Stars For The Toff

“How many were in it?” Rollison asked.

“Just the driver.”

“Must be drunk.”

“Are you all right?” the first man repeated.

“Er—yes. Bloodied but in one piece,” Rollison said. “Have you seen my brief-ca—ah!” A woman held it out to him. “Thank you very much. I—ah—must look where I’m going. Sorry to cause such a sensation.”

“If you’re all right—”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Have you a car?”

“Are you all right to drive?”

“Are you sure? I’ll gladly take you—”

“Or you could get a taxi.”

As they talked, still excited and greatly incensed, they moved along the road until they reached the Morris. Bending his back to get inside was excruciatingly painful, and once in, Rollison sat back, sweating. The barrage of questions started again. They were embarrassingly helpful.

Help from many unexpected sources.

“I’m sure I can manage,” Rollison said.

“You ought to report it, you know.”

“Oh, no harm’s done.”

“He must have been mad.”

Or a murderer, thought Rollison.

“Well if you’re quite sure . . .”

They stood and watched as he drove off, handling the controls stiffly at first but gradually improving. He went cautiously to Cheyne Walk, where every parking space seemed full, then found a spot outside Olivia Cordman’s front door. Normally he would have slipped in without trouble. Now, turning to look round was like knifing himself in the ribs; it was even worse getting out. He looked about and saw an old-fashioned lamp-post with a bar just beneath the lamp, and eyed it speculatively; swinging was supposed to be good for a strained back. He stretched up gingerly, managed to get a hold, and hoisted himself high.

Soon he was swinging with greater pain at his shoulders than at his back, and when he walked again he was more sore than in pain. He glanced at his watch; it was exactly half an hour since he had telephoned Olivia.

She was on the seventh floor; happily there was a lift.

“Why, come in!” she said. Then she caught her breath. “Your jacket’s torn!” she exclaimed.

“You mean there’s some left?”

“And you’re bleeding!”

“Just a scratch.”

“Well anyway, you ought to have it seen to.” She took his arm firmly and led him along a passage and into the bathroom, sat him down, and studied him in the bright light. Then she poured water, and ministered, talking about nothing in particular, until at last she ushered him into the sitting-room.

“Will you eat first and talk after, or talk first and eat after?”

“Could I drink first?” asked Rollison, sinking into an easy chair.

“Oh, what an ass I am. What’ll you have?”

Rollison settled for a whisky, and soon began to talk. Olivia sat on a pouffe in front of him, peering earnestly up into his eyes. She looked appalled when he described the accident, but when he told her of the Good Samaritans her face lit up.

“So it did come true—Madam Melinska’s help from unexpected sources! You can’t doubt her after this.”

“Can’t I?” said Rollison grimly.

Olivia stared at him for several seconds, her expression slowly changing. The gay, almost child-like delight faded, she seemed to grow older, more severe, more authoritative. Her eyes narrowed to give an impression of great severity, and when she began to speak it was as if she were about to make an announcement of supreme importance.

“You are a Virgo,” she announced.

Rollison said, bewildered: “A what?”

“A Virgo. When were you born?”

“August the twenty-third, but—”

“I knew it,” said Olivia, as if pronouncing a death sentence. “You were born on the cusp, too. Leo gives you your arrogance and Virgo your scepticism. Only a Virgo would doubt Madam Melinska after this. Your East End friends desert you, and immediately you get a seething mob of helpers outside your flat. The police turn against you, and perfect strangers come to your rescue. This is exactly what Madam Melinska prophesied.”