Anger still rasped in the man’s voice but it was a righteous anger. There was no doubt, thought Rollison, that Michael Fraser believed what he was saying.
“All right, I’m duly warned,” he said drily.
“Now tell me how you know all this, and what proof you have against her.”
“There’s your proof!” Fraser declared, and he pointed a quivering finger at the brief-case.
“He didn’t know,” the other man said in a strangled voice. “He was bluffing. And that’s the only real evidence we have. He’ll suppress it, destroy it; have you forgotten that he’s defending the woman?”
Making a tremendous effort, he sprang to his feet and launched himself at Rollison, roaring as he sprang:
“Hit him!”
He was roaring at Jane—and Jane snatched up the telephone to use it as a weapon. Rollison knocked it out of her hand, then, instead of dodging or ducking, met the other broadside on. His left shoulder thudded against his assailant’s chest. The man groaned and collapsed across a chair. Rollison spun round to meet an attack from Fraser, but Fraser was still sitting on the floor, looking up at Rollison with a strange expression in his eyes.
“Do something!” screamed Jane.
Fraser ignored her.
The man lying across the chair was groaning.
“Ted, he’s hurt you. Ted? She leaned over the stricken man, “Ted, don’t. You’ll be all right. Ted?” There was despair in her voice.
Still watching Fraser, Rollison said: “He’s winded, that’s all. Straighten him up.”
“Rollison,” said Fraser, “what would you do if you were convinced that Madam Melinska was a charlatan—no, by God, more than a charlatan—a criminal?”
“Make sure she couldn’t fool anybody else,” answered Rollison.
“If the charge against her is proved she’ll go to prison, won’t she?”
“She will indeed.”
“What about—what about the girl?”
“That depends on how deeply she’s involved.”
“She isn’t involved,” Fraser said. “She’s an innocent tool in the hands of that infernal woman. Mona’s a natural clairvoyante; sometimes she really can see into the future, and the Melinska woman uses her to win her victim’s confidence before she steps in and wrings every penny out of them. If I can convince you of this, will you help Mona? And give up Madam Melinska’s defence?”
Rollison nodded.
“Michael, don’t trust him,” Jane called out.
“I don’t see what else we can do,” said Fraser. “If Mrs Abbott’s dead then we really are in trouble and we’ll need someone to get us out of it. Rollison, Madam Melinska is a confidence trickster on a big scale. She takes nothing for her readings, but by conning her clients into giving her large sums of money which she tells them she’ll invest on their behalf, she makes a fortune. She daren’t admit she has any money now because this would give the game away—so she’s relying on credulous fools—I mean good-hearted people—to put up whatever she needs for her defence. It’s all there.” He waved a hand towards the brief-case. “Mrs Abbott has it all down in black and white.”
Rollison frowned. “Why did you steal this “evidence” from Mrs Abbott? And how did you know Mrs Abbott had it?”
“I knew because she told me about it. Oh yes, I used to know the Abbotts quite well, and when Mrs Abbott came to London she looked me up. I lived in Bulawayo for some years, I—I was engaged to the Abbotts’ niece, Mona Lister. But then Mona left home and got herself involved with this Melinska woman, and somehow things started going wrong between us. Another reason I’d like to get my own back.” Fraser added wryly. “Mrs Abbott was so upset, both about Mona and her husband—” He paused. “You know about Abbott’s suicide?”
Rollison nodded. “Yes, I heard about it. Carry on.”
Fraser frowned. “Where did I get to? Oh yes, Mrs Abbott was so upset that she decided to collect sufficient evidence to prove that Madam Melinska was a fraud. And she collected it. But I was afraid of what she might say about Mona—when Mona left home and went to live with Madam Melinska Mrs Abbott turned completely against her, she seemed to hate the girl as much as Madam Melinska—and I was worried in case she implicated her in Madam Melinska’s swindles.”
“So you persuaded Ted to steal the evidence,” Rollison finished for him.
“Yes, I stole it, but I didn’t kill the woman,” insisted the man in the chair. He was looking better now. “I tell you the flat was empty.”
Rollison said: “You may have a lot of trouble proving that. Did you see anyone else near the flat?”
“No one I recognised.”
“Lucifer Stride, for instance?” Rollison suggested.
He expected the name to cause something of a sensation, but the two men took it without blinking.
“Oh, Lucy,” Ted said derisively. “He wasn’t there.”
“How well do you know him?” asked Rollison.
“He’s my brother—half-brother actually,” said Michael Fraser impatiently. “I gave him a job in the office here for a few months, but it didn’t work out. He certainly wouldn’t have anything to do with killing Mrs Abbott. He might ask for a little—more than a little— financial support but—oh, I’m sorry if I sound cold-blooded,” Fraser interrupted himself, “but my brother and I don’t have much in common. All the same, he wouldn’t hurt a fly, and as for murder—well, you can certainly rule him out. Rollison—will you help us expose Madam Melinska?”
“Yes—if she’s guilty,” said Rollison.
“We can’t afford to pay—”
“If Madam Melinska has fooled me I won’t deserve any payment,” said Rollison. He was aware of a growing uneasiness, a fear that these men might be right about the woman whom his Aunt Gloria trusted so implicitly.
He was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. Fraser hesitated, glanced at his watch in surprise, then picked up the receiver. A moment later, in even greater surprise, he said: “It’s for you, Rollison.”
As far as Rollison was aware the only person who knew that he might be here was Olivia Cordman.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Welcome Home
It was not the Features Editor of The Day, it was Jolly. The first syllable of his man’s voice warned Rollison that all was not well, and he steeled himself to receive bad news.
“Miss Cordman advised me where you might be, sir. I’m sorry to bother you, but I think you would be well-advised to come home immediately.”
“Why?” asked Rollison.
“The—ah—police are in possession,” Jolly told him.
“What?”
“They are in truth, sir. I tried to communicate with Mr Grice, but he is said to be out of town.”
“What are they doing?” inquired Rollison.
“Searching most extensively, sir. However, I am less concerned with the attitude of the police than with another situation which I think you should see for yourself.” Hurriedly, he went on: “Would you care to speak to Chief Inspector Clay, who is in charge here, sir?”
“Just tell him I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Rollison said.
He rang off on Jolly’s “Very good, sir.”
He was quite sure that Jolly would have told him more but for Clay’s presence. Rollison knew the man slightly—a shrewd and patient detective, but with little imagination and an unyielding faith in the rule book—exactly the type of man whom Grice would second to an investigation into his, Rollison’s, activities.