“It was an accident,” Rollison assured him earnestly. “Does Villiers Street mean anything to you on the day of the attack?”
“Oh, yes,” said Jones. “I told the police about that.”
“They’re never sure that they ought to tell me that kind of thing,” said Rollison, sadly. “Mind repeating it?”
“Of course not. I first saw these two fellows in Villiers Street.”
“Do you always go that way home?”
“Usually.”
“They followed you from there, did they?”
“They must have done.”
“Had you seen either of them before?”
“No.”
“No threats or menaces?”
“No.”
“Any idea at all why they should set upon you?”
“Mr. Rollison,” said Jones, leaning forward to add vehemence to his words, “I’ve told the police and I’ll tell you now that I haven’t the faintest idea what it was all about. As far as I know, I’ve no enemies. As far as I know none of my friends is associated with brutes of that kind. I can only believe that I was mistaken for someone else.”
Rollison put his head on one side.
“You look moderately individualistic to me.” Jones grinned.
“You know what I mean!”
“Yes, I think so. Could this have anything to do with your work?”
“I don’t see how it possibly could,” answered Jones, thoughtfully. “The police asked me that. As far as I can tell, everything at the office is perfectly straightforward. My money’s on a case of mistaken identity, Mr. Rollison, although I know you’ll probably say that it’s the easy way out.”
“Could be,” conceded Rollison. “Where did you see these men in Villiers Street?”
“About half-way up—near Lytton Street and the barber’s.”
Rollison felt the sharp impact of that remark, but hoped that he had not allowed Jones to see that it startled him.
“Your regular barber’s?”
“No. It’s a bigger salon than several of them around there, and more expensive. I’d been there for a haircut only that day, and can remember every incident clearly. The chap who’d cut my hair was on the corner as I went by in the evening, and nodded to me. Italian type. I went straight up towards the Strand. I passed a small fellow, and there was a bigger chap a little way ahead. I saw him again at a bus stop, and he got off at the same stop as I did. He was the fellow who really began to knock me about,” Jones said feelingly. “And one of these days—”
“I know. Was there anything special about the day’s haircut?”
Jones looked puzzled. “What can be special about a haircut?”
Rollison chuckled.
“I know what you mean! Did anything unusual happen? Did you see anything change hands, for instance, or hear a conversation that might be private?”
“The only unusual thing was that I picked up a leaflet giving details of a beautiful hair competition,” Jones said. “There’s a girl in the office with lovely hair, and I thought it would interest her. So I took one of the leaflets away with me.”
“Was the girl interested?” Rollison asked, as if this meant absolutely nothing, and the competition was quite new to him:
“Yes.” Jones looked rueful, but didn’t explain why. “That can’t possibly have anything to do with the attack on me, though. I simply took this leaflet and gave it to Goldilocks. And she—”
“Goldilocks?”
Jones grinned.
“If you ever meet her, don’t call her that or she’ll probably slap your face. She has wonderful golden hair, and everyone calls her Goldilocks except to her face. For some reason she hates it.”
“What’s her real name?” asked Rollison, and tried to make that question seem casual, too.
He did not succeed. This young man was as sharp as they came, and would not easily be persuaded that Rollison would ask questions for the sake of them. He could see that Rollison’s interest in the girl Goldilocks was deeper than that in the rest of the story. He did not answer for some seconds, then said very quietly:
“She’s Evelyn Day, who works in the Buying Office at Jepsons. She couldn’t possibly know anything about this business.” He was almost too emphatic, but did not volunteer any more information. Although he had answered all the questions quickly, and although his mind obviously worked at speed, he was looking pale and tired.
“Of course she can’t,” Rollison said soothingly, “but unless I see the whole picture I can’t hope to get any results.” He stood up. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”
Jones said quietly: “No, Mr. Rollison, but there’s one thing you can do for me.”
“What’s that?” Rollison expected some plea for the name and address of the assailants.
“If you see Miss Jepson, or her brother for that matter, tell them how warmly I appreciate what they’ve done, will you?” said Jones. “It was magnificent. They’re always very generous, everyone who works for Jepsons is devoted to them, but this—” Jones sounded choked and looked about the room. “I know some people would say that it didn’t cost them much, Jepsons could furnish a dozen homes from stock and not notice it, but that isn’t the point. Will you tell Miss Jepson?”
“I certainly will,” promised Rollison.
* * *
He left soon afterwards, drove to his club in Pall Mall, had a hurried dinner, and then telephoned Scotland Yard. Grice wasn’t there, but a superintendent on duty said:
“Yes, Mr. Rollison. Four youths broke into your flat, and we caught them red-handed. Said they were looking for Mrs. Wallis. We got ‘em before they did any damage at all. In fact the only breakage was a glass, one of them had helped himself to a whisky and soda, and threw the glass at our chaps. It broke against the door. They’re being held at Great Marlborough Street, and they’ll be up for a hearing in the morning.”
If the magistrate remanded ‘em for eight days, that would be four of the enemy out of the firing line,” said Rollison hopefully.
“Wouldn’t surprise me if Grice is planning just that,” the superintendent said. “Or you are!” He gave a throaty chuckle.
Rollison rang off, then dialled a Mayfair number, and was answered by a man with a deep and resonant voice, the voice of a gentleman’s gentleman, a butler beyond all reasonable doubt. His name was Forbes, and he had served the Jepson family for nearly half a century.
“One moment, sir, I will find out if Miss Ada is in.”
Rollison held on, staring along the marble passage of this club, with its statues and its oil paintings of past members, its marble columns, its decorated ceiling, and its reminder of a dying age, for two women came walking along the passage with a man, quite animatedly.
“Mr. Rollison, sir,” the voice said. “Miss Ada is in and will be glad to see you if you call.”
* * *
The Jepsons lived at Maybury Square, one of the smaller squares which was still mainly residential. For a London house of the late Regency period it was not large, but it had much charm. The hall, the staircase and the rooms were furnished as they had been sixty or seventy years ago, and there was an air of good taste and yet a hint of opulence in the manservant—not Forbes—who opened the door. Rollison caught a glimpse of a dining-room with great Waterford glass chandeliers hanging low over a table which could seat a dozen on either side.
Ada came hurrying down the stairs, bright-faced and eager.
“Rolly, darling, how sweet of you to come! I called your flat several times but there was no answer, so I supposed you were out after all these bad men again. Have you got any results yet?”
“Give me time,” pleaded Rollison.
“Well, it’s your own fault if I expect miracles, you’re always performing them.” Ada put a cool hand on his arm and led him along a quiet passage to a small room, of much charm, with its green and gold, its books and pictures, and the tapestry stretched over a frame with wools of a hundred colours and shades in a box divided into tiny sections. Half-a-dozen needles, all threaded, were stuck in the tapestry, and a picture of a woman’s face was already half-formed. Over the mantelpiece was an oil painting of the same woman; Rollison knew that this was Ada’s mother who had died several years ago.