“In his trousers pocket,” answered Angela shamelessly. “They undressed him before he was taken to the hospital, and I had to take care of his clothes. I couldn’t fold them and put them away with everything in the pockets, could I?”
“Obviously not,” answered Rollison. “Did you look anywhere else?”
“I wanted to, but as a matter of fact I got cold feet,” answered Angela, with engaging frankness. “And Guy was a bit troublesome, too. You’d think he’d never seen an attractive young woman before—he says it’s a case of love at first sight, and I must say he behaves almost as if he means it. As a matter of fact, I think he’s rather nice.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Rollison, looking at her thoughtfully. “Is Sir Douglas coming home tonight?”
“No, he’s being kept at the hospital for at least twenty-four hours. Why?”
“Do you think you could lure young Guy to take you to a night-club, or any place where you’ll be out late?” asked Rollison. “I’d very much like to have a look round at Number 29.”
“Well,” said Angela, after considering, “I will certainly try, and I shouldn’t think it would be too difficult.
Two things happened simultaneously, to make her break off. The telephone bell rang, and Jolly appeared to say with customary solemnity that dinner was about to be served. Rollison got up and reached for the telephone while Angela finished her brandy with almost sacrilegious haste, and hurried out with a “Three jiffs, Jolly.”
“This is Richard Rollison,” Rollison said.
“You’ve had a taste of what will happen to you if you don’t keep out of Slatter’s business,” a man said. His voice was muffled, as if he were speaking through gauze or muslin.
CHAPTER 17
As Rollison hung up, Angela appeared again, her bright hair brushed with school-girl precision. Jolly, who had also disappeared, returned with a laden tray. Obviously Rollison’s expression told them both that this had not been a normal call.
“Anything to do with us?” inquired Angela.
“I trust there is no immediate emergency,” said Jolly.
“Just an Awful Warning of what will happen to me if I don’t turn my back on the fallen angels,” said Rollison lightly, and went on almost in the same breath “By George, I’m hungry !” He pulled a chair away from the table for Angela, and as they had dinner—lamb cutlets, green peas and new potatoes, all with rare flavour—he talked to Angela and recalled lunching here with Naomi Smith and the way she had introduced him to this case.
Jolly hovered, was praised for his cooking, and was duly gratified.
Angela left at half-past eight, promising to call the flat if she failed to lure Guy out of his uncle’s house.
Rollison left at a quarter to nine, at the wheel of Jolly’s ancient Austin A35, a small grey car which would be blown to smithereens if a stick of dynamite were wired to the self-starter. The streets were empty and it took only ten minutes to reach Bloomdale Street. There was a parking place quite near Smith Hall, and here, under the stern eye of a watchful policeman, he left his car. There were a lot of police about; he spotted at least four. So Grice had taken his extra precautions early.
“Good evening, sir,” one of them said. “Are you all right? . . . Very nasty thing to happen, that explosion.”
“Yes, I’m fine. But make sure no one puts dynamite in this one, won’t you?”
“Don’t you worry, sir. We’ll watch it like lynxes!”
Rollison murmured “I’m sure you will,” and walked towards the house, recalling the shadowy figure of the bestockinged assailant on his first visit here. No-one threw a shadow tonight, but a policeman stood near the porch in the full light of a street lamp.
The door was closed, and Rollison rang the bell. After a brief pause, Judy Lyons appeared, still very subdued. She peered out nervously, then stood aside.
“We thought you weren’t coming,” she said.
“I hope you’re glad I have,” replied Rollison.
“I’m not sure that it makes any difference,” said Judy tardy. “We’re all upstairs, in the drawing-room.”
The room was immediately above Naomi Smith’s study, but was much larger. Round the walls were couches and armchairs, other smaller chairs and tables with magazines were in the middle. In one corner stood an old radiogram, and by the side of it was a small table, at which Naomi was sitting. Rollison made a swift count of heads, and reached twenty-two. Anne Miller had not yet been taken to the police station; she sat with her long, slim legs stretched out, apparently deep in thought. The girls, all about the same age, were of all shapes and sizes, dark-haired and fair. There was one sad-faced Indian woman with the red spot on her forehead, showing that she was a Hindu of good caste, and one short, dumpy African girl with a very lively face.
Every eye was turned towards Rollison; one elfin little creature in pale green blew him a kiss.
Naomi pointed to an empty chair at her side.
“Please come and sit down, Mr. Rollison. We had just decided to wait until you came, in the hope that you could give us some encouraging news.”
“Not a hope in a thousand,” a girl said clearly.
“It’s a waste of time,” chimed in another.
