The Toff and the Fallen Angels

his mind wasn’t entirely on you and romance. Did he answer the call at the table?”

“No, he went out to the foyer,” answered Angela. They reached the Austin A35, and she paused, her voice changing as she asked plaintively: “If I get into that it won’t blow up, will it?”

“I’ll lift the bonnet first,” said Rollison and he did so at once, so that the clear light from a street lamp shone on to the engine. “Nothing there that shouldn’t be,” he assured her, opening the door for Angela, then taking the wheel. “And was he on edge to go as soon as he had the call?”

“No, but he kept looking at his watch,” said Angela. “What time did the call come through?” asked Rollison. “About twelve o’clock.”

“That was about the time when Smith Hall had visitors,” remarked Rollison. “Did he seem pleased or sorry?”

“Oh, pleased,” answered Angela. “I had the idea that he wanted to be away from the house for a couple of hours, I didn’t have to persuade him very hard. And although he kept telling me how beautiful it would be to spend the night alone with me, I can’t say he behaved like a gallant lover.”

“When did he say he suspected someone was at the house?” They were moving along Holborn, then, heading for Oxford Street.

“As soon as we came in. He brought me the back way, and when he found the door open he became suspicious. After all, that was natural. Rolly, did you really find out anything that matters? Did you find any other evidence that it was Sir Douglas who tried to attack Naomi Smith?”

“Good lord, no !” exclaimed Rollison.

She gaped up at him.

“But—but—”

“His clothes were mud-stained and the things were in his wardrobe, but he hadn’t worn them,” Rollison said. “He couldn’t possibly have moved at speed, and would probably have broken his arm if he’d jarred it against mine like the attacker did. No, it wasn’t Sir Douglas. He could possibly have another nephew who could get into his clothes, and put them back in his wardrobe, but I don’t think it very likely.”

“You mean—Guy was going to kill Naomi?”

“There’s certainly a possibility that he was,” answered Rollison. “But I don’t believe he’s the moving spirit be- hind all this, although he may have murdered the four victims. We need to find the influence and the pressures behind Guy Slatter,” added Rollison, as he pulled up outside his house in Gresham Terrace. “I wonder,” he went on almost as if speaking to himself, “whether there is a Mr. Bensoni or a Mr. Tilford in the firm.”

“What on earth made you ask that?” cried Angela. The man who telephoned him was named Bensoni. I heard the head waiter say so. ‘Mr. Pensoni is on the line,’ he said. I haven’t any doubt at all.”

CHAPTER 19

Busy Morning

 

JOLLY was still up, the trophies on the wall glowed under special lighting; Angela, though wide-eyed, gave a gargantuan yawn.

“Ring Grice at the Yard,” Rollison said to Jolly. “If he’s not there, call him at home. Angela, pet, if you want to be up in time to greet the morning you’d better go to bed.”

He stopped her in the middle of another yawn.

“Not until I know what you’re up to,” Angela said. “Why is Bensoni—”

He patted her head with insufferable condescension as he passed on the way to the bathroom. When he came back, Angela was sitting, dwarfed, in his huge chair, and Jolly, looking rather like a rehabilitated mummy, was at the telephone.

“Mr. Grice’s home number is ringing, sir.”

“Thanks.” Rollison took the telephone as Grice growled a discouraging “Hallo’.

“I’m sorry about this, Bill,” Rollison said in his warmest tone. “But I did promise to keep you informed.”

“Then inform me,” Grice said coldly.

“The man who attacked Naomi Smith was Guy Slat-ter, and—”

“Mister Rollison,” interrupted Grice, “you didn’t wake me up in the middle of the night to tell me the obvious, did you? We have been pretty sure it was Guy Slatter all the time, but we can’t yet establish that he killed anyone.

From his reputation, we’re fairly certain that he’s not capable of running this by himself, certainly not of arranging for a gang of young ruffians to attack the hostel as they did tonight.”

“I heard a rumour about that,” murmured Rollison. “And I didn’t ring you simply to give you the name of the murderer. Someone slipped up badly tonight, and Guy had a call from a certain Mr. Bensoni.” There was a moment of silence, as if Grice were trying to see the significance of the name; and then his voice rose almost to shrillness. “Bensoni and Tilford !”

“Builders, construction engineers and estate de-velopers,” said Rollison earnestly. “They, at least, are used to organising demolition gangs and so forth, and there are already flats in construction on a nearby site!

“Are you absolutely certain about this?” demanded Grice.

“I am certain that Guy was called to a telephone by a man said to be Mr. Bensoni, while at a nightclub—what