Grice left a sergeant and a detective-officer to search the house, after Rollison had given him a detailed account of what had happened. Rollison particularly like Grice’s manner with Flo Malloy; he no longer tried to use the heavy hand, but helped her into the police car, where she sat next to Janice. Janice, knowing that she could not save herself from this indignity, sat in petrified silence.
Rollison sat next to Grice, who followed the leading car towards the main road.
“Was the Malloy quarrel genuine?” he asked.
“Yes. Malloy would have done murder, and his wife wanted to save him and probably herself from hanging,” said Rollison, “but I doubt whether she will talk now. If you had seen the way the man looked at her you would understand why.”
“Looked?” Grice was sceptical.
“I hope he’ll demonstrate for you one day,” said Rollison. “Well, there we are and we can’t do a great deal about it, except start a hue-and-cry.”
“That won’t take long,” said Grice.
At Scotland Yard he put out a general call for all three missing men. The two women were left in a waiting-room, with a policeman in with them and another outside the door, while Grice put the instructions through from his office, and then telephoned a report to the Assistant Commissioner. When he had finished, he leaned back in his chair and said:
“At least it was the Devon fellows who let Shayle go, we didn’t. He buttered them into letting him walk without handcuffs.”
“When did you know that he had talked of Malloy?” asked Rollison.
“Not until I knew that he’d got away,” said Grice. “The Devon fellows were so proud of having got something out of him that they said nothing in their telephoned report—they wanted to come and tell us how well they had done our job. Still, moaning about them won’t help. How did you get on to Malloy?”
“It was general knowledge that Larry Bingham owed him fifty pounds,” said Rollison, “and Larry has the reputation of paying his debts in kind. Larry was seen at the house yesterday afternoon.”
“You could have telephoned me,” said Grice, without much spirit.
“Yes, couldn’t I?” said Rollison. “I also heard that Janice Armitage was there, and I didn’t want to take chances with her.” He sat back.
Then: “Did you get any information about your countess?” Grice demanded.
“Your countess—my unknown lady,” Rollison corrected.
“So you’re sticking to that?”
“Firmly,” Rollison assured him. “What’s more, there is a chance that Lady Lost was at Malloy’s house for a while.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“From chance remarks,” said Rollison.
Grice raised no objection to Rollison being present while he questioned the women. He chose Mrs. Malloy first, believing that the longer Janice was on tenterhooks, the more readily she would talk.
Mrs. Malloy refused to speak, refused to admit that her husband had struck Janice or her, and remained tight-lipped, looking sullenly at Grice with her curiously-lidded eyes half-narrowed. She denied the presence of any other woman at the house.
“All right,” Grice said. “I’ll see you again later.”
She turned to go, with a man on either side of her.
“Flo,” said Rollison, as she reached the door.
She ignored him.
“Flo,” repeated Rollison, going across and looking into her eyes. “Malloy isn’t worth it. There’ll never be a future for you with him again. Although you tried to stop him from doing murder, he will probably be hanged. Don’t make it worse for yourself than it is now. If your worry is money, there are ways and means of helping.”
“I don’t want your help,” Flo said.
“You may do, later.” He turned back into the room.
“You’re fancying different types, aren’t you?” said Grice.
“Don’t be coarse,” said Rollison.
“Flo Malloy is as hard a nut as her husband,” said Grice. “I felt sorry for her at the house, because of what he’d said and done, but I shouldn’t be soft-hearted over her.”
Rollison made no comment.
When Janice came up she was in tears, and it took all Grice’s patience to coax the story out of her. She had been given Malloy’s address by Marcus Shayle, and had often been to the house—it was there that she received the “presents” he had sent her. She declared that she was desperately in love with Marcus and would do anything to help him, and she did not flinch when Grice talked of murder, but she did make a comment surprisingly shrewd for her.
“No one’s dead yet.”
“They did you go there to-day?” demanded Grice.
She sniffed and dabbed at her red-rimmed eyes; she looked girlish and might have appealed to the sympathy of some men at the Yard, but Grice was never impressed by tears or innocent looks. Eventually she told him that Pomeroy had sent for her and told her that Marcus would be released, and that she would be able to see him if she went the that morning.
“And what happened when you got there?” demanded Grice.
She gulped. “I—they—I mean Malloy, he said I was to— to go to Mr. Rollison’s flat!” She flung the words out defiantly, and then added, tearfully: “He wanted me to get the countess away; he said it was important, he wanted me to distract Mr. Rollison’s attention, he said he could look after the rest. And I was to get a key of the flat if I could—I don’t know what he thought I was!”
“Obviously he thought you were a friend of Mr. Rollison,” said Grice.
She simpered. “Well. I am, aren’t I?”
Grice kept a straight face with difficulty and Rollison agreed bravely that she was. This gave the girl more confidence, and Grice handled her well. The dress she was wearing might have come straight from a Paris salon, her shoes and gloves were of first quality, and her hair looked as if it had been dressed by an artist only that morning.
Grice finished his questioning at last, and Janice asked in her most little girl voice:
“Have I satisfied you, Superintendent? Please say that I have. I wouldn’t do anything that Malloy wanted me to if it would hurt a fly, I wouldn’t reelly.”
Grice’s voice hardened.
“You were very wrong not to tell the police your fiance’s address, Miss Armitage—had you given us the information earlier, a great deal of trouble might have been prevented.”
“Well” —she paused— “you couldn’t expect—I mean, you can’t expect a man to know how I feel about Marcus, can you?” I
Grice gave her up, but still spoke with a severe voice.
“I must warn you, Miss Armitage, that if you get any further information about any of them—Marcus Shayle, Malloy or the man called Pomeroy, you must tell us immediately. If you have a letter or a postcard, with an address or without, you must not lose a moment in telling us. If you do, you may cause even mora serious trouble for your fiance.”
“Would I?” asked Janice.
“You see,” said Grice, carefully, “it is by no means certain that Marcus Shayle is acting like this because he wants to. The others probably have some influence over him. It will be for his own good if he is found again. Do you understand me?”
There was a calculating look in her eyes.
“Yes,” she said, “I didn’t think of that before, I am sorry. If I have only a teeny-weeny note, or even a telephone call I will tell you right away, that’s a promise. Can I go now?”
“I will send a man home with you,” said Grice, pressing a bell. When a policeman in uniform entered, he told the man to take Janice to the waiting-room, and arrange for her to be taken home.
“Right-ho, sir. Come along, Miss.” The constable took Janice out, not before she had looked at Rollison beneath her lashes with a glance which she doubtless thought was alluring.