“S’right,” said Ebbutt, nodding ponderously. “Says ‘e’s gonna kill you, Mr Ar. “E spread the word arahnd; that’s why I came—to give yer the tip. Don’t forget, that man’s a killer.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Challenge
Rollison drank some beer, Ebbutt banged his empty tankard down on the desk and Jolly looked
at Rollison as if asking permission to speak. Rollison went to the trophy wall and let the noose of the hempen rope slide through his fingers.
“Yes, Jolly?”
“The man Mellor telephoned, sir, just before Mr Ebbutt arrived.”
Ebbutt cried: “Wot?”
“And what did the man Mellor have to say?” asked Rollison.
“He intimated what Mr Ebbutt has already mentioned. He requested me to tell you that if it is the last thing he does, he will get—ah— even with you about this. He seemed sober, sir.”
“Sober!” choked Ebbutt.
“What was his voice like?”
“I was rather surprised, I must confess. He spoke like an educated man. He did not rant, as might have been expected.” Jolly contrived to bring chillness into the atmosphere of the living-room—the stillness that was Mellor. “He did not threaten wildly or go into any detail. I found the message disturbing and I do hope you will be extremely careful.”
“You gotta be,” Ebbutt said earnestly. “You just gotta be.”
“An educated man,” murmured Rollison. “Yes, that fits in.”
“Fits in wiv wot?” asked Ebbutt.
“A stray notion that’s been running through my mind,” Rollison said. “Bill, there’s a job you can do for me right away—get it started as soon as you reach home and finish before the night’s out.”
“Just say the word, Mr Ar; just say the word!”
“That’s what I want you to do. Use the grapevine and tell Mellor that I’d like to meet him. He can name the place and the time and he’ll probably want to make conditions. If you get a message from him, let me have it quickly.”
Ebbutt sat there with his mouth agape.
“Are you sure that is wise, sir?” Jolly was edgy and anxious.
“If you arst me, it’s crazy,” said Ebbutt emphatically. “Mr Ar, why don’t you berlieve me when I say that Mellor’s bad? Bad as they come! If you want to meet ‘im at any place ‘e’d do yer in and larf like ‘ell while ‘e was doin’ it. Don’t you go seein’ the Killer.”
“Try it out, Bill, will you?”
“Well—”
“The last time I wanted you to do something for—”
“Nar, don’t bring that up, Mr Ar. I shan’t forget it in a n’urry. I’ve warned yer, that man’s poison. But if you hinsist, I’ll spread the word arahnd. There’s one thing.” Ebbutt sniffed and seemed relieved. “I don’t suppose ‘e’ll send any reply. “E’ll fink it’s a trap. If ‘e does, don’t take no chances, Mr Ar. Anyfink else?”
“Not now, Bill; but there will be if we get an answer. Have one for the road?”
“No, I don’t think I will. I don’t like drinkin’ much before drivin’, not even that watery stuff. Where’d yer get the beer from, Mr Jolly? When you run that barrel dry, let me know and I’ll fix some real stuff. You’ll know you are drinking beer then.” He heaved himself out of his chair. “Lil said I was to say ‘alio, Mr Ar.”
“Give her my love,” said Rollison.
Ebbutt chuckled. “That’ll please ‘er, that will. Tickle ‘er to deaf. She’ll tell all the Harmy abaht it, Mr Ar; they’ll be praying for you before you know where you are. But Lil’s orl right when she’s aht’ve that Salvation Harmy uniform. Not that I’m agenst the Harmy. Cheerioh, you two!”
Jolly let him out.
Rollison handled the hangman’s rope again and was holding it lightly when Jolly returned. Jolly’s movements were slow and precise—a sure sign that a matter lay heavily upon his mind and he was not quite sure how to get it off.
“I’ll buy it,” Rollison encouraged.
“Thank you, sir. How badly hurt is Mr Higginbottom?”
“He’ll pull through.”
“And so will Mellor, I understand,” said Jolly. “Mr Rollison, I beg you to take this suggestion seriously. You may not have solved the whole problem but you have found Mellor and carried out your obligation to Sir Frederick. The police are now aware that attempts have been—or may have been—made on his life and they both can and should protect him. We have escaped lightly, in view of the nature of the opposition. Haven’t we done enough?”
“No,” said Rollison.
“Forgive my insistence, sir, but why not? I beg you not to assume a moral obligation which isn’t yours. There is no need to carry on this feud with Mellor. His threats have to be treated with respect but with ordinary caution no harm will befall you. On the other hand, if you were to meet him or if you continue with the case, then it is very likely that you will get hurt. I don’t think the circumstances justify that.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Then why fly in the face of Providence, sir?”
Rollison smiled faintly.
“I want to know whether Miss Arden is as bad as Mellor, Jolly. I don’t know any other way of finding out. It has become a personal issue.”
“In that case, sir,” said Jolly slowly, “there is no more to be said about the matter. Have you yet informed Sir Frederick of the success of your mission?”
“I’m going to see him now,” said Rollison.
* * *
Was he going to see Arden? Or Clarissa? He would have made the journey whether
Clarissa were at Pulham Gate or not, whether he had met her or not, but that was begging the question. Did he want to see Clarissa or Arden? As Rollison threaded his way through the West End traffic he tried to answer it; and he wanted to see Clarissa. He wanted to find out what had passed through her mind when she had left him; why the light-hearted thrust about another new sensation had affected her so deeply.
Which was the real Clarissa? The first woman he had met? The new woman who had been born after Waleski’s attack on her? Or some unknown creature—someone he didn’t know and only vaguely suspected to exist?
Had she fooled him completely by her lightness and her gaiety, her surprising lapses into sentiment?
He turned into Pulham Gate. Two or three cars were pulled up near Number 7 but not Clarissa’s. A policeman strolled along and reminded him of the attempt to kidnap him. Mellor had wanted to see him then, doubtless wanted to see him again, or he would not have made that call or spread his threats of vengeance through the grapevine—that tenuous telepathic communication system which ranged all over the East End. By it, a thing which happened in one locality was known in all within half an hour—except to the police.
A footman, William, opened the door.
“Good evening, sir.”
“Good evening,” said Rollison. “Is Sir Frederick up?”
“I’m afraid—I’m afraid he’s had a serious relapse, sir. The doctor is with him now. I believe that he has asked for you: the butler telephoned your flat a few minutes ago. Will you come straight up, please?”
* * *
Rollison passed him and hurried up the stairs. All the doors of Arden’s suite were closed. He went into the study. The door leading to the bedroom was open. He stepped through. He could see the foot of Arden’s big double bed and the doctor bending over it. Rollison waited until the doctor straightened up and caught sight of him.
They had met before and recognition was mutual.
“Come in, will you?” The doctor was elderly, tall, ruddy-faced—and grave.
Arden lay on his back, his lips nose and ears blue, his breathing stertorous. On the bedside table was a hypodermic syringe, on the foot of the bed the doctor’s case, open, showing its chromium contents. No one else was in the room.
Rollison whispered: “What happened?”
“I’m told there was a quarrel.”