"The Toff and the Fallen Angels" - читать интересную книгу автора (Creasey John)

ANGELA’S rosy cheeks were glowing, her blue eyes were bright, her plump and bouncy body seemed to quiver with excitement. She was short, only just five feet, but no one ever thought her small. Some called her a roly-poly and that, though old-fashioned, was very much on the ball. She wore a mini-skirt which rode high above her stalwart calves and trim ankles, and a loose-fitting scarlet jumper with a polo neck. Her hair, golden in colour, had a silken lustre.

“Gorgeous!” she gurgled. “Absolutely gorgeous, Rolly. Bless you for thinking of me.”

“Knowing you, could I have thought of anyone else?” asked Rollison.

“I’d have hated you for life if you had. I’ve always wondered how it would feel to live branded by one’s own indiscretions. The incredible thing is that it happens so much today. Anyone would think that reasonably educated angels would know this was the Pill Age.”

The Toff evaded that challenge neatly.

“So you’ll do it,” he remarked.

“Rolly, darling, when can I start?”

“Very soon, I imagine. Tomorrow say?”

“Tomorrow is the day! Rolly, bless you! At long last I’m going to see how the other half lives.” She bounced out of her chair, opposite his in the Gresham Terrace flat, and kissed him on either cheek. “Does Old Glory know about this?”

“Not yet,” said Rollison.

“I daresay that’s wise.” Angela, suddenly even more ecstatic, sat on his knee and flung an arm round his neck. He needed no reminding that she was a very feminine young woman and fleetingly thought of his morning talk with Jolly. Angela simply regarded him as an uncle; masculine certainly, but hardly male in the exciting sense. She hugged him. “You’re the absolute pet,” she told him. “Now I can have two of my life-long dreams fulfilled—to see the seamy side of life, and to play detective.”

“Angela,” said Rollison, regarding her severely, “This is not a game.”

“Roily, don’t be silly, I know it’s not.” She stiffened theatrically, holding him at arm’s length. “Richard,” she said in the tone all the family used when about to disapprove of him. “Don’t tell me you think I’m incapable of being serious !”

“You’re quite capable,” Rollison assured her. “The point is, that this is one of those occasions to use that capability, and not indulge in the light-hearted frivolity you semi-intellectual young people find so necessary.”

“Of course, I gather that, and the fact that the wrong timing is the very snag over which your semi-intellectual angels have fallen.”

Rollison chuckled.

“Your point,” he conceded. “Will you have another drink?”

“You mean, won’t I get off your knee and allow you to breathe more freely.” She kissed him on the forehead. “No, I won’t have another drink and I won’t play the fool any more. I’m absolutely thrilled at the chance, and truly grateful. And—” she hesitated for a studied effect, then went on : “I won’t let you down.” She was suddenly all movement again, as she sprang off his knee like an indiarubber ball. She neither looked nor behaved like her twenty-four years. “There’s just one thing. What will happen when the others find that I’m not really qualified?”

Rollison looked at her solemnly,

“With a turn like that, no one would suspect you were cheating.” Before she recovered, he moved towards the telephone. It was five minutes to seven, and he was alone but for Angela, this being Jolly’s evening off. He dialled the number of Smith Hall, and Naomi Smith answered in that unmistakable voice which attracted Rollison in a way he had seldom been attracted before.

“This is Smith Hall.”

“This is Richard Rollison, to tell you that Angela is prepared to fall.”

“Oh, I’m so relieved,” said Naomi in a tone which was evident proof of her words. “The more I think of it the more I like this idea. How soon can she come?”

“Tomorrow.”

There was a long pause, before Naomi said in a huskier voice :

“I don’t really believe in you, Richard. You’re like something spirited out of Aladdin’s lamp.”

Angela, close to Rollison, was mouthing and touching her lips and her right ear, in imitation telephoning. Rollison held on for a moment, relishing what Naomi had said, and then asked :

“Would you like to speak to Angela now?”

“Is she with you . . . I’d love to.”

“Hold on,” Rollison said. He held the instrument out to Angela, then went out of the room. He did not want Angela to think he did not trust her to say what was wise, for beneath her high spirits he had sensed a moment almost of resentment when he had warned her that this was not a game. He could have listened-in on the kitchen extension or the one in his room or in Jolly’s bedroom, but did not. Now that he was alone he was contrasting Naomi and Angela, and at the same time wondering what he had let himself in for. He could not even begin to think of a motive for what was going on. It could of course, he decided, be merely a matter of temperamental conflicts within the hostel. Each of the residents obviously had acute personal and probably emotional problems, and with high I.Q. was likely to suffer more from tension than folk who had a less highly tuned intelligence.

But Keith Webberson had sent Naomi to him, and Keith was no scaremonger, he must have some reason for anxiety. It was at least possible that Naomi Smith had not yet told him everything, wanting to make sure that he would help before unburdening herself of the whole truth.

He heard a faint click at the bedroom extension; Angela had rung off, he went to join her, and found her very much more sober, hardly smiling at all.

“Hallo,” he said. “Problems?”

“No,” answered Angela. “Not exactly problems, but Mrs. Smith made it clear that she is really worried. I’m going to see her right away, Rolly—she’s waiting supper for me. Apparently that’s how she interviews all her prospective angels.” A flash of humour brightened Angela’s eyes. “An angel who is about to fall salutes you!”

“I’ll be around to pick you up,” promised Rollison.

Five minutes later, wearing a knitted cloak drawn tight around the neck, Angela was about to leave. As Rollison saw her to the door, he remembered how upset Naomi Smith had been that morning at that very spot. He held the door ajar.

“You’re quite sure you want to go ahead?” he asked. “Absolutely positive, no shadow of doubt about it,” answered Angela.

“You could run into a lot of troubles you don’t expect,” he reminded her. “Promise me one thing.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Tell me everything you find out, at least once a day, and if you’ve the slightest cause for alarm, let me know at once.”

“I will,” Angela assured him, earnestly. “It’s a chance in a million, and I’ll make the most of it.”

He saw her down to the street door, and watched as she drove off in a shabby and battered Morris 1000, scarred from ten years of heavy usage. Yet the engine purred. She waved, tooted and was gone. He returned to the flat, in a curious state of uneasiness. Ought he to have encouraged Angela to go? Should he have made more inquiries first? What was the simple truth about his own view of the matter? That he was in fact inclined to think that this was not a criminal but an emotional affair?

He closed his front door, walked into the big room, and telephoned Keith Webberson, who had a flat in St. John’s Wood. Webberson was a widower, a wealthy man whose life was dedicated to the spreading of knowledge and understanding throughout the world. He did this through his work, and he had devised methods of teaching English to illiterate people which were practised in much of the Commonwealth. And he did it also through voluntary organisations, serving on a dozen committees, including several attached to UNO.

The ringing sound went on and on. It was hardly surprising, Webberson was often out, but for a reason which he could not wholly understand, Rollison grew even more uneasy. He contemplated calling one of the other members of Naomi’s group, but decided against it.

He tried to push the uneasiness away but it remained through supper, an indifferent Western and a bad documentary programme; even until Jolly came in, a little after eleven o’clock. He told Jolly what Angela had decided, was not wholly sure that Jolly approved. At twelve, he started to get ready for bed, and at twenty-minutes past the telephone rang. He lifted the receiver by his bedside.

“Rollison.”

“I’ve seen her, and I think she’s absolutely remark-able,” said Angela. “If it were only to help her, I’d go to Angel Hall.” She said that quite naturally, not as a joke. “I’m moving in tomorrow. Aren’t you pleased with your third-from-favourite niece?”

“I’m very proud of her,” replied Rollison.

“What a nice thing to say, even though its been wrung out of you. Bless you, Rolly!”

She rang off; and Rollison realised that she was now wholly committed. Slowly he finished getting ready for bed, but he did not get to sleep easily; he was more worried than he had been for a long time.

*     *     *

Angela telephoned about half-past six next evening; the Friday of that week.

“All’s quite quiet, Rolly. I’m settling in.”

Keith Webberson did not answer the telephone that evening, either.

Angela telephoned on Saturday.

“It’s a wonderful place, Rolly—perfect for what goes on here—but there is something wrong. I’ll try to put my finger on it as soon as I can.”

“What kind of wrong?” he wanted to know.

“As soon as I know, I’ll tell you,” said Angela.

Keith Webberson did not answer his telephone all that day.

He must be away, mused Rollison. “And there’s no reason on earth why he shouldn’t be.”

But was that really true, in mid-term? he wondered.

Angela telephoned on Sunday and on Monday and Tuesday.

“I think I’m being accepted,” she said on Tuesday. “There’s one girl I particularly like—an Elspeth Jones, and I think she’s bursting to talk to someone. I may have something more to report tomorrow.”

“How are you really finding things?” asked Rollison, before she could ring off. “You’ve said very little, so far.”

“There isn’t very much to say,” said Angela, obviously prepared. “Nearly all of the others are suspicious of one another and of Naomi Smith. They seem to have a love–hate relationship. I can tell you one thing, Roily.”

“What’s that?”

“They may all be fallen angels but they all want to pick themselves up. At dinner time tonight they talked more freely than I’ve known them, it’s almost as if they’re beginning to forget that I’m new.”

“That’s good,” said Rollison. “Angela—”

“I really ought to go,” Angela interrupted. “If anything happens worth reporting, I’ll tell you afterwards. Bye for now!”

Rollison rang off, thinking almost ruefully that she had virtually dismissed him. Did that mean that someone had been—or might be—listening in? Or had she simply been afraid that someone would interrupt?

Angela telephoned again on Wednesday, and for the first time sounded almost excited.

“They are absolutely accepting me,” she cried. “Two of them confided in me last night about their own problems, and wanted to hear about mine. It seems to be far more difficult to invent a purple patch than a white one. I finally planked for a kind of grey. I can tell you another thing, Rolly.”

“What’s that?” asked Raison patiently.

“They’re puzzled because they haven’t seen Professor Webberson for a week—he usually takes one afternoon and one evening class at Smith Hall.”

“Isn’t he away?” asked Rollison.

“He didn’t say he was going away,” Angela informed him.

Raison rang off, and immediately put in a call to Webberson; as usual there was no answer. On the spur of the moment, he went downstairs and walked to his garage, in a mews nearby, took out his latest car, a grey Allard, and drove to St. John’s Wood. Webberson lived in a top floor flat of a block which towered above its neighbours; from south windows it was possible to see almost all of the ground at Lords.

Raison got out of the lift opposite Number 901— Webberson’s flat. Outide the front door was a printed note : “No tradesmen until I’m back, please,” and it was followed by the initials “K.W.” It was an odd way for an intelligent man to advertise the fact that the fiat was empty, and Rollison studied the note, and then the front door—and on that instant decided to break in.

There was no convincing reason why he should suspect anything was wrong, but the suspicion was very strong in him. He drew on a pair of thin cotton gloves, not wanting to leave prints, then took out a knife with blades of highly flexible steel, and began to work on the lock.

CHAPTER 5

Crime Of Violence

As he pushed the blade between the lock and the door frame, waiting for the moment when the tension on both sides became the same and the lock would click back, Rollison felt a dozen questions tearing through his mind. Was this crazy? Was there really any reason to think anything was wrong? If a neighbour came out of one of the other three doors in sight, how could he explain what he was doing?

None of the questions made him hesitate.

As he worked, manipulating the blade with infinite patience, he listened intently. The silence was broken by a loud clang as the trelliswork inner gate of the lift closed. Almost at once there was a whirring sound, of the lift ascending. The odds against it coming to this floor were eight to one, but there was no way of being sure.

The lock clicked, and Webberson’s door sprang open an inch.

The lift seemed to be coming very fast.

Rollison stepped inside the door and closed it, holding it tight with his left hand, for it would not close properly until the lock was repaired. Was this Webberson, by some strange freak of chance?

The lift stopped on the floor below.

Half jeering at himself but intensely relieved, Rollison put on a light, for the hall had no windows. A chair stood by a table against the wall and he placed the chair at the door; no one passing would now notice that it was open. There were four doors—one right, one left, two facing the front door. The parquet flooring was dull and looked dusty, as empty places will. A persian rug covered half the floor.

He opened the door on the left: it was the bathroom.

A towel lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, shaving gear was on a glass-topped table, and a safety razor and a shaving brush stood as if they had just been used. He looked at the brush, noticing the dried-up lather, matting the badger bristles—so it had not been washed after the shave. He opened the door opposite, into a kitchen, where a window overlooked an inner courtyard.

It was very modern and at first glance, clean. But there were cups and saucers and knives and forks, piled unwashed into the sink. A jar of ground coffee beans stood with the lid off, and a carton of cream, the lid partly on, was near it. Rollison poked at the lid, gingerly, using his finger nail. It was solid, with a minute line of mould growing at the edges where it had dried and drawn away from the side of the carton.

Rollison’s breath was coming tensely.

He went to the right hand door facing the hall, which was ajar. He opened it wider with his elbow, and peered into a bedroom. This had the big windows overlooking lawns and parking places; a pair of trousers, carelessly folded, lay at the foot of the bed, a clean shirt was draped over a chair, clean socks were poked into shoes placed near. It was as if Webberson had put everything out so as to nip into the bedroom from the bathroom, and change. Some silver change and a wallet, keys, cigarettes and book-matches lay on a dressing-table which stood slantwise, catching the light.

Rollison’s heart began to thump, as he turned into the hall and the other room, the door of which was closed.

Webberson, lying in a crumpled heap by the telephone, was almost an anti-climax—not only after what Rollison had seen, but from the effluvium of decomposing flesh which met him as he opened the door.

Rollison stood in the bedroom for some time, re-covering. He was accustomed to the sight of death, and normally unaffected, but this was the death of an old friend—and death by violence, for the back of Webber-son’s head had been smashed in.

Now, he had to decide what to do.

He saw the photograph of an attractive girl on a bookcase, signed : With love, Winifred. There was also a picture of an elderly couple, Keith’s long-dead parents. There was nothing else of interest.

As he searched, he pondered deeply. He could call the police from here and wait for them—and admit that he had broken in; or he could leave, and call anonymously, and show a lively interest when the story broke in the papers. There wasn’t much doubt of the better course, although he had to overcome strong prejudices. This was too much of a coincidence : it must be connected with the trouble at Smith Hall. If he were associated with it from the beginning, he would have staked a claim in the investigation. No one else need know, yet, what was happening at the Hall.

He decided to knock at a neighbour’s, for the pos-sibility of picking up a vital clue would offset the obvious disadvantage. As he stepped out of the flat he had a vivid mental picture of Angela’s eager face.

What had he thrust her into?

Was she in danger even at this moment?

He rang a bell across the landing, and a middle-aged man answered, hovering near as Rollison used the telephone in the hall which was identical with Webberson’s.

“Scotland Yard ..” Rollison began. “Mr. Grice, please . . . Yes, Superintendent Grice . . . What time did he go? . . . Will you call him at his home and tell him that Richard Rollison . . . R-O-L-L-I-S-O-N is at 901 Pack-ham House, St. John’s Wood and would very much like to see him here . . . Yes, I am an old friend . . . And will you also tell him that a murder squad is needed at the same address.”

“Hold on!” cried an operator, until that moment almost cynically uninterested. “I’ll put you through to Information.”

Rollison rang off, looking into the pale face of the neighbour, who was obviously badly shocked by what he had heard Rollison say.

It was hard to believe that Keith Webberson was actually dead; it almost numbed him.

“Did you say—say murder?” the neighbour asked.

“I did, I’m afraid,” confirmed Rollison.

“Who—” The man’s voice was unsteady.

“Professor Webberson.”

“But—but he lives opposite !”

“He used to,” Rollison said quietly.

“Are you—sure?”

“Beyond all shadow of doubt,” said Rollison. “Perhaps you will be able to help the police when—”

“Oh, I know nothing about it.” The man’s voice shrilled.

“I’m sure you don’t, but the police will want—”

“Toddy,” a woman said, opening the door of a room which was identical with the one where Keith Webber-son lay dead, “did I hear this gentleman say ‘police’?” She was middle-aged, fat as Angela would one day grow fat, blue-eyed, with pebble-lensed glasses. “I—oh. Good gracious me. You’re the Toff.” She drew a shuddering breath. “Toddy, why on earth didn’t you tell me? It’s the Toff—Mr Rollison. So—I did hear police. Oh, my goodness, what’s happened. Is it the Professor? I said all along there was something funny about his going off without letting us know beforehand. I thought he’d gone off with that girl who’s always there.” She peered up at Rollison as at an exhibit. “Normally when he goes away he lets me know in time to arrange for the milk and bread and papers, it’s most unusual—it’s never happened before—for him to make his own arrangements. I was quite shocked when I saw the note pinned on the door. In fact I was quite put out—wasn’t I, Toddy? I—”

There was the wail of a police siren, in the distance.

“Maud, the police will ask enough questions without you talking like this, do be quiet,” the husband rebuked. “Surely they can’t be here already, it’s only been a few minutes since you telephoned.”

“The police don’t take long, these days,” Rollison remarked. “Thank you for letting me use your telephone.”

“That will be sixpence,” stated the pale-faced Toddy, primly.

Rollison looked blank, and then realised what was meant. “Oh, for the telephone call.” He dug into his pocket for the coin, placed it on the table, and went out. The lift was whining, and he waited at the doorway of Webberson’s flat until it arrived. Three men, two very large and one tall and shin, stepped out. Rollison recognised one of the large men as Chief Inspector Lumley, of the Yard’s murder squad, a man with a big, bovine face and dark brown eyes. He looked a bully and a fool, but was, in fact, one of the kindest and most intelligent men of Rollison’s acquaintance.

“Hallo, Mr. Rollison.” He spoke in a rough voice, with a twang of Cockney.

“How are you, Inspector?”

“I was having a quiet night! Where do you say we should go?”

“In here.” Rollison opened the front door, seeing the door opposite open a few inches. So Toddy, or his wife, was curious. Rollison led the way into the hall, and as the other followed, Lumley sniffed and the tall man said:

“Strewth! Not a new one, then?”

“Will you wait here for a few minutes?” Lumley asked Rollison. “The rest of the team will be arriving soon.”

“Of course. I’ll be here as long as you want me.”

There was a constant to-ing and fro-ing of men—photographers, a doctor, ambulance men, more detectives, some from the Yard and some from the Divisional Headquarters. After a short while there was a strong odour of an air-freshener, which somehow made Rollison more aware of nausea than he had been before. No one took any special notice of him although several recognised him and nodded or spoke. Outside the door was a uniformed policeman, and doubtless others were stationed down below. The police would soon hear if they hadn’t learned already. Rollison, preoccupied with his own worry about Angela, did not find the time hang.

Perhaps an hour after he had first arrived, Lumley came out of the room where the dead man lay.

“Sorry to be so long,” he said. “Mr. Grice will be here in a few minutes.”

Rollison said : The police never admit to being longer than that.”

“Well yes. But it’s sometimes true. Will you tell me what you can—we’ll go into the bedroom, they’ve finished in there. Soon have the body removed, too.” He led the way. “I understand the dead man is Professor Webberson, of London University.”

“And an old friend of mine.”

“Sorry about that, sir.” Lumley’s hard voice contrasted strangely with his almost soothing manner. “How did you get in?”

“I broke in,” answered Rollison simply.

Lumley looked startled. “You broke—” he grinned, his face suddenly attractive. “Just like you to admit it, sir! Why?”

“I couldn’t understand why he didn’t answer the telephone, why he wasn’t taking his lectures and doing his usual work. On the other hand I didn’t want to start a fuss if there was a simple explanation. So I forced the lock.”

“What time was this?”

“As nearly as I can tell you, nine-forty-five.”

“Were you alone?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you telephone from?”

“The flat opposite.”

“Then that’ll be how the Press heard of it so quickly,” remarked Lumley. “They’re getting very impatient down below. Do you want them to know you found the body?”

Rollison smiled easily. “You’re being most considerate. I think on the whole, I do.”

“Then when Mr. Grice has been you can make your statement here and repeat it for the Press,” said Lumley. “I—” there was a tap at the door. “This is probably Mr. Grice.” Aloud, he called : “Come in!” The door opened and another, younger man appeared.

“Mr. Grice is on his way up, sir.”

“Thank you,” said Lumley. “Do sit down, Mr. Raison.”

Rollison moved to the only armchair in the room, sat down and crossed his legs. The police were being almost too well-disposed; this might be because Lumley was naturally a pleasant man, or because he’d had instructions from Grice, or—and perhaps the most likely explanation—because Lumley wanted to lull him into a sense of security which Grice would shatter.

It was very unlikely that they would not at least consider the possibility that he knew much more than he had yet said.

The door opened, and Grice entered.

Now a senior Chief Superintendent at the Yard, Grice was a tall broad, spare-built man. His once brown hair, brushed flat and straight from his forehead, was greying, but his eyes were a clear hazel brown. The skin, stretched over his high-bridged nose, looked pale, almost translucent. On one side of his face was a scar from a booby-trap explosion which had been intended to blind the Toff. That had cemented a bond between them and they had ever since been good friends. But there were times when Grice, the policeman, came into direct conflict with Rollison, the ‘amateur’.

Now, Rollison had a sense of impending conflict. It was in the brisk way in which Grice spoke, the quiet handshake, the intent scrutiny.

“Well, Rolly, what have you been up to?”

“Breaking and entering and finding the body of an old friend,” answered Rollison.

“What made you break in?”

“I was puzzled.”

“Roily,” said Grice, very firmly, “this is murder, it looks like a particularly violent murder, and there is no time at all for half-truths. Why did you break in? What made you suspicious?”

“Bill,” said Rollison. “I had no reason at all to suspect that Keith Webberson was in danger. I was simply puzzled, and—”

“I don’t believe you,” interrupted Grice. “You didn’t come here simply to find out if Webberson was all right. You had a stronger motive. What was it? What puzzled you?”

Here was the moment to tell the whole truth . . . and Rollison still had not made up his mind. But he knew that if he held anything back at this stage, then for the rest of the investigation he would be in conflict with the police, and it was the last thing he wanted.

“I can tell you why I was puzzled,” he said. “The very simple truth. I’d been asked by a Mrs. Naomi Smith, who runs a hostel in Bloomsbury, if I would help her find out what was happening there. She told me that Webberson had suggested that she should get in touch with me. That was a week ago. For a week I’ve been trying in vain to get in touch with him. Then I learned that he hadn’t turned up to give his usual lectures. As an old friend, perhaps his oldest friend, I felt justified in breaking in.”

He saw the quick exchange of glances between Grice and Lumley, as he talked, and felt an increasing disquiet eased only by the certainty that he had been right to tell his story.

“I’m very glad you broke in,” Grice said in a more relaxed voice. “And I didn’t suppose we can blame you for not telling us about the hostel problem. Did you know that two of the residents were missing?”

Slowly, Rollison answered : “Not missing. I knew they’d left.”

“They are missing,” Grice stated flatly. “And we’ve reason to believe that one of them is dead.”

CHAPTER 6

Missing—Or Dead?

ROLLISON placed his hand on the arms of his chair and levered himself to his feet. He had another mental image of Angela, and he felt sick. Seeing his expression, Lumley and Grice exchanged glances again, and Grice spoke in an almost long-suffering way.

“What have you been up to? What haven’t you told us, yet?”

“Didn’t you once meet my niece—Angela Pax-Elliott?” asked Rollison.

“The pretty, roly-poly girl?”

“You’ve met her,” said Rollison.

“She plagued me for an hour, asking if there were any short cuts to becoming a woman member of the C.I.D.,” said Grice. “What—my God! Is she a resident there?” Grice was filled with great alarm, and with surprise if not astonishment. After a brief pause, he went on : “And if she was in trouble, why didn’t she go to Lady Gloria at the Marigold Club?”

“In your cynical sense, she is not in trouble,” Rollison replied. “She is satisfying her craving to play detective.”

“Well I’m damned!” exclaimed Lumley.

“Your idea?” Grice asked Rollison, grimly.

“Yes,” admitted Rollison. He moved to the window and looked down into the open space where the cars were parked—and he saw an ambulance move off. This was the one carrying the body, of course: what an end for a man like Webberson. “Yes’ he repeated, “it was my idea, and at the time it seemed a good one. At least I arranged for Angela to telephone me once a day, and immediately if there is any sign of emergency.”

“Did you speak to her tonight?”

“Yes—and she told me Webberson hadn’t been to his normal classes at the hostel, that really sparked me off. Bill—have you any reason to suspect other residents are in danger?”

“No,” said Grice. “But I wouldn’t like a daughter of any friend of mine to be there.”

“Have you any reason to believe that Naomi Smith knows that the girls are missing?”

“She reported them missing,” answered Grice. After a moment, watching the emotions chasing one another over Rollison’s face, he went on : “So she didn’t tell you that.”

“She just said they’d left,” answered Rollison.

It wasn’t really a lie, but how could Naomi Smith have any doubt that by keeping this grave aspect of the problem back, she had been deceiving him? He could see and hear her in his mind’s eye : that beautiful voice and those lovely eyes and the earnestness of pleading. Why hadn’t she told the whole truth? Hadn’t she realised that if she had even hinted that the two girls were missing, he would have been more likely to agree to help? And why hadn’t she told him when she had learned that Angela was going to take up residence—good God! How could any woman with decent instincts allow such a thing to happen?

“Getting angry?” inquired Grice, mildly.

“Simmering,” Rollison said. “But as all good policemen say, first get all the facts. You won’t raise any objection to my looking for the facts, will you?”

“No—if you undertake to pass on any you find,” said Grice.

“I’ll pass them on,” promised Rollison grimly. He was seething rather than simmering, but at the back of his mind hovered the realisation that he was probably enraged as much because Naomi Smith had fooled him as because of the danger to Angela.

He wasn’t really troubled for Angela : he could go and fetch her away now.

“One thing,” he went on.

“Yes?” asked Grice.

“What makes you think one of the missing girls is dead?” asked Rollison.

“A body was taken out of the Thames last night,” answered Grice. “It had been there for ten or fourteen days and recognition under these circumstances isn’t easy. But measurements match up with a Winifred de Vaux—D-E capital V-A-U-X,” he spelt almost mechanically. “A dentist will check her teeth tomorrow morning, and we shall then know for certain.”

“And the cause of death?” asked Rollison.

“A savage blow on the back of the head,” answered Grice.

Rollison didn’t need to say : like Webberson. He clenched his teeth, returned Grice’s even gaze, and then asked:

“Do you need me any more just now?”

“No,” answered Grice. “Unless you have the slightest idea why Webberson was killed, or know of anyone who might have owed him a grudge.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Rollison answered him. “All right, Roily,” said Grice. “We’ll keep in touch.” His attitude, now, could not have been friendlier. Rollison went out, aware that he was being watched by photographers and fingerprint men and the other detectives who were busy and intent. The lift was at this floor, a uniformed man opened it for him.

“Goodnight, sir.”

“Goodnight.”

It was quite dark, now—a quarter-past-eleven. How much could happen in an hour and a half. He remembered the Press would be outside but he hadn’t prepared for the mass of them, twenty at least, crowded into the foyer of Packham House. The moment he appeared halfa-dozen flash-lights dazzled him, and others flashed as he closed his eyes to try to get rid of the dots of vivid white light in front of him.

“Did you find the body, Mr. Rollison?”

“Is this something new, or a development in a case you’re already working on, Toff?”

“Do the police know who it was?”

“How was he killed?”

They flung question after question at him, and he answered most and parried some, unaffected by insistence. The sum total of what he told them was the sum total of what he had told Chief Inspector Lumley, and the police statement would certainly coincide. After five minutes and a breathless : “Shan’t keep you two minutes Mr. Rollison!” from a man who had just arrived with a television camera, Rollison pushed his way through the crowd, his expression unsmiling, though amiable enough.

He took his car out of its parking place, and switched on the lights, then turned into St. John’s Wood Road, then into Finchley Road. A few people passed, walking. Two buses lumbered by, while private cars sped back and forth, their shiny roofs reflecting the light from the tall street lamps. He turned left, towards Swiss Cottage, and away from central London, and saw a motor-cyclist behind him, one who had been waiting near the block of flats. Thinking nothing of it, at first, he continued up the hill, towards the Pond.

The motor-cyclist still followed him.

He made a complete circuit of the block, and then headed back towards central London. In ten or at most twenty minutes he could be at Smith Hall. He drove slowly, and once past the brooding walls of Lord’s cricket ground turned into a side street.

Rollison pulled into the side of the road, hesitated at the wheel, then put on the offside parking light, and got out. He was opposite a block of flats, and walked straight in. There was a hall, a staircase in the middle, a door marked EXIT on the right. He slipped behind this door but kept it ajar; and waited.

He heard footsteps, very light, almost stealthy.

A small figure appeared, topped by a white crash helmet, face half obliterated by goggles. Walking softly, this person crept to the stairs, looking to right and left. Rollison went out by the side door and strode quickly round to the front, re-entering the hall. The motorcyclist was standing near the stairs, obviously at a loss. Rollison went straight up to him, shot out his hands and gripped him by the collar.

“Looking for me?” he demanded.

He was prepared for a kick, prepared for a twist or a wriggle, but not prepared for the startled gasp and the sudden, terrified stillness, And when he pulled the crash helmet off he was not prepared for the lovely cascade of fair and rippling hair.

“What—what are you doing?” the motor-cyclist gasped. “Le—let me go!”

“Soon,” said Rollison. “When you’ve taken off those goggles and let me have a good look at you.”

The girl put her hands up to her head and eased the goggles off slowly. The light was too dim for him to see the colour of her eyes but he could see she was young, perhaps no older than Angela. She was trembling a little but she did not try to dodge or run away, only stared at him in defiance.

“Why did you follow me?” he demanded.

“I—I didn’t know you’d spotted me.”

“A blind man would have spotted you. Who are you?”

“I’m—I’m Gwendoline Fell,” she stated.

The name was vaguely familiar but did not immediately ring a bell. He let her go.

“You’re lucky I didn’t break your neck, Gwendoline Fell.”

As he repeated the name, he realised why it was familiar. She had a column in the Daily Globe, one of the most popular of the dailies, and also had a reputation for scathing comment and vitriolic personal attacks.

The realisation of her identity made him laugh.

“So you’ve realised who I am,” she said in a tart voice.

“Yes,” he said. “I can’t wait to read your column tomorrow. Is the Globe short of crime reporters, or did you just happen along?”

“I never ‘happen along’,” stated Gwendoline Fell, dryly.

“So you went with malice aforethought.”

“Will you tell me why?” asked Rollison.

At the back of his mind there was the thought that she might have been puzzled by Webberson’s disappearance, even that she might have some knowledge of the trouble at Smith Hall. She was just the columnist to sniff out any kind of scandal, and if there was one at Smith Hall she would make a righteous best of it, for she was a great champion of the young and the poor and the defenceless. “Yes, I’ll tell you why,” she said. “I think you’re a parasite.”

“You think I’m a what?” asked Rollison, and stared open-mouthed.

“You see, you can hardly believe your ears,” she said sardonically. “You’re so accustomed to your special kind of inherited divine right that when anyone tells you the truth about yourself, you don’t even recognise it. You are a parasite, Mr. Rollison. You feed off the lives of others. You put on a cloak of altruism but in fact you’re a—”

“Parasite,” interjected Rollison, recovering.

“That time I was going to say, an anachronism.”

“Oh. Out of date, you mean.”

“You know exactly what I mean. And when I heard you were at Packham House I couldn’t get there soon enough. I’ve been waiting for a chance to put you under the searchlights. You have no right to usurp the duties of the police, for your own self-aggrandisement. Tell me—have you ever done a full day’s work in your life?”

“Er—” began Rollison.

“Have you?”

“Er—”

“You know perfectly well that you haven’t. You live off inherited money, you dabble in a few good deeds and make a few donations to good causes, you employ a fully able-bodied man who has pampered you all your life. You are a—”

“I cooked my own supper tonight,” stated Rollison, defensively.

“As I was about to say, you are an anachronism and a parasite in today’s world.”

“Until you told me, I didn’t realise it,” Rollison assured her. “Tell me, do you always interview your victims this way? And do you always gather your evidence from hearsay and unreliable sources and then add a few fancy touches and consider the subject damned?”

“In the two years since I left university,” said Gwendoline Fell, with great deliberatio, “I have done more work and helped society—people, human beings—more than you have done in your whole life. And you must be in the middle forties.”

“Do you know,” said Rollison. “You’ve actually got one thing right. Don’t forget to include that in your column, will you?”

“You no doubt think that’s funny,” said Gwendoline, in an acid voice. “I don’t. Any man who seizes upon the murder of a friend to help him win more cheap popularity with people whom he has fooled for years is incapable of amusing me. I—what are you doing?”

“Proving how funny I can be,” said Rollison, con-trolling his sudden anger. He slid one arm at the back of Gwendoline’s waist, and bent her double over his knee: and then six times in slow, deliberate succession, he spanked her with the flat of his hand—hard enough, he knew, to sting but not hard enough to hurt. She was taken so much by surprise that not until the fifth spank did she begin to wriggle, and at the sixth he picked her up and placed her on her feet again.

“But that in your column, Gwendoline,” he said. “And if you ever sneak up on me again, I’ll repeat the dose!

“My God!” she breathed in a voice choked with rage, “I’ll make you pay for this. I’ll make you pay!”

She spun round and almost ran out of the foyer, and he stood staring after her, smiling, half-glad that he had acted so; but already half-sorry.

Then it came to his mind that for ten minutes or more she had made him forget all about Angela.

At least she hadn’t been able to follow him to Smith Hall.

CHAPTER 7

Smith Hall

ROLLISON drove more slowly than usual back to town, keeping a very sharp lookout, giving every car which appeared to stay behind him every chance to overtake. Satisfied that he had not been followed again he drove along Bloomdale Street, one of the few in the district where large single houses were still safe from the clan-gour of the demolition machines. Most of them were now used for business, university or hostel purposes; Rollison believed only one was still used as a private residence. There was some echo in his mind of a story about the owner, Sir Douglas Slaker—no, Slesser—no, but something like it. One of the old school, he had re-fused to sell any of the considerable properties he had in central London—oh, that was it! Sir Douglas Slatter, twice compelled by the law to give way to town planning schemes, more often successful in holding up what some called progress and he called vandalism.

Rollison had more than a sneaking admiration for him.

But he, Slatter, was an anachronism, too!

For the first time, he laughed at his treatment of Gwendoline Fell. Then he recalled that he had not remembered who she was, at first; his memory was failing.

“Don’t be a damned fool,” he said sotto voce.

The big corner house, Number 31, was Smith Hall, the name and the number written on the fanlight over the front door, very clearly. There was no board in the grounds, nothing he could see to announce the fact that it was a hostel.

The house next door to it was Slatter’s. He drove past, parking fifty or sixty yards away, then walked back to the hostel, glancing behind him all the time, still on edge because of Gwendoline. He had to step into the roadway at a spot cordoned off by flickering lamps outside a plot of land where builders were working but he hardly noticed it. He was about to turn into the gateway when he saw a shadow, thrown from a front room window light, on the ground. It looked like a man’s head and shoulders. He walked on, without slackening his pace even for a moment. But he did not go far, just turned round and walked back towards Smith Hall very softly.

He could still see the shadow.

There was a low brick wall between the two gardens, and between the wall and each house perhaps ten feet. He turned softly into the garden of Number 29, thankful for the grass underfoot, which deadened the sound of his approach. He went along by the wall, and slowly the figure of a man materialised, waiting in the shadows and watching Smith Hall.

The nearer Rollison drew, the bigger and more powerful the man seemed to be.

Rollison, making no sound at all on the grass, drew level; only about four feet and the stone wall—no more than four feet high—were between him and the lurking man. Rollison watched and waited, just as the other was doing.

The man was obviously watching the front door of Smith Hall.

Anyone who came out of the Hall would not see him, and he would need to take only two or three quick steps forward to reach the flagged path. He was so still that if it were not for his breathing he might have been mistaken for a statue.

Had he a weapon in his right hand?

Rollison could not be sure, for the whole of the man’s right side was in darkness, no light reached it at all. The left arm only could be seen, half-raised, the hand resting against the dark overcoat. And he was gloved.

His shoulders were enormous.

People passed, footsteps sharp on the pavement. Cars passed, mostly with only parking lights on, some with headlights dimmed, but bushes in the grounds of the Hall were so placed that the man was almost completely hidden; only the Toff, whose power of observation amounted to a sixth sense, would have noticed him.

There was a sudden click from the porch, as of a door being opened. The man seemed to square his shoulders, and to raise his right arm. Now at last Rollison could see that he carried something heavy, it looked like a bricklayer’s hammer with its massive steel head.

The door opened; brighter light shone but did not fall upon the waiting man. Rollison placed a hand on the wall, ready to vault over, quite sure that he could forestall any attack. He saw the shadow of a woman thrown by the light in the hall, then heard the door slam and the light was dim again.

Naomi Smith stepped from the porch on to the path. The waiting man raised the weapon in his hand, and leapt forward.

And as he leapt and as Naomi cried out in alarm, the Toff vaulted over the wall and called in a sharp voice of command:

“Keep still! Don’t move!”

On the instant the assailant spun away from Naomi and towards the Toff, who now saw that there was a stocking drawn over the big face, making it quite unrecognisable. He saw, too, the murderous hammer swinging, not towards Naomi Smith but towards his own bare head.

Rollison flung up a hand to fend off the blow and swung to one side. He caught the other’s forearm on his own, and it was like a steel bar. Off-balance, he tried to pivot, sensing that his assailant would rush at him, knowing that a man of such strength would be dangerous and could be deadly. He caught a glimpse of the stocking-covered face; it looked like the face of an idiot. Too near for a punch to be effective, Rollison gripped the other’s wrist, and twisted in an attempt to heave the man over his shoulder. He failed. He caught a doubled knee, intended for the groin, on the inner side of his thigh.

He heard shouting : a woman, then a man, then several men.

He gripped again but the masked assailant pulled himself free, then swung away and leapt the wall, dis- appearing from sight, as two men rushed down the path towards Naomi Smith, who was standing like a figure carved from stone.

Voices broke, incoherently.

“What was it?”

“Where is he?”

“Is anyone hurt?”

There were a dozen useless questions while Rollison moved towards the wall and began to search the ground. There was so little light here. A policeman turned into the gate. As Rollison bent down, a young man joined him.

“Looking for something?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve got a torch.” There was a click, and a pale beam of light wavered over grass and the dark brick wall—and then shone on the heavy-looking head of a bricklayer’s hammer.

“What’s that?” the youth darted forward.

“Don’t touch it !” exclaimed Rollison, in time to make the other draw back.

Behind them, Naomi Smith was saying: “I’m all right, I am, really.” On Rollison’s right the policeman was bearing down and a number of other people had gathered in the gateway. Why did people have to stand and gape and watch when others suffered? What sadistic streak lay buried in man?

“Good evening,” said the policeman. He was slight but quite tall and had a faintly Scottish accent. “What’s happening here?”

“A man was waiting to attack whoever was coming out of the house, as far as I can tell,” answered Rollison. “I happened to spot him. He dropped this,” He pointed to the hammer, glad to notice that the policeman bending down, made no attempt to touch it. “The assailant got away.”

Was anyone hurt?” asked the constable, practically.

“I don’t think so,” said Rollison. “Unless he himself was. This is a hostel for young women, and—”

“I know what it is, sir,” said the policeman, and lowered his voice. “Aren’t you Mr. Richard Rollison?”

“Yes,” said Rollison simply.

“Is this anything to do with what happened at St. John’s Wood, sir?”

“From the look of that hammer it wouldn’t surprise me,” said Rollison. “Can you see that it’s left there until your C.I.D. men come and have a look round?”

“I certainly can, sir.” The policeman pulled out a knob in the transistor radio tucked into his tunic and began to report to his division with a lucidity which Rollison admired, and which gave him much relief : he did not need to guide this young officer into doing what he wanted. And other police were approaching, from the gate one spoke with the patient firmness of authority.

“Move along, please, you’re causing an obstruction. Move along.”

“Is anyone hurt?” floated from the gateway.

“Isn’t that the hostel where—”

“Move along, now! I don’t want to have to tell you again!”

“I’ll be inside,” Rollison said to the constable near him, as the man pushed the aerial in.

“Thank you, sir. We’ll have a car along in a very few minutes.”

Raison looked towards Naomi Smith, who was now standing in the porch with the door behind her open and the light throwing her in dark relief. The policeman and the youth, seeing that they could do nothing more for her, turned towards Rollison.

“Are you the Rollison?” the youth breathed. The—the Toff?”

“Yes,” answered Rollison, crisply. “Now I must look after Mrs. Smith. Why don’t you telephone me later tonight or sometime tomorrow? You’ll find my name in the book.”

“Oh—may I?” There was tremendous excitement in the young voice.

“I’d like you to,” said Rollison. “And thank you for your help.” He moved away, watched very intently now by everyone who was near, and joined Naomi Smith. “Let’s go in,” he said, and took her arm leading her towards the hall beyond.

No one was there.

Rollison noted that the hall was pleasantly bright and much better furnished than might have been expected. There were oil portraits on the wall; the chairs, an oak settle and a big wardrobe were all old and well-preserved. The parquet flooring was well-polished and there was a big Indian square—Mirzapore, Rollison thought. A central staircase ended at a half-landing from which another flight led to the right and to the left.

Looking down from a wooden rail were three girls. In the shadowy light up there, each looked pale and nervous and dark-eyed.

Why hadn’t they come downstairs?

He wished Angela was one of them.

Naomi led the way to a room on the right, and switched on ceiling lights revealing a room which was part office, part sitting room. The big square desk had a green leather top, so did a smaller desk near it, on the right. On the other side was a typing table. Here were two telephones, a terra cotta jar filled with ball-point pens, another with finely-sharpened pencils.

Naomi, her hair ruffled, turned and faced him, her expression one of dismay and distress.

“I suppose you realise you might have been killed,” Rollison said in a conversational voice : there was no point in hectoring her, that would only worsen her distress.

“I—I do. I can’t—thank you—enough.”

“You feared that two of your girls were dead, didn’t you?” asked Rollison in the same, almost casual tone. “Why didn’t you tell me?” When she didn’t answer, he went on : “I could forgive a lot of things, but not that kind of deceit. You reported the girls were missing to the authorities, yet you came to me and asked for help because you said you didn’t want to call the police.” As he spoke, he knew that what she had done made nonsense. It wasn’t simply that she had fooled him—she had done something which was bound to come out, had lied knowing that the lie could not deceive him for long. What purpose could there be in such shortlived deception?

He was astonished at the change in her expression; agitation and a certain, unwilling deviousness could be read there.

She muttered, “But I did tell you! I wrote to you!”

“You wrote?”

“Yes, last week—last Monday. I telephoned twice and there was no answer, and I was distrait. I—I gave it to one of the girls to post. I was terribly worried because Iris, Iris Jay hadn’t arrived at the address she’d given me. Didn’t you get the letter?”

“I did not,” stated Rollison flatly. “Did you write it?”

He remembered suddenly a vague remark over the telephone about having written to him. He had hardly taken it seriously, accepting it as a social insincerity leading up to the request for an interview.

“Mr. Rollison,” said Naomi Smith, “if you can’t count on anything else, you can count on my absolute sincerity in wanting your help.” She was speaking hurriedly, as if to lead him away from the subject. Though he said nothing he was aware that she had not answered his question. Feeling came back to her voice and showed in her face again as she went on: “But what does matter now, obviously you know. I—I’m dreadfully worried about Angela.”

Fear like a knife stabbed through Rollison’s breast. “Why should you be?” he demanded sharply.

“She—she went out, after dinner tonight,” Naomi told him. “There was a telephone message from her to say that she’d discovered something I ought to know—would I meet her at the Oxford Street Corner House, main entrance. She would wait for me until twelve. That’s where I was going, when—”

She caught her breath.

And Rollison stared at her, knowing exactly what was passing through her mind; the fear that Angela’s call had served as decoy, and that going out in response to it had led her near to death.

CHAPTER 8

Decoy?

ROLLISON was acutely aware of three things. First, that although she was outwardly composed, Naomi Smith was in acute distress, and her mood was worsening. Second, that Angela was missing. Angela, whom he had sent here. And third, the chance that one of the residents had been trusted with a lettter which she had not posted—unless, by some freak of mismanagement, it had been lost by the postal officials. He had to calm and reassure Naomi, and he had to find Angela soon. This was the only place to start.

He said: “I could do with a brandy and soda. While you’re getting it may I use your telephone?”

“Of course.”

She moved towards a cupboard near the desk, opened it, and revealed a row of bottles and several glasses.

Raison dialled his flat, hard-faced. Jolly answered at once, and Rollison said : “Miss Angela may be at the Oxford Street Corner House, Jolly—and could be in very great danger. Go and see what you can find out, will you? Tell the police if she doesn’t turn up.”

“Of course, sir. At once.” Jolly certainly wouldn’t lose a moment.

Rollison rang off.

There was brandy, which he really wanted for Naomi Smith much more than for himself. He joined her, seeing her hands trembling.

“Sit down,” he said, and poured brandy and gave it to her. He carefully poured himself a little, then drank with her. Before long the police would be here, and he wanted to hear what had happened before they arrived. The best way to learn would be by quick question and answer.

“Did Angela tell you she was going out?”

“No.”

“Who did?”

“One of the girls—Anne Miller.”

“Were they friends?”

“I—I think they get along all right. But since we’ve realised that Iris was missing, everyone—everyone’s been nervous. I gave instructions that no-one was to go out alone, and that their boy-friends must collect them and bring them back. That’s why Anne told me Angela had gone off by herself—it wasn’t simply breaking a rule to go out alone, it was walking into danger.”

It was so like Angela, too; she would be so sure that no rule applied to her, that she was free to come and go—it had probably not occurred to her that any risk might be involved.

“Did Anne have any idea where?” he asked.

“Angela—Angela hinted that it was to see a boy-friend.”

“Had she met any boy-friend before? Or gone out by herself before?”

“No. She was the last person I would have expected to—”

“I’m sure. You say she telephoned you?”

“She telephoned but I didn’t speak to her. I was with one of the residents who’s been very distressed lately. I was trying to soothe this girl, and Anne took the message.”

“Anne Miller?” asked Rollison sharply.

“Yes. Anne usually takes messages, she’s really my secretary, I find her invaluable.”

Was it Anne Miller who was supposed to post the letter to me?” asked Rollison, sharply.

“No, that was Judy Lyons. Judy is a bit scatterbrained, she could have—oh, I hardly know what to say or what I’m saying!” exclaimed Naomi, and she seemed almost in tears. “Don’t please start casting aspersions on the girls.”

“Naomi,” said Rollison quietly, “you nearly had your head smashed in. Two of the girls are missing and might be dead. Angela, who is missing, was used as a decoy. A few aspersions here and there really don’t matter. So you didn’t speak to Angela yourself?”

“No—Anne did.”

“I’d like to see Anne, at once,” said Rollison. “But—but —”

“Please send for Anne Miller,” Rollison grated; he had to fight against losing his temper.

Naomi hesitated, then put her brandy glass down with an unsteady hand and moved to the telephone. She picked up the nearest one, pressing a button beneath it; and almost at once Rollison heard a click, and the distant sound of a voice.

“Come into my study, Anne,” Naomi said. “Hurry, please . . . I can tell you about that afterwards . . . Are they?” She seemed startled and now troubled by some additional worry. “Very well, I’ll go and see them when you’re here.” She rang off, pressing one hand against her forehead.

It crossed Rollison’s mind that this could be acting, but as she lifted her face and looked at him, he thought, no; she’s in deep trouble and distress. His heart went out to her, but he did not show his sympathy, as he waited, hard-faced.

“The girls are terrified,” she said. “I must go to the common room and talk to them.” She moved slowly away from the desk. “They know about the attack outside, one of their boy-friends saw it, apparently—the boy with the torch.”

“Are there any other boy-friends here?”

“I don’t know,” said Naomi. “But Anne will.” As she finished there was a movement at the door. It opened to admit a tall, thin, sallow-faced girl with high cheekbones. Her dark hair, falling untidily to her shoulders, drooped over one eye. She wore a very short mini-skirt, emphasising slender but well-shaped legs. “Anne,” went on Naomi Smith, “Mr. Rollison wishes to ask you some questions. Give him all the information you can, please.”

Anne looked blankly—sullenly?—at Rollison, as Naomi went out, closing the door behind her. Anne did not move; the harder Rollison looked at her complexion the more like olive-coloured wax it seemed; and her eyes were the colour of dark olives, too.

“Did you speak to Angela Pax-Elliott tonight?” asked Rollison.

“Yes,” Anne said.

“On the telephone?”

“Yes.”

“What did she say?”

“She said she wanted to see Mrs. Smith.”

“Where?”

“At the Oxford Street Corner House.”

“When?”

“She would wait until twelve o’clock.”

“What else did she say?”

“She said she was on to something.”

“Were those her exact words?”

“They were her exact words,” asserted Anne Miller.

Not once as she had answered the swift succession of questions had her voice changed from a low, monotonous tone. And not once had she moved.

“What time did she call?” demanded Rollison, flatly. “At eleven-seventeen.”

“How can you be so precise?”

“Because I am a precise person by nature, and I have a watch.”

“Did Angela sound alarmed?” asked Rollison. “No.”

“How did she sound?”

“Excited,” announced Anne Miller.

“What was the name of her boy-friend?”

“Who said she had a boy-friend?” Now there was an inflection in the girl’s voice which made her answer very nearly insolent.

“Didn’t she tell you she was going to meet one?”

“She indicated it, yes.” For the first time Anne’s expression changed and it was difficult to judge whether it was in a smile or a sneer. She had small but quite beautiful lips, spoiled with pale pink lipstick which jarred against the sallow tone of her skin. “All of us indicate our romantic conquests whether they are true or not.”

“Lie about it, you mean?”

“ ‘Hint’ is a pleasanter word, don’t you think?” suggested Anne.

“From what I know, delicate hints about boy-friends are hardly necessary here,” said Rollison, bluntly. He knew that his words were crud but he had to break through this girl’s resistance somehow, and it wasn’t going to be easy.

She narrowed her oyes, but did not speak.

“Anne,” said Rollison. “Do you know what’s going on here?”

“No.”

“Did you tell Mrs. Smith that the other girls are terrified?”

“Yes.”

“Why are they terrified?”

“Do you think we should welcome having our heads smashed in?” demanded Anne, her voice rising to a cutting scorn. “Or don’t you think it matters, if such a thing happens to unmarried mothers?”

So he had hurt her, and had also loosened her tongue.

“I think it matters,” Rollison said. “But weren’t they terrified before the hammer attack on Mrs. Smith?”

“Quite possibly,” she said curtly.

“Then, what was it that frightened them?”

“Mr. Rollison,” said Anne Miller, as if suddenly overcome with weariness, “I don’t know what you’re doing here or why you came, but I can tell you you’re getting nowhere, fast.”

“What terrified the girls?” persisted Rollison, obstinately.

After a brief pause, Anne answered “All right, then. There have been telephone calls from a man threatening to kill us. He always says the same thing—- just one blow will be enough, one blow on the back of your head:” And then he rings off.” She half-closed her eyes but opened them wide again when he took a step towards her. “Wouldn’t you be scared?”

“Anyone would be,” Rollison answered gently. “When did this all begin, Anne?”

“Three days ago.”

“And you’ve each had a call in those three days?”

“More or less. There’s a telephone in each room, and we sleep three or four in a room. Whoever answered the telephone got the same message.”

“What has Mrs. Smith had to say?”

“She doesn’t know about the calls,” said Anne.

“You haven’t told the superintendent!” exclaimed Rolli-son, in astonishment mingled with disbelief.

“Can’t you see she has enough on her mind already?” demanded Anne. “We agreed we wouldn’t tell her. She’s warned us not to go out alone or come back alone. And she’s called in the police. What more can she do? Of course we haven’t told her,” she finished, in exasperation.

“If you had done so, do you think she would have gone out alone tonight?” asked Rollison, quietly.

“No one thought she was in danger,” Anne answered.

“How could you be sure she hadn’t had a threat by telephone?” demanded Rollison, and when Anne didn’t answer but looked appalled, he went on : “Anne, who is doing this? Do you know?”

“My God, if only I did!” she cried. “All I know is that we were happier than we’d been for ages. All of us. Can you imagine what it’s like to be branded? Oh, we were fools, or else we deliberately defied convention, but we are branded. Even today you can stand at the window and see old women pointing and tut-tutting as they pass, and old men leering at us, and young men—” She was almost crying as she went on and the words were sharp and clear and yet every now and again her voice broke. “Do you realise why we’re here? We’ve got good minds, some of us are brilliant at our own subjects but we’ve offended the great god, convention . . . and we haven’t even had the sense to look after ourselves. Our critics think we’re immoral and our one-time friends think we’re fools—God! And there isn’t one of us who can turn to friends or relatives. IV you know what I was doing when I came here? I was a counter assistant at Woolworth’s haberdashery department—and I was a child prodigy, they tell me there isn’t anyone at my age to touch me in higher mathematics. ‘That’s one-and-eleven, please, penny change. Nail files? On the perfumery counter, madam . . . . That’s seven-and-sixpence exactly, sir . . . .’ ”

“Stop it,” interrupted Rollison, sharply.

“I won’t stop it ! I can’t stop it ! I tell you I was nearly out of my mind when I heard from Naomi Smith. It didn’t seem possible! A chance to study under Professor Offenberger and nothing to pay except time. There’s even a creche here! We aren’t under any pressure to have our babies adopted if we don’t want to—God ! It was like heaven! And then—and then the trouble began. First we had indecent telephone calls and beastly letters, then gradually the tone changed and we were told to go away from here. The very place we’ve come to love—oh, it’s dreadful, it’s dreadful!”

Rollison said briskly : “Yes, Anne, it is. And it won’t get any better if you keep a single thing back.”

He looked at his watch. It was half-past twelve and there was no word from Jolly and no interruption from the police. Jolly would have telephoned had he seen Angela, of course—so she hadn’t gone to the Corner House. He had never really believed she had.

“I’m not keeping anything back,” Anne said, sullenly. “Did you speak to Angela in person?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure it was her voice?”

“Of course I’m sure, you don’t think I could make a mistake about her, surely? She sounded excited, and very sure of herself. Has she been waiting all—”

“No,” Rollison said. “I sent someone there as soon as I heard about the call. Anne, how well did you know Winifred de Vaux?”

It was a long time before Anne answered. She began to sway. Rollison took her arm and led her towards a chair, then poured out brandy. She lifted the glass, then lowered it again as she glanced up at him.

“Not—not really well,” she said. “She wasn’t easy to know. She—she was the only one here who really was obsessed with men, I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone so over-sexed—so obviously over-sexed—and proud of it. Some would say she flaunted it, but she didn’t, she was just proud. She thought it was glorious to be a woman. She—she’s dead, isn’t she?”

“It seems a possibility,” said Rollison. “But what makes you think so?”

“The man who telephoned tonight said she was,” answered Anne Miller, her voice dead, stripped of emotion. “And soon, soon, all the sluts and whores who lived here would be dead too.”

She tried to sip her brandy but her hand began to shake, and soon her slender body, until, inevitably, the tears began to fall.

And as she cried the door opened, and Naomi Smith came in.

CHAPTER 9

The Hammer

NAOMI seemed to draw back when she heard the girl crying, then moved quickly towards her. She glanced at Rollison, and he expected to see scorn or reproach; instead she gave him a flashing smile, of thanks or congratulation. She put an arm round the girl and led her towards a chair. Rollison had not realised how tiny Anne was. He felt for the girl; he could understand her bitterness and her fear, but he feared for Angela with a kind of desperate self-blame.

As he stepped into the hall, Grice appeared from the front door, and they stopped, a few yards separating them.

“So you know nothing about this affair,” Grice said, accusingly. “When are you going to stop trying to fool us?”

“The real question is the old question—when are you going to start believing the truth?” asked Rollison.

“Why did you come here?”

“You know why. And if I hadn’t come, Naomi Smith . . .” he told Grice all there was to tell, and before he was through, knew that Grice had not seriously believed he had arrived with foreknowledge. “Have you heard from Jolly?” he asked.

He hardly knew what answer to hope for.

“Yes,” said Grice.

“So—Angela wasn’t at the Corner House,” Rollison said heavily.

“He gave her fifteen minutes, then called the Yard,” said Grice. “We had four men there within five minutes and a thorough search was made, but she wasn’t in the place. Jolly went back to Gresham Terrace.”

“Have you put Angela on the missing list?” asked Rollison.

“Her description is with every division and every Home Counties force,” Grice replied. “Her picture will be sent round tomorrow.” He paused, and then asked in a wary way: “Do you want it to go to television and newspapers?”

“Of course. Why not?” asked Rollison.

“You must be very tired to ask that,” remarked Grice.

“Why should I—oh. The Press will know that she was a resident here, and do I want her picture to appear before the public gaze.” Rollison felt almost angry. “Bill, can you seriously think I care a damn about gossip?”

“Your family might,” Grice said.

“Damn my family,” growled Rollison.

“Including Lady Gloria?”

“She is the one person who won’t care a hoot.”

“Although if one of the family was in the—ah—was in trouble, surely the Marigold Club would be the first place for her to go,” said Grice. “This could look as if Lady Gloria will extend the hand of charity to strangers but not to her own family.” Grice spoke with unusual feeling, and Rollison realised that he was trying to be helpful, trying to make sure that Rollison, so deeply involved, was seeing this situation objectively.

“Bill,” he said, “arrange for the photograph in the newspapers and on television, will you. And—thanks.”

“Right,” said Grice. “I’ve a man waiting,” He strode to the front door and spoke clearly to a man whom Rollison could not see. “But all three pictures out to the Press and television, Soames.”

“Very good, sir.”

Grice turned back again, his manner easier, more matter-of-fact. He took a large wallet from his pocket, opened it, and took out a photograph which he handed to Rollison. Even though he first saw it upside down, Rollison recognised it at once : this was a photograph of a sledge hammer.

He turned it round.

“That was quick.”

“We can be quick,” observed Grice drily. “It’s probably the one with which Webberson was killed, too. There’s a chip out at one corner, and it appears to coincide with an impression on Webberson’s skull.” After a lengthy pause, Grice went on : “Did you get any kind of mind picture of the man who was waiting here?”

“No,” answered Rollison slowly. “Not of his face.” He considered, and then went on more briskly: “Mind you, it was a very broad face. The features were squashed down by the stocking, but if I saw him again as he was then, I would probably recognise him.” He paused, then went on : “He had little or no neck. I’ve never seen a man with broader shoulders and when he turned round on me I saw how deep-chested he was. A barrel-chested, bullnecked man at the peak of physical fitness, I would say.”

Grice was smiling.

Not a bad mental picture,” he approved. “I’ll get that sent round at once—why didn’t you get him? Distracted by Mrs. Smith’s danger, were you?”

Rollison shook his head, very slowly.

“No,” he answered. “He was too quick and too powerful, and I didn’t give myself enough time.” He allowed a few moments for that to sink in, and then added : “This man could crush one of the girls with his fist. Any sign of him?”

“None at all,” answered Grice.

“Footprints?”

“We’ve rigged up some floodlights but we’re not getting much co-operation,” said Grice. “We’ll have to wait until morning before we’ve much chance of finding out which way this man went. At least he will have mud on his shoes, he was standing where a garden hose had been leaking most of the day.”

“I wondered what made the grass so wet. What’s this about no co-operation?”

Grice, almost saturnine when he smiled in this dim light, said off-handedly:

“Sir Douglas Slatter does not approve of (a) the police and (b) the residents of Smith Hall. If he’d had his way our chaps would be driven off his grounds. As it is he won’t allow us to use the mains electricity from his house for the floodlighting—we had to send for more cable and run it off the supply here. Some of these old men are so prejudiced it’s hard to believe.”

“Well, well, well,” said Rollison.

“What strikes you as so remarkable about that?” asked Grice.

“Sir Douglas doesn’t approve of the place,” remarked Rollison, almost to himself. “And he’s not simply non-cooperative, he’s actually obstructive. We’re looking for a motive for the threats and the attacks, Bill. How is this for a motive : psychopathic disapproval of ..”

Grice stopped him, abruptly.

“That’s the wildest jump to a conclusion I’ve ever come across,” he rebuked. “He’s an old man, he’s bad-tempered, he’s not well and he was awakened out of a deep sleep. He’ll be a different man in the morning.”

“Bill,” urged Rollison, “have a look at the doorsteps leading into the back or side entrances of the house next door. If there are any footmarks, don’t leave them to be brushed off in the morning.”

Grice contemplated him thoughtfully.

“That won’t do any harm, anyway. I’ll fix it.”

“Thanks,” said Rollison. “Do you want me here for anything else?”

“No,” said Grice. “Just one piece of advice, though, before you go.”

“I’m in the right mood to take advice,” said Rollison heavily.

“You’ve very strong personal reasons to stick your neck out,” said Grice. “I’ve seen you before when you’ve a guilt-complex working like a computer in your mind. Don’t stick your neck out too far, even for Angela. Think three times before you do anything off your own bat—and use us as much as you can. You may not believe it, but I’m as anxious to find Angela as you are.”

For the second time, Rollison warmed to the police-man.

“I believe you,” he said. “And you’ll watch this house closely, won’t you?”

“A mouse won’t be able to get in or out without being seen,” Grice boasted.

Rollison nodded, turned to the study door, which was closed, and tapped. There was a muted call of ‘come in’. He found Naomi sitting behind the desk and Anne Miller lying back in a small armchair in front of her. She appeared to be all legs and long, loose hair, and had the face of tragedy.

“You needn’t have any fear of being attacked,” he said. “The police will make sure of that.”

“Yes, I suppose they will,” said Naomi, as Anne Miller looked up at Rollison from those sombre dark eyes. “And there will be no way of keeping this out of the newspapers, will there?”

“Absolutely no way at all,” said Rollison.

Momentarily, Naomi Smith closed her eyes. Then she seemed to make a physical effort to pull herself together, braced her shoulders and spoke more crisply.

“Then we shall have to try to turn it to advantage. I’ve asked those of our sponsors who are free to be here at twelve noon in the morning, Mr. Rollison. I will be most grateful if you will join us.”

“I’ll be glad to,” Rollison accepted. “One question. How do you get on with your next door neighbour?”

“We don’t get on,” answered Naomi Smith.

“That old lecher!” exclaimed Anne Miller with sudden venom. “He used to think that all he had to do was open his window and beckon, and when he learned that we’re in the baby business strictly for love, he started a virtueand-hate campaign. Laughable, really. But—hateful.”

*     *     *

Rollison pulled up outside his house in Gresham Terrace, and decided to leave his car there. He did not feel like taking it to the garage and walking the five minutes back. A light was on in his living-room, and he saw the curtain move and a brighter light appear for a moment : Jolly had heard the car.

It was a little after two o’clock.

Jolly, dressed as if it were mid-day but looking very grey and tired, was at the flat door.

“This won’t do,” said Rollison, with forced jocularity. “We can’t have you losing your beauty sleep.” Then he saw Jolly’s expression, a warning in itself, and realised that someone was in the flat. Inwardly, he groaned, for the last thing he wanted was another argument . . .

Unless this were news of Angela.

“Good evening, sir,” said Jolly. “A Miss Gwendoline Fell called about an hour ago, and insisted on waiting.” There was a world of resentment in that insisted. “I told her that there was no assurance that you would see her.”

“And I said you’d better,” declared Gwendoline Fell, from the inner door.

Rollison went in and looked across at her levelly. Her golden-brown hair was tumbled, her big blue eyes were tired, but she looked ready enough for battle. She also reminded him, rather strangely, of Angela.

“And what makes you think I wouldn’t be happy to see her?” he asked lightly. “Some coffee and sandwiches, Jolly.”

“At once, sir.” Jolly disappeared by the alternative route to the kitchen, and Rollison beamed down at Gwendoline.

“Come and sit down.” As they went into the big room, he added : “Are you old enough to be offered a drink?”

“You really do have the most execrable sense of humour,” she remarked.

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry about that. What will you have?”

“What are you going to have?”

“I might have a spot of brandy in my first cup of coffee, to make it interesting and to wake me up’ “May I have that, too?”

“Yes, of course.” Rollison looked at his large armchair longingly, and sat on a corner of his desk, with the Trophy Wall behind him. He did not need telling that the girl had come with serious purpose, and his respect for her had risen the moment he had seen her, for many a young columnist so disrespectfully treated would have assuaged her dignity by a vitriolic attack in print.

Perhaps she had done so.

“What brought you?” he asked.

“I heard about the trouble at Smith Hall and that you saved Naomi Smith from having her head bashed in.” She spoke as casually as if she were recording the buying of a penny stamp. “So I put in my stand-by column and postponed the one on you.”

“Pity,” he said. “I was looking forward to reading about my parasitic and anachronistic way of life.”

“You might still do so.”

“You mean, if I do what you want me to do, you won’t write scurrilously about me?”

“I never write scurrilously about anyone. And in any case, your background and your innate sense of superiority—of being untouched by such things as public comment—would protect you. No, I mean—I might change my mind about you.”

“Oh. Why?”

“You might get Smith Hall and Naomi Smith off the hook.”

“Oh,” said Rollison, and resisted a mischievous impulse to ask whether she was qualified to reside at Smith Hall. “So you now know she came to see me?”

“And that you promised to help.”

“Who told you?”

“I’ve a friend who lives there—Judy Lyons.”

“Scatterbrain,” remarked Rollison.

“Who on earth told you she was a scatterbrain?” asked Gwendoline, in astonishment. Her expression changed and she went on : “Oh, Naomi, I expect. Well, I talked to Judy on the telephone when the story came in about the trouble at Smith Hall, and she told me you’d made yourself quite a hero. And she said that Naomi seemed to think that you would and could help. So-—” Gwendo-line glanced up expressively. “I thought you and I might bury the hatchet, and work together over this.” She glanced at Jolly who put a laden tray down on the low table at her side, and went on : “The one certain thing is that you’ll never solve this case on your own.”

After a moment of startled silence, Jolly drew back, looked at Gwendoline with a withering dislike, and said : “I trust that will be all, sir.”

“Yes,” said Rollison. “You go to bed.”

“Thank you, sir. If there is any word of Miss Angela you will wake me, won’t you?”

“Yes,” promised Rollison.

“If you want to know where Angela is, don’t go to bed yet,” advised Gwendoline. “Because I’m pretty sure I know where she is.”

CHAPTER 10

True Or False?

ROLLISON moved from the desk, towards Gwendoline. Jolly, on his way back to the kitchen, stopped and turned round. The two men dwarfed the girl, and there was something almost threatening in their manner. Her eyes showed a sudden awareness of this.

“Where is she?” demanded Rollison.

“We have to make quite sure whether that statement was true or false, sir,” Jolly said, roughly for him. “This young woman is quite capable of proffering false hope in order to get the information and assistance which she desires from us.”

“Yes. Where is Angela?” Rollison repeated, in a steely voice.

“I—I didn’t say I was certain—I said I was pretty sure,” said Gwendoline, looking apprehensively from one man to the other.

“Where do you think she is?” demanded Rollison. “Next door to Smith Hall, in Sir Douglas Slatter’s house.”

“What!” gasped Rollison.

“I tell you that’s where I think she is. Oh, for goodness sake stop towering over me in that melodramatic manner!” exclaimed Gwendoline, straightening up abruptly. “Angela suspected that some rather unpleasant telephone calls came from the house next door, and she found out that they wanted a housemaid. So she took the job. It’s as simple as that.”

“Well I’m—” began Rollison, but his heart was lighter than it had been since he had first heard that Angela was missing. It was so like her—to pretend there was nothing to report while she was working ingeniously and desperately hard to prove her capacity as a detective. “When did you know about this?”

“Only tonight—from Judy Lyons. That’s why I decided to come here, I thought you and I might come to an arrangement. If I put your mind at rest about your niece, will you give me inside information which no other newspaperman or woman can possibly get? I suppose it’s too late to strike a bargain now,” she added resignedly. “I—what on earth are you doing?”

Rollison turned away suddenly, and picked up the telephone and began to dial. He did not answer. His heart was thumping, and he was staring at the far end of the Trophy Wall, hardly aware of the old-fashioned cutlass or the bicycle chain in his direct line of vision; each had been used for murder.

“What are—” began Gwendoline.

“Please be quiet, Miss!” Jolly was sharp.

“This is Smith Hall,” a man answered Rollison.

“Is Mr. Grice still there?” asked Rollison urgently. “This is Richard Rol—”

“Hold on, sir! He’s just moving off !” There was a clatter of the telephone, and then silence, and at last Rollison turned to Gwendoline and Jolly.

“If she’s at Slatter’s place, I mean to find out. If the police won’t search his house, I will.”

“Oh,” said Gwendoline, in a small voice. And then, while Rollison was still holding on to the telephone and Jolly, also tense, was watching him, she asked almost petulantly: “May I have some coffee, please?”

Jolly opened his mouth as if in anger, closed it, relaxed, took a table napkin off a silver dish of sandwiches and poured out coffee.

“Hallo,” Grice said to Rollison. “What is it now?”

“Bill,” said Rollison. “I’ve just been told that Angela took a job as housemaid at Sir Douglas Slatter’s house. If she did and she’s there now, she might be in acute danger before the night’s out. Too many people now know who she is and what she’s doing.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Grice, slowly. “Hold on a moment.”

Rollison held on while Gwendoline, reaching for her coffee cup, stared at him; and Jolly, hot milk in hand, looked up from a half-stooping position over her.

“Yes,” repeated Grice. “We’ll have to find out. I wouldn’t mind having a look round there, I’ve been thinking over what you said.” A chuckle fluttered his voice. “I’ll need a search-warrant, though and that—” Grice broke off, only to go on more decisively. “I’ll go and ask him to let me search and see what happens. If I have to get a search-warrant, what evidence do you have?”

“This time, will you just take my word for it?”

“I will, but a magistrate might not. All right, Rolly. I’ll call you back in half-an-hour, don’t come charging over here yet.”

“If you’re thirty-one minutes, I’ll be on my way.” Roll-son said.

*     *     *

Five minutes later, Sir Douglas Slatter, massive in a camel-hair dressing gown, and tight-lipped with bad temper, growled at Grice : “If you have to I suppose you’ll have to, but if you’re doing it without a good reason I shall have questions asked in the House.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Grice.

He had four men with him and they went from room to room, with Slatter accompanying one couple and a middle-aged grey-haired housekeeper the other. Grice went out to his car, had a message telephoned to Roll-son, and then rejoined his men. They had nearly finished, when he heard the housekeeper say to the two policemen with her :

“This is the last room—and there’s a girl sleeping in it. A maid. Don’t frighten her out of her wits.”

Grice reached them as she opened the door, and peered over their shoulders.

There, sleeping the sleep of the innocent, one bare arm over the bedspread, hair spread like leaves over the pillow, was Angela. She looked what she was : little more than a child. Grice eased himself inside the room and looked down at her closely. She was breathing evenly, her lips lightly closed. He gave a half-smile, of pleasure, and then withdrew.

Outside, he said : “Now I would like to see the attic and the loft, please.”

*     *     *

Just after half-past three, Rollison’s telephone rang again. It made Gwendoline start up from the chair in which she had been dozing, and as he lifted the receiver he heard the one on Jolly’s extension lifted, too.

“Ronson.”

“She’s all right, Roily,” Grice assured him. “She’s sleeping naturally, and I didn’t wake her. There’s no-one who shouldn’t be in the house, no sign of a man who fits the description you gave me, and no mud on any of the doorsteps. I’d leave Angela there. She’s safe enough for to-

night, anyhow, and I’ll have that house watched as well as Smith Hall. We can decide what to do about her to-morrow.”

“Good enough,” agreed Rollison. “The little devil!” But he laughed. “Thanks very much, Bill, and goodnight.”

As he rang off, he heard Jolly’s muted : “Thank God for that,” and he saw Gwendoline by his side, bright with excitement, pretty as the proverbial picture. She clutched his arm and her grip was surprisingly strong.

“Now will you do a deal?”

“Yes,” answered Rollison. “I’ll do a deal and I’ll see you get some inside information, but before we come to terms I’d like to sleep on the situation and see how I feel in the morning.”

“You mean, you’re tired out,” said Gwendoline, giving way to a vast yawn. “So am I! What time tomorrow?”

“Will two o’clock in the afternoon suit you?”

“Are you going to sleep that long?”

“I shall ask Jolly to see that I’m up by nine o’clock, I’ve a lot to do before going to Smith Hall at noon to-morrow,” said Rollison.

“Do you know,” said Gwendoline Fell, “I think that given encouragement, you might be quite funny, after all.” She turned towards the door. “Thanks for the coffee, and the sandwiches were lovely.”

Rollison went with her down the stairs; she was un-believably light-footed and graceful; even when she threw a leg over her motor-scooter she showed grace. She placed her crash helmet firmly on her head and then shattered the street with the roar of the engine, raised a hand, and moved off at startling speed. Rollison watched her out of sight, then, went up to his flat, and along to Jolly’s room.

Jolly was in bed.

“Well, what do you make of that young lady?” asked Rollison. “Do you trust her?”

“I grew to dislike her less as time went on,” admitted Jolly grudgingly. “But I certainly wouldn’t trust her too far.”

“No, nor would I,” agreed Rollison. “Tomorrow, see what you can find out about her background and also about Smith Hall residents Anne Miller and Judy Lyons. Be discrete, and if necessary ask Mr. Grice for help. He’ll probably give it gladly.”

“He is obviously deeply worried,” said Jolly. “It’s very hard to believe that Professor Webberson is dead, sir, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Rollison heavily. “Hard to realise that two of the girls are probably dead, too, and Naomi Smith is on the killer’s list. At least he won’t use the same hammer again,” he added. “About nine on the morning. That will give us five hours’ sleep, with luck.”

“I’ll call you, sir.”

Rollison went to bed with so much on his mind that he half-expected to be a long time getting off, but in fact he was asleep as soon as he had adjusted the sheets and blankets. The reassurance about Angela, shadowed by the other murders, by the dangers, by the threats, had exhausted him.

Jolly brought him tea at five minutes past nine.

At ten o’clock he pulled up outside the modern severity of the new New Scotland Yard, was recognised and passed from constable to sergeant, sergeant to Chief Inspector and finally into Grice’s office. Grice was not there. Three newspapers were open on his desk, an indication of sudden departure.

“He’s with the Assistant Commissioner, sir,” said the Chief Inspector. “He isn’t likely to be long.”

“Thanks,” said Rollison—and the door opened and Grice came in. He did not look in the best of moods, and simply nodded before rounding the desk and shuffling the newspapers into position. “Good morning, Bill,” said Rollison. “I wanted to come and say ‘thanks’ in person.”

Grice grunted.

“The Assistant Commissioner doubts the need or the wisdom of my search of Slatter’s house,” he said. “Slatter’s already been talking to M.P.s and they have been talking to the Home Secretary. Did you have to choose as suspect a millionaire who owns more property in London than any other single person?”

“No,” said Rollison. “Angela chose him.”

“She has been seen in the house this morning,” Grice went on. “I want you to find out why she went there as soon as you can, and if it’s some damned flight of fancy, I want her out.”

“Yes, Superintendent,” said Rollison with tactful humility. “Any news?”

“The sledge hammer was the one used to kill Keith Webberson.” Grice touched a file on his desk. “It had been stolen from a building site nearby, a small block of flats is going up where there used to be a big house. No fingerprints, but there are burned initials on the shaft,” Grice added.

“What intitials?”

“T.S.—and don’t start jumping to any more conclusions.” Grice’s interview with the Assistant Commissioner for Crime must have been very unpleasant. “And don’t ask me whether I’m trying to find the owner, either.” He moved his right hand as one of three telephones on his desk began to ring. “Why should anyone try to murder Mrs. Smith, if we could answer that . . . Grice here.”

His expression changed as he listened, the sense of grievance died.

“Yes .. “ he said. “Are you quite sure? . . . Well, now we know where we are. Is there any way of finding out whether she was killed by the same sledge hammer? . . . Yes, compare the wounds with those on the back of Professor Webberson’s head . . . Yes, as far as I know I’ll be here all the morning.”

He put the receiver down, and leaned back in his chair. Rollison was almost sure what the main news was but he waited for Grice to deliberate, without trying to rush him.

“The body taken out of the Thames was Winifred de Vaux’s,” he said flatly. “The dentist has just given positive identification. There’s no news of the other missing girl. Webberson was murdered about eight days ago—four or five days before the de Vaux girl disappeared. And—” Grice pulled at his lower lip before going on: “And the neighbours across from Webberson’s flat have identified the girl in the photograph as Winifred de Vaux. The woman recognised another visitor to Webberson’s flat, too.”

Grice paused.

“The other missing girl,” said Rollison.

The other missing girl, Iris Jay,” confirmed Grice. “And Mrs. Smith was a regular visitor, too. So the two missing girls and the matron of Smith Hall were regular visitors to your friend’s flat. Rolly,” went on Grice in a brisker, demanding tone, Was Keith Webberson one for the women?”

Slowly, Rollison answered : “When he was younger, yes.”

“Do you have any reason to believe he grew out of it?”

“No,” admitted Rollison. “None at all. But he was one of the group who sponsored this hostel. He—” he broke off, raising his bands, as Grice looked at him severely. “Guilty conscience, do you mean?” he asked.

“It could be,” said Grice. “It certainly could be. Mrs. Smith told me last night that you were going to be at Smith Hall when the surviving sponsors are to meet this morning. I don’t want a man there but I do want a detailed report of what goes on.”

“I’ll see you get it,” promised Rollison.

“Plain and unvarnished,” insisted Grice.

“Yes.”

“And by the way,” said Grice, “I had a report that you had a late night visit from that columnist of the Daily Globe, Gwendoline Fell. What was that sly young woman after?”

“Sly?” echoed Rollison.

“Don’t say she fooled you,” said Grice. He laughed with some show of irritation. “But perhaps she did. She’s twisted more of our men round her little finger than anyone I’ve ever known. Does she want inside information in return for her help?”

“William,” said Rollison with feeling, “you get wiser and wiser and wilier and wilier every day. Yes, that is exactly what she wanted.”

“Be careful how much you tell her,” advised Grice. “If I know her, she’ll want a detailed report of the meeting of the sponsors, too.”

“Plain and unvarnished, no doubt,” rejoined Rollison. “Bill, did you realise you had a lot in common with Gwendoline Fell?”

Grice looked astonished.

“I have?”

“Yes, you,” said Rollison. “You share the illusion that I’m no longer capable of thinking for, acting for and looking after myself. I’ll be in touch.”

He smiled broadly, and moved so swiftly that he was outside Grice’s office before Grice had recovered from the impact of his words. And as he walked along the passages of the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police, he was humming to himself.

In less than an hour, he would be at the meeting of the sponsors; at least, of the four who were left.I

CHAPTER 11

The Four Remaining

POLICE still watched outside Smith Hall, and were stationed at the corners of Bloomdale Street and Bloom-dale Square, in positions from which they could watch Number 29—Sir Douglas Slatter’s house—as well as Number 31. A few bystanders looked on with patient interest as Rollison approached; then a young newspaper photographer sparked their interest by crying out :

“Hold it, Mr. Rollison!”

There was a surge forward from the crowd, and an elderly man whom Rollison had known for years as one of Fleet Street’s most astute crime reporters, came from behind the photographer.

“Good morning, Toff !” he said clearly, smiling.

Among the crowd the name was echoed: Toff—Toff —Toff—Toff, and on two or three lips it reached Rollison’s ears.

“Good morning, Arthur,” said Rollison, above the noise of hammering from the nearby building site.

“What interested you in this—ah—establishment?” inquired the Fleet Street man.

“The murder of a close friend of mine,” said Rollison. “Professor Webberson, do you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know that he was a—ah—sponsor of Smith Hall?”

“Not until recently,” said Rollison. “I did know that he was a man with an exceptional social conscience, and if he was a sponsor here, then Smith Hall was worth sponsoring.” He smiled again and moved on.

“If you’ll spare just one moment—”

“I’m late already,” Rollison said, and turned into the gate. A policeman, young and obviously admiring, stood just outside. “Good morning, officer. Am I the last?”

“One to come, sir, I believe.”

“Good. It’s always nice not to be last!”

Rollison approached the house slowly, seeing it for the first time in full daylight. It was old, of weathered brick, ugly, but obviously spacious. It stood in its own grounds, like all the houses along here, but between the house itself and the walls dividing it from the other properties there was little more than a car’s width. Beyond the driveway along which he walked were three green-painted garages. The brick wall he had vaulted the previous night looked newer than either of the houses, and the grass on this side of it was still damp. He glanced up at the first floor windows of the house next door—and a young woman slipped out of sight.

“All right, Angela,” Rollison said to himself, and he stepped on to the porch.

Another policeman stood just inside; Grice certainly wasn’t taking the slightest chance. The door was closed, but opened before he had withdrawn his finger from the bell-push. Standing before him was Anne Miller; obviously she had been waiting for this moment. In broad daylight, she looked a little older. This morning, she had brushed her hair until it had quite a sheen, and her tunic-type suit was inches longer than the one she had worn last night. Her eyes looked huge, and there were dark, patches under them—patches which should never darken the face of a young woman. The long, narrow face had a curious attractiveness; so did her small, exquisitely shaped mouth.

“Good morning, Anne’ said Rollison.

“Good morning, sir’ ‘Sir’ was quite a concession. She closed the door, and went on in an almost conciliatory voice : “I’m sorry I made a fool of myself last night.”

“Who told you that you made a fool of yourself?” asked Rollison.

“I didn’t need telling; she said drily.

“You need telling that when you open your heart and let the hurts pour out, you aren’t making a fool of yourself,” Rollison told her. They stood together in that large hall with the portraits looking down on them, and he saw the shadows not only beneath, but in, her eyes. “I was ready to help all I could before we talked,” Rollison went on. “Afterwards I wasn’t simply ready, I simply couldn’t start soon enough!”

The way her face brightened showed both surprise and belief.

“You’re—you’re very kind.”

He squeezed her hand as the door of the study opened and a man said : “We will have to start without them,” and Naomi Smith appeared, her eyes lighting up when she saw Rollison. But after a glance at him and a quick “Good morning,” she said : “Anne, if Dr. Brown arrives, show him straight in, will you?”

“Yes,” said Anne.

“Thank you, dear. Do come in, Mr. Rollison.” She opened the door wider and then stood aside, while two men standing by the fireplace, and one sitting on an upright chair with two hook-handled walking sticks, looked towards him. Nimmo, the physicist, tall, very thin, with a bald pate and a halo of grizzled hair, he recognised;

Nimmo was standing by the side of a much shorter and much broader man, who had an iron-grey look about him —hair, eyes, suit, even his skin, appeared to be much the same colour. And there was something Teutonic about the shape of his head; Rollison placed him as Professor Offenberger, one of the few men whose renown as a mathematician was worldwide.

Naomi was introducing them, indicating each with a small wave of her hand.

“Mr. Rollison, I don’t know whether you know Dr. Carfax.” Carfax, one of Britain’s most renowned scholars, a leading pro-Shakespeare figure whenever Shakespeare’s authorship was challenged, was sitting, so Rollison’s identification of the others was quite right. “Professor Nimmo, Professor Offenberger. I’m afraid Dr. Brown hasn’t arrived, but as he doesn’t answer his telephone he is presumably on his way here.”

“Unless,” said Offenberger, in a hard, near-guttural voice, “he is also dead. Is that what you have come to tell us, Mr. Rollison?”

Carfax, who had a rose-pink complexion and looked a picture of health despite his infirmity, half-closed his eyes in patient resignation that anyone should say such a thing. Nimmo waved his hands in disclaimer.

“Nonsense, Otto, you have death on the brain.”

“That is the way it comes,” said Offenberger with grim humour. “But I say we should already tell the police that George is late. How can we be sure all is well with him after these dreadful things? You know the latest, perhaps, Mr. Rollison? The poor girl, Winifred de Vaux, is dead—murdered like our good friend Webberson.”

“Yes,” Rollison answered. “The police told me.”

“Did they tell you also who is doing these wicked things? Why every girl, and also all of us, are threatened with death? And it is no use raising your eyes to heaven, Will.” He turned his curiously iron grey eyes towards Carfax, who was certainly looking as if he were invoking aid from on high. “We all of us are threatened. We take no notice, until the girls disappear and much worry there is. And now Keith is dead of the bloody—” he pronounced the word ‘bloddy’— “hammer, and Naomi’s head is nearly smashed in. Do you deny it is serious? Do you deny it?” He pointed an accusing finger at Rollison. “Do you deny we must stop the good works, that if we go on it will lead to more deaths? Tell me, at once, please. Do you deny the need for that?”

He still pointed and the others all stared at Rollison, as if he were an oracle.

“I—ah—am never happy about stopping good work,” Rollison murmured.

“But how can we the good works do if we are dead?”

“An excellent point,” said Rollison. “Do you know who is trying to kill you? And do you know why anyone should try to kill you?”

“If we know, we tell the police,” rasped Offenberger.

Rollison’s gaze moved slowly to the other men, and rested finally on Carfax, who looked almost cherubic, his fair hair concealing any streaks of grey, and whose head and shoulders and torso gave a remarkable impression of strength, in sharp contrast to the thin legs which dangled over the edge of the chair.

“Supposing you don’t know, but only guess,” Rollison asked mildly. “Would you tell the police whom you suspect?”

“It would be a waste of time,” said Carfax, his voice beautifully modulated. “We believe—”

“You must speak for yourself,” Naomi broke in quietly. “Yes, Naomi, I am doing so, and I speak also for Arthur, and probably for Otto. What kind of man would wage a war of persecution like this? Do we need to ask? We believe that the man involved is a fanatical bigot, probably extremely religious, who did his best to prevent us from launching this scheme, and when that failed has resorted to this hideous campaign. And the man we have in mind is so highly regarded at Westminster and in Whitehall, so immensely wealthy, that the police simply cannot agree as to his involvement. I speak, of course—” Carfax paused, to look round at each of the others, and received a nod from both men— “of Sir Douglas Slatter.”

“I simply cannot believe it,” Naomi said in a husky voice. She sat with both hands clasped tightly on the desk in front of her. “I know he has been difficult, and that some of the girls imply he has made approaches to them, but they could have been—either wilfully or sincerely—mistaken. In their circumstances it is understandable that they should be suspicious and oversensitive.”

“If he’s the puritanical fanatic Dr. Carfax suggests he might be, would he make passes like that?” Rollison wondered aloud.

“I’ve known some of these religious maniacs—” began Nimmo, only to break off. “That isn’t a fair thing to say. If a man’s a pathological sex case, he can still be honestly religious. And we’ve something more than suspicion and prejudice to go on, Rollison. The lease of these premises is virtually up, and Sir Douglas, who is the landlord, will not extend it. I feel that the timing of these attacks is too much for coincidence.”

“I can see why you do,” agreed Rollison. “Sir Douglas—”

“According to his own lights I believe Sir Douglas is a good man,” interrupted Naomi, stubbornly. “Mr. Rollison—” She broke off.

“Will you check more closely on Slatter?” asked Car-fax. “You may not have the same prejudices as the police.”

“I shouldn’t under-estimate the police,” Rollison said drily. “So yes—I will see what I can find out about Slatter. But before I do—are you seriously considering closing down Smith Hall?”

“How can we go on?” demanded Offenberger. “How is it possible? I have been warned like the others—stop coming here, finish the work—or you will be killed. I do not want to be killed. And I say to you all, let us not be obstinate. There are other girls, other men, who are very clever. These girls will be the loss, yes, but not irrepairable.”

“Irrepar—” Carfax began to correct, but stopped.

“Are they then?” Offenberger demanded fiercely. “It has been a good and courageous experiment but this is not now a matter for private individuals. The brains of the country, they should be looked after by the country itself. Professor Nimmo has spent a fortune here, all of us give what we can but it is—no good. We stop. I vote for we stop.”

“Is that what you’re here to decide?” asked Rollison.

“I’m afraid so,” said Nimmo, running a hand over his shiny pate, “and although I don’t like it, I think Otto is right. Unless we can put an end to this campaign of violence quickly, we must do what we’re told.”

“I disagree,” said Carfax. “And if George Brown were here, I think he would disagree. And I am not considering only the girls—I’m thinking that we owe at least something to Keith.”

After a short silence, Nimmo said : “An unfair appeal, Will. Whatever we decide won’t make any difference to the thoroughness with which the police search for the murderer. We won’t be letting Keith down—or the dead girls, for that matter.”

“Girls?” exclaimed Naomi, shrilly.

“We don’t really need telling that they’re both dead,” argued Nimmo. “Surely you aren’t buoying yourself up with false hope. I—”

The shrill ringing of the telephone bell made them all start, and it seemed to ring on for a long time before Naomi picked up the receiver, it was almost as if she were afraid that this call would bring bad news.

“This is Mrs. Smith . . . Oh ! Yes, he’s here. Please hold on.” She looked at. Rollison, and held the instrument out towards him. “It’s for you, Mr. Rollison—Superintendent Grice.”

“Ah,” said Rollison, taking the telephone. “Thanks. Hallo, Bill.” This must be very urgent or Grice would not have interrupted the meeting, and his heart began to thump at the possibility that there was, after all, bad news of Angela.

“Can anyone else hear?” asked Grice.

“Not unless there is an extension,” Rollison said.

“No, that is the direct line,” said Naomi Smith hastily. “No,” said Rollison.

“I thought I would give you this piece of news first, and you can break it to the others if you think the time is right.” Grice paused long enough for Rollison to wonder why he said ‘break it to’—and then he had a sudden flash of understanding only a split second before Grice went on. “Dr. Brown was murdered last night. He was found slumped over the steering wheel of his car, in a deserted spot on Wimbledon Common. It looks as if he was forced to drive there by someone who had hidden in the back seat of his car, and struck from behind as he stopped.”

Rollison tried not to show the slightest reaction in his expression or in the tone of his voice.

“Do you know what time?” he asked.

“Yes—about ten o’clock, comfortably before the attack on Mrs. Smith,” answered Grice. “Do the others there appear to be frightened?”

“Yes,” answered Rollison. “Thanks, Bill. Will you leave this to me for a while?”

“Yes,” replied Grice. “Not too long, mind.”

“Not too long,” promised Rollison, and rang off.

The others were concealing their interest in the call, and he did not think they would have done so had they suspected what he had heard. He had no doubt at all what they would decide if he told them of Brown’s murder, and it did not need Grice to emphasise that they could not be left in ignorance for long. There was only one way of preventing them from withdrawing their support, and that was by finding who was behind the murders. And if they were to keep Smith Hall and continue its activities, they would have to know quickly.

“You can’t seriously suggest that Slatter is behind this,” Carfax protested. “I can’t believe—”

“Will you adjourn the meeting for, say, eight hours,” suggested Rollison. “And I will pull out all the stops to investigate Sir Douglas Slatter’s recent activities.”

There was only a perfunctory pause, before Nimmo gave the others the lead by a grave nod of agreement.

“Good,” said Rollison. “Thank you gentlemen. But wherever you go, be sure you have a police escort. I have the very sombre duty of informing you that Dr. Brown was murdered last night, in the same way as Keith Webberson.”

After a stunned silence, Rollison expected Offenber-ger, at least, to make a passionate plea for retraction. But no word was said.

CHAPTER 12

Adamant Old Man

ROLLISON left the study, the expressions on the faces of the three men and the one woman vivid in his mind’s eye; all were appalled. No one was in the hall, but as he glanced up at the gallery, Anne Miller appeared from one of the rooms, and raised a hand in greeting. He stopped and looked up at her.

“Any new problems?” he asked.

“It depends what you call problems,” she answered. She leaned over the wooden railing, her hair drooping downwards in a long, silken fringe, covering her eyes.

“Anything you find worrying is a problem,” he answered.

“Three of our little darlings have a rash this morning,” said Anne. We think it may be chicken pox, and if it is they’ll all get it. You haven’t visited our Baby Farm, have you?”

“Not yet,” said Rollison.

“Then postpone your visit if you haven’t had chicken pox,” advised Anne. “Have you proved that our ancient neighbour next door is the murderer yet?”

“No,” answered Rollison. “I’m just going to ask him.”

She gave a sardonic smile. The young policeman on the porch smiled too, as if he had heard the exchange. He watched with some surprise as Rollison walked to the wall and vaulted over it. The grass on the other side was much firmer, flanked by a drive and carriageway of grey macadam. The house appeared to be in immaculate con-

dition. Rollison stepped on to the porch, which was supported by two white-painted pillars with the Number 29 painted on each, and rang the bell.

Light, quick footsteps approached—and Angela opened the door.

She gave a sharp, quickly suppressed, gasp.

“Good afternoon,” said Rollison. “Is Sir Douglas Slatter in?” And as he spoke, he winked. The muscles of Angela’s face worked as she tried to recover from the surprise.

“He, he’s having lunch,—sir !”

“Take my card in, will you?” said Rollison, and he stepped past Angela into the hall. It was larger, yet not so impressive as next door, although at a glance the antique quality of every piece of furniture was obvious. “Tell him the matter is urgent, please.”

Recovering her poise, Angela took the card, a little uncertain whether to show pleasure or fury at her uncle’s unexpected appearance. Deciding to give nothing away, she turned towards a wide passage alongside the stairs, disappearing into a door on the right. There came a rumble of voices. Immediately, a massive young man appeared.

“Massive’ was the word that first occurred to Rollison, as he noted the thick, bull neck, the powerful shoulders. Yet the man moved lightly on small feet.

“I’m afraid my uncle doesn’t wish to see you, Mr. Rollison,” he said. “He sees no purpose in a meeting.”

“Oh,” said Rollison, as if baffled. “That’s a pity. I thought it only fair to have a word with him before I went to the police.”

“You appear to spend most of your time with the police —judging from the morning papers. It really isn’t any use, Mr. Rollison. He won’t see you.”

Rollison frowned, looking even more baffled—and then, watching very warily, he moved forward, as if to pass Slatter’s nephew. With a swift movement, showing reflexes at least as fast as the assailant’s of the previous night, the young man flung out an arm, a barrier as firm as a piece of iron. Rollison, under no illusions as to the other’s strength, grabbed his wrist, spun him round, and sent him crashing, halfway towards the front door. He did not look round but judged by the lightness of the thump that the other had fallen as an athlete should.

He went on, and entered the room from which the man had come.

Sir Douglas Slatter, sitting at the head of a table with his back to the long window, looked up with a laden fork only an inch from his mouth.

“Good morning,” said Rollison. “I’m sorry if I chose a bad time.”

Slatter put his fork down slowly, and said. “Get out of my house.”

“The moment I’ve said what I have to say—”

“Get out of my house, or—”

“No doubt you’ll have me thrown out,” said Rollison pleasantly. He heard a sound behind him and moved swiftly to one side, so avoiding a swinging blow from the nephew. “Do stop this young man,” pleaded Rollison. “I really don’t want to hurt him.”

“You don’t want to—” Slatter caught his breath, and then said gustily: “Guy—throw this man out.”

Rollison spun round on the instant, grabbed Guy’s wrist, twisted his arm behind him in a hammer-lock so that he was utterly helpless, and smiled amiably.

“There really isn’t any need for this horseplay,” he insisted, “and I don’t want to break this young man’s arm —but I can do it as easily as you could smash his skull in with a sledge hammer.”

Guy had gone very pale. He was breathing hard, and as he faced his uncle, it was easy to realise that he was pleading with him.

Slowly, Slatter stood up.

Deliberately, he turned and went to a large fireplace and bent down, to pick up a brass poker. He held the poker by the handle with his left hand—and he raised it, more as a sword than a hammer.

“Let my nephew go,” he ordered.

“Or what will you do?” demanded Rollison.

“Break your neck.”

“With that? You might crack my skull, but—”

“I won’t tell you again : let him go at once.”

He took a step forward. A larger man than his nephew, although he was nearing seventy he looked no more than sixty. There was no doubt at all that he was prepared to strike.

“You’re a great believer in violence as a means to getting your own way,” remarked Rollison.

“You are a fine one to talk of violence. Let my nephew go.”

“I release ten minutes of your time. Give it to me, and I’ll lea

Almost as soon as the words were out, Guy back-heeled—an action for which Rollison was fully prepared. He dodged the kick with little difficulty, then pushed Guy’s arm up a couple of inches further. Guy gasped, but managed to say :

“Don’t—don’t give in to him!”

“Blind courage and brute force,” said Rollison. “They often go together.”

Slatter lowered the poker. His face was set in furious anger but his voice was even and controlled.

“I will hear what you have to say,” he said.

Rollison immediately released the young man, who moved slowly away, half-turning, so that he showed the pallor of his face and the sweat beading his forehead and his upper lip. He stood close by, holding his right arm.

Slatter put the poker back in the fireplace.

He looked at Rollison with nothing but acute dislike on his handsome face. “Handsome?” Rollison asked him-self. Certainly striking, certainly strong.

“What is it you wish to say to me?”

“It’s very simple,” Rollison said. “I want you to know that I have acquired a certain amount of evidence that suggests that you attacked Mrs. Smith last night—and that you killed Professor Webberson and Dr. Brown. Be-fore I hand it over to the police, I want to hear what you have to say about it.”

“I have just one thing to say,” answered Slatter. “It is ludicrous nonsense.” After a pause, he went on in a steely voice : “And a second thing to say : I don’t believe you have any evidence at all.”

“Don’t you?” said Rollison.

No, I do not.”

“I am the evidence,” stated Rollison.

“That remark makes no more sense than the rest of your assertions.”

“It will make sense to the police when I identify you as the man whom I saw attack Mrs. Smith last night.”

“Even the police wouldn’t be deceived by such a lie,” said Slatter. He had a deep but not powerful voice and spoke with complete composure. If his expression said anything, it was that he had nothing but contempt for the man who had invaded his privacy and manhandled his nephew.

“If I make a statement on oath, not only the police but a judge and jury will take me seriously,” said Rollison.

“Even you cannot seriously doubt that.”

Slatter did not immediately deny it, and for the first time what might have been a look of apprehension showed in his eyes, but it soon vanished, and in an offhand voice which was slightly gruff, he said:

“You must make your own decision. You know well enough that it wasn’t I.”

“I don’t know anything of the kind,” said Rollison. “Even that is a lie.”

“Uncle—” Guy began, but a glance from the older man silenced him.

“Is that all you have to say, Mr. Rollison?” Slatter had fully recovered his poise.

“No,” said Rollison.

“Will you please finish your charges and leave me to finish my lunch?”

“Will you grant an option to renew the lease of Number 31?” asked Rollison.

Slatter drew his heavily marked brows together in concentration, and then very slowly shook his head. “No,” he said. “I want them out.”

“To get them out you might have to get a court order and —”

“They wouldn’t go that far,” interrupted Slatter. “They are ready to pull out already.”

“Driven to it by murder,” observed Rollison.

“Driven to it by their own stupidity. However I will not bandy words with you. The answer is no, I will not grant an option, even if you offer to withdraw your identification of me as a criminal. That is a very cheap trick, Mr. Rollison—I nearly said that it was not worthy of you, but that would be paying you a compliment.”

“Why do you want them out?”

“That is my business.”

“Is inhumanity your business?”

“Mr. Rollison,” said Slatter, with great precision, “I do not regard myself as a judge of what is humane and what is not. I want those harlots out of my house. They would never have gone there but for a trick—I was not informed of the kind of hostel it was to be. Hostel?” His voice rose. “Or brothel? You no doubt know, Mr. Rollison.”

“Hostel,” said Rollison.

“I don’t believe you, and nothing will change my mind.” Slatter held Rollison’s gaze for a long time, and Rollison felt quite sure that he meant what he said. “Make your absurd charges against me if it amuses you, but you are wasting your time, Mr. Rollison. I hope you realise that, and will now leave.”

“Do you really feel utterly indifferent about the infants next door?” demanded Rollison.

“No, I do not feel at all indifferent.” Suddenly, Slatter was enraged, even his cheeks were tinged with pink, and his hitherto cold eyes flashed. “I am intensely concerned with them—determined that they will be taken away from the whores who brought them into this world and placed in the charge of proper authorities. Those women have no right at all to be in charge of children. They may care for them physically but their moral and spiritual life will be ruined. And —”

He broke off, drawing back a pace, as if some new thought had crossed his mind—and then he recovered, and to Rollison’s surprise, put out an arm and touched him.

“I believe that to be true,” he said. “I do not believe such women should have the custody of those children, but that is not the chief reason why I want to close the home down. Mr. Rollison, you are not the interfering braggart I believed you to be. I can see that you are motivated by genuine humanitarian reasons. Come with me—and I will give you a demonstration which will show you another side of this coin.”

“Uncle—” Guy began.

“You can come with me or stay and finish your lunch,” said Slatter. Now gripping Rollison’s arm lightly he led the way out of the room and up the staircase. In spite of his surprise at Slatter’s change of attitude, Rollison noticed the magnificence of a Rubens and a Gains-borough on the staircase, and at the landing saw a tapestry of deep colours depicting a medieval wedding —a piece probably unique. Slatter thrust open the door of a long, beautiful room, the walls of which were lined from floor to ceiling with books.

It was a scholar’s room; a room for quiet thought and contemplation; a sanctuary.

Through the open window came the wailing as of at least half-a-dozen babies—and even from this end of the room it was easy to imagine that there were many more.

CHAPTER 13

Moment Of Sympathy