It was Blane, his head and shoulders above a hole in the floor. He had an automatic in his right hand.
CHAPTER EIGHT
BLANE did not appear to recognise Rollison; he had only seen him for a little while and then in electric light. The disguise might be good enough to fool him, although he would need all his wits and a modicum of luck to get away from here.
Behind Blane was a piece of flooring, pushed up from a hinge and resting against the wall that had caused the crash. He was obviously standing on some steps which led from Miss Dexter’s, below.
Blane rested his left hand on the floor and came up another step; the gun in his right hand didn’t waver.
“Well, have you?” he demanded.
Rollison spoke in a high-pitched, almost falsetto voice.
“I—I’m waiting for Mr. Merino.”
“You’re waiting for me, although you didn’t know it.” Blane came up another step, but he would have to mount at least two more. When he climbed into the room he would be off his balance.
Rollison stood with his mouth gaping and his hands raised as if in sudden fear.
“Get away from the safe,” ordered Blane, and came another step up. “And don’t try any tricks.”
“Tricks?” squeaked Rollison, moving forward. Between him and Blane was a footstool—a little nearer Blane than it was to him.
“Stand still!” snapped Blane.
“But you said——” began Rollison.
He dived forward, grabbed at the stool held it for a fraction of a second and heaved it as Blane fired; the shot rang out, but the bullet missed. The footstool struck Blane in the stomach, and Rollison managed to spring forward from his knees and hands. As he clutched Blane’s right wrist, another shot hit the ceiling; then the gun dropped.
“You——” gasped Blane.
Rollison hit him powerfully on the side of the jaw, then struck again. Blane’s eyes rolled. He slipped off the ladder and would have fallen, had Rollison not held his arm.
Rollison picked up the gun and brought the butt down on the side of Blane’s head, hard enough to knock him out.
He dragged him out of the hole, and across the room, on the alert lest the shots had been heard.
When he was in the doorway, with Blane at his feet, he paused and listened, but heard only a car starting up in the mews. He turned into the kitchen and opened the first drawer, finding what he wanted—a piece of parcel string. He hurried back, tied Blane’s hands and feet tightly, stuffed his own handkerchief into the man’s mouth, then dragged him into the kitchen and locked the door.
He slipped the key into his pocket and went into the drawing-room, tidying his hair, breathing heavily. Very soon he stood at the bottom of a flight of wooden steps. They led to a small passage, where there was only one door which led into another well-furnished drawing-room. It was not unlike the room upstairs—but smaller, because the little passage was taken out of it. He stepped inside and closed the door. It fitted flush with the wall, and the outline of the door was almost lost in the pattern of the wall-paper—modernist stuff with a series of straight lines and zig-zags. On the walls-were large, framed photographs, in colour, of film stars.
He went to the front door of the flat, shot the bolts, then looked for the electric switch. He found it in the kitchen; this one must serve the two flats; Miss Pauline Dexter and Mr. Oliver Merino were doubtless on the best of terms. He switched off the current, then hurried up the ladder to the larger room.
The knob no longer stung him when he touched it.
He might find the right combination quickly; equally it might take him an hour or much longer. He turned the handle right and left, and could just hear the tumblers falling. He did not try any particular combination for a few minutes, but got the feel of the knob and discovered the best angle for hearing the tumblers.
After ten minutes, he gave it up, and stood close to the wall, looking out of the window, feeling disappointed, and yet aware that he had learned much. Now, he faced unpleasant facts. He could keep turning the knob for hours without hitting on the right combination. He might find tools in the kitchen with which he could get at the safe through the wall, but that would take too long.
Better to search through the girl’s flat and see what he could find there.
The drawing-room held little of interest—except the photographs. Film stars had autographed these pictures, they were not just printed signatures; here the ink had smudged, there a pen had scratched the smooth surface. Some of the most famous English film stars were there, and all had “deared” Pauline or been otherwise affectionate.
The small writing-bureau was unlocked. Inside the top drawer was a memorandum pad and a desk diary. Rollison looked through the diary, and an entry for Saturday caught his eye. It said simply “Aeolian Hall, 3.45 p.m.”
“So she’s going there on Saturday, too,” mused Rollison. “But
He went into the next room, expecting to find a dining-room.
Instead, it was very like a dressing-room back-stage. There was a long, gilt-framed mirror along one wall and a bench beneath it. Grease-paints and make-up material were spread out on the bench, with two bowls of red roses, one in bud, one in full flower. Inside a wardrobe with sliding doors were several costumes, some modern, some old-fashioned. There were wigs, powders, dozens of pairs of shoes and, in one section, hat was piled upon hat. The other two walls were adorned with more photographs of film stars, some famous, some much less well- known; all of them had signed themselves as if they were on intimate terms with Pauline Dexter, of whom Rollison
