when I first met a man who had committed murder and got away with it.”
Rollison said: “I think so.”
“I almost believe you can. Billy did me proud but said there was one man in the East End I’d never be able to meet. Mellor. That was the first time I heard the name. It was impossible to meet him and of course I was determined to do the impossible. Billy was frantic, told me I was playing with fire—poor dear! He didn’t realise that I like fire. It wasn’t through Billy that I met Mellor, though; it was by accident. I went to a dance in Limehouse. It—it was dreadful! The crowd of sweating humanity—Oh, never mind. Mellor was there although I didn’t know it until I had a note from him. A kind of royal command. Billy was to have taken me to the dance but he had a heavy cold and his manager wouldn’t let him out, so I went with two friends of his. They shook at the knees when Mellor’s message came and advised me to leave. Leave! I laughed at them and met Mellor.”