neighbour next door is the murderer yet?”
“No,” answered Rollison. “I’m just going to ask him.”
She gave a sardonic smile. The young policeman on the porch smiled too, as if he had heard the exchange. He watched with some surprise as Rollison walked to the wall and vaulted over it. The grass on the other side was much firmer, flanked by a drive and carriageway of grey macadam. The house appeared to be in immaculate con-
dition. Rollison stepped on to the porch, which was supported by two white-painted pillars with the Number 29 painted on each, and rang the bell.
Light, quick footsteps approached—and Angela opened the door.
She gave a sharp, quickly suppressed, gasp.
“Good afternoon,” said Rollison. “Is Sir Douglas Slatter in?” And as he spoke, he winked. The muscles of Angela’s face worked as she tried to recover from the surprise.
“He, he’s having lunch,—sir !”
“Take my card in, will you?” said Rollison, and he stepped past Angela into the hall. It was larger, yet not so impressive as next door, although at a glance the antique quality of every piece of furniture was obvious. “Tell him the matter is urgent, please.”
Recovering her poise, Angela took the card, a little uncertain whether to show pleasure or fury at her uncle’s unexpected appearance. Deciding to give nothing away, she turned towards a wide passage alongside the stairs, disappearing into a door on the right. There came a rumble of voices. Immediately, a massive young man appeared.
“Massive’ was the word that first occurred to Rollison, as he noted the thick, bull neck, the powerful shoulders. Yet the man moved lightly on small feet.
“I’m afraid my uncle doesn’t wish to see you, Mr. Rollison,” he said. “He sees no purpose in a meeting.”
“Oh,” said Rollison, as if baffled. “That’s a pity. I thought it only fair to have a word with him before I went to the police.”
“You appear to spend most of your time with the police —judging from the morning papers. It really isn’t any use, Mr. Rollison. He won’t see you.”
Rollison frowned, looking even more baffled—and then, watching very warily, he moved forward, as if to pass Slatter’s nephew. With a swift movement, showing reflexes at least as fast as the assailant’s of the previous night, the young man flung out an arm, a barrier as firm as a piece of iron. Rollison, under no illusions as to the other’s strength, grabbed his wrist, spun him round, and sent him crashing, halfway towards the front door. He did not look round but judged by the lightness of the thump that the other had fallen as an athlete should.
He went on, and entered the room from which the man had come.
Sir Douglas Slatter, sitting at the head of a table with his back to the long window, looked up with a laden fork only an inch from his mouth.
“Good morning,” said Rollison. “I’m sorry if I chose a bad time.”
Slatter put his fork down slowly, and said. “Get out of my house.”
“The moment I’ve said what I have to say—”
“Get out of my house, or—”
“No doubt you’ll have me thrown out,” said Rollison pleasantly. He heard a sound behind him and moved swiftly to one side, so avoiding a swinging blow from the nephew. “Do stop this young man,” pleaded Rollison. “I really don’t want to hurt him.”
“You don’t want to—” Slatter caught his breath, and then said gustily: “Guy—throw this man out.”
Rollison spun round on the instant, grabbed Guy’s wrist, twisted his arm behind him in a hammer-lock so that he was utterly helpless, and smiled amiably.
“There really isn’t any need for this horseplay,” he insisted, “and I don’t want to break this young man’s arm —but I can do it as easily as you could smash his skull in with a sledge hammer.”
Guy had gone very pale. He was breathing hard, and as he faced his uncle, it was easy to realise that he was pleading with him.
Slowly, Slatter stood up.
Deliberately, he turned and went to a large fireplace and bent down, to pick up a brass poker. He held the poker by the handle with his left hand—and he raised it, more as a sword than a hammer.
“Let my nephew go,” he ordered.
“Or what will you do?” demanded Rollison.
“Break your neck.”
“With that? You might crack my skull, but—”
“I won’t tell you again : let him go at once.”
He took a step forward. A larger man than his nephew, although he was nearing seventy he looked no more than sixty. There was no doubt at all that he was prepared to strike.
“You’re a great believer in violence as a means to getting your own way,” remarked Rollison.
“You are a fine one to talk of violence. Let my nephew go.”
“I release ten minutes of your time. Give it to me, and I’ll lea
