“Then we mustn’t let him know what we’ve been to each other,” murmured Rollison. “How long have you been married to him?”
“Fifteen years.”
“Enjoyed it?”
She said sharply: “I can’t just think about myself, I’ve got the kids to think about.”
“Kids?”
“We’re human, aren’t we?” Stella Wallis flashed. “We go to bed like anybody else.”
“Boys or girls?”
“One of each.”
“Where are they now?”
“At school,” she said, “they’ll be late home tonight, they’re going to sports practice. They’re my first responsibility.” She led the way across a kitchen which was as spick and span as the kitchen at Gresham Terrace. There was a large refrigerator, the motor humming softly, a stainless steel sink unit, everything a modern kitchen could have. “Besides,” she added, “he’s not mean.”
She opened the door of the larder herself. Rollison looked round in the kitchen and found several yale keys in a drawer. The back door had a yale lock. He tried three keys, found two which fitted, and slipped one into his pocket. Then he went into the front room. He wasn’t surprised to find a kind of Victorian parlour, a faint smell of furniture polish, a mahogany sideboard, and several sepia portraits on the wall. He drew a blank there, and tried a small room next to it. Here was a kind of living room, with a television in one corner, comfortable armchairs, one wall fitted with shelves and loaded with books, mostly war stories, records of the ring, and tales of adventure—and with them a few romances by well-known authors. Dream world for two. Tiny Wallis could escape into a world of vicarious excitements and tales of epic courage and great physical strength and endurance; his wife, into the romance which might have been. In a corner opposite the television was a writing bureau. Rollison found it locked, and took a pen knife out of his pocket; it had one blade of which the police strongly disapproved, for it was a skeleton key. In less than a minute he forced the lock of the writing bureau, and pulled down the top, ready for writing. Inside were opened letters, notepaper, envelopes, everything one would expect to find in neat array.
There was also a cash box, which was locked.
There were a few newspaper cuttings.
And there was a little pile of leaflets like those which had been at Donny’s cashier’s cubicle, announcing the Most Beautiful Hair Competition.
“Well, well,” murmured Rollison, and stared at these for several seconds, then put one more into his pocket, left the others, and completed his search. He found nothing else here except a kind of day book—a large diary with a page for every day. He glanced through this, and his interest quickened, for in it were the names and addresses of people who had been visited by Wallis and Clay.
There was a note dated a week ago, reading:
Villiers Street?
There was no more recent entry, and Rollison closed the book, glanced through the letters which told him nothing new, then went to the front door and listened. A motor-cycle was outside, its engine beating as if in great haste, but it moved off and the sound gradually faded. Someone walked past, and children were laughing; of course, the youngsters were out of school by now.
Had Stella Wallis told the truth about her two?
Rollison went upstairs.
He found a wall safe hidden behind a picture over the big bed in a double room which faced the street. He made no attempt to force this, but glanced out of the window. A little knot of people was standing and talking and looking this way. That prodded him into searching the room quickly. He found nothing else to help him, but when he opened a long wardrobe which occupied the whole of one wall, he saw a short mink coat, a thousand pounds worth of fur even on a thieves’ market.
Wallis certainly wasn’t mean with money; and obviously he had plenty.
There were two nicely-furnished smaller rooms, obviously the children’s, and a third bedroom: Mick Clay’s. Here the furniture was as good as that in any of the rooms. The decoration was too: but Rollison could not fail to see the difference here compared with the rest of the house. Clay was untidy, he left his clothes in a heap, there were the marks of cigarette burns on the mantelpiece and on two chairs. There was an impression that Mrs. Wallis had given up trying in here; had just closed the door and left her brother to get on with it.
Rollison went downstairs again.
He listened at the front and back door, but heard nothing. It wasn’t yet five o’clock. He went into the living- room, and picked up a large book which he’d seen before, but hadn’t looked at. He wasn’t surprised when he saw that it was a press-cuttings book, and that here was a record of the newspaper reports of police court inquiries and accounts of people who had suffered like poor Jimmy Jones.
Then Rollison heard a sound along the passage; a moment later, the front door opened.
He stepped swiftly to the passage door as the shadow of a big man appeared.
The front door closed.
CHAPTER NINE
The closing of the front door was very soft. Rollison felt quite sure that this was Wallis, and that he had been told who was here. The first footsteps were very soft and light, too; furtive and stealthy. Rollison stood close to the wall.
Wallis came in sight.
