Had they fallen out with Merino, because of what had happened that afternoon?
He went out of the garage and closed the doors, locked up and walked through the empty street with a chill wind blowing into his face. He walked slowly up the stairs at Gresham Terrace, and was relieved to see a light under the door. Only then did it occur to him to wonder what the time was; not very late, or there wouldn’t have been so much traffic about. He fumbled for his keys, but before he could find them, the door opened.
“I’m glad to see you back, sir,” said Jolly quietly.
“Yes,” said Rollison. “Thanks.”
When they were in the hall and Rollison was plainly visible, Jolly began to speak—then closed his mouth and hurried ahead, to open the study door.
“What can I get you, sir?” he asked.
“Aspirins,” said Rollison.
“Some coffee——”
“Just aspirins.” Rollison went to his arm-chair and sat down. Jolly returned with three aspirins and a glass of water. Rollison swallowed the tablets, sipped, said “thanks” and then groped for his cigarette-case. Jolly took it from his hand and lit a cigarette for him.
“No one lets me light my own these days,” said Rollison.
•Indeed, sir?”
“But I’m not blaming you,” said Rollison. “Jolly.”
“Sir?”
“I’ve just driven through the streets of London with the corpse of Merino in the back of the car.”
Jolly backed a pace, and looked appalled. But in a moment his mask fell back into place. It was some time before he spoke, and throughout the long silence he stared into Rollison’s glassy, bloodshot eyes.
Then he said: “Where is the corpse now, sir?”
“Still in the car—in the garage.”
“Isn’t that a little unwise?” asked Jolly.
Rollison’s lips puckered into a smile.
“Sometime or other Barbara Allen told me that I was like a breath of fresh air,” he remarked. “You are obviously of the same breath, Jolly. Yes, it’s damned silly, but it took me rather by surprise. You see, I didn’t know it was there when I started out.”
“I see, sir,” said Jolly. “You didn’t, then, shoot Mr. Merino?”
“No, Jolly. I’m sorry.”
“I think perhaps it’s as well, sir. I feel sure that had you done so, Mr. Grice would have felt that you were taking too much on yourself. The—er—body was planted on you, then.”
He broke off, and this time could not keep back his exclamation of surprise.
“But—but you didn’t take the car, sir!”
“No Black Magic; it was borrowed for the occasion,” Rollison said. “Jolly, we’ve much too much on our plate, and I’ve some really bad news. We could shed the body——”
“I was going to suggest, sir, that I should take the car and endeavour to do some such thing,” said Jolly. “I feel sure that in the circumstances, it would be better if it were not generally known that we were concealing a corpse. I—did you say you had worse news, sir?” He looked appalled.
They’ve taken Snub,” announced Rollison.
Only then did he realise fully the regard which Jolly had for Snub Higginbottom. Jolly’s eyes half-closed, he raised his hands in a helpless gesture of dismay. Without asking if he might, he went to a chair and sat down heavily.
“Get yourself a drink,” said Rollison. “I’ll try one now, too.”
“Very good, sir.” Jolly went to the cabinet and poured out whiskies-and-soda, one weak, one strong. The weak one he gave to Rollison. He sat down again at a word from Rollison, and sipped.
“You—you’ve no idea where Snub is, sir?”
“Not the foggiest,” Rollison told him. “No easy way out of this, Jolly. I’ve been given an ultimatum, too. Er—what’s the time?”
“A little after twelve-thirty,” said Jolly. “I was getting worried, and would shortly have telephoned Ebbutt, in the hope that he knew something of your most recent movements. Snub— Snub did telephone though, it was his voice, I’m quite sure.”
“Oh yes No blame on Snub or you. They let him send for me and then shanghaied him. And they weren’t exactly gentle with me. A man named Max . . .”
Jolly listened to the ensuing recital without making any comment; and Rollison told it at some length, because that helped him to fix the details in his mind. He did not even hurry over the interview with Pauline Dexter, because he wanted to picture her, with that curious blend of naivete and blaseness, wanted to remember the inflection of her voice when she had “threatened”.
“And the question now is, what to do,” he said finally. “I’m empty of ideas, Jolly.”
Jolly, looking a better colour, stood up.
“We must do something about that corpse,” he said worriedly. “In most circumstances I would say that Mr. Grice should he consulted, but——”
“This being murder, he couldn’t hold his hand,” said Rollison. “He would immediately see Pauline and her staff, and might detain them. But Pauline was so very sure of herself. She must have other friends who are looking after Snub. She’s relying on the danger to Snub forcing me to keep silent. And she isn’t far wrong. There isn’t much we can do, Jolly. Grice will have Lilley Mews watched by now; we can’t take Bill’s boys along and raid the place. Even you’d like to use them for this, wouldn’t you?”
“I would, sir,” said Jolly. “You—ah—might make a further attempt to persuade Mr. Allen to talk. If you know what is behind all this, you will have a much stronger hand.”
“Oh, I’ll have another go at Allen,” said Rollison.
“On the other hand,” said Jolly, “I really don’t think you are well enough to see Mr. Allen to-night. I don’t like advising it, but the best immediate course is for you to have some rest. Your head looks very nasty, sir.”
“Oh,” said Rollison.
“I hope you will agree,” said Jolly. “Meanwhile, there is the question of the disposal of the body.”
“That must stay where it is,” decided Rollison, “we can’t cart a corpse about London. Jolly, bad head or no bad head, I must tackle Allen to-night. Get me a cab. And if this doesn’t work, I’ll get Ebbutt’s boys to tackle Lilley Mews, police or no police. I mean it,” he added, getting up with an effort.
Jolly was about to protest but changed his mind.
Barbara Allen opened the front door of the Byngham Court Mansions flat so quickly after Rollison’s ring that he knew she hadn’t been asleep. In fact she was fully dressed although she looked tired out. A gleam of hope sprang to her eyes when she first saw him, but he shook his head.
“Nothing new, Mrs. Allen, but I want a word with your husband.”
“Oh, please don’t wake him up,” she begged. “He’s dropped off to sleep, and——”
“I must have a word with him,” insisted Rollison. “I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t essential.”
She gave in.
“I suppose you must if you must. He’s in the spare room he went straight in there when he came in. He hardly said a word, and wouldn’t have anything to eat.”
She led the way to a tiny room, where there was a single bed, a small table and a corner cupboard. Allen lay under the sheet, wearing his singlet and trunks. He breathed evenly, and when Rollison called his name, did not stir. Barbara looked tense when Rollison shook Allen’s shoulder vigorously.
But Allen didn’t wake.
Rollison pulled up his eyelids and examined his eyes; they were contracted to tiny pin-points, and he judged from them that Allen had been drugged with morphia. He felt his pulse; it was very sluggish. He did not think the youngster was in any danger, the dose was enough to make him unconscious, but was not fatal.
He told Barbara, and added:
“It’s probably as well; at least he won’t be worried for a few hours. Keep him warm—and then go to bed yourself. There’s absolutely no danger. If I had my way, I’d give you a shot, that would send you off to sleep.”