The Toff and the Fallen Angels

“Hallo, Liz,” said Rollison. “I’m glad I didn’t get you up.”

“Goodness me, no—I’ve been up since five o’clock, that’s my usual time. And for once Bill got up early, too, he left just after six. Said it was something to do with you, Mister Ar, and that hostel that’s all over the front page. Poor little mites. And the mothers, too, as if they haven’t got enough to worry about. Always coming up against this problem in the Army, but you know that. Well, I suppose I mustn’t keep you, but there’s one thing I would like to ask you, Mr. Ar. If ever that young woman Gwendoline comes over here again, I want to meet her. Wouldn’t it be lovely if she would do a story about the Army?”

“Liz,” said Rollison warmly, “it would be wonderful. I’ll talk to her about it. Goodbye.” He rang off before she could get another word in, and then saw his door open a fraction, and Angela’s head appear. She looked half-asleep and so very young.

“It’s me,” she said. “Do I have time for breakfast?”

“Provided you don’t wolf mine,” said Rollison. “I—” He broke off, as his telephone bell rang, and Angela came further into the room. She wore a pale pink quilted dressing gown which was too large for her. “Rollison,” Rollison said into the telephone.

“Roily,” said Grice, in a very hard voice, “were you at Slatter’s house last night?”

Something in his manner told Rollison that the question had grave significance. He could lie, and perhaps never be found out, but if the police had to investigate then Angela would become involved in the lie, and he would break faith with Grice—who had probably assumed that he had been in Bloomdale Street. It seemed a long time before he answered, and while Angela’s eyes grew clearer, the sleepy mist faded.

Then he said : “Yes, Bill.”

“Did you attack Guy Slatter?”

“I hit him on the back of the neck—yes.”

“Did you hit him with a sledge hammer and break his skull?” asked Grice.

Rollison caught his breath.

“Good God, no! Is he—dead?”

“Yes. I had the house watched to make sure no-one went in or out, and no-one did, from ten minutes after your telephone call. When the daily staff went in at half-past six, they found him lying near his uncle’s desk, dead —killed like the others. I think you’d better come over at once, and make a statement.”

“I’ll be there inside an hour,” Rollison promised.

He looked steadily at Angela as he replaced the receiver. She had moved very slowly towards him, and was now within arm’s reach of the bed.

“Guy?” she asked.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Did—did you kill him?”

“Did you see a hammer in my hand?” asked Rollison. “Oh, my God! That way?”

“That way. Angela, listen to me.” He took her hands. “I broke into Slatter’s house last night. You did not leave the door open and you did not tell me where to find the keys. You can tell the police I asked you to persuade Guy to take you out. You can even tell them you guessed why, but you took no active part in helping me. Do you understand? If the police know that, they can make a lot of unpleasantness for you without it helping me at all. Do you understand?”

Very slowly, she answered : “Yes.” She tried to free her hand but could not and that told him how tightly he was gripping. He relaxed a little, then said in a more casual voice : “If you still want to come, we’ve half-an- hour.”

“Just try to keep me away!” exclaimed Angela, and she pivoted round and ran out of the room.

Rollison almost laughed, but there was nothing even remotely funny about the situation, and there were probably dangers which he hadn’t yet seen. Had he been watched at Slatter’s house? Had someone seen him go in and seen him leave with Angela, then gone in and slugged Guy, leaving him dead?

It seemed likely.

Mechanically turning bathroom taps on and off, vigorously towelling, Rollison knew that Guy would not have stayed unconscious from the chopping blow for more than ten or fifteen minutes at the outside. Someone, then, must have gone in almost immediately after they had left. He was sure no-one had followed them, but not sure they hadn’t been watched.

Steam clouded the mirrors and Rollison pushed open the window. As he did so, he caught sight of a movement in the courtyard below.

Two men were stepping on to the bottom platform of the iron fire escape. They were not tradesmen; they were tough-looking; and they wore workmen’s clothes. Leaving the open window, Rollison moved swiftly into the living-room. Here he could see the road.

A battered-looking car had just pulled up. Two men got out, waited for a milk-float to pass, then crossed towards Rollison’s house and disappeared. Almost at the same time, a motor-cyclist pulled up, fifty yards along; he did not get off his machine but straddled it, as if he were on the lookout.

Jolly appeared, at the dining-alcove.

“Would you—is there anything the matter, sir?”

“Yes,” said Rollison. “Call Grice at once, tell him I think we’re going to be attacked.”

“Attacked—” Jolly began, and then darted towards the telephone. Rollison went as swiftly to the front door. It had been unbolted,, but he shot the bolts and put the chain up; and the door was reinforced and almost impossible to break down.