The Toff and The Lady

“Oh,” said Rollison.

“Some five minutes after you went into the building, sir,” said Jolly, with great deliberation, “Miss Gwendoline Barrington-Ley arrived.” His expression did not change when he saw Rollison’s astonishment. “I was greatly interested, of course, and somewhat surprised when she came out after a very few minutes and walked back towards Trafalgar Square. I thought it wise to follow her, and was somewhat disappointed when she returned on foot, to Barrington House. I thought it better to return here.”

“Quite rightly,” said Rollison. “Get me a drink, Jolly,”

“Whisky, sir?”

Yes. Don’t spare the soda.”

Rollison sat down and watched his man get the drink from a chiffonier of great age, which vandals said was now a cocktail cabinet. He took the glass and drank slowly. Jolly hovered in the background for some minutes, and then walked towards the door.

“Don’t go,” said Rollison.

“Very good, sir.” Jolly went over to the book-cases in the corner of the room and appeared to interest himself in straightening the books on the shelves. After a long silence, Rollison spoke as if to himself:

“That suggests that she did not tell me all the truth, doesn’t it?”

“A possibility which you had already considered, sir.”

“And which I hoped wouldn’t be substantiated,” said Rollison. “Jolly, I am not covering myself with glory. I’ve prevented Grice from catching Marcus Shayle—your pleasant young man. And how pleasant!” Rollison finished his whisky, lit a cigarette, and began to talk, going over everything that had happened in a matter-of-fact voice, as if he were anxious to get it all clear in his own mind.

Jolly did not interrupt. He showed some concern when he heard of the poisoning and of the man with the gun, and when at last Rollison finished, he said:

“You appear to have been instrumental in saving Miss Armitage from injury, sir, and you may have been just in time to save the unknown lady.”

“No credit where no credit’s due,” said Rollison. “The matron was telephoning the doctor, and that was not because I was on the spot. The unknown lady—what shall we call her?”

After a moment, Jolly suggested: “Lady Lost, sir?”

“I suppose that’s as good as anything,” said Rollison. “Where was I?” He went on with hardly a pause. “Lady Lost was in no great danger; obviously the poison was not enough to kill her. I think my painter would have shot Phyllis Armitage, but now that these people know that the police have visited Messrs. Pomeroy, Ward & Pomeroy, she will probably be all right. It isn’t often that a man thinks it worth taking a potshot at someone who might be able to give evidence against him.” He paused. “Well. I want to know who sent me that photograph. I think I’ll have a snack and then go to Barrington House.”

“I will prepare something for you at once,” said Jolly.

Rollison dialled Whitehall 1212, only to learn that Grice had left for home. He tried the Chelsea number, and was answered by the Superintendent.

“Why the devil didn’t you tell me that the girl had given you Shayle’s name?” demanded Grice. “You try one’s patience beyond endurance. You went to see Shayle, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” said Rollison.

“You’re never happy unless you think you’re one step ahead of us,” complained Grice. “Did you see Shayle?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Rollison, apologetically.

“I suppose you know you scared him away?”

“Late arrival of the police is hardly a fault of mine,” murmured Rollison. “In any case, Shayle caught me on the wrong foot. While I was in his office I telephoned the Yard. You weren’t there.”

“Then why didn’t you wait until I arrived?”

“I did,” said Rollison. “Shayle went out the back way.”

“Was he there alone?”

“No,” said Rollison. He told Grice about the gentleman in sporting tweeds, and mentioned that because his nose had come in contact with the door it might be red and swollen. By the time the conversation was over and Jolly had come in with a tray on which was an omelette, Grice was mollified though obviously not pleased. He assured Rollison that Phyllis Armitage would be watched, not only because she might not have told the whole truth, but because she might be in personal danger. At least, thought Rollison, he accepted the theory that the pseudo-painter had meant to prevent her from talking.

Rollison sat down and began to eat, and then said:

“There is a snag about Shayle—have you seen it, Jolly?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“Shayle wanted Phyllis Armitage to go back on duty. Would he have worried about that if Lady Lost had been dead— or if he thought she would die? Why did he try to poison her, and then show such anxiety about her well- being? Why did he get the nurse out of the room, when, later, he wanted her to report to him anything that Lady Lost said?”

“I see, sir,” said Jolly.

“Contradictory motives,” remarked Rollison.