“But, Guv’nor—”
“I told you to get ready to be disappointed,” Rollison said. “I couldn’t improve on this night’s work but I could spoil it.”
“They might go on somewhere else,” said the cabby.
His sharp profile was turned towards Rollison; his expression looked almost pleading in the faint light. Heaven knew what Jolly had told him. If the man were Snub or Jolly, he’d have no doubt what to do but—this was a stranger with no reason to be more loyal to Rollison than to any stranger. And there was danger from Waleski.
“Have a go,” pleaded the cabby.
Rollison said: “All right, I’ll take a chance. Stay here, follow the two-seater if it leaves and let me know where it goes. If nothing’s happened by one o’clock, give it up. Know where to find me?”
“If I don’t I’ll ask Bill Ebbutt.”
“Oh-ho,” said Rollison and doubts about the man dimmed. “Be careful; they’re armed.”
“Your man told me so,” said the cabby. “You don’t have to worry, Mr Rollison. I’m one of Bert’s new drivers. Mr Jolly ‘phoned Bert and asked him to be at the Oxford Palace.” Bert was a taxi and garage owner in the East End who often did work for Rollison. “Bert’s got ‘flu, so he asked me to come along. You don’t have to worry. I’ll keep me lights off and follow them without them knowing I’m around. Done plenty of it in France but you don’t want to hear the story of what I did in the war, do you? Trouble is, what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to take a walk,” said Rollison.
“Coming back?”
“No, you’re in charge here.”
“Hope you get a lift okay,” said the cabby. “I—Ta, Mr Rollison!” His hand closed round five one-pound notes. “You didn’t have to do that but thanks a lot. I won’t let you down. Bert and Bill would tear a strip off me if I did.”
Rollison laughed softly and got out and walked towards the main road, a mile or so away.
* * *
He caught a bus after half an hour’s walking, reached Guildford just after eleven o’clock, found an all-night garage, hired a car and was hack at Gresham Terrace by midnight.
A light was on in the living-room and Jolly, who seemed to sense when he was coming in, opened the door.
“Made that medal?” asked Rollison.
“That is hardly deserved, sir, but—”
“Wrong. But you should have told me it was one of Bert’s men.”
“I thought you would prefer to judge the man yourself as he was a stranger,” said Jolly . “I instructed him not to advise you until—”
“He didn’t. Well, it’s been a good night. Waleski ended up—”
Jolly’s right hand sped to his lips. Rollison broke off—and then looked into the living-room, the door of which was ajar, and saw
Clarissa Arden.
* * *
“Well, well,” Rollison said, heavily. “The lovely lady who couldn’t take advice. How long has Miss Arden been here, Jolly?”
“For about an hour, sir.”
“Has she been difficult?”
“No, sir, quite placid.” Rollison chuckled and Clarissa laughed. Rollison went into the room, noticing that she had made up her face and most of the signs of her ordeal had disappeared. Her blouse was buttoned high at the neck, hiding the red marks and the weals. Her eyes were heavy as if with sleep but only a little bloodshot; there were no blotches on her skin. She was smoking and there was a drink beside her. She sat down as Rollison entered and for the third time looked at him through her lashes with her head held back.
“I’m beginning to think you’re good,” said Rollison.
“Did you find out where Waleski went?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“You haven’t found out yet,” said Rollison dryly.
“If we’re going to work together, I think I ought to be in your confidence—don’t you?”
A glass was warming by a tiny electric fire. Rollison picked it up and poured himself a little brandy, sniffed the bouquet, then whirled the golden liquid round and round in his glass, looking at her all the time.
“So from now on we’re buddies?”
“I think we’ll do better like that.”
“It’s largely a question of whether I agree,” said Rollison. “I might—when I know your story, Clarissa, and if
