“That would be a grave miscarriage of justice.”
“But it will happen unless you can prove they’re untrue.”
“Or unless you can prove it,” she returned, mildly. “Mr Rollison, you are not distressing me. I am quite resigned to whatever should happen, what is to be is written in the stars. But I am afraid you are distressing our friends.”
Rollison was jolted into awareness of the presence of the others; he had forgotten them, so deeply absorbed was he in this woman’s manner. Was she a consummate liar, or was she absolutely convinced of her powers as a seer? He saw his aunt’s frown of concentration and felt sure she was asking herself the same question. Olivia jumped up.
“Rolly, you can’t deny that Madam
Melinska prophesied that you would be in grave danger, and you have been; and that you’d be deserted by your friends, and you have been, both by the East Enders and the police.”
“It doesn’t take supernatural powers to know there’s danger in this affair, and that if I help a star-gazer I’ll put the backs up of some people and win the support of others. All that could be intelligent guesswork. Look,” Rollison turned from Olivia to Madam Melinska. “This dossier exists. Even without it, you would be in trouble. With it, you are in very deep trouble indeed. Consequently you have a very strong motive for having it stolen from Mrs Abbott. As she no doubt knew what was in it, you also had a good motive for wanting her dead. And for wanting me dead, should you have discovered that it was in my possession. And someone certainly tried to kill me a while back.”
“But no one stole it from you!” cried Olivia, her eyes suddenly radiant. “So it couldn’t have been because of the dossier they tried to kill you.”
“A lot of people were about.”
“Richard,” pronounced Lady Hurst, “are you being absolutely fair to Madam Melinska?”
“Aunt,” said Rollison grimly, “before you and I commit ourselves further, we have to be absolutely certain that she isn’t fooling us. I—”
“No!” cried Mona Lister, loudly and clearly, making everyone turn towards her. She lay back on the couch as if asleep. “No, Lucy, don’t go in there—don’t: Her voice rose in obvious fear. “Don’t go in, he’s waiting for you— behind the door. Don’t!”
Rollison thought: “Lucy? Lucifer Stride?”
“Don’t go in!”
Madam Melinska sprang up from her chair, reached the girl and put a hand on her forehead. Mona began to twist and turn—but her eyes were still closed. Madam Melinska knelt down beside the couch.
“Come back to me,” she said quietly. “Come back to me:
The girl fell silent and the writhing ceased. She opened her eyes. The older woman began to stroke her forehead very gently and after a few seconds she asked: “Where was this happening, Mona?”
“I—I don’t know. But I saw Lucy—”
“Do you mean Lucifer Stride?”
“Yes. I saw him go up some stairs and ring the door bell. Another man was on the other side of the door, and someone else was coming up the stairs, carrying a weapon. It was— awful.” The girl’s voice was faint now, and she looked very pale. “Did you see anyone else, child?”
“No. No, I didn’t. I only saw—” Mona frowned as if with a great effort at recollection. “A top hat—yes, a top hat—on a wall, high upon a wall.”
“My God!” gasped Rollison. “That’s my Trophy Wall!” He swung round towards the door. As he reached the landing Olivia came out after him, then ran ahead. By the time he reached the square, she was at the wheel of Jolly’s Morris, lights on, the engine running. He slipped in beside her; almost before he closed the door Olivia was moving off. There was no traffic, and every light was green for them; in less than ten minutes they turned into Gresham Terrace.
As they did so, a car engine roared, not far away. Rollison had a spasm of fear, for it was the same noise he had heard as the car had tried to run him down. Lights blazed at the far corner of the street.
“There they are!” Rollison cried. “By Jove, I think it’s the car that tried to run down Lucifer!”
“We’ll catch them!” Olivia rammed her foot down on the accelerator, and the Morris raced forward.
“Hold it!” cried Rollison. “Jolly may be—”
Before he could add “hurt’ Olivia’s foot was on the brake and he was thrust forward. As he straightened up Olivia stretched across to his door and it swung open.
“You see to Jolly, I’ll go after this little lot,” she said, and began to push Rollison out. She was so tiny yet so fierce that even as he staggered on to the pavement he was half-laughing at her; but it was only half-laughing.
Fear for Jolly drove him into the silent house, up the deserted staircase, to the top flat, where light streamed from the open door. There was no sound. His heart in his mouth, Rollison went in; the hall was quite normal—except that in the doorway leading to the living-room, there was a foot.
The shoe was long, narrow, pointed, brown: not Jolly’s.
Rollison gritted his teeth as he went forward and Lucifer Stride’s body gradually came in sight. He was stretched out at full length, his head on one side, a heavy bruise on the temple. Rollison knelt down and felt his pulse; it was beating, although faintly. Afraid of what he would see next, Rollison looked quickly into each room; there was no sign of Jolly until he approached the spare bedroom.
The door was wide open.
Jolly was kneeling by the side of the bed, his head bent forward over the counterpane, one arm bent under him, the other dangling by his side. There was no sign of the prisoner. Rollison went to him, still fearfully, and took his wrist. Thank God he was alive, too, and his pulse seemed steady. He raised him, gently, and as his head lolled backwards, saw the red bruises on his throat; someone had seized Jolly from behind and almost choked the life out of him. Rollison laid him on the bed, undid his collar and waistband and took off his shoes. Then he piled blankets on him, made sure he could breathe freely, and went back to the living-room.
Lucifer Stride stirred.
Rollison moved to the telephone, lifted it, and dialled 230 1212. When a girl said: “Scotland Yard,” he asked:
“Is Chief Inspector Clay in, do you know?”
“Yes, sir. He just made a call. Who wants him?”
“Richard Rollison.”
“Mr Rollison!” The tone suggested that there were followers of Madam Melinska and the stars even at the Yard. “One moment, sir.”
In that moment, Clay said with heavy but welcome humour, “Good evening, Mr Rollison. Decided to give yourself up?”
“Decided to hide nothing from you,” Rollison said drily. “While I was out . . .”
Almost before Rollison had finished Clay said: “I’ll arrange for an ambulance and a doctor, and I’ll come over myself.”
He was on the spot in twelve minutes, and an ambulance arrived almost immediately afterwards, with a long-limbed young doctor, brisk and competent. He examined Lucifer Stride’s head wound carefully.
“Could be a case for brain surgery, that was some blow.” He stood up and went to the telephone, signalling to the ambulance men to put Stride onto the stretcher. Rollison watched and listened, as Clay and his men searched for clues and the doctor made what arrangements were needed with the hospital. He was thinking, now, more of Olivia Cordman than of Lucifer Stride; was impatient for the telephone to be free, so that if Olivia called she could get through.