“Officer.”
The man who had pushed past him paused. “Yes?”
“A woman has been killed in this house.”
“Indeed, sir. Is that why you were about to call us?”
“Yes.”
“What are you doing here?” The second man spoke, the taller and more massive of the two; he reminded Rollison of Bill Ebbutt fifteen years or so ago.
“I came to talk to the woman—to Mrs Abbott.”
“I see, sir.”
The first man was walking down the passage. The acrid fumes of smoke were still strong, and Rollison saw him pause and rub his eyes. He turned.
“It looks as if someone decided to burn the place down.”
“What’s that?” Another man appeared on the stairs, youthful-looking and very eager, obviously not a policeman. “Arson, do you mean?” His eyes gleamed with excitement. “I’m from the Chronicle. Is it arson?”
“Who knows?” asked the policeman nearest Rollison. “Don’t waste any time here, Tommy. Mrs Abbott’s dead, and there was a fire.”
The boy’s eyes seemed to grow enormous.
“Was she murdered?” He looked at Rollison.
“Do you know? Are you—good Lord! It’s the Toff!”
“That’s what they call him,” the detective said drily.
“Did he find the body?”
“Yes,” Rollison answered quickly.
“And we found him,” said the detective.
There was deep hostility in his manner, which was hard for Rollison to understand. It was almost as if the man intended to make the newspaper-man suspect him.
“There’ll be a statement later,” the detective went on. “That’s enough for now.”
“But—Mr Rollison! Haven’t you a statement to make?”
Rollison clutched at the remnants of his composure, and said firmly:
“Yes, I came here and found her dead.”
“So you didn’t—” The youth checked himself from finishing “you didn’t do it.” At any other time Rollison would have laughed, but now, still barely recovered from the initial shock of discovering the dead woman, and from his astonishment at the police attitude, he could see nothing funny in the situation in which he found himself. The newspaper-man gave him one last lingering almost incredulous look, and then turned and hurried down the stairs as a police photographer hurried up them. Rollison had the strong impression that the police had been prepared to carry out a murder investigation. He lit a cigarette as he turned back into the flat.
“Where are you going?” demanded the policeman with him.
“Into the sitting-room.”
“I’d like you to stay here.”
“Why don’t you come with me?” asked Rollison. He turned away, expecting a hand to drop heavily on to his shoulder, but the man didn’t stop him. The photographer was on the bedroom threshold, where the man who had first spoken to Rollison was saying:
“. . . could have been started to burn the body and disguise the way the woman was killed.”
“Who put the fire out?” asked the photographer.
“Good question,” Rollison said. He turned to the detective. “Are you in charge?”
“Yes, I’m Detective Inspector Godley.”
“Godley?”
“That’s right.”
The obnoxious solicitor at the West London Police Court had been named Godley, also.
“Well, well,” Rollison said. “Inspector, it’s time I went home.”
“I’ll tell you when you’re free to go, sir.”
Rollison said quietly, “I am free to go now.”
“No sir, you’re not.”
“If you want to prefer a charge I want a lawyer. At once. If you’re not going to prefer a charge, I intend to leave. At once.”
The man had very steady, rather opaque brown eyes. He had a strong face and a powerful physique, and something about the set of his lips told Rollison he was extremely stubborn. Inside the bedroom, the camera was clicking and men were moving about. A car drew up in the street below.
Rollison said: “I’ll be at home when you want me.” He tapped the ash from his cigarette, and walked back along the passage. Again he expected to be stopped, but was not. The man should at least have asked him to make a statement.
He reached the door.
“Mr Rollison?” the man called.
“Yes.”
“I would like a statement from you about what happened here.”
“I don’t know what happened before I came,” Rollison said. “I arrived at about four-thirty. I smelled burning, so I broke in. I found a fire in the bedroom, and put it out. As soon as the smoke cleared I saw the woman on the bed. She appeared to have been strangled. I was about to leave and telephone you—”
The man interrupted: “Why not telephone from here?”
“Because there’s no telephone.”
“Oh.” That was the first time the man looked disconcerted, but he quickly recovered. “We shall want your statement in writing, duly signed.”
“Whenever you like.”
“As it’s a short one, why not now, sir?”
Rollison thought: “Yes, why not now? It won’t take ten minutes.” He went to the sitting-room, and Godley followed, put a pen and notebook on a table, and left him; but there was another man in the room, watching. Damn it, they couldn’t seriously believe that he had murdered Mrs Abbott!
He finished and signed the statement, and took it to Godley, who was back in the bedroom doorway. Godley nodded curtly, and said: “Thank you.” Rollison went down the stairs as a short, plump man came up them, a Dr Sampson, whom he knew as a police-surgeon. Sampson nodded; and passed. Rollison stepped into the street. Outside the house were three police cars, the doctor’s car, an ambulance and a crowd of fifty or sixty people. Someone took a photograph— probably a Press photographer. A child asked in a piping voice:
“Did he do it Mummy?”
“Hush!”
Rollison forced a smile. “No, I didn’t do it, sonny.”
No one spoke to him as he turned toward Fulham Road, where he had left the Bentley. He turned the corner, saw the car, and noticed someone sitting in the front passenger seat.
It was a woman.
He opened the door, and Olivia Cordman smiled up at him.
“Didn’t they arrest you, Rolly?” she asked.
CHAPTER NINE
Warning
Rollison went around to the other side of the Bentley, got in, started the engine, and eased off the brake. The car began to move forward. He waited for several cars to pass, then pulled out.
“Can I drop you somewhere?” he asked politely.
“Anywhere near Fleet Street,” Olivia said. “Don’t look so grim, Rolly. They didn’t arrest you, did they?”
“They could yet!”
“The great Toff? Don’t be silly.”
“What brought you here?” asked Rollison, sharply.
“I came to see Mrs Abbott. I thought if I spoke to her alone, I might discover something that might help Madam Melinska. When I arrived I saw the crowds and someone told me Mrs Abbott was dead. Then I saw your car—it was unlocked, so I got in—and here I am.” Olivia settled more comfortably in her seat.
Rollison smiled. He was only just beginning to thaw out from the chill ice of Godley’s manner, and still hadn’t quite decided what to do.
“Need a friend?” asked Olivia.
“Now as always.”
“Try me. I can be a good one.”
“Certainly not,” Rollison said. “I’m sure you’d see me get a life sentence if you thought it would put The Day’s circulation up.”