CHAPTER SEVEN
SEPTEMBER THE THIRTIETH
THE sporting gentleman appeared to be solely concerned with his nose, although now and again he shot a quick, birdlike glance at Rollison. Neither of them spoke, and Rollison judged it the right moment to withdraw. He did not think the police would be long in arriving, and they would probably hold Shayle for questioning.
“I hope you’ll remember,” he said.
Shayle took a step forward, as if to prevent him from leaving, but changed his mind. The other stopped dabbing his nose and glared at him. It was a peculiar glare. Most people would have thought the fat man a witless creature of no account, but his expression was not far removed from malignance.
Rollison went into the outer office, closing the door behind him. He stepped across to the passage, and hurried down the steps.
He hoped to find Grice coming along the road, but there was no sign of the Wolseley. He walked across the road to the amusement hall, from whence the strident cacaphony was apparently affording amusement to a small crowd gathered at the entrance. Near the door were glass-enclosed machines filled with tiny glass balls with which were mixed a variety of glittering articles, apparently of great value. For sixpence one could pull a handle which operated a small crane and disport oneself trying to get a glittering article between the claws and so win it as a prize. At the far end of the hall was a rifle range and clay pipes and pigeons, round the walls were a remarkable variety of machines, all patronized and all offering something for nothing in a game of skill which certainly skilfully avoided the gaming laws. From the depth of the hall came warm, rather smelly air, as well as the noises of machines and men and women, the clink of coins and the jovial, congratulatory voice of an attendant when a player won a prize.
There was no sign of Jolly.
He had stationed himself at one of the machines near the door to get a better view of 88g The Strand, and Rollison had expected to find him still there. He stood near the entrance, pretending to watch the fun and games, and actually looking for Grice’s car. It did not come. After a quarter of an hour the fat little man came out of the doorway, looked rather nervously in each direction, and then hailed a taxi. A stream of traffic prevented Rollison from crossing the road quickly, and the taxi was out of sight, going towards Trafalgar Square, before he could get another cab. Grimly, Rollison resigned himself to waiting for Shayle.
At last Grice arrived.
Rollison watched the Superintendent get out and hurry into the building accompanied by two sergeants. He expected them to be some time, and to come out with Shayle. They were less than ten minutes, and they came out without him. Rollison overcame the temptation to show his presence, and watched Grice drive away. Obviously Shayle had made his way out by a back entrance. He dallied with the idea of making a quick search of the offices, decided against it and walked through the gathering dusk towards Piccadilly.
In the affair so far there were all the makings of discord with the police.
A light was shining from the window of his living-room, and as he walked towards the house he saw Jolly, drawing the curtains. That was more cheering, and he hurried up the stairs, let himself in with a key, and met Jolly coming out of the bedroom.
“Did the Fun Fair make you tired?” There was an unusual edge to Rollison’s voice.
“No, sir,” said Jolly, “I thought it wise to leave when faced with the need for making a quick decision without being able to consult you.”
“Oh,” said Rollison.
“Some five minutes after you went into the building, sir,” said Jolly, with great deliberation, “Miss Gwendoline Barrington-Ley arrived.” His expression did not change when he saw Rollison’s astonishment. “I was greatly interested, of course, and somewhat surprised when she came out after a very few minutes and walked back towards Trafalgar Square. I thought it wise to follow her, and was somewhat disappointed when she returned on foot, to Barrington House. I thought it better to return here.”
“Quite rightly,” said Rollison. “Get me a drink, Jolly,”
“Whisky, sir?”
Yes. Don’t spare the soda.”
Rollison sat down and watched his man get the drink from a chiffonier of great age, which vandals said was now a cocktail cabinet. He took the glass and drank slowly. Jolly hovered in the background for some minutes, and then walked towards the door.
“Don’t go,” said Rollison.
“Very good, sir.” Jolly went over to the book-cases in the corner of the room and appeared to interest himself in straightening the books on the shelves. After a long silence, Rollison spoke as if to himself:
“That suggests that she did not tell me all the truth, doesn’t it?”
“A possibility which you had already considered, sir.”
“And which I hoped wouldn’t be substantiated,” said Rollison. “Jolly, I am not covering myself with glory. I’ve prevented Grice from catching Marcus Shayle—your pleasant young man. And how pleasant!” Rollison finished his whisky, lit a cigarette, and began to talk, going over everything that had happened in a matter-of-fact voice, as if he were anxious to get it all clear in his own mind.
Jolly did not interrupt. He showed some concern when he heard of the poisoning and of the man with the gun, and when at last Rollison finished, he said:
“You appear to have been instrumental in saving Miss Armitage from injury, sir, and you may have been just in time to save the unknown lady.”
“No credit where no credit’s due,” said Rollison. “The matron was telephoning the doctor, and that was not because I was on the spot. The unknown lady—what shall we call her?”
After a moment, Jolly suggested: “Lady Lost, sir?”
“I suppose that’s as good as anything,” said Rollison. “Where was I?” He went on with hardly a pause. “Lady Lost was in no great danger; obviously the poison was not enough to kill her. I think my painter would have shot Phyllis Armitage, but now that these people know that the police have visited Messrs. Pomeroy, Ward & Pomeroy, she will probably be all right. It isn’t often that a man thinks it worth taking a potshot at someone who might be able to give evidence against him.” He paused. “Well. I want to know who sent me that photograph. I think I’ll have a snack and then go to Barrington House.”
“I will prepare something for you at once,” said Jolly.
Rollison dialled Whitehall 1212, only to learn that Grice had left for home. He tried the Chelsea number, and was answered by the Superintendent.
“Why the devil didn’t you tell me that the girl had given you Shayle’s name?” demanded Grice. “You try one’s patience beyond endurance. You went to see Shayle, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” said Rollison.
“You’re never happy unless you think you’re one step ahead of us,” complained Grice. “Did you see Shayle?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Rollison, apologetically.
“I suppose you know you scared him away?”
“Late arrival of the police is hardly a fault of mine,” murmured Rollison. “In any case, Shayle caught me on the wrong foot. While I was in his office I telephoned the Yard. You weren’t there.”
“Then why didn’t you wait until I arrived?”
“I did,” said Rollison. “Shayle went out the back way.”
“Was he there alone?”
“No,” said Rollison. He told Grice about the gentleman in sporting tweeds, and mentioned that because his nose had come in contact with the door it might be red and swollen. By the time the conversation was over and Jolly had come in with a tray on which was an omelette, Grice was mollified though obviously not pleased. He assured Rollison that Phyllis Armitage would be watched, not only because she might not have told the whole truth, but because she might be in personal danger. At least, thought Rollison, he accepted the theory that the pseudo-painter had meant to prevent her from talking.