The Toff and the Fallen Angels

“Who on earth told you she was a scatterbrain?” asked Gwendoline, in astonishment. Her expression changed and she went on : “Oh, Naomi, I expect. Well, I talked to Judy on the telephone when the story came in about the trouble at Smith Hall, and she told me you’d made yourself quite a hero. And she said that Naomi seemed to think that you would and could help. So-—” Gwendo-line glanced up expressively. “I thought you and I might bury the hatchet, and work together over this.” She glanced at Jolly who put a laden tray down on the low table at her side, and went on : “The one certain thing is that you’ll never solve this case on your own.”

After a moment of startled silence, Jolly drew back, looked at Gwendoline with a withering dislike, and said : “I trust that will be all, sir.”

“Yes,” said Rollison. “You go to bed.”

“Thank you, sir. If there is any word of Miss Angela you will wake me, won’t you?”

“Yes,” promised Rollison.

“If you want to know where Angela is, don’t go to bed yet,” advised Gwendoline. “Because I’m pretty sure I know where she is.”

CHAPTER 10

True Or False?

 

ROLLISON moved from the desk, towards Gwendoline. Jolly, on his way back to the kitchen, stopped and turned round. The two men dwarfed the girl, and there was something almost threatening in their manner. Her eyes showed a sudden awareness of this.

“Where is she?” demanded Rollison.

“We have to make quite sure whether that statement was true or false, sir,” Jolly said, roughly for him. “This young woman is quite capable of proffering false hope in order to get the information and assistance which she desires from us.”

“Yes. Where is Angela?” Rollison repeated, in a steely voice.

“I—I didn’t say I was certain—I said I was pretty sure,” said Gwendoline, looking apprehensively from one man to the other.

“Where do you think she is?” demanded Rollison. “Next door to Smith Hall, in Sir Douglas Slatter’s house.”

“What!” gasped Rollison.

“I tell you that’s where I think she is. Oh, for goodness sake stop towering over me in that melodramatic manner!” exclaimed Gwendoline, straightening up abruptly. “Angela suspected that some rather unpleasant telephone calls came from the house next door, and she found out that they wanted a housemaid. So she took the job. It’s as simple as that.”

“Well I’m—” began Rollison, but his heart was lighter than it had been since he had first heard that Angela was missing. It was so like her—to pretend there was nothing to report while she was working ingeniously and desperately hard to prove her capacity as a detective. “When did you know about this?”

“Only tonight—from Judy Lyons. That’s why I decided to come here, I thought you and I might come to an arrangement. If I put your mind at rest about your niece, will you give me inside information which no other newspaperman or woman can possibly get? I suppose it’s too late to strike a bargain now,” she added resignedly. “I—what on earth are you doing?”

Rollison turned away suddenly, and picked up the telephone and began to dial. He did not answer. His heart was thumping, and he was staring at the far end of the Trophy Wall, hardly aware of the old-fashioned cutlass or the bicycle chain in his direct line of vision; each had been used for murder.

“What are—” began Gwendoline.

“Please be quiet, Miss!” Jolly was sharp.

“This is Smith Hall,” a man answered Rollison.

“Is Mr. Grice still there?” asked Rollison urgently. “This is Richard Rol—”

“Hold on, sir! He’s just moving off !” There was a clatter of the telephone, and then silence, and at last Rollison turned to Gwendoline and Jolly.

“If she’s at Slatter’s place, I mean to find out. If the police won’t search his house, I will.”

“Oh,” said Gwendoline, in a small voice. And then, while Rollison was still holding on to the telephone and Jolly, also tense, was watching him, she asked almost petulantly: “May I have some coffee, please?”

Jolly opened his mouth as if in anger, closed it, relaxed, took a table napkin off a silver dish of sandwiches and poured out coffee.

“Hallo,” Grice said to Rollison. “What is it now?”

“Bill,” said Rollison. “I’ve just been told that Angela took a job as housemaid at Sir Douglas Slatter’s house. If she did and she’s there now, she might be in acute danger before the night’s out. Too many people now know who she is and what she’s doing.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Grice, slowly. “Hold on a moment.”

Rollison held on while Gwendoline, reaching for her coffee cup, stared at him; and Jolly, hot milk in hand, looked up from a half-stooping position over her.

“Yes,” repeated Grice. “We’ll have to find out. I wouldn’t mind having a look round there, I’ve been thinking over what you said.” A chuckle fluttered his voice. “I’ll need a search-warrant, though and that—” Grice broke off, only to go on more decisively. “I’ll go and ask him to let me search and see what happens. If I have to get a