The Toff and The Sleepy Cowboy

That wasn’t really true about the blowing up at Rubicon House. The grenade had been tossed into the first- floor flat to destroy the evidence, but at the airport and in Gresham Terrace there had been only one obvious purpose: to kill him. Why? What did he know?

What damage could he do to these desperate men?

He began to feel restless; it was time he was up and doing, finding out what else had happened, if anything; whether the newspapers had really gone to town in their hunt for Alec George King, whether the prisoner had changed his mind, and talked. With the telepathic understanding or awareness which had developed over the years, Jolly appeared silently at the door.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning, Jolly.”

“I’ll bring tea and the newspapers immediately, sir.”

“Have they done us justice?” inquired Rollison.

“I think you will think so, sir.” Jolly withdrew and Rollison hitched himself up on the pillows. Rain spattered the windows like tears from a thousand weeping giants, and the slate roofs of houses opposite glistened beneath grey skies. It was much colder than yesterday, too. He draped a dressing-gown round his shoulders as Jolly came in with the tea tray and several newspapers under his arm. This was one of Rollison’s luxuries; tea and the newspapers, in bed.

“How is our guest?” he asked. “Fully satisfied with the newspapers, sir!”

“Good. And you?”

“Very well and hopeful, sir.”

“Better,” remarked Rollison as Jolly poured tea and he opened the first newspaper : the Globe.

There he was, staring up at himself! And there was King, also on the front page, remarkably like Loman but with some noticeable differences — Loman’s nostrils were wider, for instance. Beneath his photograph was the one word: Hero. Beneath King’s there was the simple question: Have you seen this man? The story of what had happened at Rubicon House and at Gresham Terrace was vividly related, and inside were action photogarphs of the fire. He put the Globe aside, sipped hot tea and opened the Echo. Here, the action photograph was on the front page: there he was, hands cupped as if to catch a cricket ball, elbows tucked in close to his body; and there was the hand grenade, like a black egg! Someone must have been at the window of a house opposite to get such a picture.

Ten minutes later he put down the last newspaper and took his final swallow of now luke-warm tea. He had to wait only for a few moments before Jolly came back.

“Has Grice been calling?” asked Rollison. “Yes, sir — he will be here at eleven o’clock.” Rollison shot a glance at a bedside clock, and relaxed.

“So I’ve an hour.”

“I came in as early as I did because I felt sure you would want to see him, sir. He had nothing to report. Three newspapers have been on the telephone to say they are inundated with reports from readers who say they’ve seen King, but of course there is no positive evidence yet. Mr. Grice did say that the man Hindle hasn’t been found.” Jolly allowed a decent pause, before asking: “Shall I run your bath?”

“Please. Has Mr. Loman had breakfast?”

“He elected to wait for you, sir,” Jolly said.

Something in his manner warned Rollison that all was not yet well; or at least, that Jolly was holding something back. He would not do this for long, and would not delay at all if the matter were grave or needed immediate thought or action. Rollison pushed back the bedclothes, did a few muscle and lung stretching exercises in front of the window open to the rain, had his bath and shaved and dressed, all in twenty-five minutes. It was half-past ten exactly when he went into the big room, breakfast bacon and eggs murmuring on the hot plate and the appetising smell of coffee wafting from the dining alcove.

Loman was putting down the receiver of the telephone.

“Good morning,” Rollison greeted.

“Hi,” responded Loman, in a tone so flat that here, obviously, was the source of trouble. “Jolly says you had a good night.”

“Oh, I did,” Rollison said. “Come and have breakfast. You must be hungry.”

“My stomach’s flapping,” agreed Loman, and they went to the table together.

Rollison fought back an impulse to ask what the trouble was, the bacon was crisp and the eggs as he liked them, each on a piece of fried bread : it was fascinating to watch how quickly Tommy demolished a huge plate of bacon and eggs. They were nearly through this main course before he said:

“Richard, you are more right than you know.”

“Possibly,” Rollison said. “I was once before, I’m told. What have I been prescient about now?”

“You shouldn’t have let me take Pamela home last night.”

Suddenly very still, Rollison asked: “Why not?”

Tommy told him the whole story, not once avoiding his gaze, and he finished by saying that he had just talked to Pamela’s father, and learned that Pamela was awake, and apart from having a stiff neck and a lump on the back of her head, was unharmed.

“Someone tried to choke the life out of her,” Tommy said bleakly. “He fixed me so that I didn’t even know what was happening. If you hadn’t made sure that the police and those friends of yours had followed, she would be dead. And I guess I would, too — he would have killed me after killing Pam.”