Inside, was a thick file of papers.
On the outside, it was marked: Madam Melinska. Dossier and Proof.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Dossier And Proof”
Rollison read until the light began to fade and he could read no more. Twelve men and women were listed in the dossier; each had been a client of Madam Melinska, each had been persuaded to give her a substantial sum for investment on their behalf. In every instance this money had disappeared.
No cases had been brought, some of the victims not wishing it to be known they had consulted a fortune-teller, others not wishing it to be known that they had lost money, or been made fools of.
Rollison sat back and reflected. It was chilly; once or twice he shivered.
After a few moments he left the car, carrying the brief-case with him, and walked to a telephone kiosk on the other side of the Embankment. The white hulls of old sailing ships which had carried countless heroes on countless adventures, gleamed in the dusk. Opposite, silent, ghost-like, was the Temple. Across the river the Festival Hall was bright with welcome lights, and the new Shell House was like a diamond corsage draped on the sky.
He dialled Olivia Cordman’s number. Brr-brrr; brrr-brrr: the ringing went on and on for what seemed a very long time. A shadowy figure approached, looking sinister, misshapen, in the half-light; a man waited close by, jingling coins. Brrr-brrr; brrr-brrr; brrr-brrr—Better give up, thought Rollison. Pity.
“Who the devil’s that?” demanded Olivia in obvious exasperation. “I can’t even take a bath without—”
“—a hungry man asking to be fed.”
There was a pause. Then: “Who is that?”
“My aunt calls me Richard.”
“Who—oh, Rolly: Pleasure took the place of exasperation. “Are you serious? Are you hungry?”
“Famished. I thought—” added Rollison diffidently— “that you might like to cook me supper.”
“I’d love to, but it will have to be bacon and eggs. That’s all I’ve got.”
“Just the supper we can talk over,” said Rollison approvingly.
Olivia laughed. “Was there ever a time when you didn’t want information? But honestly, I’ll love to see you. When will you be here?”
“Is twenty minutes all right?”
“Make it half an hour,” pleaded Olivia.
“Half an hour it will be.”
“That’s lovely!” She rang off, giving Rollison the impression of simple delight; and he remembered Jolly’s warning. Smiling, he went out of the kiosk and into the road—and a car, parked without lights, started up with a venomous roar. Suddenly the headlights were switched full on, blinding him. For a split second he could not decide whether to leap forward or back, the glare was mesmerising, terror pounded in his heart. Then he flung himself forward. The brief-case went flying, the roar of the engine was deafening, and Rollison felt a sensation almost of numbness as he fell full length on the hard concrete. As he fell, the powerful lights and a dark shape passed barely an inch behind him, and the roaring died away.
Another car drew up, brakes squealing, and two men leaped out of it. Rollison grunted and groaned as he staggered to his feet. The two men helped to steady him.
“Are you all right?”
“My God, that was a miracle!”
“The crazy fool!”
“Must be drunk.”
“How many were in it?” Rollison asked.
“Just the driver.”
“Must be drunk.”
“Are you all right?” the first man repeated.
“Er—yes. Bloodied but in one piece,” Rollison said. “Have you seen my brief-ca—ah!” A woman held it out to him. “Thank you very much. I—ah—must look where I’m going. Sorry to cause such a sensation.”
“If you’re all right—”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“Have you a car?”
“Are you all right to drive?”
“Are you sure? I’ll gladly take you—”
“Or you could get a taxi.”
As they talked, still excited and greatly incensed, they moved along the road until they reached the Morris. Bending his back to get inside was excruciatingly painful, and once in, Rollison sat back, sweating. The barrage of questions started again. They were embarrassingly helpful.
Help from many unexpected sources.
“I’m sure I can manage,” Rollison said.
“You ought to report it, you know.”
“Oh, no harm’s done.”
“He must have been mad.”
Or a murderer, thought Rollison.
“Well if you’re quite sure . . .”
They stood and watched as he drove off, handling the controls stiffly at first but gradually improving. He went cautiously to Cheyne Walk, where every parking space seemed full, then found a spot outside Olivia Cordman’s front door. Normally he would have slipped in without trouble. Now, turning to look round was like knifing himself in the ribs; it was even worse getting out. He looked about and saw an old-fashioned lamp-post with a bar just beneath the lamp, and eyed it speculatively; swinging was supposed to be good for a strained back. He stretched up gingerly, managed to get a hold, and hoisted himself high.
Soon he was swinging with greater pain at his shoulders than at his back, and when he walked again he was more sore than in pain. He glanced at his watch; it was exactly half an hour since he had telephoned Olivia.
She was on the seventh floor; happily there was a lift.
“Why, come in!” she said. Then she caught her breath. “Your jacket’s torn!” she exclaimed.
“You mean there’s some left?”
“And you’re bleeding!”
“Just a scratch.”
“Well anyway, you ought to have it seen to.” She took his arm firmly and led him along a passage and into the bathroom, sat him down, and studied him in the bright light. Then she poured water, and ministered, talking about nothing in particular, until at last she ushered him into the sitting-room.
“Will you eat first and talk after, or talk first and eat after?”
“Could I drink first?” asked Rollison, sinking into an easy chair.
“Oh, what an ass I am. What’ll you have?”
Rollison settled for a whisky, and soon began to talk. Olivia sat on a pouffe in front of him, peering earnestly up into his eyes. She looked appalled when he described the accident, but when he told her of the Good Samaritans her face lit up.
“So it did come true—Madam Melinska’s help from unexpected sources! You can’t doubt her after this.”
“Can’t I?” said Rollison grimly.
Olivia stared at him for several seconds, her expression slowly changing. The gay, almost child-like delight faded, she seemed to grow older, more severe, more authoritative. Her eyes narrowed to give an impression of great severity, and when she began to speak it was as if she were about to make an announcement of supreme importance.
“You are a Virgo,” she announced.
Rollison said, bewildered: “A what?”
“A Virgo. When were you born?”
“August the twenty-third, but—”
“I knew it,” said Olivia, as if pronouncing a death sentence. “You were born on the cusp, too. Leo gives you your arrogance and Virgo your scepticism. Only a Virgo would doubt Madam Melinska after this. Your East End friends desert you, and immediately you get a seething mob of helpers outside your flat. The police turn against you, and perfect strangers come to your rescue. This is exactly what Madam Melinska prophesied.”