The man had very steady, rather opaque brown eyes. He had a strong face and a powerful physique, and something about the set of his lips told Rollison he was extremely stubborn. Inside the bedroom, the camera was clicking and men were moving about. A car drew up in the street below.
Rollison said: “I’ll be at home when you want me.” He tapped the ash from his cigarette, and walked back along the passage. Again he expected to be stopped, but was not. The man should at least have asked him to make a statement.
He reached the door.
“Mr Rollison?” the man called.
“Yes.”
“I would like a statement from you about what happened here.”
“I don’t know what happened before I came,” Rollison said. “I arrived at about four-thirty. I smelled burning, so I broke in. I found a fire in the bedroom, and put it out. As soon as the smoke cleared I saw the woman on the bed. She appeared to have been strangled. I was about to leave and telephone you—”
The man interrupted: “Why not telephone from here?”
“Because there’s no telephone.”
“Oh.” That was the first time the man looked disconcerted, but he quickly recovered. “We shall want your statement in writing, duly signed.”
“Whenever you like.”
“As it’s a short one, why not now, sir?”
Rollison thought: “Yes, why not now? It won’t take ten minutes.” He went to the sitting-room, and Godley followed, put a pen and notebook on a table, and left him; but there was another man in the room, watching. Damn it, they
He finished and signed the statement, and took it to Godley, who was back in the bedroom doorway. Godley nodded curtly, and said: “Thank you.” Rollison went down the stairs as a short, plump man came up them, a Dr Sampson, whom he knew as a police-surgeon. Sampson nodded; and passed. Rollison stepped into the street. Outside the house were three police cars, the doctor’s car, an ambulance and a crowd of fifty or sixty people. Someone took a photograph— probably a Press photographer. A child asked in a piping voice:
“Did
“Hush!”
Rollison forced a smile. “No, I didn’t do it, sonny.”
No one spoke to him as he turned toward Fulham Road, where he had left the Bentley. He turned the corner, saw the car, and noticed someone sitting in the front passenger seat.
It was a woman.
He opened the door, and Olivia Cordman smiled up at him.
“Didn’t they arrest you, Rolly?” she asked.
CHAPTER NINE
Rollison went around to the other side of the Bentley, got in, started the engine, and eased off the brake. The car began to move forward. He waited for several cars to pass, then pulled out.
“Can I drop you somewhere?” he asked politely.
“Anywhere near Fleet Street,” Olivia said. “Don’t look so grim, Rolly. They
“They could yet!”
“The great Toff? Don’t be silly.”
“What brought you here?” asked Rollison, sharply.
“I came to see Mrs Abbott. I thought if I spoke to her alone, I might discover something that might help Madam Melinska. When I arrived I saw the crowds and someone told me Mrs Abbott was dead. Then I saw your car—it was unlocked, so I got in—and here I am.” Olivia settled more comfortably in her seat.
Rollison smiled. He was only just beginning to thaw out from the chill ice of Godley’s manner, and still hadn’t quite decided what to do.
“Need a friend?” asked Olivia.
“Now as always.”
“Try me. I can be a good one.”
“Certainly not,” Rollison said. “I’m sure you’d see me get a life sentence if you thought it would put
“You couldn’t be more wrong,” said Olivia Cordman. “I would only see you get a life sentence if—” she paused, rolling the words on her tongue, and gave him a bright, friendly smile— “if I thought you’d killed Hester Abbott.”
“Do you?”
“Well, she
