The Toff and The Sleepy Cowboy

“How on earth could they?” demanded Fisher, angrily.

The problem, thought Rollison, was going to be to get the over-earnest Fisher away before Pamela Brown arrived, and while he was dwelling on that the telephone bell rang. He sat at his desk and pulled the telephone towards him while Loman went to the far end of the Trophy Wall, and Fisher glanced at his watch.

“This is Richard Rollison,” Rollison announced.

“This is Stevens of the Daily Globe,” a man replied. “Good evening, Mr. Rollison. Were you at the scene of a fire in Fell Street, Chelsea, this afternoon ?”

“Yes,” answered Rollison.

“Did you raise the alarm, Mr. Rollison?”

“No. I was too busy chasing the man who had started the fire.”

“Did you catch him, sir?”

“No. He escaped on a motor-cycle.”

“Do you know he was the man who started the fire?” asked the reporter, with mild insistence.

“I am satisfied he did but I couldn’t prove it.”

“I see, sir. Were you in or outside the house at the time?”

“Inside.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Rollison. I have a state-ment from a Mr. Hindle, who lived in one of the flats downstairs, to the effect that you appear to have been upstairs just before the explosion which preceded the fire.”

“I was,” stated Rollison.

“And according to this gentleman, sir, the wife of the tenant of the flat upstairs believed you had been in her flat during her absence. Had you sir?”

“If she was absent, how could she know?”

“Isn’t that evading the question, sir?”

Rollison found himself teetering between annoyance and amusement; and for the moment amusement won. He chuckled.

“No comment,” he said.

“Mr. Rollison, in the public interest —”

“In the public interest and in the interest of the Globe newspaper, no comment,” insisted Rollison.

“Mr. Rollison — your duty is surely —”

“Do you know, Mr. Stevens, I have known many police officers less naive in their questions and far less likely to prejudge an issue than you.” Rollison said. “No more questions — at least, no more answers.” Now, he was neither amused nor annoyed, but very wary.

“Mr. Rollison,” the newspaperman went on. “I don’t know that you are in a position to flaunt the Press. The lady in question, the wife of an actor, gave birth to a male child, this afternoon, a premature birth believed to be as a result of the incident. It is of considerable importance in your own as well as the public interest, for the truth to be known. Before going to hospital she accused you of forcing entry into her flat, and leaving behind a high explosive bomb which wrecked not only the flat but led to the destruction of the upper part of the house. In the public interest —”

“Mr. Stevens,” Rollison interrupted.

“Yes, sir.”

“Do I understand you want a statement from me?”

“Yes, sir. In the public —”

“The woman is a liar,” Rollison said.

“Mr. Rollison! A woman in such a condition would hardly make such wild accusations without some reason to believe them. If you were in her flat, sir, she may well have reason to believe you did cause the destruction —”

“I did not,” Rollison said, “and her condition might well have made her hysterical.”

“Were you in her flat?” demanded the newspaperman, in his persistent way. “That is the crucial question. If you can deny that, the Globe will naturally publish the denial. If on the other hand you cannot or will not deny it, then the Globe will of course publish the lady’s statement —”

“And lay itself wide open for action for libel,” Rollison interrupted. “Let me ask you a question, Mr. Stevens. Have you interviewed the husband, Alec King?”

“No, sir.”

“Why not?”

“We have not been able to trace him, but the moment we do —”

“Now that really will be in the public interest,” said Rollison, firmly. “Find the missing husband, and you might find the answers to most of the questions you’ve asked and a lot you haven’t asked. Goodnight.”