“Those who can sit down may stay.”
So he was in a genial mood, thought Rollison.
There was much shoving and pushing and whispering; then surprisingly, a hush: and in the hush Nimmo looked down at the clerk, and said:
“I’ll take the first case.”
“Very good, your honour.” The clerk whispered to an usher, the usher whispered to a policeman, by some magic signal the door at the foot of the steps opened, and a wardress appeared; then a girl; next a dark, gypsylike woman; and finally a second wardress. The clerk was whispering to the magistrate, until quite suddenly formality took over.
“Prisoners in the dock—answer to your names, please. Mona Daphne Lesley Lister.”
The girl nodded. Her reply was almost inaudible.
“Madam Melinska.”
“I am Madam Melinska,” the older woman said.
She had a soft but carrying voice with a faintly foreign inflection; she might be Spanish, Rollison thought, or Italian, or Southern French. She glanced away from the clerk and then saw Rollison—and on that instant Rollison’s whole mood changed, from one of lively interest to one of absolute astonishment.
For she looked at him.
And she smiled.
And her lips formed his name with great, almost loving care.
“Mr Rollison,” she said.
Although Rollison heard no sound from her lips and no one else could possibly have heard, there was hushed silence in the Court, and everyone, from Nimmo down to the humblest usher, was staring at the woman.
CHAPTER THREE
It seemed a long time before the silence and the stillness were broken by the magistrate, who shifted back in his carved oak chair and gave a deprecatory, almost apologetic, cough. The clerk to the Court came out of his spell, the men and women jammed tightly in the Press box and the public galleries relaxed and fidgeted. A faint hiss of sound came.
“THAT’S Rollison . . .
A sturdy, youthful, puzzled chief inspector was approaching the witness-box. The clerk was reading out the charge.
“. . . did conspire together to advise certain persons to buy shares in a company known as Space Age Publishing, Limited, and did misappropriate the money so obtained . . .”
Rollison came out of a kind of coma. “She must have seen a photograph,” he muttered aloud. “She’s certainly never seen me.”
“Do the accused plead guilty or not guilty?” inquired Nimmo.
“Not guilty, your honour.”
“Not guilty,” whispered Mona Lister.
“Are they represented?” demanded Nimmo.
“No, your honour. I understand they wish to apply to the Court for legal aid.”
Someone at the back of the Court said clearly: “What a racket! She’s as wealthy as sin!”
“If there are any more interruptions I shall have the Court cleared,” threatened Nimmo. “Is there any evidence of means?” When neither the woman nor the girl spoke, Nimmo glanced towards the detective about to take the stand: “Can the police give us any information?” The man made no comment. “Very well, we shall hear the evidence of arrest and then consider the application for legal aid.”
The inspector took the oath.
“. . . and nothing but the truth, so help me God. On the third day . . . and warned them that anything they said would be taken down and could be used as evidence.”
“Did they reply to your charge?” asked Nimmo.
“Yes, sir.”
“What did they say?”
“The younger of the accused said it was a frame-up.”
“Yes, sir. The older of the accused said she didn’t understand.”
“Did she say
“No, sir, she appeared to be very puzzled.”
“I see. Well, they have been charged and they have entered a plea of not guilty. Have you the necessary
