“Well, well!” he exclaimed. “Congratulations, Jolly!”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And what are these?” asked Rollison, touching some pieces of charred wood. There was also a length of string, burned at both ends, and a tin tack badly bent at the point.
“They came from the staircase after the explosion, sir. A policeman took some of the samples but left these, and I thought I was at liberty to remove them. I understand that the constable arrived while I was telephoning Mr. Grice. I thought it wise to inform the police, since it was so evident that violence was intended. I trust that meets with your approval, sir.”
“Warm approval,” said Rollison.
“I hope you’ve a good excuse for being so late, because when I make a report, there are going to be some nasty remarks.”
“Excuse?” Rollison frowned and looked at Grice as if perplexed. “I suppose so—unless,” he added in a burst of inspiration, “you were to go abroad until it was all over! The Riviera, for instance—I’m sure you’d love a trip to the Riviera. How much would it cost, Jolly?”
“Six or seven hundred pounds, according to one estimate I heard recently,” said Jolly solemnly, “but I have no doubt that it could be done for considerably less. Is the lemonade to your liking, Mr. Grice?”
Grice, who was sipping, grunted.
“Can I get you anything, sir?” Jolly asked Rollison.
“No, thanks. Don’t go through. I’m sure Mr. Grice will want to ask you a few questions.” He leaned forward and indicated the various exhibits with his forefinger, explaining what they were item by item, letting the story build up vividly. He kept nothing back, except his own visit to the flats in Lilley Mews. And he ended with an account of what had transpired at the Aeolian Hall.
Grice finished his lemonade.
“And what else?” he asked.
“Believe it or not, Bill, I think that Allen is in mortal terror of you and a police uniform, and I thought it worth while trying to help him without recourse to law. And if you’d like an opinion——”
“You know what I think of you,” said Grice heavily.
“This doesn’t directly concern me. I don’t think you will get anything on Mr. Merino or his girlfriend, I don’t think you will persuade Allen to talk, I don’t think you could hold anyone in this affair except Blane. There just isn’t any evidence against Merino or Pauline, only a lot of suspicion. And I’m sorry you’ve come because now I suppose you’ll have to take official action, and that may really blow the lid off. You might possibly drive these people underground, but even if you do they’ll pop up again when you’re busy on something else. And I’d much rather get it finished now; Barbara Allen can’t stand much more of this pressure. Nor can Allen.” He leaned back, touching the back of his injured hand gingerly. “If I were young and callow in the ways of the wicked, William, and if I didn’t know that you’re the most orthodox of policemen, I would now go down on my bended knees and ask you to do nothing until Saturday.”
“That’s impossible!” exclaimed Grice.
“The poor, poor Aliens,” sighed Rollison.
“Pauline suggested he should broadcast, therefore Merino wants him to broadcast, he was promised relief by Saturday —and now he won’t get it. He’ll live for weeks and maybe months on the edge of a volcano, wondering when it’s going to erupt again, he’ll lead his wife a dog’s life—and all because Merino chose a noisy way of trying to do me in. Sad, isn’t it!”
“You needn’t expect me to take any notice of that kind of blather,” said Grice. “Even if I would—and I certainly wouldn’t —forget what you’ve told me, there’s the report about the explosion. It’ll have to be investigated. The story of Merino’s visit here—is that Merino?” he added, looking at the photograph which Rollison had indicated casually.
“Yes.”
“Well, the story will have to be told and he’ll be interviewed.”
“Oh no, he won’t,” said Rollison.
“Of course he will!”
“Mr. Merino will have left his flat and will be at some place unknown by now,” said Rollison. “He took his chance and lost it. I can’t really understand the fellow. I could understand him coming and threatening, but it was crazy to do this—or allow it to be done—knowing that even if I were hurt, Jolly wouldn’t be and the story would be told. But I’m pretty certain this will scare him out of town. You might get hold of his girl friend, but she wasn’t here, there’s nothing you can pin on to her. If you tackle the Aliens, all you’ll get is a re-hash of what I’ve told you. Allen’s scared of the police, but that’s not an indictable offence. You’ll spend a lot of time and public money chasing round in circles, whereas if things were allowed to go on as they are, we might get results by Saturday night.”
Grice made no comment.
“Bill,” said Rollison thoughtfully.
“Yes?”
“If I were to pull a few strings and get the Assistant Com-missioner’s hearing, will you support do-nothing tactics—on the strict understanding that I take no serious action without telling you? You’ll have to watch events, of course, you could put a man to watch the Aliens and another to keep an eye on Blane and a third to watch Pauline. But once you come out into the open, we’ve had it. The Aliens——”
“It’s not like you to talk about pulling strings,” said Grice.
“This isn’t an ordinary case. Two youngsters in hell,” Rollison said. “If you doubt it——”
The front door bell rang.
“See who it is, Jolly, will you?” asked Rollison.
Jolly went out, and Grice and Rollison sat in silence, looking towards the door. Rollison heard Jolly walk across the hall, but he was not thinking about the caller. He wondered if there were the slightest chance that Grice would see the thing his way. It wasn’t really feasible. He was giving way to wishful thinking, and——
He sat up abruptly, for a girl’s voice sounded outside.
“Is Mr. Rollison in?”
It was Barbara Allen!
He had heard her voice often enough to recognise it, but had only once heard anything like the same note of despair— when she had uttered a single “Oh”, over the telephone.
Jolly said: “Yes, madam, he’s in.”
Rollison jumped to his feet
“Bill, sit tight for a few minutes.” He reached the door and called to Jolly, who was taking the girl to the dining-room.
She was very pale and her eyes were lack-lustre. She wore a wide-brimmed hat which covered most of her hair. Her clothes were crumpled and her shoes dusty, as if she had walked a long way. The tone of her voice reflected her expression—one of dreary helplessness. She looked at Rollison blankly. He took her arm and led her into the study.
“I’ve a friend with me,” he said. “He knows all about it. Mr. Grice—Mrs. Allen.”
Barbara nodded, but hardly glanced at Grice. She went to Rollison’s chair and sat down. With a weary gesture she took off her hat. There was a red ridge where it had pressed against her forehead. Some of the long hair fell out of place, and revealed the short tuft. She leaned back and closed her eyes wearily.
Grice had risen to his feet, and stood looking at her.
“What’s the trouble, Mrs. Allen?” asked Rollison quietly. “You needn’t be afraid to speak freely.”
“Needn’t be—afraid,” she said. Her lips twisted, and she gave a bitter little laugh. “I’m so frightened that I don’t—I don’t know how to go on.” Then her voice quickened, she opened her eyes and looked into Rollison’s. “Can’t you do anything? Isn’t there anything anyone can do? Must we go on like this?”
“Well get over it,” Rollison temporised.
“Yes, but where?” A momentary fire died from her eyes. “Oh, I know you’re doing everything you can, but somehow I can’t seem to fight any more. It’s been such a long time, he’s worse than ever—you’ve seen him, haven’t you?” She hardly knew what she was saying, but Rollison was glad that Grice could see and hear her. “I’d rather anything happen than go on like this. I’d rather be dead.”