Stars For The Toff

Rollison said mildly: “I see what you mean. How quickly can you read?”

“Very quickly. It’s my profession.”

“If I cook the bacon and eggs will you read this?” Rollison asked. After a short but explicit account of how he had obtained it, he took the file out of the brief-case and handed it to Olivia, stood up, and made his way to the kitchen—small, modern, spick-and-span. In one frying-pan was bacon, in another, four uncracked eggs. On a table were fat, salt and pepper. Rollison lit two gas-rings, and began to cook as Jolly had taught him years ago. He could move freely now, and went about the task with slow deliberation, going through the whole case in his mind. Once or twice he peeped into the sitting-room.

Olivia Cordman was sitting upright in an armchair, poring over the file. Her spectacles had peach-coloured frames, and gave her a slightly school-mistressy appearance. Her only movement was the occasional wrinkling of her forehead, causing a straight furrow between her eyes.

Rollison took two small trays from a shelf, and soon he was laying a plate of steaming eggs and bacon on each. He checked that he had everything, then carried the trays proudly into the sitting-room. Olivia did not look up. He placed her tray on a small table by her side, his own on the pouffe in front of his easy chair. She did not appear to notice.

He began to eat. “Hm, very good.”

“It’s dreadful.”

“Don’t let it get cold.”

“It’s shameful.”

“It certainly will be, if you let that bacon congeal.” She looked up, glaring.

“This isn’t funny.”

“It won’t be, if you—”

She scowled at him, then, suddenly, her face cleared, she put the papers down, gave a little coo of satisfaction, and said:

“You’ve cooked supper—oh, you shouldn’t have. Why, it’s terrible, inviting someone to supper and then letting them cook it. But it looks beautiful.” She sprayed pepper liberally over her eggs and bacon, and began to eat with gusto. “Who taught you to cook?—You ought to do it more often. I’ll bet it was Jolly, he’s out of this world—an anachronism, poor dear. A bit like you,” she added, her smile robbing the words of any sting. “You’re both links with the past, and sometimes I hate the present.” She ate for a minute or two, and then said with troubled earnestness: “Can these beastly reports be true?”

“They certainly can be.”

“Then—are they?”

“If I’d seen them before, I don’t think I would have been so quick to bail the ladies out,” Rollison said.

“Twelve people advised to invest in Space Age Publishing and then cheated out of their savings—I just can’t believe it. And that poor Mr Abbott—” Olivia stopped.

“Not a pretty record,” said Rollison grimly.

“And when he died, Mrs Abbott employed private detectives to dig out everything they could about Madam Melinska?”

“Yes.”

“And this is what they found? I can’t believe it.”

Rollison frowned. “Well, either it’s true, or Madam Melinska is being framed—like the girl said. But if it is true and this story became public property, it wouldn’t do Madam Melinska any good at all. I believe someone broke into Mrs Abbott’s flat to steal this dossier—which had, of course, already been stolen by our friend Ted Jackson—if Jackson’s telling the truth, that is. Interrupted by Mrs Abbott, the thief lost his head, panicked, and strangled her—then set the place on fire to try to cover his tracks. Either that or he intended to both steal the dossier and silence Mrs Abbott.”

Olivia shivered. “Oh it’s dreadful, dreadful. And what’s even worse—” She paused, and Rollison waited with awed fascination to hear what was worse than murder— “what’s even worse, is the possibility that Madam Melinska might prove to be a fake. It’s terrible—no one would believe in fortune-telling again for years. Every fortune-teller would be absolutely discredited. It’s bad enough when half the people you meet are sceptics, and at best tolerate what they consider to be your folly, but if Madam Melinska is guilty—”

She broke off, and in that moment Rollison knew exactly how much this mattered to her. She was not exaggerating; she meant exactly what she said; and then caught her breath and cried out:

“Oh, no!”

“Now what?” asked Rollison.

“She knew about the attack on you—she warned you, didn’t she, she told you there would be danger. Oh, my goodness, this gets worse. If she is guilty, then she must have plotted your death. You know, Rolly, there’s only one thing to do. You’ve got to prove that she’s innocent.”

“Whether she is or not?”

“You know what I mean. Rolly, we must go and see her at once. I’ll know whether she’s lying. And I dare say you will, too,” Olivia added kindly.

“Ah,” said Rollison: “Give me a pencil and some paper, will you, and I’ll take some notes. It’ll be safer to leave the actual reports here . . .”