Stars For The Toff

“So she did,” agreed Rollison.

“And no one in their right mind is going to believe it was simply because you were helping Madam Melinska— even though she was supposed to have driven her husband to his death.”

“I see,” Rollison said. “That’s the angle, is it? Very interesting indeed, Olivia. You don’t have to believe me, but I didn’t know the first thing about this business until this morning.”

Olivia Cordman’s grin was quite remarkably disbelieving.

“You’re right, Rolly dear—I don’t have to believe you. Neither does anyone else.”

Rollison felt a flare of exasperation, but quickly stifled it, and laughed at her. The laugh did him good and obviously surprised Olivia, who raised her eyebrows as she turned to look at him. She had beautiful eyes, and Rollison was surprised that he hadn’t noticed them before.

“If you’re to be a friend,” he said, “you have to believe me.”

“Then why not try telling me the truth.” She was still piqued by his laughter.

Rollison suppressed a smile.

“I’ll tell you the truth as soon as I know it,” he said. “Meanwhile, you tell me something. You wouldn’t be so anxious to get the Melinska story unless it would help your magazine’s circulation. Why should it make new readers for The Day?

“My dear,” Olivia said, “where have you been?”

“There’s no need to be so cryptic.”

“In the past year or so, Rolly my love, public interest in fortune-telling has multiplied ten times over. When I first became Features Editor of The Day the Board wouldn’t have a breath of such fantasy. When I suggested it, I was pooh-poohed. Superstitious, sentimental nonsense, the wise men said, not fit for nor wanted by the sturdy housewives of the middle income group who read The Day. Whereas now we run a two-page spread every fortnight—we’re fortnightly now, in case you don’t know.”

“I do know,” Rollison said, and asked casually: “Think there’s something in it?”

Olivia stared at him for a moment, open-mouthed. “Something in it! Something in it! My dear Rolly, of course there’s something in it. Madam Melinska’s one of the most gifted seers—” She paused, as if at a loss for words.

Rollison chuckled. “Okay, so you believe in it. But that—”

Olivia interrupted him. “There aren’t any “buts”. I certainly do believe in it, and I believe in Madam Melinska, and so do three-quarters of our readers. And if Madam Melinska would sell us her story it would add twenty thousand to our circulation. Can you help us to get it, Rolly?”

Thoughtfully, Rollison said:

“I doubt if anyone will ever make her do anything she doesn’t want to do, but if she decides to sell, and if you’ll meet the competition, I’ll put in a word for you.” He swerved to avoid an oncoming car. “What do you know about Mona Lister?”

“Only that she’s been working with Madam Melinska—and that she’s a natural born clairvoyante. Why, you saw for yourself how she “saw” what was going to happen to Lucifer Stride.”

“So I did, so I did,” murmured Rollison. “Just one more question. What do you know about Space Age Publishing?”

Olivia looked indignant. “I just can’t believe that Madam Melinska was involved in anything dishonest,” she said flatly. “And if she really did advise people to buy shares—well, it must have been advice given in good faith. As for Space Age, all I know is that the company changed hands recently and seemed to be doing well. They were planning a very big advertising campaign—money no object— then, suddenly: Phut!”—Olivia snapped her fingers— “they were broke. We were doing some of the advertising for them, and I met the senior partner—Michael Fraser, I think his name was. He had an office in Fleet Street, why don’t you go and see him—if he’s still there,” she added.

Rollison looked thoughtful. “Do you know, Olivia, I think I will.” He pressed his foot down on the accelerator, and the big car sped past the Tate Gallery and soon approached the Gothic magnificence of the Houses of Parliament, superb in the early evening sun. Rollison rounded Parliament Square, then went along the Embankment; spotting a parking space near Waterloo Bridge, he pulled in. As he was putting sixpences into the meter, Olivia was flagging down a taxi.

“This time I’ll drop you,” she said.

The Space Age Publishing offices were in a large new office block within a stone’s throw of the Church of St Clements; Olivia dropped Rollison outside, giving him a searching look from her bright eyes as she waved a nonchalant hand. It was nearly six o’clock and Rollison wondered whether anyone would be in the office. The lift attendant said dolefully:

“Usually go by five-thirty sharp, sir.”

As he walked along a bright new passage in the bright new building, a door ahead of him opened and a girl came out. At first, she simply glanced at him—but suddenly, ten feet or so away, her eyes widened, she stared and missed a step. Then she spun around, ran back along the passage, and rushed into the doorway from which she had just come. The door slammed.

Rollison reached the door. On it, in gilt letters, were the words: Space Age Publishing, Ltd. Mr Michael Fraser. Inside the room the girl was talking in a low-pitched voice, conveying the same sense of urgency that her manner had done. Rollison turned the handle and pushed. As the door opened, the girl was saying:

“It can’t be a coincidence, I’m sure it’s him!”