He eased her back into her corner, took out his handkerchief, and dabbed the sweat off his forehead. Then with great deliberation he wiped his lips and his fingers, and ran his fingers about his face so as to make sure that there was no lipstick there; he would not be satisfied until he had a mirror.
He felt cooler and much more himself, but still a little disturbed, when he looked about to see where they were. This was Wimbledon Common. They would soon be on the Kingston Bypass, and not far beyond the end of the bypass was the cottage where he had to deliver her. There an old family servant of the Rollisons would make sure that she was well cared for but did not escape. It was half an hour’s journey at most.
There was a lot of traffic on the bypass, and some of the drivers coming in the opposite direction kept their headlights full on; it was difficult even for Jolly to see, and driving must be very trying.
Then he began to fear that a car was keeping very close to them.
He could not be sure that it was always the same car, sidelights and headlights looked very much alike from the mirror, but one certainly seemed to be keeping the same distance all the way. Others whipped past, and they themselves passed slower traffic; but the one car was behind all the time.
Ought he to warn the driver?
He leaned forward to do so as the car behind pulled out, and then roared past. A man and woman were in the front seat, and neither so much as looked at him. Jolly relaxed and reproved himself. But he would be glad when this evening’s drive was over, he had never felt so futile or foolish in his life. He hoped he would never have to see this woman again, every time he did it would remind him of tonight.
He closed his eyes, not really dozing, but finding the quiet hum of the tyres and the steady breathing of his charge soothing. Whenever he opened his eyes the other traffic was passing swiftly, until they went off the bypass, then through Esher; soon they would have to turn off. The driver knew the place well, and slowed down, obviously looking for it. The woman didn’t stir.
They turned off, into a narrow, winding road, and only a mile or two along there would be a lane leading to the cottage; there was no more secluded spot near London. Jolly relaxed completely, and was not even uneasy about the lipstick; was not uneasy when a car passed them, and pulled over rather too sharply. Foolish driver. Another car was just behind, and was about to pass.
Then, the rear lights of the car in front blazed in scarlet warning. Jolly’s driver jammed on his brakes. The car behind came up so swiftly that Jolly held his breath, waiting for the crash. It did not come. He was aware of men jumping out of the car in front, others out of the car behind.
“They’re Wallis’s men,” Jolly gasped aloud.
He tried to get out of the nearside door, but before he opened the door two youths were there in the light of the headlamps. He saw the face of the man Wallis, a face he knew from photographs which he had studied that day. He saw the savage glitter in this man’s eyes.
Wallis didn’t speak.
Two youths dragged Jolly from the car, and another dragged the driver out; and then as he staggered along the road, Wallis struck Jolly.
It was the most dreadful thing Jolly had known in all his life.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“All right, Mr. Rollison,” the night superintendent at the Yard said, “I’ve got all that. I’ll have the road between here and Esher specially patrolled, and I’ll get the Surrey police to co-operate. If anything went wrong, we’ll soon know. The most likely thing is an accident, of course.”
“Yes,” said Rollison, bleakly. “I know. Thanks. You’ll make sure they do a thorough job.”
“As thorough as you’d do yourself,” said the superintendent with unconscious humour; but for once Rollison did not see the joke. He muttered: “Thanks,” and rang off.
It was now midnight.
He had been tempted to use the other car and drive along the road that Jolly had taken, but it had been impracticable, and would only be a waste of time. He had told himself that he would wait until midnight before calling on the police for help, and had called them at ten minutes to twelve. They now knew everything, except that Jolly had been with Wallis’s wife.
Rollison lit a cigarette, drew two or three times at it, then jumped up, strode to the cabinet, and poured himself a drink. Glass in hand, he stepped to the big desk. On it were the two bricks with the tresses of hair tied to them. They’d been tied securely, someone had done quite a job, and meant to make sure that the hair didn’t come off.
Why?
They had come to raid the Jepsons’ house, remember, not to attack him. So the message in that hair had been meant for Ada or her missing brother; it could have been meant for no one else.
What could two tresses of hair convey to Ada? What could they convey to anyone?
What was the connection between them and the attack on Leah Sampson?
He could picture that girl now, crying and despairing, and could see the compassion on her father’s face—and the white patch where the hair had been cut off so savagely close to the scalp.
These things must add up.
The telephone bell rang.
He was within two yards, and it seemed that the bell hadn’t stopped ringing before it was silenced, and the ear-piece was pressing close against Rollison’s ear.
Let this be Jolly: above everything else, let this be Jolly. Not simply news of him, but Jolly himself.
