by the bed, looking towards the door—and as he stared, a man appeared, a little fat man now dressed in a dinner jacket suit, but unmistakably the man whom “David called Pomeroy”.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE man stared blankly at Rollison, as if he had never seen him before. Rollison could not move from the bedside. Hilda turned, and backed a pace.
“What has happened?” asked the little fat man.
He had a gentle deceptive voice, with no heartiness, and there was now nothing about him to give the impression that he was a sporting gent. He smiled soberly at Hilda and stood looking down at Gwendoline. He did not seem shocked at the sight of blood.
“What has happened?” he repeated. “Who are you, sir?”
Rollison said: “How is your nose?”
“You appear to have a bad memory,” said Rollison.
It was an impossible situation, and he was infuriated by his helplessness, but he did not trust Hilda to maintain the right pressure, and he had to stay where he was. There was no glint in the fat man’s eyes, only bewilderment. Even Gwendoline would believe the two men had never met before.
Then came hurried footsteps, and a youngish man entered the room carrying a small attache case. He was tall and well-dressed, and anxiety written clearly upon his countenance. This was Dr. Renfrew, good-looking and surprisingly young, and “Andrew” to Hilda Barrington-Ley. Renfrew recovered himself quickly and advanced to the bed.
The maid came in with a bowl of hot water and towels.
Rollison said: “It’s a knife wound in the neck.”
“Knife!” exclaimed Renfrew. He bent over the patient. The maid stood by. A middle-aged woman who could be relied on to keep her head. The fat man stood near the door, watching the proceedings with a puzzled stare.
Rollison said to Hilda: “We’ll wait downstairs.”
He put a hand on the fat man’s arm and led the way out of the room. The other did not protest, and they went down side by side. Their footsteps were muffled by the thick carpet. Rollison led the way into the drawing-room, where a few spots of blood were congealing on the cream carpet, and closed the door.
Puzzled eyes, but eyes which Rollison was not likely to forget, contemplated him.
“You bewilder me, sir,” said the fat man. “Who are you?”
“My name is Rollison,” said Rollison, heavily. He went across the room, picked up the knife by the blade, and put it on the piano. “And we have met before.”
“Not to my recollection,” said the fat man.
“At the office of Pomeroy, Ward & Pomeroy,” said Rollison, wondering whether there was any way in which he could make the man admit the truth.
The reaction to his words was curious. The other widened his small eyes to their fullest, opened his lips to a round “O”, and raised his podgy hands with the fingers outstretched, rather as if he had suffered an electric shock. He stood looking at Rollison until Rollison’s annoyance faded and he laughed.
“That infamous den!” exclaimed the fat man, in a voice squeaky with indignation. “I am insulted!” I have not set foot in that place for years
“ He broke off, narrowed his eyes, closed his mouth and
let his arms fall. “Sir,” he said, with dignity, “I demand an explanation.”
“You may keep on demanding,” said Rollison.
“I trust you are now convinced that you are mistaken.”
“I am not convinced one little bit,” said Rollison. “Did you know that Marcus Shayle was under arrest?”
Into the little eyes there sprang a wary glint. It took the man several moments to recover enough to ask who Marcus Shayle was. Rollison gave up trying. He had to, in any case, for the woman detective arrived from Grice. He made sure she knew exactly what to say to Lady Lost, and sent her to Gresham Terrace. The “maid” was a meek-looking, mild-mannered but powerful woman, and Rollison had no doubt that in a struggle she would be able to give a good account of herself. She would watch the Lady of Lost Memory with eagle eye.
Rollison was on edge to return to the flat, but there were other things to do. He went out by the side door, unobserved, and telephoned Scotland Yard. Late though it was, Grice was still there. Rollison told him exactly what had happened, including the reluctance of the Barrington-Leys to inform the police, and he made a special point of mentioning the little fat man.
“Are you formally asking me to come over?” Grice asked.
“No,” said Rollison, “but I’ll persuade Hilda Barrington-Ley to send for you—be patient for an hour or so, will you? There’s nothing that can usefully be done yet.”
“Did you see this man with the knife clearly?”
Rollison gave a description as best he could, then rang off and walked back to the house. No one appeared to have missed him. Pomeroy was still in the drawing-room, and he tried to freeze Rollison with a glance. Then Hilda came into the room with the young doctor.
She now introduced Dr. Renfrew, whom she continued to call Andrew. Rollison liked the look of the man, who
