“Thank you, Miss Miller.” The spokesman of the two was short, thickset, very fair-haired—almost an albino, with stubby eyelashes and colourless eyebrows. “I am Detective Sergeant Adams of the Metropolitan Police.” His pale blue eyes flickered towards the Toff. “Did you throw a brick at the first floor window of the house next door?”
Before anyone could speak or the Toff advise, Anne said :
“I did, with relish.”
“Are you aware of the gravity of your statement, Miss Miller?”
“I know what it means,” Anne answered.
“I have to inform my superiors, Miss Miller. May I have your assurance that you will remain here to answer further questions?”
“And supposing I won’t promise?” asked Anne.
“Oh,
“Then on evidence available I should have to charge you with an offence and take you to Scotland Yard or to the nearest Divisional Headquarters.”
“I have a defenceless baby here, Sergeant,” Anne said, silkily.
“All necessary arrangements would be made, Miss Miller.” Again the Sergeant’s gaze flickered towards the Toff. “I am quite sure Mr. Rollison would advise—”
“I am quite capable of making my own decisions,” Anne said, coldly. “I will stay here.”
“I hope you will have no cause to regret your decision,” said Sergeant Adams, with a formality which Rollison had not heard from a policeman for a long time. “Good afternoon, Miss.” He nodded to Rollison. “Good afternoon, Mr. Rollison.” He moved towards the door, hesitated, and then turned back. “Were you a witness to the brick- throwing, sir?”
“I didn’t see it leave,” answered Rollison drily. “I saw it arrive.”
“Did you see the injury caused to Sir Douglas Slatter, sir?”
“Yes.”
“In all likelihood, sir, a statement will shortly be required of you. Will you undertake to be—”
“I’ll be in London,” promised Rollison briskly. “Anne, don’t make any more admissions, but do make preparations for being away for a few days. Will one of the others look after your baby?”
“Oh, I will!” cried Judy.
“Yes,” said Anne. “I shall be perfectly all right. But I may not be at the meeting tonight,” she added with a touch of bitterness.
Rollison looked at her for what seemed a long time, and then he moved towards the door, saying : “I don’t know whether you’re very good or very bad, but I do know you’re a remarkable young woman.” He reached the door with one of his unbelievably swift movements, slipping past the two detectives as if he were a wraith; once out of the house he walked swiftly towards his car, and drove off. He was watched by two policemen and the detectives, and he caught a glimpse of Angela on the doorstep of Slatter’s house; the doctor’s vintage Rolls Royce was still outside.
Twenty minutes later, Rollison turned into a narrow lane off Fleet Street, parking his car half on the roadway and half on the pavement. Striding along a narrow alley, which had run between two buildings for at least a hundred and fifty years, he came to a modern plaza from which rose a vast edifice of cement and glass, dwarfing the ancient buildings nearby.
This was the new house of The Globe Newspapers Limited.
If he had any luck, Gwendoline Fell would be in her office.
She was indeed, an unbelievable Gwendoline Fell, wearing a huge, floppy-brimmed flowered hat, a sleeveless dress of a delicate shade of puce, and elbow length kid gloves; and she was ravishingly made-up. Four girls and a long-haired youth sat in an outer office reading newspapers, two of them cutting out columns and articles with huge, shiny shears. Each looked up at the Toff with unashamed curiosity; and each manoeuvred to get a better look at him as he shook hands with Gwendoline.
“Do sit down,” she said.
“Where do you keep your motor-scooter?” he inquired.
“Near enough to give me no difficulty in following shady individuals,” answered Gwendoline Fell, half-smiling. “What trouble can I help to get you out of, Mr. Rollison? Or perhaps I should ask if you’ve come to plead with me not to make a big story out of your latest abysmal failure. Do you feel proud to have been sitting with poor Sir Douglas when the glass splintered in his face? And how clever you were—only two small scratches yourself, I see.”
“Ah,” said Rollison. “But I lead the charmed life of the indolent and the lucky.” He gave his gayest smile. “Do you want to find out the truth about the vendetta against Naomi Smith and her fallen angels?”
“Her—what? Oh, I see. Your name for them. How very poetical. If I were in an argumentative mood I might toss up whether to challenge the first part of it or the second. But please go on.” She smiled, suddenly all charm.
“You’re very kind,” said Rollison drily. “I now doubt very much if Sir Douglas Slatter is the villain, which means that I think someone else is engineering the hate campaign. If it is believed that Sir Douglas has given in and is allowing the girls to stay in Number 31, the campaign to drive them out will be stepped up, and—”
“You
Rollison sat back in his chair and looked at her levelly, then slowly rose to his feet and turned away. He did not
