“Hallo,” said the girl.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Allen left just after four o’clock,” the operator reported. “I’ve spoken to someone who was in the office at the time. I’m sorry.”
“That’s—all right,” said Barbara. Thank you very much.”
She replaced the receiver and stared blankly in front of her. If Bob hadn’t been detained at the B.B.C., who had telephoned to say that he would be late? Where was he? The mystery which created his fear and her unhappiness closed down upon her.
Bob hadn’t returned at nine o’clock.
Barbara had not left the flat, had spoken to no one. Wearily at first, she had tidied up; the rooms were more or less in order now. She couldn’t think of anything that was missing. The few pounds, the ready money she always kept tucked away in a drawer, had been on the floor; if the thieves had wanted to take money, why hadn’t they taken that? Her few oddments of jewellery were still on the dressing-table. All her clothes and Bob’s were there, and yet the man had searched every nook and cranny, even the larder.
The Waste-paper basket overflowed with oddments of paper, old powder-puffs, an accumulation of rubbish. She emptied the basket into the fireplace, and put a match to them, then watched them flare up.
She felt better, and rather hungry. She made herself some tea and ate some biscuits—the tin lid had been left off by the intruders. The tea was hot and stung her lips and mouth, so she cooled it with more milk. Her face was badly swollen but not so sore. She had done her hair and wiped off her lipstick; she looked a sight, but that didn’t matter.
What had the man meant by “late”?
Was it “late” now?
If only Bob hadn’t been so insistent about not going to the police, she would have telephoned them, but she could not doubt that the burglary was connected with the mystery, and she couldn’t let him down. But if he didn’t return soon, she’d have to telephone Scotland Yard. How long dare she leave it? Until ten o’clock?
Or eleven?
At half-past ten she went into the bedroom, aimlessly, perhaps partly to keep away from the telephone. Ringing up the police and reporting that Bob was missing seemed the only thing to do, but—was he really missing yet? How she hated that word! “Missing—feared dead.” She went to the other side of the bed, Bob’s side, and saw the old newspapers on the chair, a pile of them. He had managed to get some back numbers of Sunday papers; he had been hungry for news of what had happened while he had been away.
She remembered their talk after lunch about Snub Higginbottom, a useful man in a tight corner. In a frenzy, she picked up the newspapers and spread them out over the bed. If she couldn’t consult the police, she must talk to someone. She went through paper after paper, looking for headlines about a murder trial. It took a long time, and she was in her own light, her shadow darkened the pages. She might have missed
There it was!
In evidence, Mr. James Higginbottom said . . .
She skimmed what he had said as she searched for his address; she did not find it, but there was an address further down the page.
The Hon. Richard Rollison, of Gresham Terrace, W.I., gave evidence of finding the body. Mr. Rollison . . .
She didn’t trouble to read on from there, but went into the hall and looked for “Higginbottom” in the directory. There were several, but she couldn’t be sure which was James or “Snub”. She looked for Rollison. The entry was there all right, “Rollison, R. The Hon., 55g, Gresham Terrace, Mayfair . . .
CHAPTER THREE
HELPING HAND
IT was some time before a man with a deep voice announced: “Rollison here.”
“I—I’m sorry to worry you,” said Barbara. “Can you please tell me where to find Mr. Higginbottom? Mr. James Higginbottom? I think—you once——”
“I know Mr. Higginbottom,” said the man with the deep voice, “and I can give you his address, but you won’t find him in to-night, I’m afraid.”
“Oh no,” said Barbara.
All her dismay and despair sounded in that single exclamation.
“Perhaps I can help you,” the man suggested.
“I—I don’t think so,” said Barbara. “I just wanted——” She couldn’t go on.
“I might be able to get in touch with Mr. Higginbottom, if it’s really urgent,” said Rollison.
He sounded friendly and anxious to help, and she couldn’t stop herself from bursting out:
“Oh, it is!”
Then give me your name and telephone number,” said Rollison. “You would like to see him to-night, I imagine?”
“Oh, yes, please.” She gave him the details. “It doesn’t matter how late it is, I shan’t be able to rest until I’ve seen him.”
“If I were you, I’d try,” advised Rollison.
She rang off, and smiling wanly at the recollection of his advice, went into the bedroom, kicked off her shoes, and lay down. The man had sounded so calm and reassuring that she began to wonder if she were making too much fuss. Bob might return soon. It wasn’t yet late; not really late.
Richard Rollison stood up from his desk in his large study-cum-sitting-room, and, without looking at the papers which he had been reading, went into the hall.
This was quite roomy and furnished sparsely, although a connoisseur would have appreciated the old oak settle with a swing seat, and the near-black wardrobe, the small but exquisite water-colours on the walls. A thick-pile brown carpet covered the floor. A short passage led off the hall to his man’s room, the kitchen and the bath-room. The main rooms all led from the hall.
He called out: “Asleep yet, Jolly?” and his man answered in a sleepy voice: “No, sir, not at all.” Rollison smothered a grin and opened the door.
By day, Jolly always dressed in black. By night, his colour scheme was much more gay, and he wore bright yellow pyjamas which were somewhat unexpected in a room which was obviously a man’s. It was rather crowded, with good but not antique furniture, and one wall was lined with books.
The light from a bedside lamp reflected from the yellow garments and gave his lined face, with its dewlaps, a look of yellow jaundice. He had been reading, in bed, and struggled to sit up while retaining hold on his book.
“Let me help you,” said Rollison gravely.
“I can manage quite well, sir, thank you,” said Jolly. “I must have been nearly asleep,” he remarked. “I’m sorry sir.”
“I wish I were nearly asleep,” said Rollison smiling into Jolly’s brown, soulful-looking eyes. “But I’m going out.”
“Can I get you anything?” asked Jolly.
“I hope I’m not going to need anything,” said Rollison. “Jolly, between these four walls——”
“Yes, sir?” A hopeful, inquiring note sprang into Jolly’s voice.
“Snub isn’t in love or anything like that, is he?” asked Rollison.
“Mr. Higginbottom, sir? I have not been informed of any such phenomenon.” Jolly was now quite wide awake. “He does from time to time form attachments, but I believe they are always short-lived.”
“But how deep while they last? Has he ever mentioned a Mrs. Allen?”
Jolly pondered, and shook his head. “I don’t recall the name, sir.”
“Or Barbara Allen? Possibly shortened to Bar or Babs?”
“Definitely not, sir,” said Jolly. “I hope that Mr. Higginbottom has not been getting himself into difficulties.”
“So do I,” said Rollison. “But a tearful young lady wants to see him urgently, and doesn’t mind how late it is when he calls. She’s undoubtedly in trouble. Snub’s in Blackpool, disporting himself with the Lancashire lasses, and so——”
“You are going to see Mrs. Allen,” concluded Jolly.