attached to a staid and stately woman. Then he got into the driving-seat and pressed the self-starter. The engine purred and the car slid towards the near corner and swung round it.
He didn’t glance up at Judith’s window.
He turned left and left again and yet a third time so that he was back at the far end of Knoll Road. The man in the two-seater still sat at the wheel reading his newspaper and didn’t look round. Rollison slowed down until the Rolls-Bentley was crawling along at ten miles an hour. As he drew nearer he saw the bald patch in the man’s head; it was clear and white, quite unmistakable. He put the brakes on gently. The nose of the big car drew level with the nose of the small one, passed it, then stopped.
The two drivers were alongside each other.
“Good afternoon,” said Rollison.
The man put his newspaper aside and glanced at him uninterestedly. He had a pale square face with high cheekbones, red lips and a flattened nose. The shoulders of his coat were thickly padded, giving him a squat and powerful look.
“What is it?”
“I thought we’d have a chat about Judith Lome,” said Rollison. “Charming girl, isn’t she?”
The dark eyes, fringed with short dark lashes, narrowed a fraction but the man gave no other indication that he knew Judith Lome or was surprised by this encounter.
“Who?”
“Judith Lome—Jim Mellor’s Judy. Remember Jim?”
The man turned back to his newspaper.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “I’m waiting for a friend.”
He pretended to read the paper but shot a swift sideways glance at Rollison.
“I’m the friend,” said Rollison.
He eased off the brakes, slid his car in front of the two-seater, well aware of the other’s gathering tension; but the other made no attempt to start his engine and go into reverse. Rollison jumped out, getting a clear view of the man full-face. The broad, square features weren’t typically English; the clothes seemed to be of American cut. He saw the other’s right shoulder move, as if the driver had shifted his arm, as he drew up by the nearside door.
“Yes, I’m the friend,” he repeated. “Shall we go and see Judith together?”
“You’re crazy,” the man said. His voice showed no trace of an accent; it was hard, rather deep and, now that his lips were parted they revealed small, white, wide-spaced teeth. “Clear out.”
Rollison opened the door of the two-seater.
The man now had his right hand in his coat pocket and the newspaper spread over his lap. The expression in his dark eyes was both wary and aggressive.
“Take a walk,” he said. “Don’t try—”
Rollison drove his fist into the powerful biceps and, as the man’s muscles went limp, pushed the newspaper aside and grabbed his forearm. He jerked the hand out of the pocket and glimpsed the automatic before it slid down out of sight. He jabbed the man’s chin with his shoulder and snatched the gun, all apparently without effort. Then he slipped the weapon into his own pocket and backed away. He pulled the newspaper, rustling it past the driver’s face, half-blinding him and adding to his confusion, screwed it up into a ball and tossed it into the back of the car.
“Shall we go and talk to Judith?” he suggested mildly.
He slid his right hand into his pocket and poked the gun against the cloth, near the big shoulders.
There was a moment of stillness, of challenge. Then the stocky man relaxed and leaned back in his seat. His eyes were dull and his mouth slack.
He said: “You’ve asked for plenty of trouble.”
“I don’t want to have to deal out any more yet,” said Rollison. “Come along.”
He half-expected the man to cut and run for it; but after a pause the other gave way and climbed out of the car. Rollison gripped his arm tightly; he felt the powerful, bulging muscles and knew that it would be no fun if this man turned on him. He kept half a pace behind, still holding the arm, and they crossed the road in step and walked towards Number 23. Outside were two cement-covered posts where a gate had been fixed before scrap iron became a weapon of war. As they reached these Rollison felt the muscles tense, knew that the escape attempt was coming and pulled the man round. At the same time the man back-heeled. Caught on one leg, he stumbled and nearly fell. Rollison stopped him from falling, pulled him upright and bustled him into the porch. The front door was unlocked. Rollison thrust it open and pushed the man in front of him.
He said: “Don’t do that again.”
Keeping his hand in his pocket, he jabbed the gun into the small of the other’s back. They went upstairs slowly, footsteps firm on every tread. A door on the first landing opened and a faded-looking woman appeared, carrying a shopping-basket. She stared into the glowering face of Rollison’s prisoner and started back.
Rollison beamed at her. “Good afternoon!”
“G-g-good afternoon, sir.”
There were three floors. At the top, Judith’s door faced the head of the stairs and, as they reached the landing, the door opened.
“Lock the door when we get in,” said Rollison.
He gave his prisoner a final shove into the room and followed him. Judith closed and locked the door and
