advised to come home immediately.”
“Why?” asked Rollison.
“The—ah—police are in possession,” Jolly told him.
“They are in truth, sir. I tried to communicate with Mr Grice, but he is said to be out of town.”
“What are they doing?” inquired Rollison.
“Searching most extensively, sir. However, I am less concerned with the attitude of the police than with another situation which I think you should see for yourself.” Hurriedly, he went on: “Would you care to speak to Chief Inspector Clay, who is in charge here, sir?”
“Just tell him I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Rollison said.
He rang off on Jolly’s “Very good, sir.”
He was quite sure that Jolly would have told him more but for Clay’s presence. Rollison knew the man slightly —a shrewd and patient detective, but with little imagination and an unyielding faith in the rule book—exactly the type of man whom Grice would second to an investigation into his, Rollison’s, activities.
All three members of Space Age Publishing, Limited were watching him; his apprehension must have sounded in his voice. He looked at each in turn, and then said:
“Jane, let me have your own and the men’s home addresses and telephone numbers—I may want to get in touch with you. Fraser, I’d like you to send me a written report stating everything you know about Madam Melinska.” He turned to the man the others had called Ted. “What’s your surname?”
“Jackson.”
“I’d like
Jackson looked uneasy. “Do you think the police will get on to me?”
“They might.”
“You won’t tell them I was—”
“As long as you play ball with me I won’t tell the police anything,” Rollison said. He took a card from his pocket, with his name—The Honourable Richard Rollison, O.B.E.—and the Gresham Street address on one side, and a pencilled sketch of a top hat, a monocle, a cigarette and a bow tie on the other, and handed it to Fraser. Once, this had been used as a form of psychological terrorism, a melodramatic threat—
Picking up the brief-case with one hand and taking the slip of paper Jane held out to him with the other, he walked out of the room and across the outer office, leaving the three members of Space Age Publishing, Limited staring after him. Unlocking the passage door, he stepped outside. The automatic self-service lift was still working, and a small door in the large doors of the building had not yet been locked. Rollison stepped out, cautiously.
No one was in the street, but that did not mean that the police weren’t at either end, watching; or that the men who had killed Charlie Wray and attempted to kill Lucifer would not be lurking close by. He turned towards the Strand. The brief-case must not be taken to the flat while the police were there, nor must it be taken anywhere the police might search. His club, for instance. Hailing a taxi, he went to Charing Cross station, left the brief-case in a locker, pocketed the key and looked about cautiously, but no one appeared to be paying him any particular attention.
Outside, he bought a newspaper.
His own face, Madam Melinska’s and Mona’s stared up at him; and there were front page headlines.
TOFF TO THE RESCUE
?100 BAIL FOR MADAM MELINSKA
GALLANTRY IN COURT
The story, as a story, was factual enough; what Rollison hadn’t expected was the space and prominence the evening papers gave to it.
There was a long queue for taxis, so he walked down Villiers Street, and through the Embankment Gardens to his car. A ticket was wedged under his windscreen-wiper and he realised that he had only put two six-pences into the parking meter. He drove off very thoughtfully, half wishing he had looked in the brief-case.
Half an hour later he turned off Piccadilly and was in sight of Gresham Terrace. The first thing to startle him was the sight of the policemen, three of them; the second, the stream of people; the third, the fact that the police were sending cars straight past the end of Gresham Terrace. His heart thumped. Had there been an accident, or—
A policeman came up to him.
“The street’s barred for the next hour or so, sir. You can only get into Gresham Terrace on foot. I—” the man broke off. “Aren’t
“Yes. I’ll get rid of the car and come back.”
“One of our men will look after the car for you, sir. Chief Inspector Clay would like to see you as soon as possible. He’s waiting at your place.”
Rollison looked along Gresham Terrace.
It was a seething mass of people, mostly women. At this end of the street they were fairly thinly spread but farther along they were packed so solidly that no one could pass. Two or three cars were completely hemmed in; until the crowd was cleared there would be no chance for them to move.
