The Toff and The Sleepy Cowboy

On that crisply uttered word, he rang off.

12

Pamela Brown

ROLLISON TURNED FROM the telephone to find both of his visitors watching him, Jack Fisher frowning, Tommy Loman with characteristic calmness; he seemed always to be looking not only at but beyond the Toff, like a man used to peering into long distances.

“Was a newspaper trying to blackmail you?” demanded Fisher.

“More like whitemail,” answered Rollison lightly. “Even the police are not above trying it at times. Forget that, please. How about another drink?”

“No, really, I must go,” said Fisher, as if regretfully. “I have an appointment at half-past six.” He gave a smile which brightened his blue eyes. “A date, you know.”

“You want to be careful,” remarked Loman. “You don’t want to give anyone an excuse for whitemailing you. Does he, Richard?”

Fisher frowned, until suddenly he saw the point and gave a hearty laugh, while Rollison chuckled and Loman regarded him with almost benign approval. Fisher left, effusive in his thanks, and Rollison sent him on his way with a quiet:

“How could I do less for a man who was such a help?”

Fisher, apparently covered in embarrassment, hurried down the stairs. Rollison turned back into the big room, to find Tommy Loman regarding him with his eyes smiling but his face set and even stern. Rollison was strangely aware of the contrast; it was seldom that he had to look upwards at a man, or be looked down upon. They stood for a few moments and to Rollison this seemed the first quiet spell he had known all day.

At last, Loman sank into a large armchair, diagonally across a corner, and Rollison sat in a rather smaller chair, opposite.

“Is that right — he did you a service?” asked Loman thoughtfully.

“Yes.”

“He’s a funny little guy.”

“How funny?” asked Rollison.

“Cute.” Then Loman went on: “Kind of nervous. Didn’t you think he was nervous?”

“I make some people nervous,” Rollison remarked.

“Not that kind of nervous,” replied Loman. “He was surprised to see me here when he arrived, I seemed to make him kind of jumpy.” That slow, attractive smile dawned and stayed.

“Have you ever looked up at a giraffe without expecting to?” asked Rollison lightly. “Tommy, I’ve a guest coming for dinner and I’d like to talk to her alone for half an hour or so before we eat. Would you mind —?”

“I can take a bath,” Loman interrupted, instantly placing his hands on the arms of his chair. “You don’t have to eat with me, Richard. I can go into the kitchen with Mr. Jolly, he —”

“I only need half-an-hour tete-a-tete,” Rollison said firmly. “I —” There was a ring at the front door, and he broke off to say: “This may be her.”

Loman was on his feet in a trice, uncoiling like a giant spring. He went to the spare room along one passage while Jolly went to the front door along the other. Rollison could see the lounge-hall from here but before he saw the visitor he knew it was Pamela Brown, because she said in an eager voice:

“Mr. Rollison is expecting me.”

“Miss Brown?” asked Jolly, standing aside. “That’s right — Pamela Brown.”

“Mr. Rollison is certainly expecting you,” Jolly said, and turned as Pamela entered.

My! thought Rollison.

She looked ravishing in a dark green dress with a deep V neckline, her hair piled high, her eyes bright, ear- rings dangling and a brooch glittering at her bosom. The dress rustled faintly as she walked. It fell just above her knees, and for the first time Rollison saw that she had beautiful legs; he already knew that she moved with youthful grace. He was out of his chair and on his feet when she came in with one arm held out; he extended both hands and took hers.

“Ravishing!” he uttered the word that had first come to mind.

“Oh, thank you!” She had nice, cool hands, and she looked into his eyes, not about the room. “It’s lovely to be here.”

He held on to her hands a moment longer than was necessary, then drew her into the room. She looked about her, at and beyond the Trophy Wall, at the paintings on one other wall, at a group of four etchings of old London, and at the pieces of antique furniture ranging from Elizabethan through Georgian and Regency to Victorian all of which fitted perfectly in their places and merged together.

“What will you have to drink?” he asked.

“May I have something soft — ginger ale or bitter lemon?”

“Of course,” he said.

“You see,” she exclaimed with the familiar naivete. “I don’t drink alcohol.”

“Not at all?” He was surprised.

“Never.” She gave the word a slight emphasis and her eyes danced. “What a lovely flat you have. And — may I have a closer look at those macabre things on the wall?” She took her