The Toff In Town

After telling him that Mrs. Allen had telephoned to say that Allen had come round about nine o’clock, but was still in bed, Jolly said little. The obvious thing to do was to tell Grice, but every time Rollison thought of that, a picture of Snub hovered in his mind’s eye.

He had no clue as to where to find Pauline Dexter, no idea where Blane, Max and the little man might be. Beyond inquiring at the Meritor Motion Picture Company’s office, there was little he could do to trace her. He telephoned a friend, who immediately assumed that his interest in Pauline was amatory, and promised to find out whether she had a cottage in the country or a pied a terre anywhere else in London. He warned him that Pauline was going about with a big South American. Rollison promised to take heed of the warning, then rang off, thinking about Merino. He had assumed that there would be nothing in the dead man’s pockets which might help, but it was possible that some fragmentary clue would be found, so he went to the garage.

In the street he was met by two men, one young and earnest, the other middle-aged and genial. One represented the Morning

Cry, the other a Sunday newspaper. It was a quarter of an hour before they left him, apparently convinced that there was no “copy” to be got out of him at the moment. Because of them, he went the long way round to the garage, and looked up and down the narrow road where it was situated, before unlocking the door. His heart began to thump; perhaps he was a fool to come here in broad daylight

Even with the door open the garage was poorly lit by day, because of the backs of tall houses on the other side of the road, which hid the sun, and in any case Merino was dumped well down, out of casual sight.

He slipped inside.

“Going places, Mr. Rollison?” a man asked.

Rollison stiffened, but forced himself to turn round slowly and to look at the speaker, who stood outside the garage, showing a polite smile.

It was the middle-aged reporter of the Morning Cry.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

TRICK TO JOLLY

ROLLISON turned his back on the car and leaned against it, maintaining his smile, and slipping his hand into his pocket for his cigarette-case. The reporter, named McMahon, was a friendly soul whom he knew well—but he was first and last a good reporter.

Rollison held out his case, standing so that McMahon could not get too near the car.

“Thanks,” said McMahon, who had no accent to justify his Irish name. “Well, are you?”

“I’m always going places,” said Rollison. “You take a lot of satisfying, don’t you?”

“I was taught to believe only half what I see and nothing that I hear,” said McMahon. “Come off it, and give me the story. And before you say there isn’t one, listen to me,” he went on. “Two or three of Bill Ebbutt’s bruisers were out all night and I heard a whisper that they’d been on a job for you. There was that explosion on the staircase yesterday. Is somebody trying to get a flat by bumping you off?”

Rollison said: “Well, you seem to know a lot.”

“Be yourself,” urged McMahon. “You’re not usually like this, you don’t hold out on us.” He stretched out a hand and pressed it against the corner of the M.G., and if he came a yard nearer, he would be able to see Merino. “Let’s have it, Roily. I’ll keep it off the record, if you like.”

“Nice of you,” murmured Rollison. “Perhaps you’re right, Mac——”

“Now you’re talking!”

“That’s the trouble, I’m not at liberty to talk.” Rollison smoothed down his hair, wincing when he touched the bruise. “I might drop you a hint, if that’ll help.”

“Maybe it will,” said McMahon.

“There might be something interesting in Saturday’s show of In Town To- night.” he began, cautiously, “and——”

“Oh, come off it,” said McMahon. He took his hand from the car and came forward, and Rollison’s heart beat faster, he found it almost impossible to keep quite steady. “In Town To- night’s a nice gossip column, but——”

“Oh, this is special,” Rollison assured him. “It might be sensational. Among others, the police will be present —although the B.B.C. may not know it. If you know anyone who can get you in——”

“I know Hedley,” said McMahon, and his eyes gleamed. “Okay, Roily I’ll be there—I’ll just breeze in.”

“For the love of Mike, keep it to yourself!”

“You bet I’ll keep it to myself—one reporter’s quite enough if anything’s going to happen there! Got any background stuff, so that I can write it up beforehand? I’d like to catch the Sunday Cry —don’t forget we’ve got a Sunday paper, will you?”

“I won’t forget, but I can’t give you any background,” said Rollison. “Aren’t you ever satisfied?”

“No, never,” said McMahon, “but thanks. Nice car you’ve got here,” he added, and looked deliberately into the back through the rear window.

Rollison stood waiting for the outburst, screwed up to a pitch of icy tension.

“Very nice,” said McMahon. “Which way are you going? If it’s Fleet Street, you might give me a lift——”

Rollison gulped. “I came to get some papers out of the car,” he said, and for the first time ventured to look into the back.