The Toff In Town

“Well?” asked Rollison.

“You’re quite right, sir,” said Jolly, “but if Allen is determined to do what the woman has told him, how can you prevent him?”

Rollison said: “He’s sitting there with his script rolled up, he won’t open it again until he goes to the mike. Hemmingway’s advised him not to read it too often. He’ll be called to the table so that he’s waiting there while Toni’s giving voice. He might look through the script then and see it, but there’s a good chance that he’ll look on the first page and not turn over a leaf. Until he turns over, he won’t see what I’ve done.”

“What have you done?” asked Jolly in an agonised whisper.

Rollison said: “I’ve slipped back the original page of script —given him another copy. When he starts to read the second page, he’ll be reading that original, and he’ll be well on the way before he realises that it’s not the revised version. He’ll either stop altogether, or pause and then go on reading what’s in front of him. It’s going to be a tense minute, Jolly.”

“Tense !” echoed Jolly.

Hedley positively glowered at them.

Rollison stood up, waited until Toni had started to sing, then tip-toed towards Allen. He ignored the frown of many who glanced at him. And Toni’s singing reached a pitch of perfection which it was almost sacrilegious to interrupt. Rollison sat down on a chair by the wall, so that he could see everyone, including Allen.

Then he saw the door open.

He caught his breath. It didn’t open wide at first, no one else noticed it, the Italian’s voice drugged all of them—but Rollison watched the door, fascinated. Who would dare to come in now?

The door opened a little wider.

Rollison saw a hand gripping it—a small, gloved hand. Then a neatly shod foot and a well-turned ankle appeared; whoever it was, was dressed in black, with sheer silk stockings; he imagined Pauline’s golden curls.

The newcomer stepped in.

It was Barbara Allen I

She looked swiftly round the studio . . .

Hedley had seen her, and raised his hand in urgent warning. Allen, sitting at the microphone, looked up and stiffened. Rollison saw his scowl— he looked then as if he hated his wife. No one else appeared to notice that anything was unusual, and the Italian’s song came towards its end, a gentle, pleading end.

He finished . . .

“And also in the studio,” began Wentworth, smiling at Allen, “is a man who has one of the most remarkable stories ever told, to tell us. He is Mr. Robert Allen, until lately Wing Commander Allen of the R.A.F., who was lost in Burma for several years—exactly how long, Mr. Allen?”

Allen opened his mouth but didn’t speak. It was only a momentary silence, no longer than that which had followed the introductions of the other broadcasters, but to Rollison it seemed an age. Now, too, he had to try to watch Allen and the others in the studio—and Barbara. She took in the situ-ation at a glance, raised her hand to catch Rollison’s eye and began to creep round the walls of the room. Hedley went swiftly towards her, to try to stop her, but she ignored him.

Hedley had no answer to such defiance, but looked thunderstruck. Barbara passed in front of Jolly, who leaned forward as if to touch her, then drew back. Rollison saw her moving out of the corner of his eye, but couldn’t give her much attention, he had to watch the others. Some—the Danes, the young people who had come to watch, and the busker—were looking at Allen. The busker yawned widely; now that his part was over, he wasn’t interested in anything, or anyone else. But McMahon, the wandering artist, Toni and his little troupe, the Lundys and their friends, were all glancing down at their scripts. Any one of them might be following the script line by line word by word to check Allen.

Rollison was trying to do that.

Barbara drew nearer.

He put out a hand, glanced at her and touched his lips, hoping that she wouldn’t ignore him. He heard Allen answer another of Wentworth’s questions, and saw him fumbling with the corner of his script, to turn over.

Barbara crouched down on one knee, beside Rollison.

“He must do what she told him,” she whispered in desperate entreaty. “She’ll kill——”

Rollison gripped her wrist and held it tightly. Allen turned over the page. Two paragraphs were unaltered. The seconds which had passed so quickly before now seemed to drag; Allen appeared to weigh every word, as if he had difficulty in uttering it. His forehead was beaded with sweat, he kept rubbing his left hand against the seam of his trousers. Barbara was quiet now; she didn’t move but knelt there without trying to free herself. Jolly standing up, looked towards the audience from behind. McMahon, also standing at the side of the studio opposite Rollison, watched everyone lynx-eyed.

Rollison wasn’t looking at Allen now.

“I’d lost count of time,” said Allen. “I just gave up hoping.” He didn’t falter, he hadn’t realised that this was the original script. “Then one day one of the natives——”

He paused and looked up, sending a terrified glance towards the audience. Rollison saw that only one man, the actor Lundy, was looking at Allen before that pause, but a moment afterwards,