The Toff And The Stolen Tresses

He left soon afterwards, drove to his club in Pall Mall, had a hurried dinner, and then telephoned Scotland Yard. Grice wasn’t there, but a superintendent on duty said:

“Yes, Mr. Rollison. Four youths broke into your flat, and we caught them red-handed. Said they were looking for Mrs. Wallis. We got ‘em before they did any damage at all. In fact the only breakage was a glass, one of them had helped himself to a whisky and soda, and threw the glass at our chaps. It broke against the door. They’re being held at Great Marlborough Street, and they’ll be up for a hearing in the morning.”

If the magistrate remanded ‘em for eight days, that would be four of the enemy out of the firing line,” said Rollison hopefully.

“Wouldn’t surprise me if Grice is planning just that,” the superintendent said. “Or you are!” He gave a throaty chuckle.

Rollison rang off, then dialled a Mayfair number, and was answered by a man with a deep and resonant voice, the voice of a gentleman’s gentleman, a butler beyond all reasonable doubt. His name was Forbes, and he had served the Jepson family for nearly half a century.

“One moment, sir, I will find out if Miss Ada is in.”

Rollison held on, staring along the marble passage of this club, with its statues and its oil paintings of past members, its marble columns, its decorated ceiling, and its reminder of a dying age, for two women came walking along the passage with a man, quite animatedly.

“Mr. Rollison, sir,” the voice said. “Miss Ada is in and will be glad to see you if you call.”

*     *     *

The Jepsons lived at Maybury Square, one of the smaller squares which was still mainly residential. For a London house of the late Regency period it was not large, but it had much charm. The hall, the staircase and the rooms were furnished as they had been sixty or seventy years ago, and there was an air of good taste and yet a hint of opulence in the manservant—not Forbes—who opened the door. Rollison caught a glimpse of a dining-room with great Waterford glass chandeliers hanging low over a table which could seat a dozen on either side.

Ada came hurrying down the stairs, bright-faced and eager.

“Rolly, darling, how sweet of you to come! I called your flat several times but there was no answer, so I supposed you were out after all these bad men again. Have you got any results yet?”

“Give me time,” pleaded Rollison.

“Well, it’s your own fault if I expect miracles, you’re always performing them.” Ada put a cool hand on his arm and led him along a quiet passage to a small room, of much charm, with its green and gold, its books and pictures, and the tapestry stretched over a frame with wools of a hundred colours and shades in a box divided into tiny sections. Half-a-dozen needles, all threaded, were stuck in the tapestry, and a picture of a woman’s face was already half-formed. Over the mantelpiece was an oil painting of the same woman; Rollison knew that this was Ada’s mother who had died several years ago.

“Do sit down, and tell me what you’ll have,” said Ada. “Brandy or a liqueur, and a cigar . . .”

So, she fussed; and when liqueur and a cigar were at Rollison’s side, she went on: “Isn’t Jimmy Jones a pet?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me if the last thing in the world he’d want to be is a pet,” said Rollison.

“Oh, not that kind of pet! I’ve always thought he was one of the most promising of the new people we’re training, and Reggie thinks so too. He’s only in the Buying Office getting experience, you know. Or did I tell you that? I suppose you wouldn’t consider a place on the board, Rolly, would you, just as a kind of ideas man. The director’s fees would be . . . No? . . . Well, think about it. What I was going to say was that good does sometimes come out of evil, I don’t care what you say.” She gave her bright, puckish smile, and her eyes were glowing. “Jimmy Jones has been infatuated by one of the girls in his office, a pretty little thing whose chief claim to fame would be as Lady Godiva. I must admit her hair is wonderful! But apparently she only just looked in at the hospital, and hasn’t written to him, and I think he’s cured of that piece of nonsense. He . . .”

Ada talked too much, as if to cover emotion.

Sitting and listening to her, Rollison reflected: “She’s in love with this Jimmy Jones.”

He was mildly surprised by the discovery, and could not be sure whether Ada was trying to conceal it, or whether this was her way of telling him why she was so anxious to find out why Jimmy Jones had been attacked.

“. . . I mean, it could happen again, I suppose, and I’m positive that Jimmy himself knows no reason for it. Reggie agreed with me before he left—”

“Left?”

“Yes, he’s gone to Ibiza for a week or two, the poor dear didn’t have much of a holiday this year.”

“Lucky him,” Rollison said.

“Everything that happened to Jimmy Jones is so puzzling and worrying,” Ada went on hurriedly, and then paused.

Rollison leaned forward and said:

“Ada, I’m doing all I can to find out what’s behind it all. One obvious possibility is that it’s to do with Jimmy’s job.”

“Oh, that’s absurd!”

“The whole thing is absurd,” said Rollison lazily, “but facts are facts. He was attacked. He was one of eight different people who have been attacked as savagely and ruthlessly and by the same men. We only know the reason for one of the attacks, so far. We do know that the men who do the strong arm work are well paid— extremely well paid—and we won’t get anywhere until we find out who’s paying them.”

“Well,” said Ada, downrightly, “don’t look at me. I’m not.”