Rollison read the story carefully. There was nothing in it that he did not know, but it talked of rumours on the Stock Exchange and pointed to the fall in price of Barrington-Ley stock, hinted that Barrington-Ley had been acting in an unusual manner and finally said that he had not been seen nor heard of for at least forty-eight hours.
Rollison put the paper aside, shaved and breakfasted in a hurry, and was soon on the way to Fleet Street.
Lila, Countess Hollern, if that was in fact her name, had not put in an appearance. In calmer mood, he could consider with more equanimity the possibility that she had succeeded in deceiving him completely. He remained unconvinced. He went over the events of the previous evening in his mind, and, remembering her face when she had heard the National Anthem of her country, came to the firm conclusion that no one could have acted quite as well as that. Consequently he was in better spirits than he expected to be, but he knew that the tempo of the case was quickening.
His taxi pulled up outside the office of The Record.
The editorial staff would not come in until the afternoon— but some of the reporters might be gathered in the news-room or the canteen, before starting out for their day’s assignments. He found three of them in the canteen, and was greeted with a cheerful invitation to a cup of coffee.
“And what brings the great Toff along at this ungodly hour?” demanded a little red-faced man with a wrinkled nose and a wicked eye. He was a crime reporter of renown.
“They tell me he’s been frustrated,” said a tall, middle-aged man with a scar on his right cheek. “Perhaps he wants to become a newspaper man.”
“Not a hope,” said the third, the youngest of the trio. “Not one hope this side of the Great Divide, Rolly—we wouldn’t have you for a fortune!” He grinned and offered cigarettes, and then passed a cup of coffee. “Sandwich?”
“No, thanks,” said Rollison. He bent his eyes on the youngest. “Teddy,” he said, “I thought you would see that there was some life in The Record, but even you’ve disappointed me.”
“I resent that,” said the tall man.
“The Record,” said the little man, in a fruity voice, “is always first with the news, first with the views, a lively, witty, reliable and always accurate reflection of the opinion of the people. For exposure of all rackets, try The Record. Proprietor’s stated policy,” he added, with a grin.
“There isn’t much the matter with the blatt,” said the tall man, judicially. “It’s got its bad points, but it’s got a lot of good ones. What’s your complaint, Rolly?”
“The Barrington-Ley Bal Masque,” said Rollison. “Why didn’t you follow it up?”
“We squeezed it dry,” said Teddy.
“One day was enough,” said the tall man.
“I don’t know so much,” said the little man frowning. “I see what you mean. Now we’ve come out with this story about
Barrington-Ley. Is there a connection?”
“That’s what I want to know,” said Rollison.
“Your interest being?” asked Teddy.
“Impersonal,” Rollison assured him.
Teddy laughed. “What a hope!” He looked speculatively at the others. “Where did the Barrington-Ley story come from last night? Ticky found it, didn’t he?”
“Ticky?” echoed Rollison.
“T. L Keller, City Editor,” said Teddy. “He doesn’t often give us pieces of fruit, but he found something there.”
“Would he know that Barrington-Ley was missing?” asked Rollison.
“Now we’re finding out what Rolly’s after,” said Teddy, greatly pleased. “Friend of yours?”
“In a manner of speaking,” said Rollison. “And he has many other friends. Many will be on the war-path. That article amounts to defamation of character, and whoever started it is likely to get into a serious jam, unless he can prove that there’s something in it. I don’t look on The Record as an organ of unblemished reputation,” went on Rollison, “but I thought a word of warning might not come amiss.”
All three looked concerned. The Record, with all its faults, was regarded affectionately by most of its staff, and they would be concerned if there were any serious likelihood of trouble for anyone among them.
“Ticky’s in, isn’t he?” asked the tall man.
“Unless he’s got his ear close to the ticker in the City,” said Teddy. “Shall I go and see?”
“It might be a help,” said Rollison.
They went up to the next floor and along many narrow corridors until at last they reached a door on which was the name: T. I. KELLER. A squeaky voice invited them to enter.
Two girls were at small desks against one wall, and a small, extremely well-dressed man with a rose in his button-hole was sitting at an enormous desk, which was littered with papers. The tape-machine at his side was ticking away steadily, but he was paying it no attention. A pair of bright, bird-like eyes sur-veyed the newcomers, and a bird-like face showed some bewilderment at the sight of Rollison.
“I am very busy,” he said, in a falsetto voice. “Very.”
“The age of miracles is about to dawn,” said Teddy. “Pause for a moment, old chap. Here is Old Man Doom come to wave a shroud over your head—Mr. Richard Rollison.”
Ticky whistled.
“I thought I had seen you before.”
Teddy grinned. “What a newspaper! A member of the staff who thinks he knows The Toff! Rollison says you’ve pulled a boner about Barrington-Ley,” went on Teddy, “and I thought I’d let you see and disabuse him. The old blatt is never wrong.” He winked, and went out.
Keller did not look at him, but at Rollison. He seemed worried, his eyes looked less bird-like, and he dropped all the pose of too busy to see him.
“Are you serious?” he asked.
“The story isn’t liked in certain quarters,” said Rollison, anticipating the truth, “and there will be repercussions. Of course, if you can prove that he’s missing, that’s a different matter, although even then the comments about his companies are pretty broad.”
“Oh, they don’t matter,” said Keller, squeaking. “They’re facts—you can find them on the City page of any newspaper.
The other” he pursed his thin lips. “Are you from the family, by any chance?”
“They don’t know I’m here,” said Rollison.
“Hmm. Well, to tell you the truth,” said Keller, confidentially, “I got a little bit tiddly last night. Not a thing I do often,” he added, hastily. “I shot a line or two about the Barrington-Ley business, and a fat little chap who was in the “Chameleon” got my ear. Breathed deep, dark secrets. Barrington-Ley missing from home, family greatly worried, you know the kind of thing. I checked here and there—telephoned his country home and the London house, got evasive replies, and it all seemed to tie up. The truth is,” said Keller, a little sadly, “I ought to stick to the City. I always go outside when I’ve had one or two—subconscious longing, I suppose, I used to think I would make a good reporter. Er—seriously, will there
be trouble?”
“If I were you I would build a good defence,” said Rollison.
“Oh, I will. I will! It’s a good thing you warned me, or I would have forgotten it,” said Keller. “I wish I could think of the fat fellow’s name. He did give it to me. Smith, I think.”
“Or Brown,” said Rollison, sardonically, “or, by a great stretch of the imagination, Pomeroy.”
“It wasn’t Pomeroy,” said Keller, decidedly. “Nice little chap, very soft voice, looked like a butler.”
“Pointed chin with bags of flesh on either side?” asked Rollison.
“That’s the man! Now I come to think of it,” said Keller, “he was a bit anxious that I should know the whole truth. Usually they ask for a fiver for the story, and we don’t say no. He just wanted to dispense information. I say, is Barrington-Ley missing?”