and Nogales . . . Well, why not . . . Thomas G. Loman . . . I am twenty-eight years old . . . I was born in Truth and Consequences, New Mexico . . . My grandfather was English. He. . .”
Rollison heard the tape right through. There was a great deal of repetition, obviously King had been learning all he said by heart, so as to stand in another man’s place. Here in the heart of London an Englishman had been learning to take on the identity of Thomas G. Loman! He switched off, thinking that if he took the tape it would warn King that he had been traced; for the time being it would be better to leave it.
Rollison had been here for about half an hour.
The woman whom he assumed to be the Effie of the notes might be back at any moment. There wasn’t time to listen to any more tapes. He sat at the desk and scribbled out a copy of the notes and the dates, added the name and address of King’s bank manager, and went to the door leading to the landing.
He heard no sound.
He opened the door and stepped on to the landing, turned and bent down to lock the door, always more difficult, with a pick-lock, than opening it. He worried even less about noise, breathed with satisfaction as the lock clicked, straightened up, and turned round.
Framed in the open doorway of Flat 4 was a man who had a stocking drawn over his face, as a mask.
He covered Rollison with an automatic.
* * *
Rollison stood utterly still.
So, for a few moments, did the man with the gun. There were noises from the street; cars, whistling, voices. There was music from the flats below, but up here there was just the stillness and the silence. It seemed a long time before the man in the doorway said: “So you made it.”
“Sooner or later,” Rollison replied, “I always do.”
“You won’t after this,” the other said, softly. “Who knows?” Rollison shrugged.
“I know. You won’t live to.”
Rollison did not speak, but simply raised his eyebrows. The man in the doorway moved to one side, and said: “Come in.”
“I would rather stay here,” replied Rollison.
“So I’ll have to shoot you there,” the masked man retorted.
“I would rather you didn’t,” said Rollison, and began to walk towards the other.
The man could be the one who had hurled the hand grenade: there was no way of telling. His hand was steady and his voice cold and calculating; there was no way of being sure whether he would shoot. If he, Rollison, allowed himself to go into the other flat, he would be trapped; here, with the stairs and the hallway below, he had some freedom of movement.
He must take a chance and leap for the stairs.
It had to be the right moment — the exact moment.
He was within a yard of the man who could shoot him at point blank range, so it was literally now or never. He actually flexed his muscles to duck and spring towards the stairs when a door opened somewhere below, with a squeak, and footsteps sounded in the hall. The eyes behind the mask swivelled to one side and on that instant Rollison kicked the man on the shin. Gasp of pain and the swivelling of the gun came simultaneously but Rollison had time to chop with the side of his hand on the gun-wrist.
The gun fell.
“Stay down there!” Rollison roared. “Stay there!”
“Effie!” the man cried from behind the mask. “Effie!”
Rollison heard a cry from below, and turned his head to look towards the stairs. It was his first mistake, for the masked man, still gasping, backed into the room and disappeared. The door slammed. Rollison snatched at the handle, but the girl below began to cry out:
“Help,
Rollison stood absolutely still, to try to collect himself.
The man would get away through the window and there was little chance of catching him; if he, Rollison, forced this door and went in he would be breaking and entering, very much on the wrong side of the law.
A man spoke downstairs and the woman whom the masked man had thought was Effie was screaming: he could just distinguish the words :
“Up there, up there!”
Rollison could run down the stairs and out of the house, or more wisely, go down and reason. He had what he wanted. The girl was now alarmed, and the wise thing was to have the police here as soon as possible. He could take them to King’s room, and the evidence of the plot to impersonate Tommy Loman would be indisputable.
So he called: “No one’s robbing anybody,” and he went to the head of the stairs.
The pregnant young woman was standing in the hall, a middle-aged man stood with his arm round her, a scared-looking woman was in the doorway of one of the flats. Effie was sobbing and screaming in a magnificent show of pretended hysterics, and of course she was trad-ing on her condition. She caught sight of him and pointed, screaming even more loudly :
“There he is, there he is!”
Rollison began to walk down the stairs. It was useless attempting to stop the girl, who was undoubtedly trying desperately to give the masked man time to get away. The middle-aged man looked as scared as the woman in the doorway.
“Now, don’t upset yourself, my dear, don’t upset yourself.”
