The Toff and The Sleepy Cowboy

13

“Never So Frightened”

VERY SLOWLY, Tommy’s expression changed.

He had been listening for a long time, of course; anything else would be beyond the average man’s endurance. Certainly he had heard enough to make him put his heart into his voice, and the way he looked at Rollison seemed to ask: “And what are you going to do about it?” Only slowly had he realised how attractive the girl was, and as that grew on him his mouth dropped open and his eyes became huge.

“Good evening,” Pamela said in a small voice. “I am Pamela Brown.”

Tommy gulped; and only when he gulped did his Adam’s apple reveal its prominence. He gulped twice.

“Jumping cats,” he said, breathlessly. “You’re the one who wrote to me?”

“Yes.”

“You signed that letter P. Brown.”

“I am P. Brown.”

“Great galloping gophers,” breathed Tommy. “Why, you’re beautiful.”

She did not simper, play coy, or otherwise use the coquettish kind of feminine wile, but said simply: “Thank you.”

“You most surely are.”

“Thank you.”

“And still frightened?” inquired Rollison mildly. “Yes,” she answered quietly.

“Miss Pamela,” said Tommy in a weak voice. “You sure made me forget how scared I was.”

For the first time since his appearance, a hint of merriment showed in Pamela’s eyes, and she replied :

“You almost did the same for me.”

“I did?” Tommy looked delighted.

“Yes,” she went on, demurely. “Every moment I expect you to bang your head against the ceiling.”

“My head,” he echoed, and glanced up. “No, ma’am, that ceiling’s all of eight feet. I couldn’t bang my head against it even if I jumped. Pink-eared jack-rabbits, I didn’t think young women like you grew in England.”

“England is a remarkable place,” replied Pamela.

“Yes, ma’am. And it sure is green.” Tommy looked round and found a chair, lowered himself into it and for comfort’s sake had to stretch his legs straight out. Now they were all at equal eye-level, and the strain of craning necks had gone. “Miss Brown,” he went on, “that was a mighty strange story you just told.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Pamela agreed. “But true.”

“I’ll strike the first man who calls you a liar, ma’am.”

“Not many people do,” said Pamela, and she finished her ginger ale.

As Rollison got up to refill her glass and pour a drink for Tommy, he noticed two things. Tommy was staring at Pamela Brown as if he could not tear his gaze away from her, and Jolly appeared in the doorway. This was Jolly’s way of announcing that dinner would be ready in ten minutes; if Rollison wanted it delayed he must now say so or for this occasion hold his peace. Rollison nod-ded, Jolly disappeared, Rollison joined the others with the drinks.

“Scotch on the rocks,” he said to Tommy.

“That’s just right,” Tommy said appreciatively. He raised his glass to them both, sipped, and had hardly swallowed before he went on: “Richard, I’m not so sure you’re right about my life being in danger. Yours is, I guess, and Miss Pamela’s, because you know too much.”

“And now you know too much,” Rollison pointed out.

“Do these other folk know that?”

“They know you’re here,” Rollison said. “They know all that matters.” He stood with his back to the fireplace and looked at them both, and told them what he had found and what had happened at Rubicon House, but he did not use the name Rubicon, just said ‘a house in Chelsea’. They sat, spellbound, until he had finished by telling them what the man from the Globe had said. It seemed a long time before Tommy G. remarked quietly :

“So they’ve been training a guy to impersonate me.”

“Yes.” Rollison was brisk.

“And now he’s missing.”

“Yes. But no one’s yet tried very hard to find him,” Rollison replied. “The odds are that he will stay in hiding until he thinks he sees an opportunity to take your place, or because he’s afraid that now the truth is suspected, the people who hired him might decide they ought to stop. Once caught by the police, he would be pretty strong evidence of the impersonation story, and would probably talk easily. Until he’s caught, there can’t be any proof.” When neither of the others responded to this, Rollison went on slowly: “At the moment there is only one person who could be made to talk.”

“The motor-cyclist!” exclaimed Pamela.

“We don’t know where he is and can’t talk to him,” Rollison pointed out. “No: King’s wife, Effie. And I suspect that the attempt to throw suspicion on me at her house was to make sure I couldn’t go after the motor-cyclist. The arrival of her baby means that neither I nor the police can push her too hard, although from what I saw of her size, the birth wasn’t very premature, and she’s getting all the sympathy she can. Trying to get in to see her would