“Oh, William?”
“Yes?” said Grice, also turning.
“How was the wedding?”
Grice glared. Rollison, smiling as if he thought he had cracked a brilliant joke, continued down the stairs and into the street. There was a chance that Jolly had succeeded in tracing Marcus Shayle’s home, and therefore a chance of seeing the man before the police reached him. Hilda could wait until he had heard from Jolly. He called his taxi and, in a voice loud enough for Grice to hear, gave him the address of Barrington House, changing it only when they were in Bayswater Road.
Beneath his good mood there was an underlying note of uneasiness. Even if the case resolved itself fairly well, and Marcus Shayle had poisoned the lady of lost memory, much would remain unsolved, and there would be danger to both the unknown woman and to Phyllis Armitage. It was disquieting to think that a man had been waiting in the neighbouring flatlet, doubtless with the intention of murdering Phyllis. The man had probably postponed action because he knew that Phyllis had a visitor, but then been forced into the open. From these conclusions it was reasonable to suppose that Marcus Shayle and others were most anxious that Phyllis should not disclose the story of her actions that day.
Jolly had not yet returned to Gresham Terrace. It was then nearly half-past seven, and Rollison telephoned Barrington House, asking for Hilda. A man with a stilted voice regretted that Madam was out. So, it proved, were David Barrington-Ley and Gwendoline. He had been wrong to assume that Hilda would be sitting at home waiting for him.
He took out the slip on which he had written down the name and address of the firm of accountants which Shayle had visited. Messrs. Pomeroy, Ward & Pomeroy, of 88g The Strand, were in the telephone directory, and he made a note of their number. Then he called the house of Sir Lancelot Anstey. He was remotely related to Anstey by marriage; Anstey managed all his legal affairs and, for a man of nearly seventy, viewed his activities with a remarkably benevolent eye.
When Anstey came to the telephone, he said:
“More trouble, Rolly?”
“Certainly not,” said Rollison. “A trifling matter in which the advice of the most distinguished member of the legal profession would be welcome.”
Anstey chuckled.
“You certainly want me to do what I shouldn’t!”
“If that were so I should come and see you with a bottle of fine old brandy,” said Rollison. “The question before the oracle is—if you were not in existence, would anyone recommend me to take my business to Pomeroy, Ward & Pomeroy, of the Strand?”
“No,” said Anstey, promptly. “Not unless they had a good reason to dislike you.”
“It’s as bad as that, is it?”
“Now don’t misunderstand me, Rolly,” said the older man. “I know nothing against the firm, except that it sometimes handles cases which are rather unsavoury. It hasn’t a large connection and it isn’t very well- established. There is a companion firm of accountants—virtually the same people of course.”
“Is it a new firm?”
“It was started about ten years ago,” said Anstey. “It specializes in raising loans and mortgages and arranges advances on testamentary expectations.”
“Ah,” said Rollison. “Moneylenders.”
“What makes you inquire?” said Anstey.
“You’ve probably heard of the case of the lady in high society who lost her memory,” said Rollison.
“Do Pomeroys claim to know her?”
“They haven’t done, yet,” said Rollison. “Many thanks for the information.”
“I suppose it’s no use trying to make you explain,” said Anstey.
Although he had been very forthcoming for a lawyer, Anstey could probably have said much more. Rollison pondered over that and the record of the dual firms of Messrs. Pomeroy, Ward & Pomeroy, until the telephone awoke him from his reverie.
“Hallo, Jolly!” he said a moment later. “News?”
“Of a kind, sir,” said Jolly. “I am speaking from a telephone kiosk in the Strand. After making several brief calls at shops, and two telephone calls from public call-boxes, the young man returned to the office and is still there. I am now watching the entrance, sir, and it occurred to me that you would probably like to know at once what was happening.”
“Yes,” said Rollison. “I’ll come over at once. Follow him if he leaves again.”
“Very good, sir,” said Jolly.
Rollison picked up his hat and gloves and hurried downstairs. It was five minutes before he got a taxi, but the driver made good speed, and a quarter of an hour after he had received the message the taxi pulled up outside 80 The Strand. On the other side of the road, just emerging from an amusement hall from which came strident music, was Jolly. He showed himself for a moment and then disappeared.
Rollison paid the cabby and then went to 88g. On the ground floor there was a shop, and at the side door a board with a list of those companies which had offices above. Pomeroy, Ward & Pomeroy occupied two name-plates and the whole of the second floor. He went up the stone stairs, unable to keep his progress quiet and so walking boldly.
There was only one door on the second floor landing, marked with the two firms’ name and the word:
