Stars For The Toff

Jolly answered: “Not a word, sir.”

“Let me have a good look at him,” Rollison said, and added: “that valet idea was very clever.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Jolly, almost smugly. “It seemed one way to prevent the police from suspecting that we were keeping him prisoner. I’ll go and get him, sir—I locked him in the spare-room bathroom.”

The spare-room bathroom had a ventilator but no window.

Rollison moved to the living-room window and looked down, seeing Clay striding to his car, glancing neither right nor left. The crowds were beginning to disperse but there was still a large number of people in the street, and it passed through Rollison’s mind that they could quite easily have mobbed Clay had they known about the warrant.

Suddenly he heard Jolly call:

“Will you come here, sir?”

There was a note of alarm in his voice, and Rollison moved swiftly. Jolly appeared at the spare-room door.

“He’s unconscious, sir.”

“What?”

“It’s almost as if he—was asphyxiated, sir.”

Rollison said: “He can’t have been.” He thrust his way across the bedroom and into the bathroom, sniffing: the air was clear, there was no lack of oxygen. The stranger was sitting on the floor, head lolling on his chest, arms draped by his side. Rollison felt his pulse; it was steady enough, but faint. He hoisted him up and carried him into the spare room, laying him on the bed. Jolly had already loosened his collar and tie, and now Rollison gently pushed up one of his eyelids.

Jolly moved forward to peer at the pupil. “A pinpoint, sir!”

“Morphia,” Rollison said with relief. “He came prepared, didn’t he? Rather than answer questions he put himself to sleep. But he’ll wake up, Jolly. Go through his clothes, find out what he has in his pockets, and let me know. I’ve got some telephoning to do.”

*     *     *

“Madam Melinska is perfectly all right, Richard,” said Lady Hurst. “And has every confidence in you. I hope it isn’t misplaced.”

“So do I,” said Rollison earnestly. “Has Mona said anything?”

“I am afraid she is rather a sullen child. So many pretty ones are.”

“Win her round,” urged Rollison. “Turn on your charm, Aunt Gloria, I’ve never needed it more. Find out all you can about her aunt and uncle, friends, family and relations. And please, soon,” he pleaded.

“I will certainly try, if you think it will be of any use.”

“It will—and I’ve every confidence in you,” Rollison said, warmly. “Now, Aunt—”

He was smiling when he rang off.

Jolly appeared as he replaced the receiver.

“He has removed every identifying mark from his clothes, sir, and there is none in his pockets—no clue at all to his identity, unless this is a clue, sir.”

Jolly held out his hand, palm uppermost. On it was a small coin, so small that Rollison nearly dropped it when he picked it up. Then he said in surprise:

“It’s one of our old threepenny bits—no, not ours, South African—a ticky, didn’t they call them? South African, Jolly.”

“And South Africa has a common border with Rhodesia, sir,” Jolly observed.

“Yes indeed. Put it back where you found it—he needn’t know we know about it. And now, how about a quick cup of coffee—I may be too busy for dinner.”

It was nearly an hour later that Chief Inspector Clay telephoned.

“In view of new information which has become available, Mr Rollison, we are not proceeding with the charge,” he announced.

“Thanks,” said Rollison, “very understanding of you.”

“On the other matter, inquiries are in hand and any information which is not confidential will be passed on.”

“Thanks again,” Rollison said more warmly. “Is anything known?”

“Harold Abbott committed suicide, sir.”

“Any close relatives?”

“The Abbotts were a childless couple,” said Clay. “As far as we can ascertain the only surviving relative seems to be a niece, Miss Mona Lister.”

“What did Abbott do for a living?”

“He appears to have been of independent means,” answered Clay. “If I have further information I will telephone you in the morning.”