Then a man said clearly:
“Stay there, Rollison.”
Rollison, out of sight, seemed to catch his breath.
Jolly, startled and alarmed, stepped forward. “Who are you?” he heard Rollison ask.
“Never mind who I am. What did you find at Mrs Abbott’s flat?”
Jolly began to creep very slowly down the stairs.
“Mrs Abbott—dead.”
“If you try to be funny you’ll be dead.”
“Put that gun away and stop talking like a fool.” Jolly, nearer now, detected a steely note in Rollison’s voice.
“Don’t call me a fool. All those screaming half-wits out there—they’re the fools. And they’re wrong, that damned fortune-teller has fooled them. However, that’s their funeral— but it will be yours too if you don’t tell me what you found at Mrs Abbott’s.”
Jolly held his breath as he peered down the well of the staircase.
He saw his master and a tall, dark-haired young man; and he saw the gun in the young man’s hand. If he touched the trigger, there wouldn’t be a chance for Rollison.
Quite calmly, Jolly called:
“Excuse me, sir.”
On the instant the young man looked up, and Rollison drove his fist into the unprotected stomach. As the gun clattered to the floor, Rollison stopped the other from falling, and glanced up with a smile which Jolly would treasure for a very long time.
“Are you all right, sir?”
“Yes. Come and look after this chap, will you? Give me ten minutes or so, and then bring him up to the flat.”
“Certainly, sir.” Jolly hurried down the stairs and picked up the gun, and Rollison turned to his assailant. “Go upstairs with Jolly, and let the police think you’ve just come to see me. Don’t try any tricks or I’ll throw the book at you.” Bounding past Jolly and the stranger, he ran up the remaining stairs towards his flat.
Clay and two other men were standing in the hall, and Rollison beamed at them as if he hadn’t a trouble in the world.
“Won’t keep you long,” he said, and strode through to the living-room. In a moment he was leaning out of the window. As his head appeared there was another roar of cheering.
At last the crowd fell silent.
At last Rollison was able to make himself heard.
“I promise you that justice will be done to Madam Melinska and to Mona Lister. I promise you—”
It was as if everyone in the street went mad, the waving, the cheering, were so furious. Even when he had spoken to them five times, another roar for him came as fast as he could shut the window; but gradually the crowd grew silent, and the police filtered in and took complete control.
“Now what can I do to help you?” Rollison asked Chief Inspector Clay.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Friend Into Foe
Rollison looked blankly into Clay’s eyes, silently echoing “arrest.” Clay was hostile and in a way defiant. Slowly, Rollison began to relax; suddenly, he realised how lucky it was that he had left the stolen papers in the station locker; that was a break in a thousand. He saw the puzzlement in the Yard man’s eyes as he grinned.
“Well, well,” he said. “It’s quite a time since the Yard made that mistake. All right, officer, I’ll come quietly—but I’d like a couple of hours’ grace.”
“You’ll come with me, now.”
Rollison’s eyes were still laughing.
“Why not ask Grice for my grace?”
“Mr Grice is not concerned in this case.”
“He will be,” Rollison said. “Believe me, he will be. You know, this is the most remarkable tribute to Madam Melinska. She said my friends would become my foes, or words to that effect, but that I would get help from unexpected sources. I wonder where it will come from next. Chief Inspector—”
“I’m not here to talk,” Clay growled.
“No,” Rollison said. “Nor to slow down your rate of promotion.”
“If you’re threatening me—” Clay’s eyes flashed.
“Don’t be a fool, man,” Rollison said lightly. “Of course I’m not threatening you. But if you arrest me and the Court dismisses the case in the morning, won’t it count against you?” When Clay didn’t answer, Rollison went on: “You know damn well it would take years to live down. Yes, I realise you wouldn’t have got a warrant unless you thought it was justified, but events can make a clever man look foolish. What’s the charge?”
“Illegal entry.”
“What?”
“I needn’t keep saying it—the charge is illegal entry.”
“At Mrs Abbott’s?”
“Where else have you forced entry?” demanded Clay, sharply.
Rollison thought: “He certainly isn’t a fool.” He said: “So you’ll hold me on that for twenty-four hours and hope you can prove I murdered Mrs Abbott. Tell me, do you really believe I murdered her?”
Clay drew a deep breath.
“Mr Richard Rollison, it is my duty to—”
Rollison rasped: “Do you think I murdered Mrs Abbott?”
“That’s nothing to do with the matter in hand.”
Rollison thought: I can’t shift him, he’s as stubborn as a mule. They were staring at each other, hostility mutual now, until Rollison said abruptly: “May I make one telephone call?”
“Provided I know whom you’re calling.”
“My solicitor,” Rollison said shortly.
“Well—”
Clay was interrupted by a commotion at the front door, as Jolly came inside, ushering the stranger who had threatened Rollison on the stairs. Two detectives turned to Clay, not knowing what to do, as Jolly said in vexed tones:
“I’m sorry, sir, but this is Jones, who applied for the post as valet. Shall I interview him sir?”
Rollison nodded. “Yes, will you do that, Jolly? I may be out for a while.”
“Very well, sir. This way, Jones—” Jolly led the way to his quarters, the stranger followed bemusedly, and Clay appeared to be completely unsuspicious.
Rollison picked up the telephone and dialled a Temple Bar number. He could think of only one man who might be able to help him in this situation, a member of a firm of London solicitors with a big practice in criminal law. There was always the risk that the man he wanted would be out, but he concealed his uncertainty when a girl answered.
“Kemp, Davidson, Kemp and Davis.”
“Mr Roger Kemp, please—this is Richard Rollison.”
“Who—who, sir?” The girl’s voice rose. “Mr Rollison, the—the Toff?”
“That’s what they call me.”
“I’ll put you through, Mr Rollison, but I would like to say how wonderful it was of you to help Madam Melinska this morning. She is a remarkable woman, and no more guilty than I am, if you’ll forgive me saying so, sir . . . Here’s Mr Roger . . . Oh, Mr Roger, it’s the To—it’s Mr Rollison: A man with a very deep voice said: “That’s the first time in ten years I’ve ever known Betty say a word out of place, Rolly. What influence did you exert?”
“Astrological,” Rollison answered. “What—oh!” Kemp chuckled. “She’s a star-gazer too, is she? I didn’t know until this morning how many women were fooled by that nonsense. Want some help with the Madam Melinska case? You obviously need it.”
“Roger,” Rollison said, “I’m likely to be at Cannon Row in an hour or less on a charge of illegal entry. I want a hearing tonight—within the hour if possible. I’ve a lot to do and I can’t do it with this charge hanging over my head . . . Did I force entry? My dear fellow—you know damn well I didn’t . . . Well, there was a strong smell of burning and someone had to get into that place pretty quickly . . . My dear chap, the magistrate will dismiss the charge in sixty seconds flat—” Rollison did not so much as glance at Clay, but he was aware of the detective’s fixed, tense stare. “All I need is a quick hearing . . . You will? Good man! If I’m not at Cannon Row, presumably I’ll be at the Yard . . . Well, until I’m actually charged I suppose it’s no use getting the magistrate . . . hold on a minute, have a word with Chief Inspector Clay.”