The envelope was a stout one, tightly packed. The contents would not come out when the top was slit, and so he slit one side and took out two pieces of thin cardboard, fastened together with gummed tape—the cardboard was almost the same size as the envelope. He cut the tape and took the pieces apart. There, face downwards, was what appeared to be a cabinet-size photograph.
Rollison looked up at Jolly.
“This looks like a family joke,” he said, “of the kind that would seem funny to one of my less responsible relatives. Or” —he grinned— “it might be from Lady Matilda. I sent her some rouge, lipstick and powder for her seventeenth birthday, and I knew she would revenge herself sooner or later.”
“Supposing you looked at the other side, sir,” suggested Jolly.
“I’m in the mood for a guessing game. My first is Lady Matilda. What’s yours?”
“If you insist, sir, I would say that it is perhaps a photograph of some film star, who chooses such a method of advertisement.”
“What! With no photographer’s studio emblazoned on the back? Never! As a matter of fact it looks like a newspaper print.” Rollison turned it slowly, and Jolly leaned forward to get a better view.
Neither of them made any comment.
It was the portrait of a woman. Rollison, studying it carefully, judged her to be in the early thirties. She was not beautiful by any accepted standard, but there was a quality about her which might loosely be termed “lovely”. The photograph itself was perfect. The woman seemed to be there in the flesh, looking up at him with narrowed, slightly oblique eyes under long, curved lashes. Her face was rather broad and her cheekbones a shade higher than those of most English women. Her mouth, wide and full, curved a little at the corners, as if she knew this was a joke and was getting great enjoyment from it. About her neck was a rope of pearls, three strings, close-fitting like a collar. The sweep of her neck into her shoulders was loveliness itself.
After a long pause, Rollison said:
“Well, well!” He looked up at Jolly. “No, it’s not a secret passion. She is a stranger to me as well.”
“Really, sir?”
“Oh indubitably.” Rollison held the photograph up, to get a better light on it.
“How would you describe her?”
“I do not feel qualified to say, sir.”
“You’re very non-committal this morning,” said Rollison. “I wonder if there’s a letter with it.”
There was no letter, no compliments slip, nothing except the postmark on the envelope to give any clue as to the source of the photograph. Either Jolly’s interest waned or he thought it time he began to cook breakfast, for he went out, leaving the tray. Rollison put the photograph on one side, but glanced at it each time he picked up a letter. Most of those from his relatives were casual enough; Lady Matilda Wirrington demanded to know, in colourful terms, whether he had sent her a package intended for some wench who was not satisfied with the face which nature had given her, and added a note that if he ever expected a gift from her he would be dis-appointed. In a postscript, which seemed a little wistful, she had added: “When are you coming to see me, Richard?” The bills and circulars were uninteresting, there were two begging letters and the note from Alec Gregory who wanted him to spend a week at his farm in Hampshire.
“I might even do that,” mused Rollison.
Jolly came to tell him that his bath was ready. He had not had time to open the papers, and he decided to look at the headlines while he was having breakfast. He got out of bed and stretched, nearly touching the ceiling with his fingers, for he was over six-foot. As he put on his dressing-gown, however, the tassel of the cord caught in the ornamental handle of the tray. He just saved the whole contents from falling, but knocked the newspapers to the floor. Absently, he picked them up. When bending down he caught another glimpse of the photograph, which intrigued him greatly. Anonymous letters were not rare, but an anonymous photograph had never come his way before.
Then he saw the front page of The Record.
A picture caught his eye, and slowly he raised the newspaper, for he saw that the picture was a likeness of the woman whose photograph lay on the bed. It was not a reproduction from the photograph; the angle was slightly different and the woman was not wearing her pearls, but undoubtedly it was the same woman. The difference between the pictures seemed more marked the longer he studied the newspaper. Gone were the curves at the corners of the lips and the suggestion of veiled mockery in the narrowed eyes. The photograph showed something of the character of the woman, the picture in The Record had a blankness of expression which disturbed him. She looked lost and forlorn.
In heavy type above the picture were the words: DO YOU KNOW THIS WOMAN? Beneath it, in italics: To read the amazing story turn to page 3, column 1.
Slowly, Rollison turned to page 3.
CHAPTER TWO
THE STORY OF THE LADY
“HALLO, Rolly,” said Superintendent Grice, “I thought you had gone north after some bad men.” He shook hands with Rollison and pulled up an armchair covered in faded green cloth, then offered cigarettes. “Couldn’t you find them?”
“They were non-existent,” Rollison said, sinking into the chair. “Thanks. You look very spruce this morning. Everyone seems to be celebrating something.”
Grice was, indeed, immaculately dressed. In his buttonhole was a white carnation, he wore a wing collar and a bow tie, and in place of his usual lounge suit which always looked in need of pressing, he had on morning dress. Scotland Yard had never seen him so well turned out. Nothing, however, could alter his rather severe, even aquiline features across which the skin was stretched tightly, showing the little parallel ridges at the bridge of his nose. His skin seemed to glow; it was a golden brown, more often seen in Italians and Spaniards than in Englishmen. Brown hair and brown eyes with that delicate skin made him look almost un-English.
“One of the Inspectors is getting married at noon,” he said, “hence the fal-de-rols.”
“Do I know him?” asked Rollison.
“I doubt it. Charters, who’s just been promoted—he was in the Records Office.”
“I seem to have heard of him vaguely,” said Rollison. “I’ve been out of touch for too long. Occasional descents on to the sanctum sanctorum aren’t enough.” He smiled. “I’ll have to put it right. You’ll soon find me at your elbow wherever you go, always ready with a word of advice. How does it appeal?”
“It sounds terrible,” said Grice.
Between these two men there was a friendship the stronger because when they had first met it had been in an atmosphere of mutual suspicion, not far removed on Grice’s side from hostility. That was in the days when Rollison, so widely known as The Toff, had taken on himself the investigation of crimes, with scant regard for police susceptibilities. The Toff had matured since then and the police even consulted him occasionally, although some officers at Scotland Yard could not forgive his early wilfulness. Grice knew his worth, however, and nothing seriously ruffled the calm of their association.
“As it’s now eleven,” said Grice, “I haven’t a lot of time this morning. Is there something on your mind?”
“Much,” said Rollison. He took from his pocket a folded Daily Record, and pushed it across the desk. “Who’s the lady?” he demanded.
Grice shot him a quick, searching glance.
“Can you tell me anything about her?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why are you interested?”
“Take one more look at her,” said Rollison, “and guess.”
Grice ignored the suggestion, sat back in his chair, and pressed the tips of his fingers together.
“Now look here, Rolly, you aren’t interested in her because of that photograph. It’s a bad one, in any case—and you aren’t the man to be intrigued by a loss of memory case unless you’ve a special reason.”