“Rollison speaking.”
A man said in a hard, unrelenting kind of voice: “Found him yet?” and rang off.
* * *
That caller had been Wallis, there was no doubt of that.
Now something added up in Rollison’s mind, and its total meaning was terrifying. Wallis had caught up with Jolly and Stella Wallis, and he would have been in a livid mood. Fury at the way he had been man¬handled and at the disappearance of his wife would combine with his normal jealousy to make him more deadly than ever.
Found him where?
Alive?
It would be easy to act blindly, and to make a fatal mistake. That had been Wallis, but there was a possibility, that the call had been bluff, that Jolly wasn’t hurt.
Forget it.
There was a much greater probability: that Wallis had called believing that Rollison would be in no mood for caution, hoping that he might lose his head in his desire to find Jolly.
Found him where?
The telephone bell rang again.
It might be a second call made simply to tear his nerves, to try to drive him into impetuous action. But it was too soon after the first call for that to be reasonable. It might be—anyone. Ebbutt, Grice, Ada.
Nonsense.
No one would ring at this hour, nearly half past twelve, without a very good reason: such as Scotland Yard with news of Jolly. Only seconds passed while Rollison hesitated and the telephone kept ringing on a subdued note; Jolly had arranged for it to be subdued in this room, and loud in his bedroom. Nowhere else. Jolly. Rollison seemed to watch his own hand as it moved, grasped the receiver and put it slowly and deliberately to his ear.
“This is Rollison.”
“One moment, please, Superintendent Benson would like a word with you.”
Benson was the night man in charge at the Yard. Rollison found himself clenching his teeth, sensed rather than felt the pain that the clenching caused at his jaws. He stared at the trophy wall, standing within reach of it; close to him were the two tresses of hair.
He came.
“Rollison?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm,” Benson grunted.
“Better come right out and tell you. We’ve bad news about Jolly.”
Rollison said softly, carefully and clearly: “What kind of bad news?” but it seemed to him that he knew the answer before Benson spoke again, because Benson was a tough copper. Benson wouldn’t worry about reporting that a man had been beaten up.
“It’s touch and go,” Benson said.
But there was hope.
“Where is he?”
“Kingston Hospital. He’s in the theatre—”
Rollison interrupted with a swift: “Thanks.
I’ll go there,” but he hardly realised what he said. He replaced the receiver and began to move. He went into his bedroom and took an automatic, fully loaded, from a locked drawer in his wardrobe, and clipped a knife round his forearm and another round the calf of his leg.
Then he put on a cloth cap, which was rather high at the crown. Jolly should have had one. This was a refinement of the motor cyclist’s helmet, and the sheet of steel inside would take the worst of any blow. Too late? He left all the lights on as he went to the landing. He was ultra cautious as he walked downstairs, and shadows of the landings and of cupboards seemed like the shadows of men; but were not. He reached the street door, and opened that as cautiously. The Yard man was strolling past.
Rollison went out.
“Going out again, sir?”
“Yes.” Rollison was already opening the car door.
“I’ll keep an eye—” began the Yard man, and then his voice was drowned by the snarl of the car engine. He shrugged and backed away, glanced upwards, and then shouted at Rollison so that his voice penetrated all the other noises. “OW he shouted. “Oi!”
Rollison jammed on the brakes, and the engine stalled. He put his head out of the window.
