The Toff and the Fallen Angels

“Yes, I suppose they will,” said Naomi, as Anne Miller looked up at Rollison from those sombre dark eyes. “And there will be no way of keeping this out of the newspapers, will there?”

“Absolutely no way at all,” said Rollison.

Momentarily, Naomi Smith closed her eyes. Then she seemed to make a physical effort to pull herself together, braced her shoulders and spoke more crisply.

“Then we shall have to try to turn it to advantage. I’ve asked those of our sponsors who are free to be here at twelve noon in the morning, Mr. Rollison. I will be most grateful if you will join us.”

“I’ll be glad to,” Rollison accepted. “One question. How do you get on with your next door neighbour?”

“We don’t get on,” answered Naomi Smith.

“That old lecher!” exclaimed Anne Miller with sudden venom. “He used to think that all he had to do was open his window and beckon, and when he learned that we’re in the baby business strictly for love, he started a virtueand-hate campaign. Laughable, really. But—hateful.”

*     *     *

Rollison pulled up outside his house in Gresham Terrace, and decided to leave his car there. He did not feel like taking it to the garage and walking the five minutes back. A light was on in his living-room, and he saw the curtain move and a brighter light appear for a moment : Jolly had heard the car.

It was a little after two o’clock.

Jolly, dressed as if it were mid-day but looking very grey and tired, was at the flat door.

“This won’t do,” said Rollison, with forced jocularity. “We can’t have you losing your beauty sleep.” Then he saw Jolly’s expression, a warning in itself, and realised that someone was in the flat. Inwardly, he groaned, for the last thing he wanted was another argument . . .

Unless this were news of Angela.

“Good evening, sir,” said Jolly. “A Miss Gwendoline Fell called about an hour ago, and insisted on waiting.” There was a world of resentment in that insisted. “I told her that there was no assurance that you would see her.”

“And I said you’d better,” declared Gwendoline Fell, from the inner door.

Rollison went in and looked across at her levelly. Her golden-brown hair was tumbled, her big blue eyes were tired, but she looked ready enough for battle. She also reminded him, rather strangely, of Angela.

“And what makes you think I wouldn’t be happy to see her?” he asked lightly. “Some coffee and sandwiches, Jolly.”

“At once, sir.” Jolly disappeared by the alternative route to the kitchen, and Rollison beamed down at Gwendoline.

“Come and sit down.” As they went into the big room, he added : “Are you old enough to be offered a drink?”

“You really do have the most execrable sense of humour,” she remarked.

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry about that. What will you have?”

“What are you going to have?”

“I might have a spot of brandy in my first cup of coffee, to make it interesting and to wake me up’ “May I have that, too?”

“Yes, of course.” Rollison looked at his large armchair longingly, and sat on a corner of his desk, with the Trophy Wall behind him. He did not need telling that the girl had come with serious purpose, and his respect for her had risen the moment he had seen her, for many a young columnist so disrespectfully treated would have assuaged her dignity by a vitriolic attack in print.

Perhaps she had done so.

“What brought you?” he asked.

“I heard about the trouble at Smith Hall and that you saved Naomi Smith from having her head bashed in.” She spoke as casually as if she were recording the buying of a penny stamp. “So I put in my stand-by column and postponed the one on you.”

“Pity,” he said. “I was looking forward to reading about my parasitic and anachronistic way of life.”

“You might still do so.”

“You mean, if I do what you want me to do, you won’t write scurrilously about me?”

“I never write scurrilously about anyone. And in any case, your background and your innate sense of superiority—of being untouched by such things as public comment—would protect you. No, I mean—I might change my mind about you.”

“Oh. Why?”

“You might get Smith Hall and Naomi Smith off the hook.”

“Oh,” said Rollison, and resisted a mischievous impulse to ask whether she was qualified to reside at Smith Hall. “So you now know she came to see me?”

“And that you promised to help.”

“Who told you?”

“I’ve a friend who lives there—Judy Lyons.”

“Scatterbrain,” remarked Rollison.