Now something added up in Rollison’s mind, and its total meaning was terrifying. Wallis had caught up with Jolly and Stella Wallis, and he would have been in a livid mood. Fury at the way he had been man¬handled and at the disappearance of his wife would combine with his normal jealousy to make him more deadly than ever.
“Found him yet?”
Found him where?
Alive?
It would be easy to act blindly, and to make a fatal mistake. That had been Wallis, but there was a possibility, that the call had been bluff, that Jolly wasn’t hurt.
Forget it.
There was a much greater probability: that Wallis had called believing that Rollison would be in no mood for caution, hoping that he might lose his head in his desire to find Jolly.
“Found him yet?”
Found him where?
The telephone bell rang again.
It might be a second call made simply to tear his nerves, to try to drive him into impetuous action. But it was too soon after the first call for that to be reasonable. It might be—anyone. Ebbutt, Grice, Ada.
Nonsense.
No one would ring at this hour, nearly half past twelve, without a very good reason: such as Scotland Yard with news of Jolly. Only seconds passed while Rollison hesitated and the telephone kept ringing on a subdued note; Jolly had arranged for it to be subdued in this room, and loud in his bedroom. Nowhere else. Jolly. Rollison seemed to watch his own hand as it moved, grasped the receiver and put it slowly and deliberately to his ear.
“This is Rollison.”
“One moment, please, Superintendent Benson would like a word with you.”
Benson was the night man in charge at the Yard. Rollison found himself clenching his teeth, sensed rather than felt the pain that the clenching caused at his jaws. He stared at the trophy wall, standing within reach of it; close to him were the two tresses of hair.
Why the hell didn’t Benson come on the line?
He came.
“Rollison?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm,” Benson grunted. Get on with it.
“Better come right out and tell you. We’ve bad news about Jolly.”
Rollison said softly, carefully and clearly: “What kind of bad news?” but it seemed to him that he knew the answer before Benson spoke again, because Benson was a tough copper. Benson wouldn’t worry about reporting that a man had been beaten up.
“It’s touch and go,” Benson said.
But there was hope.
“Where is he?”
“Kingston Hospital. He’s in the theatre—”
Rollison interrupted with a swift: “Thanks.
I’ll go there,” but he hardly realised what he said. He replaced the receiver and began to move. He went into his bedroom and took an automatic, fully loaded, from a locked drawer in his wardrobe, and clipped a knife round his forearm and another round the calf of his leg.
Then he put on a cloth cap, which was rather high at the crown. Jolly should have had one. This was a refinement of the motor cyclist’s helmet, and the sheet of steel inside would take the worst of any blow. Too late? He left all the lights on as he went to the landing. He was ultra cautious as he walked downstairs, and shadows of the landings and of cupboards seemed like the shadows of men; but were not. He reached the street door, and opened that as cautiously. The Yard man was strolling past.
Rollison went out.
“Going out again, sir?”
“Yes.” Rollison was already opening the car door.
“I’ll keep an eye—” began the Yard man, and then his voice was drowned by the snarl of the car engine. He shrugged and backed away, glanced upwards, and then shouted at Rollison so that his voice penetrated all the other noises. “OW he shouted. “Oi!”
Rollison jammed on the brakes, and the engine stalled. He put his head out of the window.
“What is it?”
“You’ve left your flat lights on!”
Rollison opened his mouth to storm, then caught up with himself, said with tense calmness: “Yes. Leave them, will you?” and drove off.
The Yard man stood staring at him, frowning as the car hurtled round the corner.
By night the hospital was brightly lit and quiet, with only those who must be moving about the corridors and the wards, most of the offices closed, most of the patients resting quietly, some with drugs to help them ease their pain. First, Rollison saw a night porter; then a senior porter; next a nurse; at last a Sister.
“The accident case that came in just after midnight,” she said. “Yes, sir, he’s in the operating theatre now.”
“How is he, please?”
“I’m not yet in a position to say. Who are you, sir? His son?”
“I’m his employer, but that doesn’t explain—Sister, please find out how he is, what his chances are. Ask a doctor to come and see me, someone who knows what he’s doing. If it’s a brain injury, then we’ve got to have Kempton here.”
The Sister, small, dark and elderly, said in a startled voice: “Mr. Kempton?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m afraid we couldn’t expect Mr. Kempton—”
Somehow Rollison controlled the tone and volume of his voice. He did not know how strange he looked, startlingly handsome, his eyes afire and his mouth set so that the words seemed to force themselves out in a kind of growl.
“I know Mr. Kempton. He is a personal friend. If my man needs him, he’ll come. Please find out.”
With great compassion and some awe, the Sister said: “I’ll see what I can discover, sir. Will you sit down and wait?”
“Thank you.” Rollison didn’t sit down, and was tempted to follow her, but he did not. He paced up and down the passage outside her office, and seemed to be walking through the emptiness of time. Two nurses passed talking, joking, glancing at him; and were sobered. A tall, dark young man who needed a shave went hurrying into a ward. The Sister came, also hurrying.
Rollison waited for her with growing, chilling fear.
“The operation is over,” she announced. “Mr. Nott-Comber did the operation himself, and you can be quite sure that no one could have performed it better. It is just a question of waiting.”
“So he’s alive,” Rollison made himself say.
“The operation was successful,” the sister said, “but he lost a great deal of blood, and his life is still in the balance.”
“When should we know?”
“If he’s still holding on in the morning—”
“May I wait here?” asked Rollison, abruptly. “There is a waiting-room with a couch,” the Sister told him. “I’ll send a nurse with you, and then send you in a cup of tea and some aspirins.”
“You’re very kind,” said Rollison, and startled her afresh with the warmth of his smile. “Thank you.”
* * *
The couch was springy and comfortable, there were two cushions for his head, and the room itself was warm. Rollison loosened his collar, shoes and belt before the nurse came in, elderly, grey, tired-looking and disinterested. Rollison did not know what the tablets were, but felt fairly sure that they were not aspirins. He took them, and sat back. All the things that had happened began to go round in his mind, and he kept seeing pictures of the people involved, especially Wallis; Ada; the girl who had come so piteously to her father, with her lovely hair shorn; and Jolly.
Stella Wallis.
Over-confident, bragging fool, why hadn’t he been satisfied with scaring her? He should never have taken her away. It had seemed a touch of genius at the time, but was it genius to have the police at his heels, and worried? Was it genius to lay Jolly open to such a risk as this?
Jolly.
* * *
He did not know what time it was when another Sister stood in front of him, next morning, a buxom woman with a high colour, bright blue eyes, and a smile which suggested that she remembered the merry days of her probationer life. She held a cup of steaming tea steady as Rollison blinked, became aware of a crick in the neck and that he was hotter than usual, and then remembered. Everything but dread vanished from his mind, and the dread showed in his expression.