appeared to stay behind him every chance to overtake. Satisfied that he had not been followed again he drove along Bloomdale Street, one of the few in the district where large single houses were still safe from the clan-gour of the demolition machines. Most of them were now used for business, university or hostel purposes; Rollison believed only one was still used as a private residence. There was some echo in his mind of a story about the owner, Sir Douglas Slaker—no, Slesser—no, but something like it. One of the old school, he had re-fused to sell any of the considerable properties he had in central London—oh, that was it! Sir Douglas Slatter, twice compelled by the law to give way to town planning schemes, more often successful in holding up what some called progress and he called vandalism.
Rollison had more than a sneaking admiration for him.
But he, Slatter, was an anachronism, too!
For the first time, he laughed at his treatment of Gwendoline Fell. Then he recalled that he had not remembered who she was, at first; his memory was failing.
“Don’t be a damned fool,” he said
The big corner house, Number 31, was Smith Hall, the name and the number written on the fanlight over the front door, very clearly. There was no board in the grounds, nothing he could see to announce the fact that it was a hostel.
The house next door to it was Slatter’s. He drove past, parking fifty or sixty yards away, then walked back to the hostel, glancing behind him all the time, still on edge because of Gwendoline. He had to step into the roadway at a spot cordoned off by flickering lamps outside a plot of land where builders were working but he hardly noticed it. He was about to turn into the gateway when he saw a shadow, thrown from a front room window light, on the ground. It looked like a man’s head and shoulders. He walked on, without slackening his pace even for a moment. But he did not go far, just turned round and walked back towards Smith Hall very softly.
He could still see the shadow.
There was a low brick wall between the two gardens, and between the wall and each house perhaps ten feet. He turned softly into the garden of Number 29, thankful for the grass underfoot, which deadened the sound of his approach. He went along by the wall, and slowly the figure of a man materialised, waiting in the shadows and watching Smith Hall.
The nearer Rollison drew, the bigger and more powerful the man seemed to be.
Rollison, making no sound at all on the grass, drew level; only about four feet and the stone wall—no more than four feet high—were between him and the lurking man. Rollison watched and waited, just as the other was doing.
The man was obviously watching the front door of Smith Hall.
Anyone who came out of the Hall would not see him, and he would need to take only two or three quick steps forward to reach the flagged path. He was so still that if it were not for his breathing he might have been mistaken for a statue.
Had he a weapon in his right hand?
Rollison could not be sure, for the whole of the man’s right side was in darkness, no light reached it at all. The left arm only could be seen, half-raised, the hand resting against the dark overcoat. And he was gloved.
His shoulders were enormous.
People passed, footsteps sharp on the pavement. Cars passed, mostly with only parking lights on, some with headlights dimmed, but bushes in the grounds of the Hall were so placed that the man was almost completely hidden; only the Toff, whose power of observation amounted to a sixth sense, would have noticed him.
There was a sudden click from the porch, as of a door being opened. The man seemed to square his shoulders, and to raise his right arm. Now at last Rollison could see that he carried something heavy, it looked like a bricklayer’s hammer with its massive steel head.
The door opened; brighter light shone but did not fall upon the waiting man. Rollison placed a hand on the wall, ready to vault over, quite sure that he could forestall any attack. He saw the shadow of a woman thrown by the light in the hall, then heard the door slam and the light was dim again.
Naomi Smith stepped from the porch on to the path. The waiting man raised the weapon in his hand, and leapt forward.
And as he leapt and as Naomi cried out in alarm, the Toff vaulted over the wall and called in a sharp voice of command:
“Keep still! Don’t move!”
On the instant the assailant spun away from Naomi and towards the Toff, who now saw that there was a stocking drawn over the big face, making it quite unrecognisable. He saw, too, the murderous hammer swinging, not towards Naomi Smith but towards his own bare
Rollison flung up a hand to fend off the blow and swung to one side. He caught the other’s forearm on his own, and it was like a steel bar. Off-balance, he tried to pivot, sensing that his assailant would rush at him, knowing that a man of such strength would be dangerous and could be deadly. He caught a glimpse of the stocking-covered face; it looked like the face of an idiot. Too near for a punch to be effective, Rollison gripped the other’s wrist, and twisted in an attempt to heave the man over his shoulder. He failed. He caught a doubled knee, intended for the groin, on the inner side of his thigh.
He heard shouting : a woman, then a man, then several men.
He gripped again but the masked assailant pulled himself free, then swung away and leapt the wall, dis- appearing from sight, as two men rushed down the path towards Naomi Smith, who was standing like a figure carved from stone.
Voices broke, incoherently.
“What was it?”
“Where is he?”
“Is anyone hurt?”
