Rollison leaned forward in conspiratorial fashion, and tapped his knee.
“Could you tip them off to keep their eyes open for Pauline Dexter, who works at the Meritor Studio? One day she hopes to be an actress. Blonde, beautiful, brazen and bad boys’ comforter, she may be somewhere near the studio with one or two extras or small-part players or technicians. I don’t know anything much against the lady,” he added, “but if she’s seen around, and the Epping bobbies tell you, and you happen to let me know, I think it would show some results. On the other hand, if she or her entourage knew she was being watched they’d all run out on us. Savvy?”
“I savvy,” said Grice dryly. “So, not satisfied with working independently, you now want us to help you.”
“Confound it,” complained Rollison, “when I use Ebbutt’s bruisers you complain; now when I come clean, you advise me to call on Ebbutt again!”
“I’ll speak to the Epping people,” promised Grice.
“Now that’s friendly,” said Rollison.
“But you can’t go on like this indefinitely,” Grice warned.
He left soon afterwards, and Rollison sat back and surveyed the ceiling, feeling flat after the spurious excitement of the two interviews. At least he had now taken reasonable precautions against disaster for Snub.
He called Jolly, and took out the B.B.C. script with the copy of Pauline’s alterations.
“Pull up a chair, Jolly,” he said. “Let’s see what we can make of Pauline’s message to the programme’s ten million listeners.”
“Or to a few among that number,” said Jolly prosily. “Supposing I make a copy of the amendments, sir—we already have two copies of the original script—and then we can study them separately and compare notes and suggestions.”
“Copy on,” agreed Rollison.
Jolly was speedy on the typewriter, and instead of sitting back and studying the original, Rollison stood behind him and watched the letters leap on to the blank white paper. Thus he read more slowly, and the new sentences were impressed vividly on his mind. These “new” passages were all at the end of the script, in those passages which Rollison had studied in the taxi. Jolly typed:
ALLEN : I’d lost count of time, but kept hoping. I’d picked up a bit of the lingo by then, and one day gathered that a neighbouring, but hostile tribe, was coming to pay a visit. My little crowd was in a panic. They said this other tribe was armed with modern weapons, supplied by the Japs. My people decided to break camp. I slipped away from them during the night, and heard the fighting from way off.
INTERVIEWER: You were glad to be out of it, I bet.
ALLEN : Oh, yes. And by good luck, I found a way through one of the passes and met up with a small party of film people—mostly Americans—on their way to Rangoon after taking some shots for a travel film.
INTERVIEWER : You were glad to be out of it, I bet.
ALLEN: I certainly needed it I shall never forget seeing white people again, after so long. I shall never forget their faces, either. I hope to meet them all again one day—the sooner the better. We’ve a lot of memories to share.
INTERVIEWER: YOU certainly have! Let’s hope you find them.
Jolly finished typing, and took the paper from, the machine. Then they compared the new version with the old.
“It looks very simple, Jolly, doesn’t it?” Rollison said at last. “In one way, sir,” agreed Jolly. “It conveys a clear message— that Allen would like to get in touch with the men concerned, that he remembers them, and that they have something which they ought to share with him. Do you agree, sir?”
“I don’t see what else it can mean. And if Pauline knows her job, she’ll make sure that the people for whom the message is intended will hear it. They’ll be warned in advance to listen to Allen that night, and they’ll probably obey. There’s a threat in the message too—that Allen would recognise all of them again. I can’t imagine the B.B.C. arguing against this, can you?”
“I see no reason why they should,” agreed Jolly. “And I don’t see how it would help us if they did.”
Rollison said: “I think I do, Jolly.”
“Indeed, sir? How?” When Rollison did not answer, and by his silence exhorted Jolly to think, the latter went on slowly: “We have only the vaguest notion where Snub has been. You know, sir, in spite of everything, I’m coming to the conclusion that we would be wise now to tell the whole story to Scotland Yard. We won’t find Snub or the girl, but the police might. I really don’t think you told Mr. Grice enough. Is there any other chance of getting results, sir?”
Rollison half-closed his eyes and looked at the ceiling.
“We can’t find Snub, there isn’t time and we haven’t a clue. But we do know that Pauline is desperately anxious for this particular message to be broadcast to-morrow. She’s gone to extreme lengths to make sure of it. Everything she’s done proves that it’s her priority Number One. And she told me that she would have a stooge in the B.B.C. studio who would make trouble if it weren’t broadcast in this version. Right?”
Jolly did not speak.
“And I believe she will do that,” said Rollison. “I think she’s proved up to the hilt that she’ll take any risk to get that message put over. And I think she’ll send someone whom Allen knows to the studio, someone who will put the fear of death into him, to make sure that he doesn’t get cold feet at the last minute.”
“Possible, sir,” conceded Jolly.
“Jolly, we must find Pauline or someone who can lead us to Pauline, or we’re lost. If her stooge is in the studio, we must find a way to force his hand. But if we tell the police, they’ll have to prevent the broadcast. Grice couldn’t gamble on a quick showdown in the Aeolian Hall. If he did . . .”
He broke off at a sharp rat-tat on the front door which cut across his words. Jolly moved quickly, but Rollison reached the hall before him. He switched on the light and saw a white envelope lying on the mat. He strode to the door opened it; there was a distant scuffling movement; whoever had brought that note had gone. Rollison rushed downstairs and into the street, calling:
“Perky!”
He saw Perky Lowe’s cab a few yards along, but Perky didn’t make a move towards him. He thought he heard running footsteps but could see too one, for the lighting in Gresham Terrace was very poor.
“Perky!” He hurried to the cab, but still the driver did not move.
Rollison saw why a moment later. Perky had been struck on the back of the head, blood matted his hair, and he was slumped forward over the wheel.
Perky Lowe came round when Rollison reached the flat with him, and Jolly helped to carry him to the sofa. He vaguely remembered a man coming along the street and asking if he were free, but he wouldn’t recognise him again. He’d said “no” —and had then been struck on the back of the head by someone who had approached from behind.
“But never mind abaht me,” he insisted. “I’m okay, Mr. Ar. You ‘ad any luck?”
“I don’t think so,” said Rollison, looking at Jolly, who had doubtless opened the letter.
“I’m afraid not, sir,” said Jolly. He took the letter from the desk and handed it to Rollison. Perky watched, with bloodshot eyes. Jolly stood erect and at attention, as he always did in moments of crisis. And Rollison read:
“The police will find Merino’s body; and the gun, with his finger-prints on it; and impeccable evidence that he shot Merino. But you can have the gun and the evidence after the broadcast on Saturday night, if it all goes well.”
“That settles the issue, sir,” said Jolly.
“We wait until to-morrow night, after the broadcast,” agreed Rollison.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
REHEARSALS
“OF course you can stay,” said Hedley, warmly. “Very glad to have you with us, Mr. Rollison—thought any more about that broadcast of yours, yet?”