“You’re very good,” Rollison said gratefully.
He rang off, went into the spare room to examine the stranger, whose condition was unchanged, and called Jolly. “If this fellow doesn’t come round in an hour, send for Dr Webber. I think he’s all right, but we’d better make sure. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”
“Mr Rollison, sir—”
“Yes, I
“This is a very peculiar case, sir.”
“It is indeed.”
“You can trust no one at all.”
“No one at all,” echoed Rollison. “You may be right. If you really get worried, call Miss Cordman’s flat. If things work out as I think they will, I shall almost certainly trust her.”
“Not too far, sir,
Rollison went out by the back door and the fire escape, to evade those people still gathered in Gresham Terrace. Jolly’s Morris, black, shiny and immaculate, was housed in a nearby garage; one of the policemen had put the Bentley in alongside it. Slipping quickly into the driving seat, Rollison swung the Morris in the direction of Charing Cross. Pulling up outside the station, he strode inside and took the brief-case out of the locker. He then went back to the car, drove to the Embankment, pulled up once again, and at long last opened the case.
Inside, was a thick file of papers.
On the outside, it was marked:
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Rollison read until the light began to fade and he could read no more. Twelve men and women were listed in the dossier; each had been a client of Madam Melinska, each had been persuaded to give her a substantial sum for investment on their behalf. In every instance this money had disappeared.
No cases had been brought, some of the victims not wishing it to be known they had consulted a fortune-teller, others not wishing it to be known that they had lost money, or been made fools of.
Rollison sat back and reflected. It was chilly; once or twice he shivered.
After a few moments he left the car, carrying the brief-case with him, and walked to a telephone kiosk on the other side of the Embankment. The white hulls of old sailing ships which had carried countless heroes on countless adventures, gleamed in the dusk. Opposite, silent, ghost-like, was the Temple. Across the river the Festival Hall was bright with welcome lights, and the new Shell House was like a diamond corsage draped on the sky.
He dialled Olivia Cordman’s number. Brr-brrr; brrr-brrr: the ringing went on and on for what seemed a very long time. A shadowy figure approached, looking sinister, misshapen, in the half-light; a man waited close by, jingling coins. Brrr-brrr; brrr-brrr; brrr-brrr—Better give up, thought Rollison. Pity.
“Who the devil’s
“—a hungry man asking to be fed.”
There was a pause. Then: “Who
“My aunt calls me Richard.”
“Who—oh,
“Famished. I thought—” added Rollison diffidently— “that you
“I’d love to, but it will have to be bacon and eggs. That’s all I’ve got.”
“Just the supper we can talk over,” said Rollison approvingly.
Olivia laughed. “Was there ever a time when you didn’t want information? But honestly, I’ll love to see you. When will you be here?”
“Is twenty minutes all right?”
“Make it half an hour,” pleaded Olivia.
“Half an hour it will be.”
“That’s lovely!” She rang off, giving Rollison the impression of simple delight; and he remembered Jolly’s warning. Smiling, he went out of the kiosk and into the road—and a car, parked without lights, started up with a venomous roar. Suddenly the headlights were switched full on, blinding him. For a split second he could not decide whether to leap forward or back, the glare was mesmerising, terror pounded in his heart. Then he flung himself forward. The brief-case went flying, the roar of the engine was deafening, and Rollison felt a sensation almost of numbness as he fell full length on the hard concrete. As he fell, the powerful lights and a dark shape passed barely an inch behind him, and the roaring died away.
Another car drew up, brakes squealing, and two men leaped out of it. Rollison grunted and groaned as he staggered to his feet. The two men helped to steady him.
“Are you all right?”
“My God, that was a miracle!”
“The crazy fool!”
“Must be drunk.”
