old fashioned horn was close to Ebbutt’s hand, and it was said that he could get a dozen different notes out of this. Rollison got out and rounded the car and climbed on the running board. As soon as he was holding on to the door, Ebbutt punched and poked at the horn, making an unmistakable tune.
Rollison found himself singing to the second rendering:
“Come to the cookhouse door, boys; come to the cookhouse door.”
The men and women in the crowd swung round and a man shouted: “There’s Rollison!” Another called: “There’s the Toff!” Others called out, many ran and cameras flashed. Ebbutt slid out of the driver’s seat on his errand. Soon questions were being flung at Rollison.
“Were you at Rubicon House?”
“Did you know she was going to have a baby?”
“Had you ever seen her before?”
“Was it an attempt to kill you, Toff?”
“Have you seen her since the baby was born?”
“Bill!” called Rollison in a tone which could be heard by nearly everyone present, “give one long blast on your horn, will you?”
“Glad to,” Ebbutt said, and immediately the horn hooted a hoarse, low-pitched sound which cut across the questions, silencing everybody. Then it wailed into silence itself, and Rollison raised his voice:
“I’ve no time to answer questions but I’ll make a statement. Ready?” After a chorus of ‘we’re ready’ and ‘fire away’, he went on: “I went to Rubicon House to look for a character actor named Alec George King, who lives there. I did not know him or his wife, Effie. King wasn’t there and I believe he’s in acute danger — of losing his life. Every newspaper must have a picture of him somewhere in its files. I don’t give a damn what you say about me provided you make everyone realise I want to see this man — urgently.”
“What do the police say?” a man called out. “They can’t act on this, yet.”
“Do you think King started the fire?” a man demanded.
“Did
“No, to both,” Rollison said. “The man or woman who started the fire was medium size, and King is six feet seven. The man or woman rode a motor-cycle, and wore a stocking mask. I can’t tell you anything about the man who started the fire but I can tell you about Alec George King.” He paused for a moment and then called: “Is there anyone here from the
“Yes — I am!” a tall, fair-haired man showed clearly in the street lamplight.
“Is your name Stevens?”
“No — we’ve no one named Stevens on the paper.”
“Check at your office for me, will you?” asked
Rollison. “A man purporting to be from the
“Mr. Ar!” bellowed Ebbutt, fear overcoming the hoarseness of his voice, “look out!”
A policeman shouted: “He’s throwing a bomb!”
Rollison saw the crowd freeze, momentarily, except for two policemen and a man on the pavement, whose right hand was raised in the act of throwing. For an awful moment it seemed as if most of those present were mesmerised by fear, but suddenly there was a wave of movement from the car; the crowd seemed to billow and sway rather than turn and run.
In the half-light, Rollison could see the dark spheroid in the air, curving an arc towards him and the Model T. He dared not take his eyes off it; dared not look to see if the man had turned and run once he had hurled the bomb. Rollison felt sure it would be a hand grenade, which would explode on contact with car or road. He had never been nearer to death. He stepped down from the running board and cupped his hands, fully aware that if he caught the grenade it might blow up in his hands.
He caught it.
It did not go off instantly.
With great deliberation he drew back his arm and threw the grenade towards the empty house; and he had never been nearer praying. No one was close to the spot, but if it exploded outside it could do unspeakable harm.
It crashed through the window.
A split-second later, it exploded.
14
ROLLISON WAS AWARE only of one thing: the flash of the explosion and the strange shape of the star-like hole which appeared in the window. He threw himself down, covering his head with his arms, and heard the roar and felt the blast. He was lifted bodily, but only a few inches. He heard the thudding and cracking of glass, mortar, pieces of brick and wood which fell into the street; one fell, lightly, on the small of his back; another, sharper, hit the fingers of his right hand.
The sounds all merged into one; a kind of roaring.
He only knew that the bomb had not exploded among people, among the reporters, that it had caused as little damage as possible; that he was alive.
