He was oblivious of everything else; of the man who had thrown the bomb, for instance. And what happened in Gresham Terrace on that long-to-be-remembered night was seen by different people in different little silhouettes; none saw everything, but the picture of all that had happened was formed when every segment was put together.
* * *
Jolly at one window, Pamela Brown and Tommy G. Loman from another, saw a foreshortened view. The sudden shouting had drawn them to the windows and Loman had been the first to fling one up, momentarily ignoring Pamela. Then she was beside him and they squeezed together, Tommy’s long arm about her. They peered out, hearing Rollison’s clear statement and his answers to the questions, seeing the crowd, sensing a mood of some hostility. Then the policeman had shouted:
“He’s throwing a bomb!”
They saw the curious way the crowd seemed to sway back for the Toff, they watched as if hypnotised as the Toff caught the missile and, without a thought of nerves, threw it towards the empty house.
“Oh,
Then Jolly cried: “Stop him, stop him!”
Tommy G. Loman looked away from the Toff and the bomb as the explosion flashed and roared, and saw a man pushing his way past two or three others, and saw, suddenly, a motor-cycle between two parked cars.
Pamela made herself look away from Rollison, who was flat on the ground, towards the man. Tommy was roaring: “Stop him, stop him!” and clutching her more tightly than she had ever been held in her life.
Two men broke from the crowd.
One was a policeman and the other was Ebbutt’s man on that side of the street. The escaping man was only a few yards from the motor-cycle. He leapt towards it, straddled the seat and kicked the starter, but before he could move the machine Ebbutt’s man was leaping at his back and the policeman pulling at his arm, until he was half on and half off the saddle. Motor-cycle and would-be rider collapsed against a car.
When all three men stood up the motor-cyclist was handcuffed to the policeman.
That was the moment when Tommy G. realised that his great hand was cupping Pamela’s breast, not clutching her waist. It was the moment, too, when Pamela placed her hand over his as if to keep it there. And it was the moment when Jolly said in a trembling voice:
“Thank God he’s all right. Thank God.”
He meant Rollison, of course, who was being helped to his feet.
Yellow light from the fire already burning fiercely in the empty house shone on his face, making strange brilliance and dark shadow.
* * *
The television cameraman who wheedled his way into getting permission to install himself on the porch of a house had bemoaned his luck until the shout: “He’s throwing a bomb!” The veering crowd, the movement of Richard Rollison from the running board of the T-model Ford, all came within his line of vision. He had special lights and highly sensitive film, and simply kept his finger on the ‘take’ button and the lens on Rollison.
He saw the explosion in vivid if miniature brilliance.
He saw Rollison moving like a Lilliputian, throwing himself down.
He heard the shouting: “Stop him!” and swivelled the camera and took pictures of the running men. They had disappeared from sight when he ran out of film, but he had so much that he could have danced for joy.
* * *
There were the viewpoints of the dozens of news-papermen; the still cameras and the 16 mm. held high above the photographer’s head.
And there was Bill Ebbutt’s view.
Ebbutt, a tall man, was nearer Rollison than any of the others, and nearer the explosion. He watched open- mouthed as Rollison caught the missile, even more openmouthed as it was thrown unerringly into the front room of the empty house. He was the first to reach Rollison, and to see that he was no more than winded and bruised. It was no time at all before the flames began to roar, no time at all before the police were calling at houses nearby with warnings that the fire might spread. Remarkably soon, fire-engine sirens sounded in the distance and more police arrived, to cordon off the danger area. Most of the newspapermen were on their way back to Fleet Street, unable to put their stories in soon enough. Not a man among them failed to start with glowing tributes to the Toff.
An hour after he had left his flat, Rollison went up-stairs with Jolly just behind him; he had wanted Ebbutt to come up but Ebbutt pleaded that he must go home and tell his wife about the events of the past hour.
Half-way down the top flight of stairs was Pamela, her eyes glowing, and just behind her, stood Tommy G. Loman.
“Richard!” Pamela exclaimed, and hurled herself at Rollison. “You’re not hurt, are you? Tell me you’re not hurt!”
“All I need is some trifle,” Rollison said lightly. “And I could do with a brandy as a chaser! No, I’m not hurt — barely a scratch here and there.”
“Richard,” said Tommy, quietly, “that was the bravest thing I have ever seen. And I’ve seen plenty. You expected an attack, didn’t you?”
“If you or I appeared on the scene, yes,” answered Rollison.
“Or Pamela,” murmured Tommy, putting his arm round Pamela’s waist. “And you went to draw the man’s fire.”
“Thank heavens they caught him!” exclaimed Pamela.
“With a little luck a kind-hearted policeman will soon tell us whether he’s talked,” Rollison remarked. “Now I’m going to tidy up, while Jolly produces his dessert.” He left them looking at him with expressions not far short of adulation, and went to his bedroom, then across to his bathroom. He swayed and held on to the hand-basin; the room seemed to be going round and round when Jolly came in, and without speaking, led him back to the
