The Toff and the Fallen Angels

“No. She was the last person I would have expected to—”

“I’m sure. You say she telephoned you?”

“She telephoned but I didn’t speak to her. I was with one of the residents who’s been very distressed lately. I was trying to soothe this girl, and Anne took the message.”

“Anne Miller?” asked Rollison sharply.

“Yes. Anne usually takes messages, she’s really my secretary, I find her invaluable.”

Was it Anne Miller who was supposed to post the letter to me?” asked Rollison, sharply.

“No, that was Judy Lyons. Judy is a bit scatterbrained, she could have—oh, I hardly know what to say or what I’m saying!” exclaimed Naomi, and she seemed almost in tears. “Don’t please start casting aspersions on the girls.”

“Naomi,” said Rollison quietly, “you nearly had your head smashed in. Two of the girls are missing and might be dead. Angela, who is missing, was used as a decoy. A few aspersions here and there really don’t matter. So you didn’t speak to Angela yourself?”

“No—Anne did.”

“I’d like to see Anne, at once,” said Rollison. “But—but —”

“Please send for Anne Miller,” Rollison grated; he had to fight against losing his temper.

Naomi hesitated, then put her brandy glass down with an unsteady hand and moved to the telephone. She picked up the nearest one, pressing a button beneath it; and almost at once Rollison heard a click, and the distant sound of a voice.

“Come into my study, Anne,” Naomi said. “Hurry, please . . . I can tell you about that afterwards . . . Are they?” She seemed startled and now troubled by some additional worry. “Very well, I’ll go and see them when you’re here.” She rang off, pressing one hand against her forehead.

It crossed Rollison’s mind that this could be acting, but as she lifted her face and looked at him, he thought, no; she’s in deep trouble and distress. His heart went out to her, but he did not show his sympathy, as he waited, hard-faced.

“The girls are terrified,” she said. “I must go to the common room and talk to them.” She moved slowly away from the desk. “They know about the attack outside, one of their boy-friends saw it, apparently—the boy with the torch.”

“Are there any other boy-friends here?”

“I don’t know,” said Naomi. “But Anne will.” As she finished there was a movement at the door. It opened to admit a tall, thin, sallow-faced girl with high cheekbones. Her dark hair, falling untidily to her shoulders, drooped over one eye. She wore a very short mini-skirt, emphasising slender but well-shaped legs. “Anne,” went on Naomi Smith, “Mr. Rollison wishes to ask you some questions. Give him all the information you can, please.”

Anne looked blankly—sullenly?—at Rollison, as Naomi went out, closing the door behind her. Anne did not move; the harder Rollison looked at her complexion the more like olive-coloured wax it seemed; and her eyes were the colour of dark olives, too.

“Did you speak to Angela Pax-Elliott tonight?” asked Rollison.

“Yes,” Anne said.

“On the telephone?”

“Yes.”

“What did she say?”

“She said she wanted to see Mrs. Smith.”

“Where?”

“At the Oxford Street Corner House.”

“When?”

“She would wait until twelve o’clock.”

“What else did she say?”

“She said she was on to something.”

“Were those her exact words?”

“They were her exact words,” asserted Anne Miller.

Not once as she had answered the swift succession of questions had her voice changed from a low, monotonous tone. And not once had she moved.

“What time did she call?” demanded Rollison, flatly. “At eleven-seventeen.”

“How can you be so precise?”

“Because I am a precise person by nature, and I have a watch.”

“Did Angela sound alarmed?” asked Rollison. “No.”

“How did she sound?”

“Excited,” announced Anne Miller.

“What was the name of her boy-friend?”