No one knew exactly what he did for a living.
The police had never been able to take him to court, and although Rollison had heard vague rumours about him, he had never met the man; he had, however, seen him at a distance. He remembered a small, middle-aged man with sparse black hair heavily oiled and plastered over his cranium, showing little streaks of pink, a flabby face and a drooping moustache, also dark but streaked with grey.
As Rollison drew near the house, which was Number 91, he saw a figure at the window of the shop next door, and through the grime recognized Percy. At first he thought that Percy was beckoning him, but when the thin man waved his hand he decided that he was sending him away. That might mean that Janice had left, and suggested that Percy did not consider the moment ripe for a visit. Rollison motioned over his shoulder with his thumb, Percy shook his head vigorously and went through his former antics.
Then Rollison saw what he meant; he was weaving his forefinger about his nose; “Nosey” was inside.
Rollison beamed his thanks, and knocked heavily.
After a short pause a woman opened the door. She was dressed in dark blue, was neat and well made up, without being pretty or looking cheap. Narrowed blue eyes looked Rollison up and down, before she said:
“Good-morning.”
“Good-morning,” said Rollison. “I would like to see Mr. Malloy.”
“On what business?” she asked.
“Strictly private business,” said Rollison.
He is engaged.”
“Tell him to see me at once, or the police will be here within half an hour,” said Rollison.
The threat did not appear to frighten her, but it did make her narrow her eyes still more; they were curiously hooded, the lids thick and jutting out a little at each side of her eyes.
“You’d better come in,” she said.
She stood aside for Rollison to enter a narrow passage. A light was on above the stairs, otherwise the hall and narrow staircase would have looked dark. The walls were freshly distempered and the paint was fresh green—it reminded him of Phyllis Armitage at Leeming House. Hardly had the thought crossed his mind than the woman had passed him to enter a room on the right. Then he heard a familiar, feminine voice.
“I really don’t see what you mean.”
“Well, well!” murmured Rollison. “Sister Janice is on the scene again.” He could not hear what the woman said, but a man’s harsh voice was raised immediately afterwards.
“What is he like?”
The woman described Rollison so well that he silently congratulated her.
“Rollison!” exclaimed Pomeroy, his voice no longer soft and gentle.
“That b . . .” said Malloy.
“Why, that seems like Mr. Rollison!” declared Janice. She sounded greatly relieved.
“Be quiet, you little fool!” snapped Malloy. “Flo, take her next door.”
Janice exclaimed: “I won’t go next door!”
Her words were stopped abruptly; there was a sound which might have been the result of a blow across the face. Rollison turned the handle and flung the door open.
Half-way across the room, moving towards a door which presumably led to the back of the house, was Janice Armitage. Her neck was bent forward, her shoulders were against Malloy’s chest; he had his hands beneath her arm-pits and was dragging her with her heels sliding along the floor. The woman named Flo was opening the door, and Pomeroy was standing against a bookcase, looking thoroughly alarmed.
“Good-afternoon,” said Rollison. “How much is the entertainment tax?”
Malloy dropped the girl; her head struck his thighs, his shins and then the floor. He swung round on his heel, flinging words at Flo.
“Get out, fetch Mike, tell Barney”
Rollison said: “Stay here, forget Mike, ignore Barney.”
“Get going!” screamed Malloy.
The woman stood by the door, as if she were deliberately defying Malloy, whose flabby face was stained red. Pomeroy was still standing by the bookcase. He appeared to have recovered from the shock, and his right hand was moving slowly towards his pocket. Rollison saw a vase filled with artificial flowers on a table by his side. He picked up the vase and tossed it towards Pomeroy, saying:
“Catch!”
The man dodged to one side, and came nearer Rollison, who rounded the table, took Pomeroy’s right arm and held it high above his head, keeping the man on a stretch. He put his hand into the pocket and drew out an automatic, he dropped Pomeroy, who collapsed in a heap on the floor.
Malloy struck the woman across the face, a resounding blow which sent her reeling against the wall, and then he swung round on Rollison. He also had a gun. They appeared to level the guns at the same moment—and neither fired. For a moment there was silence, as if the room had become a vacuum. Then it was broken by a gasping sound from Pomeroy, who began to get to his feet.
“Sit down,” Rollison said to him, and Pomeroy collapsed into a chair. “Malloy, put that gun away.”
If Malloy decided to shoot, he was not likely to miss. Rollison watched his gun-hand, wondering if he could judge the moment when the finger moved on the trigger. Then he saw Flo, who had been leaning against the wall with her hands covering her face, peering between the fingers. She moved, startling him enough to make him swing round towards her, but she struck at Malloy’s arm and knocked the gun out of his grasp.
“You crazy fool !” she blazed.
Malloy, beside himself, turned on her. She struck out at at him, but before Rollison could reach the man he had caught her hair and pulled her towards him, forcing her down on her knees. Then Rollison struck Malloy on the side of the head with the butt of Pomeroy’s gun. Malloy did not even gasp. His fingers lost their grip, he staggered to one side and pitched down, lying across Janice’s legs.
“Aren’t we having a time?” said Rollison.
The woman was pushing the hair out of her eyes. She looked sullenly at Rollison and then at Malloy, and she was breathing heavily. Pomeroy was gasping for breath, as if the vicarious action had affected him. He was sitting like a little fat ball in a small armchair.
The woman said: “What do you want?”
“I wanted a talk with Mr. Malloy,” said Rollison, “but I shall need more now. Is the girl hurt?”
“No more than he is.”
“I hope you’re right. Who are you?”
“Mrs. Malloy,” she said.
“Not very loyal,” murmured Rollison.
“Do you think I want to see him hanged?” she flared.
“No,” said Rollison, slowly, “nor do you want to be hanged with him. Where are Mike and Barney?”
“Along the street.”
“Are they likely to come here in the next half hour?”
“Not unless they’re sent for,” she said.
“I hope that’s true, too,” said Rollison, and looked down as Malloy stirred. “Help him into a chair, and then put the girl on the settee.” He turned to Pomeroy, and his voice grew sharp. “So we haven’t met before, Pomeroy?”
The man said nothing, but licked his lips.
Rollison said: “You employed Larry Bingham, through Malloy, to attack Gwen Barrington-Ley, and then you spread the story of Barrington-Ley being missing.”
Pomeroy said: “I didn’t know Bingham would—use a knife.”
“Perhaps you prefer poison a la Countess,” said Rollison.
He needed no further proof that the Lady of Lost Memory was known to some people as the countess.
This was a different Pomeroy from the man at Barrington House, because he was frightened. His eyes opened, his mouth gaped; his nerve was completely gone.
“You—know—her!”
“Shut your damned mouth,” said Malloy.
He was sitting forward in his chair, looked dazed, and there was a trickle of blood from the side of his head. It ran down to his chin and disappeared under his collar. He was glaring at Pomeroy, and suddenly he changed the direction of his gaze and looked at his wife. Malignance indescribable was in his eyes, and he began to swear at her and she at him, both vitriolic, obscene.