“They followed you from there, did they?”
“They must have done.”
“Had you seen either of them before?”
“No.”
“No threats or menaces?”
“No.”
“Any idea at all why they should set upon you?”
“Mr. Rollison,” said Jones, leaning forward to add vehemence to his words, “I’ve told the police and I’ll tell you now that I haven’t the faintest idea what it was all about. As far as I know, I’ve no enemies. As far as I know none of my friends is associated with brutes of that kind. I can only believe that I was mistaken for someone else.”
Rollison put his head on one side.
“You look moderately individualistic to me.” Jones grinned.
“You know what I mean!”
“Yes, I think so. Could this have anything to do with your work?”
“I don’t see how it possibly could,” answered Jones, thoughtfully. “The police asked me that. As far as I can tell, everything at the office is perfectly straightforward. My money’s on a case of mistaken identity, Mr. Rollison, although I know you’ll probably say that it’s the easy way out.”
“Could be,” conceded Rollison. “Where did you see these men in Villiers Street?”
“About half-way up—near Lytton Street and the barber’s.”
Rollison felt the sharp impact of that remark, but hoped that he had not allowed Jones to see that it startled him.
“Your regular barber’s?”
“No. It’s a bigger salon than several of them around there, and more expensive. I’d been there for a haircut only that day, and can remember every incident clearly. The chap who’d cut my hair was on the corner as I went by in the evening, and nodded to me. Italian type. I went straight up towards the Strand. I passed a small fellow, and there was a bigger chap a little way ahead. I saw him again at a bus stop, and he got off at the same stop as I did. He was the fellow who really began to knock me about,” Jones said feelingly. “And one of these days—”
“I know. Was there anything special about the day’s haircut?”
Jones looked puzzled. “What can be special about a haircut?”
Rollison chuckled.
“I know what you mean! Did anything unusual happen? Did you see anything change hands, for instance, or hear a conversation that might be private?”
“The only unusual thing was that I picked up a leaflet giving details of a beautiful hair competition,” Jones said. “There’s a girl in the office with lovely hair, and I thought it would interest her. So I took one of the leaflets away with me.”
“Was the girl interested?” Rollison asked, as if this meant absolutely nothing, and the competition was quite new to him:
“Yes.” Jones looked rueful, but didn’t explain why. “That can’t possibly have anything to do with the attack on me, though. I simply took this leaflet and gave it to Goldilocks. And she—”
“Goldilocks?”
Jones grinned.
“If you ever meet her, don’t call her that or she’ll probably slap your face. She has wonderful golden hair, and everyone calls her Goldilocks except to her face. For some reason she hates it.”
“What’s her real name?” asked Rollison, and tried to make that question seem casual, too.
He did not succeed. This young man was as sharp as they came, and would not easily be persuaded that Rollison would ask questions for the sake of them. He could see that Rollison’s interest in the girl Goldilocks was deeper than that in the rest of the story. He did not answer for some seconds, then said very quietly:
“She’s Evelyn Day, who works in the Buying Office at Jepsons. She couldn’t possibly know anything about this business.” He was almost too emphatic, but did not volunteer any more information. Although he had answered all the questions quickly, and although his mind obviously worked at speed, he was looking pale and tired.
“Of course she can’t,” Rollison said soothingly, “but unless I see the whole picture I can’t hope to get any results.” He stood up. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”
Jones said quietly: “No, Mr. Rollison, but there’s one thing you can do for me.”
“What’s that?” Rollison expected some plea for the name and address of the assailants.
“If you see Miss Jepson, or her brother for that matter, tell them how warmly I appreciate what they’ve done, will you?” said Jones. “It was magnificent. They’re always very generous, everyone who works for Jepsons is devoted to them, but this—” Jones sounded choked and looked about the room. “I know some people would say that it didn’t cost them much, Jepsons could furnish a dozen homes from stock and not notice it, but that isn’t the point. Will you tell Miss Jepson?”
“I certainly will,” promised Rollison.
* * *
