The Toff and the Fallen Angels

Jolly brought him tea at five minutes past nine.

At ten o’clock he pulled up outside the modern severity of the new New Scotland Yard, was recognised and passed from constable to sergeant, sergeant to Chief Inspector and finally into Grice’s office. Grice was not there. Three newspapers were open on his desk, an indication of sudden departure.

“He’s with the Assistant Commissioner, sir,” said the Chief Inspector. “He isn’t likely to be long.”

“Thanks,” said Rollison—and the door opened and Grice came in. He did not look in the best of moods, and simply nodded before rounding the desk and shuffling the newspapers into position. “Good morning, Bill,” said Rollison. “I wanted to come and say ‘thanks’ in person.”

Grice grunted.

“The Assistant Commissioner doubts the need or the wisdom of my search of Slatter’s house,” he said. “Slatter’s already been talking to M.P.s and they have been talking to the Home Secretary. Did you have to choose as suspect a millionaire who owns more property in London than any other single person?”

“No,” said Rollison. “Angela chose him.”

“She has been seen in the house this morning,” Grice went on. “I want you to find out why she went there as soon as you can, and if it’s some damned flight of fancy, I want her out.”

“Yes, Superintendent,” said Rollison with tactful humility. “Any news?”

“The sledge hammer was the one used to kill Keith Webberson.” Grice touched a file on his desk. “It had been stolen from a building site nearby, a small block of flats is going up where there used to be a big house. No fingerprints, but there are burned initials on the shaft,” Grice added.

“What intitials?”

“T.S.—and don’t start jumping to any more conclusions.” Grice’s interview with the Assistant Commissioner for Crime must have been very unpleasant. “And don’t ask me whether I’m trying to find the owner, either.” He moved his right hand as one of three telephones on his desk began to ring. “Why should anyone try to murder Mrs. Smith, if we could answer that . . . Grice here.”

His expression changed as he listened, the sense of grievance died.

“Yes .. “ he said. “Are you quite sure? . . . Well, now we know where we are. Is there any way of finding out whether she was killed by the same sledge hammer? . . . Yes, compare the wounds with those on the back of Professor Webberson’s head . . . Yes, as far as I know I’ll be here all the morning.”

He put the receiver down, and leaned back in his chair. Rollison was almost sure what the main news was but he waited for Grice to deliberate, without trying to rush him.

“The body taken out of the Thames was Winifred de Vaux’s,” he said flatly. “The dentist has just given positive identification. There’s no news of the other missing girl. Webberson was murdered about eight days ago—four or five days before the de Vaux girl disappeared. And—” Grice pulled at his lower lip before going on: “And the neighbours across from Webberson’s flat have identified the girl in the photograph as Winifred de Vaux. The woman recognised another visitor to Webberson’s flat, too.”

Grice paused.

“The other missing girl,” said Rollison.

The other missing girl, Iris Jay,” confirmed Grice. “And Mrs. Smith was a regular visitor, too. So the two missing girls and the matron of Smith Hall were regular visitors to your friend’s flat. Rolly,” went on Grice in a brisker, demanding tone, Was Keith Webberson one for the women?”

Slowly, Rollison answered : “When he was younger, yes.”

“Do you have any reason to believe he grew out of it?”

“No,” admitted Rollison. “None at all. But he was one of the group who sponsored this hostel. He—” he broke off, raising his bands, as Grice looked at him severely. “Guilty conscience, do you mean?” he asked.

“It could be,” said Grice. “It certainly could be. Mrs. Smith told me last night that you were going to be at Smith Hall when the surviving sponsors are to meet this morning. I don’t want a man there but I do want a detailed report of what goes on.”

“I’ll see you get it,” promised Rollison.

“Plain and unvarnished,” insisted Grice.

“Yes.”

“And by the way,” said Grice, “I had a report that you had a late night visit from that columnist of the Daily Globe, Gwendoline Fell. What was that sly young woman after?”

“Sly?” echoed Rollison.

“Don’t say she fooled you,” said Grice. He laughed with some show of irritation. “But perhaps she did. She’s twisted more of our men round her little finger than anyone I’ve ever known. Does she want inside information in return for her help?”

“William,” said Rollison with feeling, “you get wiser and wiser and wilier and wilier every day. Yes, that is exactly what she wanted.”

“Be careful how much you tell her,” advised Grice. “If I know her, she’ll want a detailed report of the meeting of the sponsors, too.”

“Plain and unvarnished, no doubt,” rejoined Rollison. “Bill, did you realise you had a lot in common with Gwendoline Fell?”

Grice looked astonished.

“I have?”