“One thing,” he went on.
“Yes?” asked Grice.
“What makes you think one of the missing girls is dead?” asked Rollison.
“A body was taken out of the Thames last night,” answered Grice. “It had been there for ten or fourteen days and recognition under these circumstances isn’t easy. But measurements match up with a Winifred de Vaux—D-E capital V-A-U-X,” he spelt almost mechanically. “A dentist will check her teeth tomorrow morning, and we shall then know for certain.”
“And the cause of death?” asked Rollison.
“A savage blow on the back of the head,” answered Grice.
Rollison didn’t need to say : like Webberson. He clenched his teeth, returned Grice’s even gaze, and then asked:
“Do you need me any more just now?”
“No,” answered Grice. “Unless you have the slightest idea why Webberson was killed, or know of anyone who might have owed him a grudge.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Rollison answered him. “All right, Roily,” said Grice. “We’ll keep in touch.” His attitude, now, could not have been friendlier. Rollison went out, aware that he was being watched by photographers and fingerprint men and the other detectives who were busy and intent. The lift was at this floor, a uniformed man opened it for him.
“Goodnight, sir.”
“Goodnight.”
It was quite dark, now—a quarter-past-eleven. How much could happen in an hour and a half. He remembered the Press would be outside but he hadn’t prepared for the mass of them, twenty at least, crowded into the foyer of Packham House. The moment he appeared halfa-dozen flash-lights dazzled him, and others flashed as he closed his eyes to try to get rid of the dots of vivid white light in front of him.
“Did you find the body, Mr. Rollison?”
“Is this something new, or a development in a case you’re already working on, Toff?”
“Do the police know who it was?”
“How was he killed?”
They flung question after question at him, and he answered most and parried some, unaffected by insistence. The sum total of what he told them was the sum total of what he had told Chief Inspector Lumley, and the police statement would certainly coincide. After five minutes and a breathless : “Shan’t keep you two minutes Mr. Rollison!” from a man who had just arrived with a television camera, Rollison pushed his way through the crowd, his expression unsmiling, though amiable enough.
He took his car out of its parking place, and switched on the lights, then turned into St. John’s Wood Road, then into Finchley Road. A few people passed, walking. Two buses lumbered by, while private cars sped back and forth, their shiny roofs reflecting the light from the tall street lamps. He turned left, towards Swiss Cottage, and away from central London, and saw a motor-cyclist behind him, one who had been waiting near the block of flats. Thinking nothing of it, at first, he continued up the hill, towards the Pond.
The motor-cyclist still followed him.
He made a complete circuit of the block, and then headed back towards central London. In ten or at most twenty minutes he could be at Smith Hall. He drove slowly, and once past the brooding walls of Lord’s cricket ground turned into a side street.
Rollison pulled into the side of the road, hesitated at the wheel, then put on the offside parking light, and got out. He was opposite a block of flats, and walked straight in. There was a hall, a staircase in the middle, a door marked EXIT on the right. He slipped behind this door but kept it ajar; and waited.
He heard footsteps, very light, almost stealthy.
A small figure appeared, topped by a white crash helmet, face half obliterated by goggles. Walking softly, this person crept to the stairs, looking to right and left. Rollison went out by the side door and strode quickly round to the front, re-entering the hall. The motorcyclist was standing near the stairs, obviously at a loss. Rollison went straight up to him, shot out his hands and gripped him by the collar.
“Looking for me?” he demanded.
He was prepared for a kick, prepared for a twist or a wriggle, but not prepared for the startled gasp and the sudden, terrified stillness, And when he pulled the crash helmet off he was not prepared for the lovely cascade of fair and rippling hair.
“What—what are you doing?” the motor-cyclist gasped. “Le—let me go!”
“Soon,” said Rollison. “When you’ve taken off those goggles and let me have a good look at you.”
The girl put her hands up to her head and eased the goggles off slowly. The light was too dim for him to see the colour of her eyes but he could see she was young, perhaps no older than Angela. She was trembling a little but she did not try to dodge or run away, only stared
“Why did you follow me?” he demanded.
“I—I didn’t know you’d spotted me.”
“A blind man would have spotted you. Who are you?”
“I’m—I’m Gwendoline Fell,” she stated.
The name was vaguely familiar but did not immediately ring a bell. He let her go.
