A quarter of an hour later, Rollison followed him.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE street where Percy Dann had his shop was long and narrow, with small houses on either side—one of long lines of drab terraces. Here and there a house was freshly painted, but the landlords of that particular street were not inclined to be generous with decorations.
Mr. Malloy lived in one of the houses which had been freshly painted. Next door, the paint from the shop was peeling off, the showcards in the window were brown with age and freely fly-spotted, a few cartons had fallen down and were covered in dust, and the window was still stuck with gummed paper as a protection against blast. Mr. Malloy’s windows, on the other hand, positively shone. The front doorstep, which was flush with the pavement, was freshly whitened, the brass letter-box and brass knocker, particular to that house, glistened in the sunlight. It looked an oasis of respectability in a slough of disrepute—but the police as well as Rollison knew that little else about Mr. Malloy was respectable.
No one knew exactly what he did for a living.
The police had never been able to take him to court, and although Rollison had heard vague rumours about him, he had never met the man; he had, however, seen him at a distance. He remembered a small, middle-aged man with sparse black hair heavily oiled and plastered over his cranium, showing little streaks of pink, a flabby face and a drooping moustache, also dark but streaked with grey.
As Rollison drew near the house, which was Number 91, he saw a figure at the window of the shop next door, and through the grime recognized Percy. At first he thought that Percy was beckoning him, but when the thin man waved his hand he decided that he was sending him away. That might mean that Janice had left, and suggested that Percy did not consider the moment ripe for a visit. Rollison motioned over his shoulder with his thumb, Percy shook his head vigorously and went through his former antics.
Then Rollison saw what he meant; he was weaving his forefinger about his nose; “Nosey” was inside.
Rollison beamed his thanks, and knocked heavily.
After a short pause a woman opened the door. She was dressed in dark blue, was neat and well made up, without being pretty or looking cheap. Narrowed blue eyes looked Rollison up and down, before she said:
“Good-morning.”
“Good-morning,” said Rollison. “I would like to see Mr. Malloy.”
“On what business?” she asked.
“Strictly private business,” said Rollison.
He is engaged.”
“Tell him to see me at once, or the police will be here within half an hour,” said Rollison.
The threat did not appear to frighten her, but it did make her narrow her eyes still more; they were curiously hooded, the lids thick and jutting out a little at each side of her eyes.
“You’d better come in,” she said.
She stood aside for Rollison to enter a narrow passage. A light was on above the stairs, otherwise the hall and narrow staircase would have looked dark. The walls were freshly distempered and the paint was fresh green—it reminded him of Phyllis Armitage at Leeming House. Hardly had the thought crossed his mind than the woman had passed him to enter a room on the right. Then he heard a familiar, feminine voice.
“I really don’t see what you mean.”
“Well, well!” murmured Rollison. “Sister Janice
“What is he like?”
The woman described Rollison so well that he silently congratulated her.
“Rollison!” exclaimed Pomeroy, his voice no longer soft and gentle.
“That b . . .” said Malloy.
“Why, that seems like Mr. Rollison!” declared Janice. She sounded greatly relieved.
“Be quiet, you little fool!” snapped Malloy. “Flo, take her next door.”
Janice exclaimed: “I won’t go next door!”
Her words were stopped abruptly; there was a sound which might have been the result of a blow across the face. Rollison turned the handle and flung the door open.
Half-way across the room, moving towards a door which presumably led to the back of the house, was Janice Armitage. Her neck was bent forward, her shoulders were against Malloy’s chest; he had his hands beneath her arm-pits and was dragging her with her heels sliding along the floor. The woman named Flo was opening the door, and Pomeroy was standing against a bookcase, looking thoroughly alarmed.
“Good-afternoon,” said Rollison. “How much is the entertainment tax?”
Malloy dropped the girl; her head struck his thighs, his shins and then the floor. He swung round on his heel, flinging words at Flo.
“Get out, fetch Mike, tell Barney”
Rollison said: “Stay here, forget Mike, ignore Barney.”
“Get going!” screamed Malloy.
