“Now YOU CAN SEE for yourself,” Grice said.
He stood by Rollison’s side in a small room on the same floor of the Yard as his office, in front of a map of London which was pasted on panels and hung on one wall. A door behind them was open and the clatter of typewriters and the chatter of men’s voices came through clearly. A man on one side held a box of colour-headed pins in one hand; as each new report of King having been sighted came in, he stuck in another pin.
By far the largest concentration was in the Battersea and Clapham area, and easily the thickest grouping of brown-headed pins was at a spot on Clapham Common. The common was shown in green, and all the streets nearby in black and white; and individual houses were shown as tiny rectangles or squares. At least fifty pins were clustered near that spot. Some distance away, nearer the heart of London, were other groupings, one near Rubicon House, Chelsea, and one at the converted theatre where the television series was made.
“We don’t stick a pin in unless the report seems convincing,” said Grice. “For every one you see here the newspapers must have had twenty other reports. There can’t be any doubt, Rolly; King is at the Browns’ house where he’s often been before. No wonder Loman was warned off!”
“No wonder,” echoed Rollison. “Any word of Hindle?”
Grice said softly: “Some reports, yes.” He pointed to some ordinary steel pins without coloured heads, which were also clustered near the Browns’ house. “Reports that a man answering Hindle’s description have come fairly frequently. Seven reports — as you see there are seven pins — seem reliable. If they are, Hindle and his wife went to the Browns’ home about an hour and a half after the fire at Rubicon House yesterday afternoon.”
“Well, well,” Rollison said, heavily.
“So,” said Grice, “we shall move in.”
Rollison looked at him broodingly.
“Must you?” he asked.
“What a thing to ask! Of course we must. Hindle must be questioned about employing the motor-cyclist, and King —” Grice broke off. “It’s true there’s no evidence except yours that King is involved, and yours is circumstantial, but he has to be questioned.”
“Yes,” said Rollison, and then with a great effort: “Indubitably.”
Grice gave him a long, sour look.
“What’s on your mind?” he demanded.
“Hand grenades,” Rollison replied.
Grice made no comment.
“Presumably you have the house cordoned off,” Rollison went on. “Presumably at a given signal your men will move in. How many? Ten? Twenty? Thirty?”
“At least thirty,” Grice said, uneasily.
“How many casualties do you think you’ll have?”
“We shall take every possible precaution,” Grice growled.
“Soothing for the widows,” observed Rollison.
“Rolly, we have reason to believe two wanted men who may be responsible for these murderous attacks are in the house, and that the Browns are giving them shelter. We simply have to go in.”
Rollison looked at him levelly, and after a while said very quietly:
“It will be a mistake, Bill.”
“You simply don’t understand!” Grice insisted, and now his voice was very rough. “If there are more grenades and fire bombs in that house, if the Browns are the distributors, we have no time to spare.”
“You could ask for military help,” Rollison pointed out.
“And perhaps create a crisis situation.”
“Yes,” Rollison said. “Yes. Bill.”
“No,” Grice growled.
“Bill,” Rollison repeated, “you don’t really have a choice. If some scatterbrained private individual is prepared to visit the Browns’ house and look round, you have to let him. No policeman could be sent on his own — you know that perfectly well. One policeman is too many. But they would let me in.”
“There is no evidence at all that they would let you out.”
“No,” agreed Rollison. “However — I think I have one rod ready for them which might pickle nicely.”
“Rolly,” Grice said with absolute decisiveness. “I will not let you go.”
“Bill,” Rollison replied, very quietly, “you know perfectly well you can’t stop me. I can go where I like as a private individual. You have no grounds at all for detaining me. Have you?”
Grice did not reply.
“You know you haven’t,” Rollison went on as quietly as before. “But I don’t want Jolly to know where I’ve gone — nor Tommy Loman, who will tell Jolly and will also want to come with me.”
“I’d rather he went than you,” Grice growled. “But he could not hope to do any good.”
“Rolly, if these are the people who have been throwing bombs at you, you are walking right into their arms.”
