“And with a head like yours, you can’t be feeling much like fighting, can you?” condoled Pauline. “I wonder if you can drive yourself home?”
“I can get a taxi,” said Rollison.
“You may as well drive if you can, your car’s in number 5,” said Pauline casually. “We sent Hig—Snub off in the one he’d hired. He told us about that, he wasn’t feeling very brave and I don’t suppose he thought that would do any harm. Then we brought yours round here. Oh, you’ll want the key of your garage.” She took a key from a pocket in her dressing-gown and handed it to him. “We took it from Snub,” she told him. “I like that year’s M.G., don’t you? The acceleration is good and the springing first-class.
She stretched out a hand to help him.
“I can manage,” said Rollison.
He did not trust himself to say much. The girl’s composure, the way in which she hammered every nail right home, was quite remarkably devilish. And yet, as she stood back and watched him with rounded eyes, she looked innocent, beautiful and delightful.
He stood upright; and his head did not ache so much.
“Why, you’re almost yourself, you’ll be able to drive without any trouble,” she said encouragingly. “I’ll get Max to take you over to the lock-up—unless there’s anything else you’d like to say?”
“There’s plenty I’d like to say, but it had better keep for another day.”
“Any day but Saturday.” Pauline went to the door and pressed the bell again. “
There was a tap on the door.
“Good-night,” said Pauline. “Come in, Max.”
The smaller of the two men appeared; and Rollison had no doubt that it was the “boy” who had been with the “gasman” when this affair had first broken out into violence. Max showed a glimpse of an automatic, then put it into his pocket, holding it all the time. He opened the front door and a cool blast of air swept in.
Good-night!” called Pauline sweetly.
Rollison didn’t answer.
Max led the way across the dark mews to number 5 and opened the door. He switched on a light which cast a glow enough for Rollison to see about the garage. He went between the wall and the car—it
“Good-night!” called Pauline sweetly.
Rollison backed into the mews without mishap, although normally he would not have taken the wheel while feeling as he did now. He glanced round at Max, who stood by the open door, then drove off.
There was nothing unnusual about the streets of the West End. Occasionally a policeman plodded past, taxis and private cars moved about, there were a few pedestrians but not many in these side-streets. It was a bright night and cooler than it had been by day. Rollison found driving less nerve-wracking than he had expected; he could spare time to think. He wondered whether he had been right to come away—but he had been in no shape to plan and think, certainly not to take aggressive action.
He reached the garage at the back of Gresham Terrace, pulled up close to the closed doors, opened them and switched on the light; this was bright, and showed the neatly kept garage, two spare tyres, tins of oil and a few tools. He went back to the car and drove it in, pleased with himself because he judged it to a nicety, stopping an inch from the end wall, and then angry because he could dwell on such trivialities. He got out again, slammed the door and wished he hadn’t because it sent a stab of pain through his head, and then turned to leave.
He stopped abruptly; there was something in the back of the car—something he hadn’t seen before.
A hand lay on the back seat!
Someone was huddled on the floor of the car. Was it—was it Snub? Had that damned woman
He peered inside.
He saw a pale face and a black beard and a small hole in the middle of the man’s forehead.
This was Merino I
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
EVERYTHING changed . . .
Rollison stared down at the dead man, hardly realising then that he had driven through the streets with a corpse in the back of the car, without even a rug thrown over it. He saw, not Merino, but Grice. Murder—and one could not play with the police when murder had been committed.
Everything he had planned, the half-formed idea with which he had been toying, all faded.
He straightened up, unaware of pain.
The light shone on Merino’s closed eyes.
Rollison moved slowly away from the car; he had not touched the corpse. The little bullet wound was a familiar enough sight to him; and the dark ridge round the edges, the trickle of blood; he had been presented with the corpse of the man whom he had thought responsible for all that was happening.
Grice’s picture faded . . .
