The Toff and The Lady

the glass in his pocket—if he shook it too much the two-shilling piece might move and the liquid would splash up to the handkerchief and be soaked up. The door sagged under his pressure. On the landing below Grice was calling orders to his men. As the door sagged still further, Grice came rushing up the stairs, and the door of Phyllis Armitage’s flat opened.

“Finish this off, will you,” said Rollison to Grice, and stood aside. Grice put his whole weight behind the effort, and the door burst open.

As he staggered inside, Grice muttered: “I hope you’ve good grounds for this.”

“A man with a gun and intent to murder,” said Rollison, and stepped past him towards a room which looked exactly the same as 6a. The window was wide open and a gentle breeze coming through. He looked out in time to see the man in overalls jump from the ladder to die pavement and run towards Queen’s Road. At the same time Grice’s two men reached the street and raced in pursuit.

Grice reached the window in time to see his men disappearing. He drew back as Phyllis came into the room.

Rollison beamed. “Miss Armitage—Superintendent Grice, of New Scotland Yard.”

“How do you do,” said Phyllis, calmly enough.

“Er—good-evening.”

“May I inquire what is happening?” asked Phyllis, and her turned-up nose helped to give her just the right expression of ingenuous bewilderment. “There’s no one in this flat—the

tenant has gone away for a week.”

“There was someone inside,” stated Grice.

“About whom we shall tell you in due course,” said Rollison, who felt on top of the world. “I think the Superintendent wants a few words with you, Miss Armitage.”

She still looked puzzled. “Of course,” she said, and went back to her own rooms, leaving both front doors ajar.

Grice had changed into a brown lounge suit and looked much more comfortable. There was a note of acerbity in his voice.

“I thought I’d find you here when I heard you’d been to the nursing home,” he said.

“Prophecies all coming true,” said Rollison, “and yet you always say you don’t believe in hunches.” He unbuttoned his pocket as he spoke.

Grice said: “What have you said to the girl?”

“You didn’t give me time to say much,” said Rollison. “Another ten minutes, and I would have got the whole story out of her. Here’s a present for you. I don’t mean the florin,” he added as he held the medicine glass out. There was still a little liquid at the bottom when he tilted it. “Go on, it won’t bite—didn’t the matron tell you I’d taken it away?”

“Yes,” said Grice. He took the glass and put it on the mantelpiece. “Why did you take it?”

“Curious disquiet at nursing home,” said Rollison. “It may have been genuine alarm at the collapse of “the lady”, or it might have been because they have failed to carry out police and doctors’ instructions, but it might also be because they harbour deep and guilty secrets. I didn’t intend to take any chances with that glass, although it probably contains nothing but Neuro-Phosphates.” The bantering note faded from his voice as he added: “How is the lady?”

“It will be touch and go,” Grice answered. “They think they’ll pull her round.”

“No murder yet,” said Rollison. “Here nor there.”

“You’re in an infuriating mood,” said Grice. “Here or there what?”

“No murder,” said Rollison. “Man with gun dressed as a painter was almost certainly after our demure little lady here. She has a very pretty face, not at all a bad figure, and something of the air of an ingenue which I think is natural and unassumed.”

You always did fall for a pretty face,” said Grice.

“That’s uncalled for, unfair, unjust and quite true,” declared Rollison. “See what you can find out from her. I don’t think she will keep much back. I do not think that she left the mystery lady’s room on a pretext, but I shouldn’t read too much in that. By the way, what doctors attend “the lady”?”

“Renfrew, of Wimpole Street, and Cray.”

“Renfrew as Mrs. Barrington-Ley’s society nominee, I suppose,” said Rollison. “Cray put up by the Yard.”

“Why do you ask?”

“Curiosity,” said Rollison.

“You’re unbearable,” said Grice. “Are you coming in with me to talk to this girl?”

“No, I must be off. I promised to call on Hilda to-night.”

“Mrs. Barrington-Ley?”

“Yes. Good hunting!” Rollison smiled and led the way out of the room.

As he reached the landing one of Grice’s men appeared on the landing below. The man came up when Rollison beckoned him, and reported that the pseudo-painter had managed to get away, but that Sergeant Miller was trying to find out where he had gone.

Grice was about to tap at Phyllis Armitage’s door and Rollison was half-way down the stairs, when he stopped, turned and called: