Rollison reached his flat.
Jolly should soon be back from taking Stella Wallis away, but now the flat was in darkness. The police still had a man in Gresham Terrace, but no one else was about. Rollison went upstairs, slowly and thoughtfully, trying to decide what he should do next.
If only he knew the motive; if only he could find the connection between the seven people—eight people now—whose homes and premises had been wrecked, and who could so easily have been ruined.
Was Donny Sampson the reason?
Rollison turned the key in the lock of his front door, opened the door a fraction, and listened intently; but he heard no sound. It would not be the first time that men had lain in wait for him, and he wanted to make sure that no one had avoided the police.
No one had.
As Jolly wasn’t back, there were no messages, nothing to keep Rollison here, and there was plenty for him to do.
He went downstairs again, got into the hired car and proved that its acceleration was as good as the driver had promised. It was nearly ten o’clock, and Jolly had been gone a long time; but he mustn’t start worrying about Jolly, who could look after himself.
Rollison drove to Chester Street, Ealing, where a light was on in the hall of Number 88. He rang. A man opened the door almost at once, stared at him in surprise, took a stubby pipe from his lips and said:
“Thought it were our ‘Arry,” in a voice that had been acquired on the broad Yorkshire moors.
“Is Miss Evelyn Day in?” asked Rollison.
“Who wants her?” There was sharp suspicion in the deep voice. “If you’re another policeman . . .”
“What have policemen been after her for?” demanded Rollison sharply.
Before the man could answer there were swift footsteps in the hall. A girl appeared, with a towel fastened turbanwise round her head. Her eyes were swollen and red with crying.
“Why don’t you find out who did it?” she cried. “Why don’t you find my hair?”
She had been attacked coming home from the pictures, and held by two men while a third had cut off her hair.
Rollison turned into Gresham Terrace again, glanced up, and felt sure that he would see a light on in his living room, the sign that Jolly was home; but the window was dark. He saw the Yard man coming towards him.
“Everything’s quiet, sir, I don’t think you’ll have any more trouble with those devils.”
“My man isn’t back, then?”
“Seen no one, sir, except the couple from the ground floor. They’d been out at the pictures, and they satisfied me as to their identity.”
“Ah, thanks,” said Rollison, and walked briskly upstairs, leaving the car parked in Gresham Terrace, feeling much more uneasy than he looked. He had expected Jolly back just after nine o’clock at the latest. For the first time since seeing poor Goldilocks Day, he forgot her and her little tragedy.
He made cautious entry into the flat, checked the time with an electric clock, and looked worriedly at the telephone. It was twenty minutes past eleven, and Jolly would certainly have telephoned if this were an accidental delay.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Jolly
Jolly sat with Stella Wallis in the back of the large, smooth-running car which had been sent from the hire service. He had told the driver where to go, and the woman hadn’t protested, hadn’t yet spoken a word. Either events had stunned her, or she was beginning to succumb to the sleeping dose which Rollison had put into her drink.
The light from street lamps showed that her eyes were wide open. Jolly glanced at her from time to time, aware of the pleasant scent she used, and not unaware of her closeness. He kept hoping that her head would loll forward as she lost consciousness, but ten minutes after they had started out, her eyes were still wide open.
He felt her hand move into his.
She squeezed.
It was a long time since any woman had behaved like that with Jolly, and it not only startled but shook him. He drew his hand away and glanced at her less with embarrassment than with dry amusement. She was smiling at him. Her eyes were narrowed now, but open quite wide enough, and her lips were parted, too; he could see the polish of the lipstick and the gleam of her white teeth. She was a good-looking woman, and knew what she was about.
She pressed his leg, gently.
He could ease away; or he could pretend that he had noticed nothing; or he could tell her to sit back in her corner. He took the line of least resistance, telling himself that if he made no response, she would soon get tired of this little game. He stared straight ahead. She squeezed his leg gently, and then moved so that she was cuddled close against him. Her right hand went to his cheek.
She didn’t speak; but he could feel her warm breath on his face.
He sat absolutely motionless for a moment, then he freed his hand, and said with strained courtesy:
“You are wasting your time, I assure you.”
He took her hand away from his cheek, but she went on pressing close against his side, as if determined that he would not be unaware of her nearness or her charms.
“Mrs. Wallis, please be good enough to realise that this is quite pointless,” he said more firmly.
The chauffeur in front of the glass partition could not hear any of this.
“Mrs. Wallis!” Now Jolly was sharp.
She let him go, but before he realised what she was going to do, moved again, seized his face between her hands, pulled his head down, and kissed him. He felt the soft warmth of her lips, the sharpness of her teeth as he struggled to free his head, but she had him in a hold that was hard to break.
“You’re so sweet,” she said, cooingly, “you’re so quaint, darling, why don’t you relax a little? No one would mind if you just relaxed.” She kissed him again, lingeringly, and his head was still imprisoned. He could not free himself without hurting her. “Just relax, darling,” she breathed, and he could only just see her face and her eyes as she looked at him.
He could stand outside himself, as it were, and see all this, the absurdity of it, the ludicrousness. He, Jolly, in charge of this woman, helpless under her grasp, fighting against her blandishments. He felt worse than he had ever felt in his life. He must stop her nonsense, it mustn’t matter if he hurt her. He took her wrist at last, and twisted sharply, and she gasped and fell back.
“I am sorry,” he said stiffly. “You left me no choice.”
She looked at him intently, showing no resentment.
“Poor, poor darling,” she said in that soft, cooing voice. “Aren’t you allowed any life of your own? Do you have to do everything that Rollison tells you? Won’t he even let you have a kiss or a little cuddle without permission? Why don’t you be a man, Jolly?”
“This discussion is quite pointless.”
Stella Wallis gave a curiously cooing laugh, and Jolly felt its barb and knew that in a way she was right: he was behaving like a pompous prig. He had to. He was serving Rollison, and had to take this woman to the cottage. She did not exist as a woman, simply as a prisoner of the Toffs, so he dare not relax. It did not matter how much of a fool she made him feel. At least there was only half an hour or so longer.
He could draw the driver’s attention, but the man was concentrating on the out-of-town traffic, and Jolly did not want to look a fool as well as feel one.
“Jolly,” Mrs. Wallis said, and slid her hand to his again. “Don’t be silly, pet, you—”
She stopped abruptly, to stifle a yawn. Jolly’s hopes rose. She would soon lose consciousness, and the embarrassing business could be forgotten.
She pressed close against him again.
“Jolly, honey, you really are so sweet,” she said huskily. “You’re wasted working for a man like Rollison—why don’t you relax, and be nice to me? I’ll put in a word for you with Tiny, you won’t get hurt.”