Stars For The Toff

Melinska is. Have you cleared her yet?”

“No, but—”

“There isn’t any “but” about it. Until she’s proven innocent you can pretend anything; you don’t have to play by the Queensberry Rules with that lot.” She seemed angrier with Rollison than with her abductors. “If you hand them over to the police they’ll only tell them all about that beastly old dossier, and that won’t do Madam Melinska any good at all—oh yes, they know all about it, Lord knows how, but they do. And once the police get on to that, Madam Melinska won’t stand a chance.”

Rollison said slowly: “I don’t think she will.”

“There you are then!” Olivia was triumphant. “You’ve got to make them talk. And if you can’t, I can—everyone talks to me when I set my mind to it.”

“That I can believe,” said Rollison. He chuckled as he looked down at her. “You take some beating!”

“You’re not so bad yourself. I thought you’d tumble to what I meant when I talked about Lucy being a moaner. How is he?”

Rollison told her the latest news about Lucifer Stride. Then he turned towards the two men. The man who had threatened him on the stairs still sprawled across the chair, motionless; but the man who had telephoned him was beginning to stir.

Rollison leaned over him. “I’ll take this one first. Any idea who they are?”

“That one’s Bob. The other’s Frank. Or that’s what they called themselves. They didn’t tell me any more— except that they’re brothers.”

Rollison pulled the man to his feet.

“Don’t worry, we’ll soon find out all we want to know. Got that famous reporter’s biro of yours? I’d like you to take down what they say.”

Olivia rummaged in a sideboard, found pencil and paper, and sat down, crossing her legs. “Okay, Rolly, I’m all set.”

Bob was moistening his lips.

“What’s your name?” demanded Rollison.

“Webb. Robert Webb.”

“Where are you from?”

“Bui—Bulawayo, Rhodesia.”

“What work do you do?”

Robert Webb hesitated. “I—we—”

“Just answer for yourself.”

“I’m—I’m a private inquiry agent.”

“You’re a what?

“I’m a private inquiry agent.”

“You won’t be any more,” Rollison said grimly. “What work have you been doing?”

“Finding—finding out about Madam Melinska.”

“Did you prepare that dossier?”

“I—er—we—yes.”

“Who paid you?”

“Mrs—Mrs Abbott.”

“Why did you go to her flat to steal the report you yourself had prepared and given to her?” This was a shot in the dark, but Rollison hoped it might pay off.

“I didn’t steal it.”

“You went to Tillson Street and broke into her flat. While you were looking for the report she returned unexpectedly, and you killed her.”

“I didn’t kill her!”

“And you killed Charlie Wray, a harmless little man who —”

“I didn’t kill anyone!”

“You ran him down.”

“That—that wasn’t my fault, he ran right into my car.”

“Oh-ho, so you did go to Tillson Street.” Rollison’s shot in the dark had paid off. “And this evening you followed me from Gresham Terrace and tried to run me down on the Embankment.”

“I never ran you down.”

Rollison moved forward and gripped Robert Webb’s lapels, drawing him close. He could feel the man trembling, sensed the depth of his fear. He held him for several seconds, then thrust him away. Webb staggered backwards,