him to travel. All Loman could tell the police, it seemed, was that he had fallen asleep in his seat and remembered nothing until he had come round in the hospital.
He still looked dazed.
Meanwhile, Grice’s men, a detective sergeant and a detective officer whom Rollison did not know even by sight, had come to take over from Paterson’s officers. They were obviously more pleased than sorry that they could go back to London at once. The only piece of information they could give Rollison was negative: there was no trace of the motor-cyclist.
No one else seemed to be aware of the existence of Pamela Brown.
It was half past twelve when Thomas G. Loman, fully dressed, almost unbelievably tall, came out of the hospital, with the nurse by his side. She barely reached his shoulder. Paterson and his men as well as the two men from the Yard were watching, obviously intent on finding out if Loman showed any sign of recognition.
Rollison, standing by the side of his car, said: “I’m Richard Rollison.”
The other hesitated; this puzzled Rollison, who thought there was a question in his mind; but he did not put it into words.
“Shall we go?” Rollison suggested.
“Sure.” Loman immediately moved towards the driving wheel, but then drew back, gaping. “The wheel’s on the wrong side!”
“We do things that way in England,” Rollison explained.
“England? Oh — of course.” In a few long strides the American went to the other side, opened the door and climbed in; he showed the tall man’s care in bending his knees and stretching his legs. He put them out at full length and looked round in astonishment. “There’s good room,” he said. “Is that the way you do things in England, too?”
“Only when a car is custom-built,” said Rollison.
He appeared then to surrender himself wholly to the joy of the car; its upholstery, its comfort, its instruments, its smooth starting, its easy riding. He leaned back in his seat and half closed his eyes and appeared to be ecstatic. Then he sat up and bumped his head.
“Oh!”
“And
“I certainly will,” promised his passenger.
He began to look about him as if for the first time. He stared at cars and stared at people, at houses and the shops. Now and again he rubbed his long fingers together; he could make a cracking sound with his knuckles. Rollison did not try to make him talk yet; he was bound to ask questions before long, and information would probably come easier that way.
“Gee,” he said, “it’s different.”
“Very different?” asked Rollison.
“Oh, sure, different. There’s so much green,” observed Loman. “And all of the cars are so small. And a lot of people walk.”
“Don’t they in Tucson?” asked Raison.
“Only down town — say, this isn’t London yet, is it?”
“We’re on the outskirts.”
“I will say one thing,” said Loman after a pause. “Everything sure is green.” He edged up in his seat and looked about him for a long time, and then declared “It sure is green.”
“We get a lot of rain,” remarked Rollison, solemnly. “Rain,” echoed Loman, and added: “Sure. We get ours in July and December.”
Rollison wondered how long it would be before the man began to explain; there was no great hurry as far as he could judge, and it may even have to wait until they reached Gresham Terrace. He had not called Jolly, so Jolly would have lunch ready. He glanced in the driving mirror, and saw the police car. He would be followed wherever he went until the mystery was solved or unless he gave his shadowers the slip. There was no need to do that yet. He passed the end of Hood Lane, and half-smiled at the thought of Pamela Brown, who certainly hadn’t told all she knew. Behind that sweet and innocent facade and ingenuousness of manner was a sharp and undoubtedly devious mind. An M.G. not unlike hers passed in the opposite direction, with a man at the wheel.
“Excuse me,” Loman said.
“Yes,” said Rollison promptly.
“I didn’t get your name.”
“You didn’t —” began Rollison, and actually took his eyes off the road to look sharply at the American. But Loman was now sitting back, eyes half-closed, a dreamy smile on his face. He had a remarkable profile, a face half as long again as an average face but everything in proportion; his eyes were deep and seemed to push his cheekbones down. His upper lip was long, and so was his chin; in profile it did not seem to be so spade- shaped.
Unless he was very clever at dissembling, this young man meant exactly what he said: he had not caught Rollison’s name.
Rollison drew in a deep breath.
“My name is Richard Rollison,” he stated carefully. “Of 25g, Gresham Terrace.”
Loman began to frown. Out of the corner of his eyes Rollison saw him glance towards him, a quick, appraising glance. He sat even more upright in his seat, and after a while said:
