The Toff and the Fallen Angels

“What did Sir Douglas warn you about?” asked Roll-son gently.

“That the house and I would get this reputation,” she said, opening her eyes. “We are old friends, Mr. Rollison, although until I came here we hadn’t met for many years. When I first knew that he owned this house I went to see him, asking for his help—but he had no sympathy at all with what I was trying to do. He was furiously angry because he had signed the lease without being told what it was going to be used for. It—it was not a very pleasant meeting,” Naomi finished, on a note both saddening and dreary.

“How often have you met since?”

“Only occasionally.”

“Socially?”

“Once or twice. He—he is a very good man, Mr. Rollison, and he did not believe that because we differed fundamentally on this aspect of society—I have always believed that unmarried mothers and illegitimate children should be given special consideration, because of what they inevitably miss, having no husband, and no father—we should not remain friends.” She raised her hands and dropped them again. “Douglas maintained that if you broke the rules of the society you lived in, you should accept the consequence. I can see his point of view, of course.” Unexpectedly, her voice sharpened. “Can you, Mr. Rollison?”

“I can see both points of view,” parried Rollison.

“A friend to both sides is said to be a friend to none,” Naomi said a little bitterly. “Nevertheless, I still need your help. Mr. Rollison, can you help Anne? I know she shouldn’t have done what she did but it was under terrible provocation, and I am sure she hadn’t the slightest intention of injuring Douglas.”

“I can get a good lawyer to speak for her and ask for bail,” said Rollison.

“Oh, if only you will!”

“I’ll have a word with Professor Nimmo and make sure I’m not treading on any corns,” promised Rollison. “Are the girls going to meet together tonight?”

“Yes,” said Naomi, and caught her breath. “I think at least half of them will. leave at once.” She gave herself a little shake and rose to her feet. Her movements and her manner had become more decisive, as if for the moment, at least, she had done with brooding and with being sorry for herself. “I’m very grateful for all you are doing. Will you come this evening?”

“If I may.”

“I don’t think you can do anything to help them,” said Naomi, “but you will at least see and understand the mood of the girls. It’s so very sad,” she went on, in her brisker voice, “only a few weeks ago everything appeared to be going so well.” She led the way to the door, and then touched the back of his hand. “Mr. Rollison, please understand and believe one thing. Professor Webberson and Dr. Brown did not take advantage of their position as sponsors. There was a very real friendship in both cases.”

Friendship, love, or simply lust, thought Rollison grimly, neither men had deserved to be murdered; nor had either of the girls.

And now Naomi Smith was telling the truth, which he wanted and hoped to be the case, or she was a consummate liar.

As he walked to his car, parked further away this time, he saw Guy Slatter walking towards him. He stopped as Guy drew up, aware of the powerful physique and the rugged good looks of the young man, who was so like his uncle.

“How is Sir Douglas?” Rollison asked.

“I’m assured there’s no permanent damage to the eyes,” said Guy, harshly. “No thanks to you. Now do you think those little bitches are worth protecting? If I had my way I’d send ‘em all to a whore-house I.”

“You know,” said Rollison, “that doesn’t do you any credit.”

“If you’re still on the side of that mob, you’re a bloody fool,” growled Guy. “You do-gooders make me sick!” He strode past, head held high, and Rollison walked more slowly towards his car. As he drew near, he thought he saw a shadowy movement in the back. All thought of the Slatters and the girls vanished. If someone was in the back of his car, it meant trouble—and a single sledge hammer blow would put an end to his interest in crime forever. He glanced down as he drew close, and saw a rug move. He opened the driving door, but instead of getting in he simply leaned inside, and said roughly :

“But that rug off you, and show your hands. And hurry!”

There was a convulsive movement—and then the rug was pushed off and two hands appeared; even he did not think there was the slightest chance that they were big enough to hold a sledge hammer. They were small and plump and very familiar.

“I don’t want anyone to know I’m here,” breathed Angela. “Guy came out to look for me. Just get in and pretend you’re alone. We can talk when we’re at Gresham Terrace or anywhere you want to take me. But please hurry,” she pleaded. “I’ve something I’m desperately anxious to tell you. I think I may have solved the case!”

Rollison heard all this as he drew his head back, got into the car in the normal way, sat back and touched the wheel.

“You can tell me as we go along,” he ordered.

He pushed the self-starter—and on the first instant of pressure, the front of the car blew up.

One moment he had only the thought of Angela and what she had to say in his mind; the next, the metal of the bonnet bulged upwards and upwards, there was a vivid red flash and then leaping flames, and as the windscreen cracked into a thousand tiny fragments, a roar and a blast.

A few pieces of glass fell over his knees.

The car rocked, as wildly as if it were a small boat in high seas. The flames rose higher and dark smoke billowed, and through the smoke Rollison saw a man reeling back, hand over his eyes, and he had a fierce and frightening recollection of Sir Douglas Slatter’s cut and bleeding face. But he could not move; in those few seconds