“No one’s thrown any bombs or broken any windows and I haven’t had my face pushed in. Expecting trouble?”
“I don’t know.”
“That sounds lovely and ominous,” said Snub and pushed the case over into the back of the car. “That’s just for show,” he said. “If you have a case you presumably have some business in these ‘ere parts. I wouldn’t like to be a rent collector around here, would you? What’s she like?”
“Too good for you.”
“All that her photograph promised?”
“She’s all right,” said Rollison. “She had a note which was phoney and makes me think that Mellor might be about ready for the high jump. He’s at Number 51—or that’s what I’m told.”
“Might have been sold a pup, eh?”
“Well, it’s possible. I once gave you a job.”
Rollison slid the car to a standstill outside Number 43 and climbed out. He glanced up and down the street and, although no one was in sight, knew that he was observed; no one driving this year’s model in Asham Street would be ignored. It was a long, narrow, dreary street with tiny houses packed closely together on either side. All the houses looked exactly the same—a drab grey, like the pavement and the road. At intervals were grey-painted lamp-posts, the only things which broke the dreary line of desolation.
Each house had three floors; each front door opened on to the street and led to a narrow passage and a narrow flight of stairs. Most of the small front windows were covered with lace curtains, many frayed, some of them dirty; but here and there the curtains were fresh and bright and in the window of Number 49 was a bowl of blazing scarlet tulips.
“What have you done to your hand?” asked Snub.
“I was bitten by a dog.”
“Mad dog?”
“At the moment probably insane but with any luck he’s cooling off in a police cell.”
“You are a one,” said Snub—and when Rollison paused outside the door of Number 51, without a smile enlivening the grimness of his expression, Snub frowned. “Sorry. Expect violence?”
“I’ve told you I don’t know what to expect. Try the front door, will you?”
“I could hop round the back,” suggested Snub.
“Later, maybe.”
Snub tried the front door and found it locked. At the window of the front room a curtain, more grey than white, moved as if stirred by the wind but the window was tightly closed.
“Watching eyes,” muttered Snub. “Ought we to be together?”
Rollison lifted the brass knocker which hadn’t been cleaned for days and was dull and green, spotted with verdigris. The sound of his knocking echoed up and down the street. Two men, one young, one very old, cycled past, staring at both the men and the car.
Shuffling footsteps sounded inside the hall.
“Get back a bit,” said Rollison.
Snub stood three yards away from him, wary and watchful. The lock clicked and the door opened a few inches. Rollison saw a slatternly old woman with thin grey hair in curlers. She clutched the neck of her drab black dress.
“Yes, wot is it?” Her voice squeaked.
“I’ve come to see your lodger,” Rollison said. “It’s all right, Ma.” He slipped a pound-note out of his pocket and rustled it. The door opened and a skinny hand shot out. Rollison put his foot against the door, to prevent it from being closed in his face. “A young fellow who hasn’t been here long. Is he in?”
“You ain’t a copper, are you?”
“Did you ever know a copper who paid for information in pound notes?”
He laughed, added another pound and held both lightly.
“Is he in?”
“Yeh.”
“Alone?”
“Yeh.”
“Which room?”
“Top, right.”
He gave her the two pounds and said: “Go back into your room, Ma.”
She looked at him through thin lashes with watery, bleary eyes and shuffled into the front room. A stale smell of vegetables and dampness met Rollison who thrust the door wide open and looked up the stairs. He paused. Nothing happened, no one appeared. He beckoned Snub who came in and closed the door, making the passage dark. Rollison called:
“Mellor!”
