“Admirable deduction,” said Rollison. “And I’m going at once because I don’t want to be too late! Her address is Byngham—with a “y”—Court Mansions, St. John’s Wood, and her telephone number is St. John’s 81312. So if I’m not back by the morning, you’ll know where to find me.”
“Very good, sir,” said Jolly primly.
“Good-night,” said Rollison.
After Rollison had gone, Jolly shook his head and smiled —a rather solemn smile, as one might give when brooding over the follies of youth or the idiosyncracies of men in love. He knew that Rollison had lately been lured into a series of social functions which he seldom enjoyed, and this was his first early night for a week. Moreover, Rollison—sometimes called the Toff—did not make up in the morning for sleep he lost at night He was busy with a variety of jobs, many self-imposed, and missed the services of Snub Higginbottom, his secretary.
The unexpected visit had driven sleep away. Jolly got up, put on a dark blue dressing-gown, made himself a cup of tea, and took it into the study. He enjoyed an hour there when Rollison was not in. To-night, he found himself contemplating the trophy wall.
At one time he had disapproved of it, for the trophies were not of ordinary hunts, but of man-hunts. And in most of them Jolly had played a part, not always willing, but often important There were, for instance, the two umbrella-handles. With one, Jolly had hooked the feet from under a man who might easily have mortally wounded his employer; with the other, Jolly had knocked a man out simply by striking him over the head. Curiously enough, these incidents were the only ones for which Jolly had been formally thanked by a magistrate or a judge for contributing to the success of the law over lawlessness, which was why Rollison had selected them as Jolly’s trophies.
There was the top hat, right at the top, with a hole drilled through the crown. There were chicken feathers. There were knives, automatics, curious and ingenious weapons, some of which hardly looked lethal. There were glass cases in which were tiny quantities of deadly poisons. There was a cosh, one of the earliest trophies; it was after Rollison had won the cosh, that Jolly had first heard him called “The Toff”. And there was a visiting-card—one of Rollison’s, with spots of dried blood on one side and, on the other, a simple drawing of a top-hat, a monocle and a swagger cane. The Toff seldom used such a card these days
Jolly sipped his tea, and remembered.
At five minutes past twelve, the front door bell at No. 31, Byngham Court Mansions rang. Barbara, still on the bed, sat up abruptly, and her heart began to thump. It wasn’t Bob, he had a key. The last time the front door bell had rung, she had opened it to admit the two “workmen”. Getting up, she glanced in the mirror, but there was nothing she could do about her appearance, her lips and nose were even puffier now. She hurried out and opened the front door.
The hall light shone on a tall, dark-haired man. She saw in the first glimpse that he was good-looking, and she liked the way his lips curved. He wore a light-coloured raincoat but no hat. He wasn’t Snub Higginbottom. Snub had earned his name through the shape of his nose, and this man’s nose was aquiline. Then she saw his eyes; grey, clear, with a curious brilliance.
“Mrs. Allen?” It was the voice she had heard over the telephone.
“You—you’ve come yourself!” She stood aside, and was vividly aware of his searching glance. What should she tell him now that he was here? She hadn’t dreamed he would come himself, and it would have been difficult enough to tell Higginbottom, who had known Bob for years.
The stranger closed the door gently.
“You’ve had a rough time,” he remarked. “Nasty stuff, chloroform.”
“Chloro” she began, and choked on the word.
“When carelessly applied, it has a colourful effect. I can smell it, too,” said Rollison. He gave her another penetrating stare, yet his eyes had softened. “Are you alone here?”
“Yes. My husband—hasn’t come back. That’s why——”
And suddenly it was easy to talk.
When she had finished the story, Rollison was sitting in Bob’s easy chair and Barbara in a fireside chair, hugging her knees. She had started off by intending to tell him a little— about the attack on her and Bob’s long absence, but he prompted her so shrewdly that she kept nothing back. One of his comments had been: “I’m not a policeman, you know,” and that had done more than anything else to make her talk without reticence.
Now that all was told, she still felt desperately anxious, but relieved. He offered her cigarettes, then laughed at himself because obviously she couldn’t smoke with any enjoyment. His naturalness won her completely.
“But you smoke, please,” she said.
“Thanks.” Rollison lit a cigarette. “Did anyone else know where your husband was going?”
“No, not a soul. There was hardly time to tell anyone. In any case, the people in the next flat are away, and we don’t know them downstairs, they’re comparatively new.”
“How new?” asked Rollison quickly.
“Well—six or seven months.”
They came before your husband returned?” “Oh yes, some time before.”
Rollison lost interest in the “new” people downstairs.
The men who telephoned to say your husband would be late must know where he is,” reasoned Rollison. “Cases of kidnapping in broad daylight are rare, it’s much more likely that someone persuaded him to go with them, and although he may not have gone willingly, he probably went of his own volition. What time did the gas-men come?”
“At ten past four exactly.”
“A gas-man and his mate are among the least noticed people in London,” remarked Rollison. “I suppose you haven’t noticed anyone loitering about the street outside in the last few days?”
“No, no one,” said Barbara, after a moment’s reflection.
“Other people may have noticed them. Have you any idea what they wanted?”
“No,” answered Barbara.
“Sure? Not even a notion?”
“Yes, I’m quite sure.” The importance of the question struck home to Barbara now. “Bob told me nothing at all until this morning, when—well, I’ve told you——” She broke off, leaning back and half-closing her eyes. “And all I know is, he’s afraid of the police and—and hopes that he’ll have nothing to worry about after Saturday.” Rollison nodded understanding, and she went on: “I can’t imagine why he should be so frightened of the police. I can’t imagine Bob committing a crime, or even thinking of it——”
“Let’s not forget that he had several very rough years, and when a man comes out of the hell that’s Burma jungle, he isn’t going to be quite himself for some time,” said Rollison. “And like a lot of people he may be more nervous of the police than necessary. They’re not so bad, you know. Human beings and all that kind of thing. No malice or vindictiveness. I have known people nearly off their heads with worry, when ten minutes with a detective-sergeant would have set their minds at rest.”
“You’re like a breath of fresh air!” exclaimed Barbara.
“You want something to blow the cobwebs away,” said Rollison.
As he finished speaking, there was a faint sound somewhere in the flat. Barbara hardly noticed it as she studied him. He had brought calm and commonsense to bear on her problem, and she felt soothed and reassured.
When the noise was repeated, she noticed it
Rollison’s smile remained, but a little vertical furrow appeared between his eyes. Barbara opened her lips to speak, but he raised his hand for silence.
“What——” she began huskily.
“Hush,” murmured Rollison. He put his hands on the arm of his chair and stood up, a swift movement. He looked towards the closed door, and when the sound came again.
“What room is next door?” asked Rollison softly.