She fell silent again and Rollison gave her a cigarette and lit it for her. She hardly noticed what she was doing; she was re-living the meeting with Mellor in a scene which Rollison knew so well. A dance-hall, dusty, festooned with grimy coloured paper flags, crowded with Lascars, seamen, dockers, factory workers; beer flowing freely, rowdyism, wild dances— and one man who held a kind of court and whom everyone in the room feared. The only remarkable thing about it was the speed with which Mellor had won this position. Rollison had spent some time in the East End only six months ago and had not heard of Mellor then.
He asked: “How long ago was this?”
“About six months. I met Mellor,” she repeated. “I can’t explain how I felt. It was as if I were meeting someone I’d known before and whom I knew to be corrupt. He was quite young. To make himself look older and more manly, he wore a beard. In anyone else it would have been laughable but in Mellor—I’d never met a man who frightened me before and I haven’t met one since. It was in the way he spoke, the way he ordered others about, the way he attacked that girl.”
She clenched her hands in her lap.
“We danced, of course. He was one of the hold-you-tight type, sexy, domineering. A silly little tipsy girl was dancing with a glass of beer in her hand and she tripped up and spilt it over my dress. He seemed to go wild, snatched the glass out of her hand and smashed it in her face. I shall never forget that moment. He just smashed it into her face, cut her cheeks and mouth. It was a miracle she wasn’t blinded. She screamed and tried to run away but he caught her hair and bashed her with his fist— and no one came to her aid. I tried to but they held me back. I did try.”
She sounded almost piteous.
“Yes, I’m sure you did.”
“She was unconscious when he flung her away. Her friends took her out. I was told afterwards that she was in hospital for a month. But—” Clarissa shuddered. “It was quite horrible. The first new sensation that revolted me. I walked out, of course. I haven’t been back to the East End since that night and I don’t want to go again. I stopped trying to find out why my cousin went there so often. I told myself it didn’t matter and I suppose it didn’t. I hardly knew my cousin. He was at school when I left England during the war and we didn’t meet after that. I tried to forget the whole business but couldn’t. It was so obvious that someone was trying to kill my uncle as well. So I worked on Waleski. I’ve told you about that.”
“Tell me again,” said Rollison.
She didn’t object.
“I knew my uncle had business in Paris and he kept hearing from Waleski. I read one of Waleski’s letters and saw the signature. It was an innocuous kind of letter, just saying that he was continuing the investigations and hoped to have some news later. I wondered what the investigations were, whether my uncle realised he was in line for murder. Waleski wrote from the Hotel de Paris so I went and stayed there. He wasn’t a difficult man to meet and—well, you’ve seen him. Ugliness still fascinates me. He wanted to get information out of me about my uncle; and he kept talking about a second son. I still don’t know whether my uncle ever had another son but Waleski talked as if there were no doubt. Waleski” —she laughed, a curious, brittle laugh— “thought that I was interested because if a second son appeared I’d probably get little or nothing from my uncle’s will. I didn’t tell him that I couldn’t care less. I pretended that it mattered. I was to go through the papers at Pulham Gate and the Guildford house, looking for evidence about this love-child and tell Waleski what I’d found. Then Waleski was called to London. I followed after a few days and he called me today and asked me to meet him at the Oxford Palace. He was disappointed that I hadn’t discovered anything yet and I—oh, I suppose I lost my head.” She leaned back and looked at Rollison from beneath her lashes: the familiar trick; she was feeling much more herself now.
“I told him that he’d better be careful or the great Toff would discover his little game. He went mad. He was holding his cigarette-case in his hand, grabbed my hair and struck me with the case. That’s all I remember, all I can tell you. Does it—” She smiled; yes, she was much more herself— “Does it tally with what I told you at the flat?”
“Near enough,” said Rollison.
“It’s the truth. And I still want to work with you.”
“We’ll talk about that in the morning,” Rollison promised.
“Don’t leave it too late,” said Clarissa. She stood up and approached him, taking his hands. “Have I bored you?”
“Terribly!”
“That’s where you’re like Michaeclass="underline" you won’t be serious when I want to be.”
“If I were called on to advise, I’d say: think more about Michael instead of trying to forget him,” said Rollison gently. “There’s more than one man cast in the same mould but not a lot of women like you, Clarissa. I think we can work together. In fact, there’s a job I want you to do in the morning. Go and get some sleep; you might be busy tomorrow.”
“Yes, papa.” She gripped his hands tightly. “Why did you mention Mellor?”
“I think there are two Mellors. We don’t mean the same one,” said Rollison. “We’ll see.”
“I think you’re lying but I don’t really mind,” said Clarissa. “You’ve done me a world of good. Thank you, Richard.”
She kissed him, full on the lips—a lingering kiss with more than a hint of passion—and the soft warmth of her body was close against him.
“Why don’t you stay?”
“I’d rather find you new sensations,” Rollison said dryly. “Good night, Clarissa.”
She laughed and turned away—and the telephone bell rang, startling them both.
* * *
“It’s Jolly,” said Clarissa.
Rollison took the telephone. Jolly would not have called here unless with tidings of trouble.
Judith?
“Yes, Jolly?”
“I’ve just had a message from Dr Willerby, sir,” said Jolly. “Will you please go there at once?”
* * *
Earlier that night Snub drove a tradesman’s van past the clinic, waved to Doc Willerby who was talking to a woman on the steps of his Nissen hut, and stopped at a garage not far away. He drove the van in, poked his head inside the back, rubbed his hands joyously and locked the door. It was dark; the gas street lamps gave only a dim glow. When he reached the clinic again, the woman had gone and the door was closed.
He did not go in at once.
He had no idea where Rollison was but wished vaguely that his own job was different. Being nursemaid to Mellor wasn’t likely to offer much excitement. But Rollison’s training and his own instinct made him careful. He made a complete circuit of the outside of the clinic but saw no lurking figures, nothing to suggest that anything was wrong.
He wished he had a gun; or any weapon.
A light glowed at one end of the Nissen hut.
He rang the bell and Mrs Willerby, a much younger woman than her husband, opened the door.
“Not another emergency, just an extra mouth to feed,” said Snub. “Hope I’m not too late.”
“No, we seldom get to bed before midnight.” She stepped inside and the light from a room beyond fell on her fluffy hair and round, ruddy, friendly face. “The doctor is expecting you.”
“And wishing he wasn’t,” called Willerby from the lighted room.
But when Snub entered he put down a book and offered cigarettes. It was a small, comfortable, homely room and a radio stood in the corner, soft chamber music coming from it. Snub dropped into an easy-chair and clapped his hands boisterously.
“I’ve found just what the doctor ordered, Doc! A tradesman’s van, nicely sprung, used for long distances and fragile merchandise, as they say. Borrowed a divan and fastened it inside the van. Mellor will hardly know he’s on the road. How is he?”