“The police—” she began, only to break off.
“Wasn’t he a policeman?” Rollison asked.
“What
“Rehearsals for a fancy-dress ball,” said Rollison. it’s being photographed—the camera is on the roof.”
She glanced upwards while the Morris swung round a corner, engine roaring.
There was a sharp edge to the woman’s voice when she spoke next.
“Are you playing the fool?”
“Yes. In fact this was a hold-up. Thank you for coming in the nick of time.” He smiled more freely and there was laughter in his tone. “Haven’t we met before?”
She drew back.
“I don’t think so,” she said but suddenly her expression changed; she came nearer, as if trying to study his face more clearly. “Are you—Mr Rollison?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. Has this anything to do with” —she looked at Number 7— “the work you are doing for my uncle.”
“I doubt it. I always try to do too many things at once and sometimes they overlap.”
He had placed her as Arden’s niece, of whom he had heard but whom he had met only once, and that some time ago at a Charity Ball. He knew her by reputation as a leader of the Smart Set which had defied austerity; as one of the beauties of the day and a woman of keen intelligence and incomparable selfishness. He hadn’t realised that she knew he was working for Arden but didn’t think much about that then. As he waited for her to speak again, he was thinking about the welcome he’d received, the speed of the attempt to kidnap him and all the implications.
But she gave him little time to think.
Aren’t you going to send for the police?”
“No one’s hurt,” he said, “and I probably asked for it.”
They eyed each other for some seconds and a youth passed, staring at them as he went by. It was darker now. The dusk filmed her face and gave it an ethereal glow. She was perfectly dressed, her poise and carriage were delightful—and he felt that her reputation for keen intelligence was not falsely founded.
“If I hear aright, one day you will probably ask for more than you want to get,” she said dryly. “Were you going to see my uncle or coming away?”
“Going.”
“When I left this afternoon he was very poorly. I’m not sure that you ought to see him. The doctors have warned him against excitement and you always seem to excite him.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, it’s my baneful influence.”
“This is not funny. He is a very sick man.”
“Yes,” said Rollison. “Yes.” They still faced each other and he was reminded of the challenge which he had seen in Waleski’s eyes. “I think he’ll pull through, though, with luck and a fair deal.”
“Must you talk in riddles?”
“Which was the riddle?” asked Rollison.
She looked away from him.
“I think we should go indoors: we can’t talk here, Mr Rollison.”
She led the way and he followed thoughtfully, wondering whether he had touched her on a sore spot when he had talked of luck and a square deal for Sir Frederick Arden. Perhaps she expected to inherit a substantial sum on the old man’s death; and she might be anxious to remove the next-of-kin. He had not been able to see her during the case until now because she had been in Paris; he did not think she had been expected back so soon. He wished she hadn’t arrived at this moment, he had needed more time to recover from the sudden assault from the phoney policeman.
She opened the front door with a key.
He followed her into the house, thinking again about the assault. The phoney policeman and his companions had known that he was likely to come here, had chosen this spot for their ambush because he wouldn’t expect trouble there; a neat trick. He knew now why the uniformed man had puzzled him: the real plodding gait of a policeman had been missing. The policeman had been armed. As he hadn’t fired, he had obviously come to kidnap, not to kill. The only reason anyone interested in this affair could want to kidnap him was to make him talk. It was safe to say that he had “them” worried, that this was the second false move he had forced in twelve hours, but there was a serious doubt at the back of his mind.
Had they sped away without shooting because they wanted him alive, not dead? Or had the woman’s arrival driven them off?
CHAPTER NINE
The spacious hall was dimly lighted, great bear-skin rugs were spread over the polished parquet floor, two landscapes in oils hung on the high walls, their beauty half-hidden in the poor light. The curving staircase was on the right, a circular lounge-hall beyond the entrance hall was beautifully furnished. About this house was an air of comfort, luxury and good taste.
A footman appeared and bowed.
