“Yes, Superintendent,” said Rollison with tactful humility. “Any news?”
“The sledge hammer was the one used to kill Keith Webberson.” Grice touched a file on his desk. “It had been stolen from a building site nearby, a small block of flats is going up where there used to be a big house. No fingerprints, but there are burned initials on the shaft,” Grice added.
“What intitials?”
“T.S.—and don’t start jumping to any more conclusions.” Grice’s interview with the Assistant Commissioner for Crime must have been very unpleasant. “And don’t ask me whether I’m trying to find the owner, either.” He moved his right hand as one of three telephones on his desk began to ring. “Why should anyone try to murder Mrs. Smith, if we could answer that . . . Grice here.”
His expression changed as he listened, the sense of grievance died.
“Yes .. “ he said. “Are you quite sure? . . . Well, now we know where we are. Is there any way of finding out whether she was killed by the same sledge hammer? . . . Yes, compare the wounds with those on the back of Professor Webberson’s head . . . Yes, as far as I know I’ll be here all the morning.”
He put the receiver down, and leaned back in his chair. Rollison was almost sure what the main news was but he waited for Grice to deliberate, without trying to rush him.
“The body taken out of the Thames was Winifred de Vaux’s,” he said flatly. “The dentist has just given positive identification. There’s no news of the other missing girl. Webberson was murdered about eight days ago—four or five days before the de Vaux girl disappeared. And—” Grice pulled at his lower lip before going on: “And the neighbours across from Webberson’s flat have identified the girl in the photograph as Winifred de Vaux. The woman recognised another visitor to Webberson’s flat, too.”
Grice paused.
“The other missing girl,” said Rollison.
The other missing girl, Iris Jay,” confirmed Grice. “And Mrs. Smith was a regular visitor, too. So the two missing girls and the matron of Smith Hall were regular visitors to your friend’s flat. Rolly,” went on Grice in a brisker, demanding tone, Was Keith Webberson one for the women?”
Slowly, Rollison answered : “When he was younger, yes.”
“Do you have any reason to believe he grew out of it?”
“No,” admitted Rollison. “None at all. But he was one of the group who sponsored this hostel. He—” he broke off, raising his bands, as Grice looked at him severely. “Guilty conscience, do you mean?” he asked.
“It could be,” said Grice. “It certainly could be. Mrs. Smith told me last night that you were going to be at Smith Hall when the surviving sponsors are to meet this morning. I don’t want a man there but I do want a detailed report of what goes on.”
“I’ll see you get it,” promised Rollison.
“Plain and unvarnished,” insisted Grice.
“Yes.”
“And by the way,” said Grice, “I had a report that you had a late night visit from that columnist of the Daily Globe, Gwendoline Fell. What was that sly young woman after?”
“Sly?” echoed Rollison.
“Don’t say she fooled you,” said Grice. He laughed with some show of irritation. “But perhaps she did. She’s twisted more of our men round her little finger than anyone I’ve ever known. Does she want inside information in return for her help?”
“William,” said Rollison with feeling, “you get wiser and wiser and wilier and wilier every day. Yes, that is exactly what she wanted.”
“Be careful how much you tell her,” advised Grice. “If I know her, she’ll want a detailed report of the meeting of the sponsors, too.”
“Plain and unvarnished, no doubt,” rejoined Rollison. “Bill, did you realise you had a lot in common with Gwendoline Fell?”
Grice looked astonished.
“I have?”
“Yes, you,” said Rollison. “You share the illusion that I’m no longer capable of thinking for, acting for and looking after myself. I’ll be in touch.”
He smiled broadly, and moved so swiftly that he was outside Grice’s office before Grice had recovered from the impact of his words. And as he walked along the passages of the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police, he was humming to himself.
In less than an hour, he would be at the meeting of the sponsors; at least, of the four who were left.I
CHAPTER 11
The Four Remaining
POLICE still watched outside Smith Hall, and were stationed at the corners of Bloomdale Street and Bloom-dale Square, in positions from which they could watch Number 29—Sir Douglas Slatter’s house—as well as Number 31. A few bystanders looked on with patient interest as Rollison approached; then a young newspaper photographer sparked their interest by crying out :
“Hold it, Mr. Rollison!”
There was a surge forward from the crowd, and an elderly man whom Rollison had known for years as one of Fleet Street’s most astute crime reporters, came from behind the photographer.
“Good morning, Toff !” he said clearly, smiling.
Among the crowd the name was echoed: Toff—Toff —Toff—Toff, and on two or three lips it reached Rollison’s ears.
“Good morning, Arthur,” said Rollison, above the noise of hammering from the nearby building site.
“What interested you in this—ah—establishment?” inquired the Fleet Street man.
“The murder of a close friend of mine,” said Rollison. “Professor Webberson, do you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know that he was a—ah—sponsor of Smith Hall?”
“Not until recently,” said Rollison. “I did know that he was a man with an exceptional social conscience, and if he was a sponsor here, then Smith Hall was worth sponsoring.” He smiled again and moved on.
“If you’ll spare just one moment—”
“I’m late already,” Rollison said, and turned into the gate. A policeman, young and obviously admiring, stood just outside. “Good morning, officer. Am I the last?”
“One to come, sir, I believe.”
“Good. It’s always nice not to be last!”
Rollison approached the house slowly, seeing it for the first time in full daylight. It was old, of weathered brick, ugly, but obviously spacious. It stood in its own grounds, like all the houses along here, but between the house itself and the walls dividing it from the other properties there was little more than a car’s width. Beyond the driveway along which he walked were three green-painted garages. The brick wall he had vaulted the previous night looked newer than either of the houses, and the grass on this side of it was still damp. He glanced up at the first floor windows of the house next door—and a young woman slipped out of sight.
“All right, Angela,” Rollison said to himself, and he stepped on to the porch.
Another policeman stood just inside; Grice certainly wasn’t taking the slightest chance. The door was closed, but opened before he had withdrawn his finger from the bell-push. Standing before him was Anne Miller; obviously she had been waiting for this moment. In broad daylight, she looked a little older. This morning, she had brushed her hair until it had quite a sheen, and her tunic-type suit was inches longer than the one she had worn last night. Her eyes looked huge, and there were dark, patches under them—patches which should never darken the face of a young woman. The long, narrow face had a curious attractiveness; so did her small, exquisitely shaped mouth.
“Good morning, Anne’ said Rollison.
“Good morning, sir’ ‘Sir’ was quite a concession. She closed the door, and went on in an almost conciliatory voice : “I’m sorry I made a fool of myself last night.”