It was Barbara Allen!
He had heard her voice often enough to recognise it, but had only once heard anything like the same note of despair— when she had uttered a single “Oh”, over the telephone.
Jolly said: “Yes, madam, he’s in.”
Rollison jumped to his feet
“Bill, sit tight for a few minutes.” He reached the door and called to Jolly, who was taking the girl to the dining-room.
She was very pale and her eyes were lack-lustre. She wore a wide-brimmed hat which covered most of her hair. Her clothes were crumpled and her shoes dusty, as if she had walked a long way. The tone of her voice reflected her expression—one of dreary helplessness. She looked at Rollison blankly. He took her arm and led her into the study.
“I’ve a friend with me,” he said. “He knows all about it. Mr. Grice—Mrs. Allen.”
Barbara nodded, but hardly glanced at Grice. She went to Rollison’s chair and sat down. With a weary gesture she took off her hat. There was a red ridge where it had pressed against her forehead. Some of the long hair fell out of place, and revealed the short tuft. She leaned back and closed her eyes wearily.
Grice had risen to his feet, and stood looking at her.
“What’s the trouble, Mrs. Allen?” asked Rollison quietly. “You needn’t be afraid to speak freely.”
“Needn’t be—
“Well get over it,” Rollison temporised.
“Yes, but
It wasn’t hysteria or anything approaching it; she was just despairing.
“You must tell me what has happened,” said Rollison. “I know you left home, because you thought you had a message from me. What happened then?”
“I was stopped in the High Street, and two men made me get into a car,” said Barbara. “I knew who they were and I dared not shout or attract any attention. I thought I might learn something and help Bob. They took me out into the country.”
“To a house?” Grice interpolated.
“No, A copse. Near Uxbridge. They just told me to keep quiet. They didn’t do anything. It was—terrifying. The way they looked and talked. They talked about Bob. They didn’t tell me what he’d done, they just said that if he didn’t do what he was told to on Saturday, I wouldn’t—know him—afterwards. And they didn’t tell me what they wanted him to do, they said he’d know. They said they’d drive him mad if he refused, but—he
She broke off, covered her face with her hands and began to cry.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
GRICE and Rollison took Barbara back to Byngham Court Mansions. As they left Grice’s car, they saw a furtive figure slip into a nearby doorway, and Rollison recognised Dann, who was back on duty. No doubt Grice also knew that the East Ender was there, but he said nothing. He had been greatly affected by the incident at Rollison’s flat. Barbara sat in the back of the car with her eyes closed.
She walked listlessly upstairs, and fumbled for her key in her bag. Rollison took it from her, and opened the door. The flat was in darkness.
“Isn’t Mr. Allen in?” asked Grice.
“He—he ought to be,” Barbara said. “But I never know what he’s going to do. One day he’ll go out and not come back, I know he will.”
Rollison switched on the hall light.
“I shouldn’t worry,” he said, and when she protested against the platitude with a helpless gesture, went on: “Until Saturday, there’s a good chance that you’ll be all right, and there’s also a chance that it’ll be all over.”
“I know they said so,” said Barbara, “but I’ve kept hoping that——” She broke off, and pushed her fingers through her hair. “I feel so ungrateful, she told him. “Thank you—thank you so much for what you’re doing. I know someone’s watching the flat all the time, I’m not so frightened now.”
“You’ll be looked after,” promised Rollison.
There was no point in staying, so they left her alone in the flat and walked downstairs. In the hall, Grice stopped and asked abruptly:
“Didn’t I see one of Ebbutt’s men along there?”
“Yes,” said Rollison. “He might know something about Allen’s movements,” said Grice. “I’d like to see Allen—as a friend of yours, for a start, not as a policeman,” he added gruffly.
