search-warrant, what evidence do you have?”
“This time, will you just take my word for it?”
“I will, but a magistrate might not. All right, Rolly. I’ll call you back in half-an-hour, don’t come charging over here yet.”
“If you’re thirty-one minutes, I’ll be on my way.” Roll-son said.
* * *
Five minutes later, Sir Douglas Slatter, massive in a camel-hair dressing gown, and tight-lipped with bad temper, growled at Grice : “If you have to I suppose you’ll have to, but if you’re doing it without a good reason I shall have questions asked in the House.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Grice.
He had four men with him and they went from room to room, with Slatter accompanying one couple and a middle-aged grey-haired housekeeper the other. Grice went out to his car, had a message telephoned to Roll-son, and then rejoined his men. They had nearly finished, when he heard the housekeeper say to the two policemen with her :
“This is the last room—and there’s a girl sleeping in it. A maid. Don’t frighten her out of her wits.”
Grice reached them as she opened the door, and peered over their shoulders.
There, sleeping the sleep of the innocent, one bare arm over the bedspread, hair spread like leaves over the pillow, was Angela. She looked what she was : little more than a child. Grice eased himself inside the room and looked down at her closely. She was breathing evenly, her lips lightly closed. He gave a half-smile, of pleasure, and then withdrew.
Outside, he said : “Now I would like to see the attic and the loft, please.”
* * *
Just after half-past three, Rollison’s telephone rang again. It made Gwendoline start up from the chair in which she had been dozing, and as he lifted the receiver he heard the one on Jolly’s extension lifted, too.
“Ronson.”
“She’s all right, Roily,” Grice assured him. “She’s sleeping naturally, and I didn’t wake her. There’s no-one who shouldn’t be in the house, no sign of a man who fits the description you gave me, and no mud on any of the doorsteps. I’d leave Angela there. She’s safe enough for to-
night, anyhow, and I’ll have that house watched as well as Smith Hall. We can decide what to do about her to-morrow.”
“Good enough,” agreed Rollison. “The little devil!” But he laughed. “Thanks very much, Bill, and goodnight.”
As he rang off, he heard Jolly’s muted : “Thank God for that,” and he saw Gwendoline by his side, bright with excitement, pretty as the proverbial picture. She clutched his arm and her grip was surprisingly strong.
“Yes,” answered Rollison. “I’ll do a deal and I’ll see you get some inside information, but before we come to terms I’d like to sleep on the situation and see how I feel in the morning.”
“You mean, you’re tired out,” said Gwendoline, giving way to a vast yawn. “So am I! What time tomorrow?”
“Will two o’clock in the afternoon suit you?”
“Are you going to sleep that long?”
“I shall ask Jolly to see that I’m up by nine o’clock, I’ve a lot to do before going to Smith Hall at noon to- morrow,” said Rollison.
“Do you know,” said Gwendoline Fell, “I think that given encouragement, you might be quite funny, after all.” She turned towards the door. “Thanks for the coffee, and the sandwiches were lovely.”
Rollison went with her down the stairs; she was un-believably light-footed and graceful; even when she threw a leg over her motor-scooter she showed grace. She placed her crash helmet firmly on her head and then shattered the street with the roar of the engine, raised a hand, and moved off at startling speed. Rollison watched her out of sight, then, went up to his flat, and along to Jolly’s room.
Jolly was in bed.
“Well, what do you make of that young lady?” asked Rollison. “Do you trust her?”
“I grew to dislike her less as time went on,” admitted Jolly grudgingly. “But I certainly wouldn’t trust her too far.”
“No, nor would I,” agreed Rollison. “Tomorrow, see what you can find out about her background and also about Smith Hall residents Anne Miller and Judy Lyons. Be discrete, and if necessary ask Mr. Grice for help. He’ll probably give it gladly.”
“He is obviously deeply worried,” said Jolly. “It’s very hard to believe that Professor Webberson is dead, sir, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Rollison heavily. “Hard to realise that two of the girls are probably dead, too, and Naomi Smith is on the killer’s list. At least he won’t use the same hammer again,” he added. “About nine on the morning. That will give us five hours’ sleep, with luck.”
“I’ll call you, sir.”
Rollison went to bed with so much on his mind that he half-expected to be a long time getting off, but in fact he was asleep as soon as he had adjusted the sheets and blankets. The reassurance about Angela, shadowed by the other murders, by the dangers, by the threats, had exhausted him.
