“Guv’nor, will you make up your mind? Are you a fare or aren’t you— Do you want to go to Clapham Common or don’t you?”
Roger took out a handful of silver, thrust it into the cabby’s hand, and said :
“Give me some change. Make it look as if I’m paying you off”.” He waited only for the man’s startled expression to change to one of understanding before going on : “Drive along the street and wait where you can follow the Daimler when it moves off. When you’ve finished that, telephone a report to my Chelsea house — Chelsea 0123. Keep the chase up all night if necessary.”
“Okay!” The cabby delved and found a penny. “There’s your change, Guv’nor!”
“I’m relying on you,” Roger said. “What’s your name?”
“Dixon.”
“All right, Dixon. I’ll make the job worth your while.”
The Daimler had drawn up and chauffeur Bott was standing, stiff as a ramrod, by the door. A man stepped out, tall, elegant, impressive-looking. He turned to assist Mrs Sylvester Cartier from the car, and the two of them, a fine pair, stood together eyeing the crowd which had gathered, the policemen and the evidence of a fire.
“Now what has happened ?” demanded the man. His voice low-pitched but audible to Roger. “Has one of your sorrowing gentlemen lost his head.”
“Probably,” said Mrs Cartier, distantly.
She looked at Roger. There was no sign of recognition on her face but she beckoned him — it was an imperious gesture. He moved towards her, as if reluctantly. Her eyes held an expression to which he could not put a name, yet he read warning in it — the fact that she did and said nothing to suggest that she knew him might have accounted for that. She had been instrumental in bringing him here — obviously that had been the real purpose of her visit to Bell Street, and he was prepared to play her game for the time being.
“Can I help you ?” he asked.
“Can you tell me what is happening here?” she asked.
“There’s been a fire.”
“Where?”
“On the top floor,” Roger said. “No great harm was done, they soon got it under control. I think there was some other trouble,” he went on. “A man was shot.”
“Shot!” ejaculated the elegant man. “Great heavens! Seriously ?”
“He isn’t dead yet,” Roger said drily.
“You see, Antoinette !” The man turned to Mrs Cartier, his large, expressive eyes filled with concern. “This is what happens when you indulge in such whims. A shooting affray!” He turned on Roger. “Are the police up there?”
“Yes,” said Roger.
“My dear,” said the elegant man, sadly, “I have always told you that if you allowed your social conscience to rule your head you would one day regret it.”
The woman smiled at him. “You are always so helpful, darling !” Her words and her smile held barbs. “We must go upstairs and find out what has happened. Thank you !” She smiled at Roger and then swept towards the door.
“Strewth !” exclaimed the cabby, appearing from nowhere. “Did you see ‘er ?”
Roger turned abruptly. Bott stood rigidly by the closed door of the Daimler, looking past Roger.
The behaviour of Mrs Cartier did nothing to help. If the cabby did a good job, however, Roger would soon know where Mrs Cartier lived and what calls she made that day. He would not have been surprised had she decided to hurry away from the scene when she had learned what had hap-pened but, apparently, as President of the Society she was determined to see it through. If he believed all the inferences possible from the brief conversation between her and the man — was he her husband ? he wondered — the Society was a hobby which she took seriously and of which he disapproved.
He wished that he could place the man.
He strolled towards the end of the street and smoked two cigarettes before the woman reappeared, followed by her escort.
Mrs Cartier stood outside the house and looked in either direction. Roger crossed the end of the street, seeing her out of the corner of his eye. She turned on her heel and began to walk towards him. Her escort took a few steps in her direction but she looked over her shoulder and said some-thing which made him stop, at the side of a ladder reared against the wall. The woman had passed under it, the man stepped to one side. Then she swept along the street, tall, graceful.
Roger walked back across the road, and they reached the corner together. She stared straight ahead but as she passed she whispered :
“I must see you tonight, at 11 Bonnock House .”
She went past. A man nearby must have heard her speak, but Roger doubted whether he had heard everything. He continued walking. Mrs Cartier raised a hand to a taxi, climbed in and was driven off. Roger did not hear what address she gave. The cabby would follow the Daimler, though, and would surely report. The elegant man had entered the Daimler which was already moving in the opposite direction. Roger saw the taxi come out of a side-street and follow it.
He hoped that Abbott would have Pickerell’s home visited but decided that there was no point in going there himself. As things dropped into perspective he realised that his first job was. to find Lois Randall. He toyed with the idea of telephoning Mark, but decided that it might lose precious time. He looked at his note of the girl’s address — 29 Chapel Street, St. John’s Wood — and found a taxi.
Twenty minutes later he entered the Chapel Street house.
A board in the gloomy hall told him that the place, a large one standing in its own grounds and with an untidy garden and drive, was divided into furnished flatlets — two, said a notice, were vacant. Cards pinned against other numbers told him the names of the occupants and he found ‘Miss Lois Randall’ opposite Number 9. Another sign told him that was on the third floor.
He walked up the stone steps, his heels ringing and making the quiet of the rest of the house seem ominous. He heard no other sound until he reached the door of Number 9. There were two flats on that floor, opposite each other. He heard movements inside, flurrying footsteps, voices. One was a man’s, youthful and persistent — it sounded more frequently than the girl’s, but hers was unmistakable.
Roger rang the bell.
The man stopped talking as the bell rang. There was a brief, startled silence before the girl said :
“Don’t open it! Don’t open it!”
“Lois, you can’t —”
“I tell you not to open it!” she said urgently. “It might be —” she broke off.
In a low-pitched voice, the man said :
“Lois, if you won’t tell me what’s frightening you, how can I help?”
“You can’t,” she said. “Oh, Bill, please.”
Roger raised his voice.
“Don’t let her go out the back way. It might be dangerous for her.” The words sounded melodramatic but that didn’t matter. There was another short silence and then ‘Bill’s’ decisive voice.
“I’m going to see who it is.”
“Bill! If you do I’ll never —”
She did not finish, for ‘Bill’s’ footsteps sounded in the room and the door opened. A young man stood squarely in front of Roger. He was well-built with untidy hair and clear blue eyes. He wore a tweed coat which had seen better days, baggy flannels and an open-necked shirt; he looked as if he had just stepped out of a bath.
“Well?” he demanded. “What’s all this about?”
“It’s not him !” The girl cried.
“Do you mind if I come in?” Roger pushed past ‘Bill’, who seemed so startled by the girl’s reaction and the obvious relief in her voice that he made no protest. Roger closed the door and stood regarding the girl.
“Who are you?” demanded ‘Bill’ gruffly.
“He’s a policeman !” Lois exclaimed. “He came to the office to make inquiries. Bill, send him away! I won’t say anything.”