Jolly said: “That makes it very difficult.”
“Meaning, no ideas,” Rollison smiled. “All right, Jolly, I think I know where we can park him. There are a few don’ts for the list. Don’t let the police know that I’m doing anything for Sir Frederick Arden. Tell Miss Lome not to mention the name Arden to them. They won’t necessarily tie it up with Sir Frederick. Don’t say anything to the Press if anyone comes or rings up; don’t let her leave the flat and don’t leave it yourself until I get back.”
“Very good, sir. Are there any positive instructions?”
Rollison chuckled. “You do me more good than a bottle of champagne! Yes. Tell Snub that I want him to go East and find out whether there’s any talk in Asham Street, whether the police have discovered there was funny business at Number 51. He’s to report immediately if the police have got that far. And if anyone wants me, you don’t know where I am.”
“Where will you be, sir?”
“At Pulham Gate,” said Rollison; “and I hope to come straight back here.”
* * *
He spent ten minutes talking to Judith and trying to reassure her. He judged that she was dangerously near a collapse: the strain of the past month had taken a heavy toll of her nervous resistance and today’s shock had shaken her badly. She presented a problem in herself, the greater because he knew that she had no close relatives and was dependent entirely on her own resources. When he left for 7, Pulham Gate, where Sir Frederick Arden lived, he was in a pessimistic mood; there was so much he didn’t know and couldn’t see.
At least the police didn’t follow him.
* * *
Dusk was falling when he reached Kensington, the lamps in the wide thoroughfare of Pulham Gate were lit and over this district of large, pale-grey houses and private squares there was the hush of evening. Lights showed at some of the tall windows and Rollison switched on the sidelights of the Rolls-Bentley before he left the car. He looked up and down, almost by habit, and the only person near by was a policeman. He saw the man coming towards him and was puzzled without knowing why. He turned to the steps leading to the front door of Number 7 and the police man called out:
“Excuse me, sir.” He had a reedy voice.
“Hallo?”
“Aren’t you Mr Richard Rollison? The Honourable Richard Rollison?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so,” said the policeman in a tone of great satisfaction. Tm afraid I must ask you to come along with me, sir. I hope you won’t give any trouble.”
“So do I,” said Rollison. The reedy voice and the puzzling fact which he couldn’t quite place took on a greater significance. “What’s all this about?”
“They’ll tell you at the station.”
“Which station?”
“Now don’t be awkward,” said the constable; “it won’t do you no good.” He glanced past Rollison who heard a car coming towards him. “Here’s the squad car, there’s a call out for you. Don’t be awkward,” he repeated.
He now sounded almost pleading—and the warning note rang loudly in Rollison’s mind.
The car pulled up.
Rollison glanced at it. There were two men inside and they made no attempt to get out. They were small men and the warning became a clarion call. These were not policemen.
The man in uniform gripped his arm.
“Here we are, so don’t give us no trouble. It will only be the worse for you if you do.”
“So this is a pinch,” said Rollison, mildly.
“That’s it,” said the constable. He pulled Rollison towards the car—a pre-war Morris of a kind which the police had used for the Flying Squad but had turned in years ago— and opened the door. One of the men—the man next to the driver—looked round, inside, please.”
Rollison lowered his head, started to get in—and then moved his left arm and tipped the heads of the two men forward. Their hats fell off and he gripped their heads and cracked them together. The crack resounded; one man gasped and the other made a curious grunting sound. Rollison back-heeled, catching the constable on the shin and, as the man let him go, he darted back and straightened up. The policeman was swaying on one leg and putting his right hand into his pocket at the same time; there was an evil glint in his eyes. Rollison swung a left to his chin, jolting his arm when the blow connected.
He heard nothing of the next approaching car until brakes squealed. He glanced round to see a gleaming American model, sleek and streamlined back and front, pulling in behind the Morris. A woman was at the wheel—a lovely creature. The thing which most surprised him was her composure: she showed no sign of alarm.
“Stay there!” he called. “Stay where you are!”
She opened the door of the car and swung slim, nylon-sheathed legs on to the pavement. The policeman had recovered but he made no further attack, simply rushed to the Morris. The engine was turning over, the men inside had recovered from the collision. As the constable bent down to get inside, the car began to move.
“Aren’t you going to stop them?” asked the woman.
She was tall. As she reached Rollison he was aware of a delicate perfume, of a pair of gleaming, beautiful blue eyes—yes, a lovely creature. His hand throbbed and he was short of breath.
“No,” he said, shortly.
