The Toff and The Lady

first time only an hour before.

She would have coffee, she said.

She grimaced when she sipped it, and set her cup down, without taking it up again. Rollison noticed that and made no comment. Then being a woman, she rose and looked at herself in a small mirror, and exclaimed in mock horror.

“Mr. Rollison, I am”

“Delightful.” he said.

“But my lips! And my cheeks! I am like a ghost!”

“A very lively ghost,” said Rollison. “Come with me.” He took her to the dressing-table where, spread out, was everything any woman could need for her make-up and her toilet; Jolly had found time to put them ready. She sat at the dressing-table, looking up at him, and he went out and closed the door.

Jolly was clearing the table.

“We’re getting results,” said Rollison, his voice much more confident. “Get that cleared as quickly as you can and then— Jolly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who has the best collection of gramophone records of our acquaintance?”

Jolly considered. “Mr. Jeffrey, sir, or perhaps Sir Lancelot Anstey.”

“Sir Lancelot—he’s the man! Go and borrow some records from him. We want the Yugo-Slav National Anthem—in fact the National Anthems of all the Balkan countries—some national music from them all, folk-songs, gypsy music, a good general selection. If Sir Lancelot hasn’t got them he will know where to find them at short notice, and I want them to-night.”

“I will obtain them, sir,” said Jolly, confidently.

“And Jolly, there is a curious, syrupy, bitter stuff which the Turks and some others call coffee. Have you ever made it?”

“I am afraid not, sir, but I believe that it is obtainable at several small restaurants. Shall I endeavour to obtain some of that also?”

“Yes. Don’t lose time, Jolly, but don’t take chances. She was probably followed here.”

“I have thought of that, sir.”

“If she were followed here it was by a friend; an enemy would not have let her come. So deal lightly with anyone you suspect.”

Rollison went to the telephone and he dialled Grice’s home number again. This time he was unlucky; for Grice was at the Yard. He had him on the wire very soon, and it was a jubilant Grice—a fact which puzzled Rollison, who had forgotten a great deal since the arrival of “the lady”.

“I was going to come round to see you, Rolly,” said Grice. “I’ll take back most of what I’ve said about you.”

“Why?” asked Rollison.

“We’ve got Marcus Shayle,” said Grice. “The Devon police have just telephoned me—he was at the address you gave me.”

“Now you know my value,” said Rollison. “Was anyone else with him?”

“No, he was alone.”

“A pity, but it’s progress,” said Rollison. “Now, a Roland for your Oliver—I have the lady here.”

After a long pause, Grice asked: “What did you say?”

“In the flesh,” said Rollison, “and we’re getting along famously. I hope you won’t interrupt us yet. I’ll see that she is all right, and I’ll get some incurious relative to spend the night here, unless—I say, old chap.”

“Er—yes,” said Grice, still taken aback.

“Have you a good woman detective who can play the part of a maid?”

“Yes,” said Grice, promptly.

“Send her over, will you,” said Rollison, and Grice, still elated by the capture of Marcus Shayle, promised that he would.

Rollison rang off, and looked towards the bedroom door. He did not think that his guest would be much longer, she had been there nearly a quarter of an hour. Jolly had gone, and the flat was very quiet. He lit a cigarette and smiled to himself, letting the mystifying development take second place in his enjoyment of the situation. He took the photograph from his desk and propped it up against the wall. Then, just as he was about to knock at the bedroom door, the ringing of the telephone bell sounded very loud. He answered it and said “Hallo”. A confused murmuring reached his ears, low-pitched and rather breathless voices which, he thought, belonged to women. He expected it to be a call from Phyllis or Janice Armitage, and that they were perhaps in a call-box together.

“Hallo,” he repeated, “this is Mayfair”

“Rolly!” exclaimed a woman, and he knew at once that he was wrong; this was Gwendoline, not one of the Armitage sisters. He frowned as Gwendoline rushed on, as if she had quite forgotten that she had snubbed and evaded him. “Oh, Rolly, can you come here at once?”

“Where?” asked Rollison.

“To the house—our house, Barrington House,” said Gwendoline, and then she broke off and another voice