He moved to the upright microphone, buttoned his jacket, coughed and, without a glance at the script in his hand, began to speak.
He had been so casual that the others hardly noticed that the red light had replaced the green. In a voice so familiar that it seemed as if it came from a friend, he spoke briskly:
“This is the B.B.C. Home Service.”
Nothing happened when he stopped. Rollison looked about him in surprise, Jolly peered at the announcer, everyone waited and seemed to think some catastrophe had befallen the programme—and then Rollison saw that the announcer was looking through the glass partition and realised that the programme’s signature tune, the Knightsbridge March, was being played on a gramophone in the control room. The tall young man turned away and began to speak again.
“Once again we stop the mighty roar of London’s traffic and from the great crowds we bring you some of the interesting people who are In Town To-night!”
He stepped away from the microphone, and there was another silence while the London Again Suite, Oxford Street, was played over the air but did not sound in the studio. In the hush, it was impossible for Rollison and Jolly to whisper to each other. Then the wandering artist moved his script, coughed nervously, and Wentworth began to speak.
The programme was really on; in half an hour Allen would finish, that red light would fade, the green replace it. Green for safety . . .
Jolly put his mouth close to Rollison’s ear.
“You were going to tell me how you expect to influence what Allen has to say,” said Jolly. When Rollison simply looked at the back of Allen’s head, Jolly went on: “Are you sure it will be the right thing to do, sir? Is there any way of making sure that it will help the situation?”
Rollison said: “Jolly, supposing we do what we’re told—what will happen? Can these people afford to release Snub? He may have been on the spot when Merino-was killed—we still don’t know who murdered Merino, you know. It’s even possible that Pauline will manage to fake evidence which can’t be denied that Snub killed him. She’s clever and cunning, and I wouldn’t like to say that we can outwit her simply by giving way now and hoping to fight another day. Don’t forget that she’s put everything in getting that message put across to-night, and if she succeeds in that, then she’s won. If we’re to have a chance, the message mustn’t go out, and we have to find who ever is working for her here.”
Hedley glanced at him, obviously disapproving. The Danes had finished, the busker was about to perform. In the control room several people were standing against the wall. No one appeared to be taking any notice of Allen, but the minutes were flying by, and his turn would soon come. Next were the Lundys, then Toni—seven or eight minutes at the most remained.
“Well?” asked Rollison.
“You’re quite right, sir,” said Jolly, “but if Allen is determined to do what the woman has told him, how can you prevent him?”
Rollison said: “He’s sitting there with his script rolled up, he won’t open it again until he goes to the mike. Hemmingway’s advised him not to read it too often. He’ll be called to the table so that he’s waiting there while Toni’s giving voice. He might look through the script then and see it, but there’s a good chance that he’ll look on the first page and not turn over a leaf. Until he turns over, he won’t see what I’ve done.”
“What have you done?” asked Jolly in an agonised whisper.
Rollison said: “I’ve slipped back the original page of script —given him another copy. When he starts to read the second page, he’ll be reading that original, and he’ll be well on the way before he realises that it’s not the revised version. He’ll either stop altogether, or pause and then go on reading what’s in front of him. It’s going to be a tense minute, Jolly.”
“Tense !” echoed Jolly.
Hedley positively glowered at them.
Rollison stood up, waited until Toni had started to sing, then tip-toed towards Allen. He ignored the frown of many who glanced at him. And Toni’s singing reached a pitch of perfection which it was almost sacrilegious to interrupt. Rollison sat down on a chair by the wall, so that he could see everyone, including Allen.
Then he saw the door open.
He caught his breath. It didn’t open wide at first, no one else noticed it, the Italian’s voice drugged all of them—but Rollison watched the door, fascinated. Who would dare to come in now?
The door opened a little wider.
Rollison saw a hand gripping it—a small, gloved hand. Then a neatly shod foot and a well-turned ankle appeared; whoever it was, was dressed in black, with sheer silk stockings; he imagined Pauline’s golden curls.
The newcomer stepped in.
It was Barbara Allen I
She looked swiftly round the studio . . .
Hedley had seen her, and raised his hand in urgent warning. Allen, sitting at the microphone, looked up and stiffened. Rollison saw his scowl— he looked then as if he hated his wife. No one else appeared to notice that anything was unusual, and the Italian’s song came towards its end, a gentle, pleading end.
He finished . . .
“And also in the studio,” began Wentworth, smiling at Allen, “is a man who has one of the most remarkable stories ever told, to tell us. He is Mr. Robert Allen, until lately Wing Commander Allen of the R.A.F., who was lost in Burma for several years—exactly how long, Mr. Allen?”
Allen opened his mouth but didn’t speak. It was only a momentary silence, no longer than that which had followed the introductions of the other broadcasters, but to Rollison it seemed an age. Now, too, he had to try to watch Allen and the others in the studio—and Barbara. She took in the situ-ation at a glance, raised her hand to catch Rollison’s eye and began to creep round the walls of the room. Hedley went swiftly towards her, to try to stop her, but she ignored him.
Hedley had no answer to such defiance, but looked thunderstruck. Barbara passed in front of Jolly, who leaned forward as if to touch her, then drew back. Rollison saw her moving out of the corner of his eye, but couldn’t give her much attention, he had to watch the others. Some—the Danes, the young people who had come to watch, and the busker—were looking at Allen. The busker yawned widely; now that his part was over, he wasn’t interested in anything, or anyone else. But McMahon, the wandering artist, Toni and his little troupe, the Lundys and their friends, were all glancing down at their scripts. Any one of them might be following the script line by line word by word to check Allen.
Rollison was trying to do that.
Barbara drew nearer.
He put out a hand, glanced at her and touched his lips, hoping that she wouldn’t ignore him. He heard Allen answer another of Wentworth’s questions, and saw him fumbling with the corner of his script, to turn over.
Barbara crouched down on one knee, beside Rollison.
“He must do what she told him,” she whispered in desperate entreaty. “She’ll kill——”