“Do sit down, and tell me what you’ll have,” said Ada. “Brandy or a liqueur, and a cigar . . .”
So, she fussed; and when liqueur and a cigar were at Rollison’s side, she went on: “Isn’t Jimmy Jones a pet?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me if the last thing in the world he’d want to be is a pet,” said Rollison.
“Oh, not that kind of pet! I’ve always thought he was one of the most promising of the new people we’re training, and Reggie thinks so too. He’s only in the Buying Office getting experience, you know. Or did I tell you that? I suppose you wouldn’t consider a place on the board, Rolly, would you, just as a kind of ideas man. The director’s fees would be . . . No? . . . Well, think about it. What I was going to say was that good does sometimes come out of evil, I don’t care what you say.” She gave her bright, puckish smile, and her eyes were glowing. “Jimmy Jones has been infatuated by one of the girls in his office, a pretty little thing whose chief claim to fame would be as Lady Godiva. I must admit her hair is wonderful! But apparently she only just looked in at the hospital, and hasn’t written to him, and I think he’s cured of that piece of nonsense. He . . .”
Ada talked too much, as if to cover emotion.
Sitting and listening to her, Rollison reflected: “She’s in love with this Jimmy Jones.”
He was mildly surprised by the discovery, and could not be sure whether Ada was trying to conceal it, or whether this was her way of telling him why she was so anxious to find out why Jimmy Jones had been attacked.
“. . . I mean, it could happen again, I suppose, and I’m positive that Jimmy himself knows no reason for it. Reggie agreed with me before he left—”
“Left?”
“Yes, he’s gone to Ibiza for a week or two, the poor dear didn’t have much of a holiday this year.”
“Lucky him,” Rollison said.
“Everything that happened to Jimmy Jones is so puzzling and worrying,” Ada went on hurriedly, and then paused.
Rollison leaned forward and said:
“Ada, I’m doing all I can to find out what’s behind it all. One obvious possibility is that it’s to do with Jimmy’s job.”
“Oh, that’s absurd!”
“The whole thing is absurd,” said Rollison lazily, “but facts are facts. He was attacked. He was one of eight different people who have been attacked as savagely and ruthlessly and by the same men. We only know the reason for one of the attacks, so far. We do know that the men who do the strong arm work are well paid—extremely well paid—and we won’t get anywhere until we find out who’s paying them.”
“Well,” said Ada, downrightly, “don’t look at me. I’m not.”
Rollison grinned.
“I think I’ll believe that!” he said.
As he finished, he turned his head swiftly, and Ada gave a little gasp and jumped up from her chair. At the window there was a crash of breaking glass. Something heavy struck the curtains and then fell to the ground; a moment later a second missile hit another pane of glass and that smashed too.
Two halves of a brick were on the floor, and tied to each was a tress of lovely hair, one black and shiny as a raven’s wing, the other like spun gold.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Tresses
After the second crash, there was silence.
No wind stirred the curtains when they had settled again. No footsteps sounded in the square or in the house itself. Ada, standing by her chair and touching the arms, stared at the bricks and the tresses of hair, as if she would not believe that they were there. Then she moved quickly towards them, until Rollison said sharply:
“Stand still.”
“But—”
“Just stay there,” said Rollison, and put an arm round her shoulders. “Listen.”
A long way off, there was traffic; that was all. No aeroplane droned, no one walked or drove or cycled past here, as far as they could tell.
“They must still be outside,” Ada breathed.
“That’s it,” said Rollison, “and they’re probably hoping we’ll put our heads out of the window, and have other bricks at hand. Is there a room immediately above this?”
“Yes, the music room. Why?”
“I remember it,” said Rollison, and then heard hurrying footsteps. When he reached and opened the door, white-haired Forbes appeared, looking anxious and alarmed. Behind him was the footman.
“Sir—”
“Stay here and look after Miss Ada,” Rollison ordered. “Someone may try to get in at this window, but I don’t think it’s likely. They might smash another window and try to get in that way, though.” He turned swiftly to the footman. “You go to the back, will you, and keep watch.”
“But the police—” Forbes began.
“Keep near a telephone, and dial 999 if you must.” Rollison turned and hurried towards the stairs. He heard footsteps behind him. Ada was there, refusing to be left with Forbes, undoubtedly scared but her eyes very bright; she was prettier when she was excited.
“What do you think they’re doing?” she asked urgently.
“Scaring the wits out of us,” said Rollison, and raced up the stairs with hardly a sound, heading for the music room. He recognised it from past visits; a long, narrow room with a grand piano, music stands, many instruments in their cases along one wall, and two violins, each a Stradivarius, also there; priceless things some of these, and irreplaceable.
The window was undraped.
Rollison opened it very cautiously; it was of the sash-cord type, and there was at least a possibility that this window was being watched. When it was open three or four inches so that he could hear as well as see outside, he crouched down and looked out onto the lamplit square, the few parked cars with their lights on and now, two cars which were driving past at speed. In the middle of the square was a fenced-off patch of grass and some plane trees.
“Anyone there?” breathed Ada.
“Can’t be sure,” whispered Rollison. “If that was just to show that they mean business there wasn’t much point in it. They may expect someone to rush and open the front door, and if they do—”
He broke off.
“Seen someone?” hissed Ada.
“Yes,” said Rollison, very softly. “There are several people by the fence, gathered round a tree, and crouching behind the parked cars.” He could just make out the dark shrouded figures: there were seven or eight people in all, like attendants at a ghostly meeting. “One’s standing by the front gate, too, they’re ready to rush if the front door’s open.”
“But what on earth are they up to?”
“They’re probably after my blood, and if they are we haven’t much to worry about,” Rollison said. “If they’re after yours, and want to wreck this place—”
“Oh, no!”
“. . . we’ll need the police to stop them,” Rollison finished. He watched the silent group, most of whom would have been hidden from people walking along the street; he saw them only because he was looking down on them. “But if we send for the police and squad men are rushed here, these chaps are as safe as houses. It’s no offence to stand about in a group unless there’s evidence of felonious intent.”
“Oh, stop talking like a policeman,” breathed Ada. “What are we going to do?”
Rollison looked down at her in the dark, and grinned.
“How important is your hall carpet?”
“It isn’t important at all. Why?”
“You’re bound to have some household sprays and some liquid ammonia in the house,” Rollison said, hopefully. “How long will it take to get two or three sprays loaded?”