The woman stood by the door, as if she were deliberately defying Malloy, whose flabby face was stained red. Pomeroy was still standing by the bookcase. He appeared to have recovered from the shock, and his right hand was moving slowly towards his pocket. Rollison saw a vase filled with artificial flowers on a table by his side. He picked up the vase and tossed it towards Pomeroy, saying:
“Catch!”
The man dodged to one side, and came nearer Rollison, who rounded the table, took Pomeroy’s right arm and held it high above his head, keeping the man on a stretch. He put his hand into the pocket and drew out an automatic, he dropped Pomeroy, who collapsed in a heap on the floor.
Malloy struck the woman across the face, a resounding blow which sent her reeling against the wall, and then he swung round on Rollison. He also had a gun. They appeared to level the guns at the same moment—and neither fired. For a moment there was silence, as if the room had become a vacuum. Then it was broken by a gasping sound from Pomeroy, who began to get to his feet.
“Sit down,” Rollison said to him, and Pomeroy collapsed into a chair. “Malloy, put that gun away.”
If Malloy decided to shoot, he was not likely to miss. Rollison watched his gun-hand, wondering if he could judge the moment when the finger moved on the trigger. Then he saw Flo, who had been leaning against the wall with her hands covering her face, peering between the fingers. She moved, startling him enough to make him swing round towards her, but she struck at Malloy’s arm and knocked the gun out of his grasp.
“You crazy fool !” she blazed.
Malloy, beside himself, turned on her. She struck out at at him, but before Rollison could reach the man he had caught her hair and pulled her towards him, forcing her down on her knees. Then Rollison struck Malloy on the side of the head with the butt of Pomeroy’s gun. Malloy did not even gasp. His fingers lost their grip, he staggered to one side and pitched down, lying across Janice’s legs.
“Aren’t we having a time?” said Rollison.
The woman was pushing the hair out of her eyes. She looked sullenly at Rollison and then at Malloy, and she was breathing heavily. Pomeroy was gasping for breath, as if the vicarious action had affected him. He was sitting like a little fat ball in a small armchair.
The woman said: “What do you want?”
“I wanted a talk with Mr. Malloy,” said Rollison, “but I shall need more now. Is the girl hurt?”
“No more than he is.”
“I hope you’re right. Who are you?”
“Mrs. Malloy,” she said.
“Not very loyal,” murmured Rollison.
“Do you think I want to see him hanged?” she flared.
“No,” said Rollison, slowly, “nor do you want to be hanged with him. Where are Mike and Barney?”
“Along the street.”
“Are they likely to come here in the next half hour?”
“Not unless they’re sent for,” she said.
“I hope that’s true, too,” said Rollison, and looked down as Malloy stirred. “Help him into a chair, and then put the girl on the settee.” He turned to Pomeroy, and his voice grew sharp. “So we haven’t met before, Pomeroy?”
The man said nothing, but licked his lips.
Rollison said: “You employed Larry Bingham, through Malloy, to attack Gwen Barrington-Ley, and then you spread the story of Barrington-Ley being missing.”
Pomeroy said: “I didn’t know Bingham would—use a knife.”
“Perhaps you prefer poison
He needed no further proof that the Lady of Lost Memory was known to some people as the countess.
This was a different Pomeroy from the man at Barrington House, because he was frightened. His eyes opened, his mouth gaped; his nerve was completely gone.
“You—
“Shut your damned mouth,” said Malloy.
He was sitting forward in his chair, looked dazed, and there was a trickle of blood from the side of his head. It ran down to his chin and disappeared under his collar. He was glaring at Pomeroy, and suddenly he changed the direction of his gaze and looked at his wife. Malignance indescribable was in his eyes, and he began to swear at her and she at him, both vitriolic, obscene.
On the settee, Janice Armitage did not stir.
Rollison looked round for a telephone, but could not see one. He might make Percy Dann hear, if he called, but a shout would be as likely to attract someone passing by, and an appeal for the police would be ignored, might even bring aid to the wrong side.
He could wait until Janice came round, he decided, and meanwhile he could question Pomeroy, now staring apprehensively at the Malloys, whose flood of abuse was slackening. The woman fell silent, but continued to glare at her husband.
Rollison said: “We’ll have the full story now, Pomeroy.”
Malloy swung round. “Keep your mouth shut!”
