“Permit me to be your eyes,” said the youth, still with the same affected drawl. “Two policemen are now protecting the old darling, and several worthy citizens are grappling with the little dears as if it gives them great pleasure.”
“Did they attack the woman who threw the ammonia?”
“I think so, sir.”
“They did indeed,” murmured the young man.
“Perhaps you’d be kind enough to help me upstairs,” said Rollison. “Jolly, will you go and find that woman and bring her after us—I’d like to talk to her.”
Meanwhile the young man had taken Rollison’s elbow and was steering him through the front door of Number 22. Rollison touched the handrail.
“I can manage now, thanks,” he said. “Will you lead the way?”
The young man nodded and went ahead, his footsteps sounding clearly on the haircord stair-carpet. Rollison’s eyes, still stinging, were nevertheless much better than they had been, and by the time they reached his flat he could even make out the number on the door. Groping in his pocket, he took out a key and held it toward the stranger.
“Will you?”
“My pleasure,” the young man said, taking the key.
Once inside the flat, Rollison could find his way blindfolded, and he went straight to the bathroom, the young man by his side. He groped for taps; they were turned on for him, the water mixed to tepid warmth. He bathed his face gently, and when he had finished, the young man handed him a towel. Rollison dabbed himself dry, and found he could see quite well; most of the pain had gone.
“Thanks,” he said gratefully.
“At your service,” the young man said. “Feeling more yourself?”
“Much more. Let’s go into the living-room.”
Rollison led the way, noting how the other’s gaze moved swiftly to the Trophy Wall and was held in fascination. He waved his guest to a chair and proffered cigarettes from a carved Malaysian box. The young man selected one with care.
“My name,” he said, “is Lucifer Stride.”
“Ah,” said Rollison. “Lucifer Stride. Where you in Court this morning?”
“I was. Tell me, Mr Rollison—” the young man leaned forward in his chair— “
Rollison, vision now nearly normal, was watching him intently. His visitor’s eyes were sharper than he had thought, rather deep-set and close together. His age was around the middle twenties. By the intensity of his expression, Rollison could see that the asking of this question was the entire purpose of his visit.
“I’ll certainly do my best,” he answered lightly. “Though I haven’t had a chance yet to study the case.”
“But Madam Melinska
The close-set eyes dropped to the floor, evading Rollison’s penetrating gaze. “I— er—I—”
The front door bell cut sharply across the stranger’s fumbling attempts at explanation.
CHAPTER FOUR
Rollison wondered what was going through the young man’s mind. Who was he, he wondered, and what was his real interest in the case. Oh well, he would have to find out later.
“Come and see this,” he invited.
Followed by the stranger, he went into the hall, and standing a few feet from the door, looked upwards. Over the lintel was a small periscope-type mirror, and this now showed a miniature reflection of Jolly, the woman who had thrown the ammonia, and a policeman.
“Old-fashioned, but effective,” remarked Lucifer Stride. This few minutes respite had given him a chance to recover his sangfroid.
“An anachronism,” thought Rollison, as he opened the door.
Jolly, standing nearest to him, looked searchingly into his face, was obviously reassured, and immediately relaxed.
“Mrs Abbott, sir,” he said.
The woman looked dazed, and now the weal on her cheek was much redder and more noticeable. The policeman was holding her arm.
“Come in, Mrs Abbott,” Rollison said, and for once wished there was another woman in the flat. He led the way
