“What is it?”
“I thought we’d have a chat about Judith Lome,” said Rollison. “Charming girl, isn’t she?”
The dark eyes, fringed with short dark lashes, narrowed a fraction but the man gave no other indication that he knew Judith Lome or was surprised by this encounter.
“Who?”
“Judith Lome—Jim Mellor’s Judy. Remember Jim?”
The man turned back to his newspaper.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “I’m waiting for a friend.”
He pretended to read the paper but shot a swift sideways glance at Rollison.
“I’m the friend,” said Rollison.
He eased off the brakes, slid his car in front of the two-seater, well aware of the other’s gathering tension; but the other made no attempt to start his engine and go into reverse. Rollison jumped out, getting a clear view of the man full-face. The broad, square features weren’t typically English; the clothes seemed to be of American cut. He saw the other’s right shoulder move, as if the driver had shifted his arm, as he drew up by the nearside door.
“Yes, I’m the friend,” he repeated. “Shall we go and see Judith together?”
“You’re crazy,” the man said. His voice showed no trace of an accent; it was hard, rather deep and, now that his lips were parted they revealed small, white, wide-spaced teeth. “Clear out.”
Rollison opened the door of the two-seater.
The man now had his right hand in his coat pocket and the newspaper spread over his lap. The expression in his dark eyes was both wary and aggressive.
“Take a walk,” he said. “Don’t try—”
Rollison drove his fist into the powerful biceps and, as the man’s muscles went limp, pushed the newspaper aside and grabbed his forearm. He jerked the hand out of the pocket and glimpsed the automatic before it slid down out of sight. He jabbed the man’s chin with his shoulder and snatched the gun, all apparently without effort. Then he slipped the weapon into his own pocket and backed away. He pulled the newspaper, rustling it past the driver’s face, half-blinding him and adding to his confusion, screwed it up into a ball and tossed it into the back of the car.
“Shall we go and talk to Judith?” he suggested mildly.
He slid his right hand into his pocket and poked the gun against the cloth, near the big shoulders.
There was a moment of stillness, of challenge. Then the stocky man relaxed and leaned back in his seat. His eyes were dull and his mouth slack.
He said: “You’ve asked for plenty of trouble.”
“I don’t want to have to deal out any more yet,” said Rollison. “Come along.”
He half-expected the man to cut and run for it; but after a pause the other gave way and climbed out of the car. Rollison gripped his arm tightly; he felt the powerful, bulging muscles and knew that it would be no fun if this man turned on him. He kept half a pace behind, still holding the arm, and they crossed the road in step and walked towards Number 23. Outside were two cement-covered posts where a gate had been fixed before scrap iron became a weapon of war. As they reached these Rollison felt the muscles tense, knew that the escape attempt was coming and pulled the man round. At the same time the man back-heeled. Caught on one leg, he stumbled and nearly fell. Rollison stopped him from falling, pulled him upright and bustled him into the porch. The front door was unlocked. Rollison thrust it open and pushed the man in front of him.
He said: “Don’t do that again.”
Keeping his hand in his pocket, he jabbed the gun into the small of the other’s back. They went upstairs slowly, footsteps firm on every tread. A door on the first landing opened and a faded-looking woman appeared, carrying a shopping-basket. She stared into the glowering face of Rollison’s prisoner and started back.
Rollison beamed at her. “Good afternoon!”
“G-g-good afternoon, sir.”
There were three floors. At the top, Judith’s door faced the head of the stairs and, as they reached the landing, the door opened.
“Lock the door when we get in,” said Rollison.
He gave his prisoner a final shove into the room and followed him. Judith closed and locked the door and slipped the key into a pocket of her smock. She looked at Rollison, not at the prisoner who stood with his back to the desk, his hands bunched and held just in front of him. He was shorter than Judith and very broad. The wide spaced teeth showed as he breathed heavily, his nostrils moved, the dark eyes proved to be deep-set and the thick eyelashes gave him an unnatural look. He was spick-and-span: his shoes were highly polished, he wore a brightly coloured tie and a diamond tie-pin. The long jacket of his suit confirmed Rollison’s impression that it was of American cut.
“You’re asking for trouble,” he said again, thickly.
“We won’t go into that again,” said Rollison. “Sit down.” The man didn’t move. “I said sit down.” He didn’t raise his voice but something in its tone made the other shift to a chair and drop into it. “Judith, go and take his wallet out of his coat pocket.”
Judith obeyed, as if it were an everyday request; but there was no wallet, only some letters.
“They’ll do,” said Rollison. “Who are they addressed to?”
She looked at each of the four before she said:
“Stanislas Waleski at the Oxford Street Palace Hotel. Two say “Stanislas”, the others just “S”.”
“Thanks. Put them on the desk, will you? So we’ve a Pole who talks like an Englishman and wears American clothes. Quite a cosmopolitan, isn’t he? Waleski, lean forward —farther than that.”
Waleski’s head was thrust forward; he studied his shoes and the bald patch showed in the middle of the dark head.
“Well, is that him?” asked Rollison.
“Yes!”
“Good. Do you like getting hurt, Waleski?”
The man leaned back in his chair, his face darker for the blood had run to his head, and his eyes flaming. He didn’t speak but clutched the arms of his chair.
“Because you’re going to get hurt if you don’t do what you’re told,” said Rollison. “Let me have that letter, Judith.”
She handed it to him and he read aloud, very slowly:
““Sorry I’ve messed things up, Judy. There’s nothing I can do now. I didn’t mean to kill him. I just felt I had to let you know that.””
As the last few words came out, Rollison lowered the letter and looked straight into Waleski’s eyes.
“Who wrote that?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“You delivered it.”
Waleski said: “That’s what you think.”
Then Rollison moved again—a swift lunge, startling Waleski and the girl. His right hand shot out and the fingers spread over Waleski’s face. He pushed the square head back against the chair with a bump and struck Waleski on the nose with the flat of his hand. Tears of pain welled up.
Rollison leaned back, as if admiring his handiwork.
“Who wrote it, Waleski?”
Waleski gulped and swallowed hard as he tried to speak, pressed his hand against his nose, drew a finger across his eyes. The squat, powerful body seemed to be bunched up, as if he were preparing to spring from the chair. Rollison took the automatic from his pocket, squinted down the barrel then flicked the safety catch off and pointed the gun towards Waleski’s feet.
Waleski said: “I’ll kill you for that.”
He didn’t shout, didn’t put any emphasis into the words—just let them come out flatly, as if he meant exactly what he said.
Judith felt her own tension returning; something like fear ran through her.
“Yes, you’re fond of killing,” Rollison said and his voice hardened. “You killed Galloway; Mellor didn’t. If that note means what I think it means, it’s a prelude to the murder of Mellor.” He took no notice of the way Judith drew in her breath. “It’s the kind of note a man might write before killing himself—a confession note. But he didn’t write it; you made one fatal mistake, and—”