Why the Jepsons’ home?
Why had Reggie gone away with so little warning? That was an angle: to find out what he had been doing lately, whom he had mixed with, whether he had seemed scared of unknown dangers. For a while pride would stop Ada from talking, and it was possible that she really knew nothing. The fact that Rollison had upset her didn’t greatly matter; the fact that she had shown how angry she was suggested that she might have a guilty conscience.
Rollison reached his flat.
Jolly should soon be back from taking Stella Wallis away, but now the flat was in darkness. The police still had a man in Gresham Terrace, but no one else was about. Rollison went upstairs, slowly and thoughtfully, trying to decide what he should do next.
If only he knew the motive; if only he could find the connection between the seven people—eight people now —whose homes and premises had been wrecked, and who could so easily have been ruined.
Was Donny Sampson the reason?
Rollison turned the key in the lock of his front door, opened the door a fraction, and listened intently; but he heard no sound. It would not be the first time that men had lain in wait for him, and he wanted to make sure that no one had avoided the police.
No one had.
As Jolly wasn’t back, there were no messages, nothing to keep Rollison here, and there was plenty for him to do.
He went downstairs again, got into the hired car and proved that its acceleration was as good as the driver had promised. It was nearly ten o’clock, and Jolly had been gone a long time; but he mustn’t start worrying about Jolly, who could look after himself.
Rollison drove to Chester Street, Ealing, where a light was on in the hall of Number 88. He rang. A man opened the door almost at once, stared at him in surprise, took a stubby pipe from his lips and said:
“Thought it were our ‘Arry,” in a voice that had been acquired on the broad Yorkshire moors.
“Is Miss Evelyn Day in?” asked Rollison.
“Who wants her?” There was sharp suspicion in the deep voice. “If you’re another policeman . . .”
“What have policemen been after her for?” demanded Rollison sharply.
Before the man could answer there were swift footsteps in the hall. A girl appeared, with a towel fastened turbanwise round her head. Her eyes were swollen and red with crying.
“Why don’t you find out who did it?” she cried. “Why don’t you find my hair?”
She had been attacked coming home from the pictures, and held by two men while a third had cut off her hair.
Rollison turned into Gresham Terrace again, glanced up, and felt sure that he would see a light on in his living room, the sign that Jolly was home; but the window was dark. He saw the Yard man coming towards him.
“Everything’s quiet, sir, I don’t think you’ll have any more trouble with those devils.”
“My man isn’t back, then?”
“Seen no one, sir, except the couple from the ground floor. They’d been out at the pictures, and they satisfied me as to their identity.”
“Ah, thanks,” said Rollison, and walked briskly upstairs, leaving the car parked in Gresham Terrace, feeling much more uneasy than he looked. He had expected Jolly back just after nine o’clock at the latest. For the first time since seeing poor Goldilocks Day, he forgot her and her little tragedy.
He made cautious entry into the flat, checked the time with an electric clock, and looked worriedly at the telephone. It was twenty minutes past eleven, and Jolly would certainly have telephoned if this were an accidental delay.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Jolly sat with Stella Wallis in the back of the large, smooth-running car which had been sent from the hire service. He had told the driver where to go, and the woman hadn’t protested, hadn’t yet spoken a word. Either events had stunned her, or she was beginning to succumb to the sleeping dose which Rollison had put into her drink.
The light from street lamps showed that her eyes were wide open. Jolly glanced at her from time to time, aware of the pleasant scent she used, and not unaware of her closeness. He kept hoping that her head would loll forward as she lost consciousness, but ten minutes after they had started out, her eyes were still wide open.
He felt her hand move into his.
She squeezed.
It was a long time since any woman had behaved like that with Jolly, and it not only startled but shook him. He drew his hand away and glanced at her less with embarrassment than with dry amusement. She was smiling at him. Her eyes were narrowed now, but open quite wide enough, and her lips were parted, too; he could see the polish of the lipstick and the gleam of her white teeth. She was a good-looking woman, and knew what she was about.
She pressed his leg, gently.
He could ease away; or he could pretend that he had noticed nothing; or he could tell her to sit back in her corner. He took the line of least resistance, telling himself that if he made no response, she would soon get tired of this little game. He stared straight ahead. She squeezed his leg gently, and then moved so that she was cuddled close against him. Her right hand went to his cheek.
