“Is that what you’re here to decide?” asked Rollison.
“I’m afraid so,” said Nimmo, running a hand over his shiny pate, “and although I don’t like it, I think Otto is right. Unless we can put an end to this campaign of violence quickly, we must do what we’re told.”
“I disagree,” said Carfax. “And if George Brown were here, I think he would disagree. And I am not considering only the girls—I’m thinking that we owe at least something to Keith.”
After a short silence, Nimmo said : “An unfair appeal, Will. Whatever we decide won’t make any difference to the thoroughness with which the police search for the murderer. We won’t be letting Keith down—or the dead girls, for that matter.”
“We don’t really need telling that they’re both dead,” argued Nimmo. “Surely you aren’t buoying yourself up with false hope. I—”
The shrill ringing of the telephone bell made them all start, and it seemed to ring on for a long time before Naomi picked up the receiver, it was almost as if she were afraid that this call would bring bad news.
“This is Mrs. Smith . . . Oh ! Yes, he’s here. Please hold on.” She looked at. Rollison, and held the instrument out towards him. “It’s for you, Mr. Rollison—Superintendent Grice.”
“Ah,” said Rollison, taking the telephone. “Thanks. Hallo, Bill.” This must be very urgent or Grice would not have interrupted the meeting, and his heart began to thump at the possibility that there was, after all, bad news of Angela.
“Can anyone else hear?” asked Grice.
“Not unless there is an extension,” Rollison said.
“No, that is the direct line,” said Naomi Smith hastily. “No,” said Rollison.
“I thought I would give you this piece of news first, and you can break it to the others if you think the time is right.” Grice paused long enough for Rollison to wonder why he said ‘break it to’—and then he had a sudden flash of understanding only a split second before Grice went on. “Dr. Brown was murdered last night. He was found slumped over the steering wheel of his car, in a deserted spot on Wimbledon Common. It looks as if he was forced to drive there by someone who had hidden in the back seat of his car, and struck from behind as he stopped.”
Rollison tried not to show the slightest reaction in his expression or in the tone of his voice.
“Do you know what time?” he asked.
“Yes—about ten o’clock, comfortably before the attack on Mrs. Smith,” answered Grice. “Do the others there appear to be frightened?”
“Yes,” answered Rollison. “Thanks, Bill. Will you leave this to me for a while?”
“Yes,” replied Grice. “Not too long, mind.”
“Not too long,” promised Rollison, and rang off.
The others were concealing their interest in the call, and he did not think they would have done so had they suspected what he had heard. He had no doubt at all what they would decide if he told them of Brown’s murder, and it did not need Grice to emphasise that they could not be left in ignorance for long. There was only one way of preventing them from withdrawing their support, and that was by finding who was behind the murders. And if they were to keep Smith Hall and continue its activities, they would have to know quickly.
“You can’t seriously suggest that Slatter is behind this,” Carfax protested. “I can’t believe—”
“Will you adjourn the meeting for, say, eight hours,” suggested Rollison. “And I will pull out all the stops to investigate Sir Douglas Slatter’s recent activities.”
There was only a perfunctory pause, before Nimmo gave the others the lead by a grave nod of agreement.
“Good,” said Rollison. “Thank you gentlemen. But wherever you go, be sure you have a police escort. I have the very sombre duty of informing you that Dr. Brown was murdered last night, in the same way as Keith Webberson.”
After a stunned silence, Rollison expected Offenber-ger, at least, to make a passionate plea for retraction. But no word was said.
CHAPTER 12
ROLLISON left the study, the expressions on the faces of the three men and the one woman vivid in his mind’s eye; all were appalled. No one was in the hall, but as he glanced up at the gallery, Anne Miller appeared from one of the rooms, and raised a hand in greeting. He stopped and looked up at her.
“Any new problems?” he asked.
“It depends what you call problems,” she answered. She leaned over the wooden railing, her hair drooping downwards in a long, silken fringe, covering her eyes.
“Anything you find worrying is a problem,” he answered.
“Three of our little darlings have a rash this morning,” said Anne. We think it may be chicken pox, and if it is they’ll all get it. You haven’t visited our Baby Farm, have you?”
“Not yet,” said Rollison.
“Then postpone your visit if you haven’t had chicken pox,” advised Anne. “Have you proved that our ancient
