“The Chrysler?” asked Rollison, blankly.
Perky threw back his head and bellowed with laughter.
“Cor, you are a one,” he gasped. “The Chrysler cor! She’s a beauty all right, though, wouldn’t like to try followin’ ‘er in my cab on the open road.” He finished laughing, and then added hopefully: “Let’s know when it is, Mr. Ar, won’t you?”
“When what is?” asked Rollison, taken unawares.
“Nark it! The broadcast. You’re goin’ to broadcast, ain’t you?”
“There’s been some talk about it,” said Rollison, chuckling. “I’ll certainly let you know if it comes off.”
He went upstairs slowly. There was a smell of burning—or of something which had been burnt recently. The lower flight of stairs and the landings had been cleaned up, but on the flight leading to his flat the damage was all too apparent. A small hole had been made in the wall. The banisters were gone, except two rails which stuck up like the stumps of trees—and the tops of them were blackened, they had caught fire. Part of the steps had been blown away, and a biggish area was badly scorched.
He opened the front door, noticing that there were several dents in it which had not been there before. The full force of the explosion and the debris had been blown over his head; nothing else could have saved him.
He stepped into the flat.
There was a light in the study but nowhere else in the flat, and he heard the murmur of voices. Jolly was in there and possibly Snub had decided not to go, in view of the explosion. He hoped Snub hadn’t stayed here all the time—the movements of Merino and Pauline were well worth following.
He opened the study door.
Jolly turned round with a start of surprise, and from the depths of an easy chair Superintendent William Grice of Scotland Yard looked up with an accusing stare.
CHAPTER TWELVE
GRICE was a brown-faced, brown-haired, brown-clad man; and perhaps the most formidable detective in the country. He and Rollison were old friends, but whether their friendship would weather this storm Rollison did not care to guess. He looked down at Grice with a faint smile. Grice’s skin was smooth and his complexion almost perfect—only marred, in fact by a large scar on one side of his face and head. That was from an explosion in which he had suffered so badly that for several days his friends had despaired of his life—and it had happened in an affair in which Rollison had been playing a part. His high-bridged nose was white at the bridge, where the skin seemed to stretch across it. He had large brown eyes.
“Well, Mr. Rollison, he said heavily.
“So we’re formal, are we?” asked Rollison. “Get the Superintendent a drink, Jolly.”
“Mr. Grice has declined one, sir,” said Jolly.
Then give him a lemonade,” said Rollison. He took the other easy chair, sat down and stretched his legs. “Well, Bill? Detecting? Jolly, get me those oddments you were handling, will you?”
“Yes, sir.” Jolly went out, and Grice clasped his hands together in front of his chest and spoke without raising his voice.
“I always thought you were a bit mad, Roily; now I know you are. Time and time again I’ve asked you not to try to tackle any kind of investigation when you know it’s a police matter. Time and time again I’ve spoken for you, and you’ve been able to do a great deal more than any other private individual. You know very well that if the A.C. or the Home Office got nasty, you wouldn’t be able to get anywhere near a job again. Yet you let a thing like this happen.”
“Bad man comes, tries to blow me to perdition—and that’s all the sympathy I get,” murmured Rollison.
“You won’t get any sympathy. A thing like this didn’t happen out of the blue, something led up to it. Here are some of the things. Several of Bill Ebbutt’s toughest has-beens are holding a watching brief for you at a flat in St. John’s Wood. A taxi-driver named Lowe, once one of Ebbutt’s hopes, is driving you about. Jolly is nervous, and refuses to talk—which means that he’s hiding something. Even if you don’t mind having your own head blown off, think of Jolly sometimes.”
“As a matter of fact I’ve thought quite a lot about Jolly lately. He wanted to tell you about this before.”
“Oh,
“Mystery.”
“Now look here,” Grice began in exasperation, but Jolly came in carrying a large silver tray. On one end was a glass of lemonade for Grice was almost a teetotaller, at the other, a variety of “oddments”. Jolly placed the tray on the desk and handed Grice the glass, then drew attention to the other things.
“The exhibits, sir,” he murmured.
There were photographs of finger-prints; the knife; all the oddments which had been taken out of Blane’s pockets, each with a little tab attached and a description written thereon. There was a sheet of typewriting, and a swift glance showed Rollison that Jolly had noted down the times of the telephone calls and the incidents—and had them to the minute. All of these things were to be expected of Jolly, but the final thing startled even Rollison; for there was a cabinet-sized photograph of Oliver Merino on the tray.
“Well, well!” he exclaimed. “Congratulations, Jolly!”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And what are these?” asked Rollison, touching some pieces of charred wood. There was also a length of string, burned at both ends, and a tin tack badly bent at the point.
“They came from the staircase after the explosion, sir. A policeman took some of the samples but left these,
