Stars For The Toff

additional men made any chance of escape almost impossible. Rollison still hadn’t fully recovered from his surprise at their unexpected arrival on the scene; now he tried to regain control of the situation.

“Officer.”

The man who had pushed past him paused. “Yes?”

“A woman has been killed in this house.”

“Indeed, sir. Is that why you were about to call us?”

“Yes.”

“What are you doing here?” The second man spoke, the taller and more massive of the two; he reminded Rollison of Bill Ebbutt fifteen years or so ago.

“I came to talk to the woman—to Mrs Abbott.”

“I see, sir.”

The first man was walking down the passage. The acrid fumes of smoke were still strong, and Rollison saw him pause and rub his eyes. He turned.

“It looks as if someone decided to burn the place down.”

“What’s that?” Another man appeared on the stairs, youthful-looking and very eager, obviously not a policeman. “Arson, do you mean?” His eyes gleamed with excitement. “I’m from the Chronicle. Is it arson?”

“Who knows?” asked the policeman nearest Rollison. “Don’t waste any time here, Tommy. Mrs Abbott’s dead, and there was a fire.”

The boy’s eyes seemed to grow enormous.

“Was she murdered?” He looked at Rollison.

“Do you know? Are you—good Lord! It’s the Toff!”

“That’s what they call him,” the detective said drily.

“Did he find the body?”

“Yes,” Rollison answered quickly.

“And we found him,” said the detective.

There was deep hostility in his manner, which was hard for Rollison to understand. It was almost as if the man intended to make the newspaper-man suspect him.

“There’ll be a statement later,” the detective went on. “That’s enough for now.”

“But—Mr Rollison! Haven’t you a statement to make?”

Rollison clutched at the remnants of his composure, and said firmly:

“Yes, I came here and found her dead.”

“So you didn’t—” The youth checked himself from finishing “you didn’t do it.” At any other time Rollison would have laughed, but now, still barely recovered from the initial shock of discovering the dead woman, and from his astonishment at the police attitude, he could see nothing funny in the situation in which he found himself. The newspaper-man gave him one last lingering almost incredulous look, and then turned and hurried down the stairs as a police photographer hurried up them. Rollison had the strong impression that the police had been prepared to carry out a murder investigation. He lit a cigarette as he turned back into the flat.

“Where are you going?” demanded the policeman with him.

“Into the sitting-room.”

“I’d like you to stay here.”

“Why don’t you come with me?” asked Rollison. He turned away, expecting a hand to drop heavily on to his shoulder, but the man didn’t stop him. The photographer was on the bedroom threshold, where the man who had first spoken to Rollison was saying:

“. . . could have been started to burn the body and disguise the way the woman was killed.”

“Who put the fire out?” asked the photographer.

“Good question,” Rollison said. He turned to the detective. “Are you in charge?”

“Yes, I’m Detective Inspector Godley.”

“Godley?”

“That’s right.”

The obnoxious solicitor at the West London Police Court had been named Godley, also.

“Well, well,” Rollison said. “Inspector, it’s time I went home.”

“I’ll tell you when you’re free to go, sir.”

Rollison said quietly, “I am free to go now.”

“No sir, you’re not.”

“If you want to prefer a charge I want a lawyer. At once. If you’re not going to prefer a charge, I intend to leave. At once.”