Stars For The Toff

Rollison pulled the man to his feet.

“Don’t worry, we’ll soon find out all we want to know. Got that famous reporter’s biro of yours? I’d like you to take down what they say.”

Olivia rummaged in a sideboard, found pencil and paper, and sat down, crossing her legs. “Okay, Rolly, I’m all set.”

Bob was moistening his lips.

“What’s your name?” demanded Rollison.

“Webb. Robert Webb.”

“Where are you from?”

“Bui—Bulawayo, Rhodesia.”

“What work do you do?”

Robert Webb hesitated. “I—we—”

“Just answer for yourself.”

“I’m—I’m a private inquiry agent.”

“You’re a what?

“I’m a private inquiry agent.”

“You won’t be any more,” Rollison said grimly. “What work have you been doing?”

“Finding—finding out about Madam Melinska.”

“Did you prepare that dossier?”

“I—er—we—yes.”

“Who paid you?”

“Mrs—Mrs Abbott.”

“Why did you go to her flat to steal the report you yourself had prepared and given to her?” This was a shot in the dark, but Rollison hoped it might pay off.

“I didn’t steal it.”

“You went to Tillson Street and broke into her flat. While you were looking for the report she returned unexpectedly, and you killed her.”

“I didn’t kill her!”

“And you killed Charlie Wray, a harmless little man who—”

“I didn’t kill anyone!”

“You ran him down.”

“That—that wasn’t my fault, he ran right into my car.”

“Oh-ho, so you did go to Tillson Street.” Rollison’s shot in the dark had paid off. “And this evening you followed me from Gresham Terrace and tried to run me down on the Embankment.”

“I never ran you down.”

Rollison moved forward and gripped Robert Webb’s lapels, drawing him close. He could feel the man trembling, sensed the depth of his fear. He held him for several seconds, then thrust him away. Webb staggered backwards, stumbling against the far wall.

“I tell you I didn’t run you down!”

“You’re lying,” Rollison said ominously.

“I’m not lying. I wasn’t on the Embankment tonight.”

“Perhaps you didn’t kidnap Miss Cordman.”

“Of course I did! I’d been to your flat to see what had happened to my brother. When I got there, your man was unconscious, and Lucy— Lucifer Stride—looked as if he were dead. Frank was just coming round. I managed to get him downstairs and into the car, and then she—” he nodded towards Olivia— “began to follow me. I didn’t—”

He was interrupted by a groan from his brother.

Rollison turned to Olivia. “I’m going to tie Frank to the chair,” he said. “I want you to get a detailed statement from him. I’ll take his brother in the next room and get one from him. If their stories tally, there may be some truth in what they’re saying. If they don’t—”

“They will!” gasped Bob Webb. “They will, I swear it.”

* * *

The two statements tallied in practically every detail. The brothers were private inquiry agents, they had been employed by Mrs Abbott to get information regarding Madam Melinska, they had got the information statement by statement, they had compiled the dossier and had brought it to her in London. Bob had been to see her that afternoon, not to get the dossier back but to give her further information. And he swore that she had been alive when he left.

Once Mrs Abbott had realised that Rollison was going to help Madam Melinska, she had bribed the brothers to help her frighten him off. Bob had made the ammonia bomb which Mrs Abbott had thrown at him screaming that she wanted to kill him. Frank had threatened him on the staircase of his flat. When Jolly had locked him in the bathroom he had, as Rollison had suspected, taken morphia so as to be proof against questioning. Both brothers admitted carrying morphia—they sometimes smuggled political prisoners over various borders in Southern Africa, said Frank, and morphia kept their charges quiet. He had come round to find both Jolly and Lucifer Stride unconscious, and a few minutes later his brother arrived and helped him downstairs and into the car, and they had driven straight here.

“But why here?” Rollison had asked sharply. “This is Lucifer Stride’s flat. What connection have you got with Stride?”

“Stride’s flat be damned,” Bob had exclaimed. “It’s ours. Stride was only staying with us. He’s been working for us. We paid him to get information about Madam Melinska from the girl—Mona Lister.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Clean Sweep

“The problem is, what are we going to do about the Webbs?” Olivia demanded. “I don’t think—”

She was interrupted by a heavy knock at the front door, followed by a long, loud ring.

“It looks as if we don’t have to make a decision,” Rollison said.

“What do you mean?”

“Only the police would make such a din,” Rollison told her, and opened the living-room door as a man called out in a deep but clear voice:

“Open, in the name of the law!”

“Coming!” Rollison moved towards the front door and opened it on three men, one of them Clay. He stepped aside and two of them pushed past, while Clay stayed with him.

“We know Miss Cordman’s here,” said Clay. “One of our boys saw the Morris in the drive.”

“Perceptive of you.”

“And the Webbs.”

“So you know who they are,” sighed Rollison.

“We had a long cable from Bulawayo,” said Clay with obvious satisfaction. “We know what they’ve been doing—and we know how well they succeeded. We took the opportunity of visiting Miss Cordman’s apartment—just in case she had been attacked there.”

“Oh,” said Rollison, his heart dropping.

“What’s that you said?” demanded Olivia, coming out of the living-room. “You went to my apartment?”

“And found the reports on Madam Melinska,” announced Clay with heavy satisfaction. “I’d like to know where you got those, Miss.”

Rollison answered for her, telling Clay the story of his visit to the Space Age Publishing offices. As he finished, the two brothers slouched into the hallway, each handcuffed to a detective.

“We only did our job,” blustered Frank, “we didn’t kill anybody, Inspector—straight up we didn’t.”

Bob was more truculent.

“He’s the guy who’s caused all the trouble.” He nodded towards Rollison. “Just like the bloody police to pick on us. We’ve done nothing. Why don’t you arrest him?”

“That’ll do,” said Clay sharply. He nodded to the detectives. “Take them to Cannon Row, I’ll be over soon.”

The men went out, leaving Olivia, Rollison and Clay alone. Clay turned to Rollison. “Found out what Stride was up to?” he demanded.

“According to the Webbs, he was using Mona Lister to get information about Madam Melinska—for which the Webbs paid him.”

Clay pursed his lips.

“Sounds a bit far-fetched to me. Would the girl be likely to betray her accomplice? She must have realised that if Madam Melinska ended up in the dock, she’d end up in the dock with her—as she has done. There’s more in this than meets the eye.” He studied Olivia thoughtfully. “What do you think about it all, Miss Cordman?”

“What do I think? I think the whole thing’s ridiculous. Why the police want to bring this absurd charge against Madam Melinska I can’t imagine. She’ll be acquitted, of course,” added Olivia, with well-assumed confidence, “and then you’ll all look pretty silly, won’t you?”

Clay said drily: “From what I’ve seen from those reports, she’ll get seven years at least.”

Olivia gasped. “Oh, no!” She swung round to face Rollison, seizing his hand. “You’ve got to save her. You’ve got to, it will be a tragedy if you don’t.”

“For you and The Day because you’ve sponsored her?” asked Rollison mildly.

“Rolly, you are a beast. She must be innocent. She must be.”

Very slowly, Rollison said: “I certainly hope so, Olivia.”

There was a moment’s silence. Then Olivia passed a weary hand over her forehead.

“But what about the murder? What about the attack on you on the Embankment? What about the attacks on Lucifer and Jolly? If the Webbs weren’t responsible, then who was?”

“Let’s make quite sure that the Webbs weren’t responsible,” Clay said smugly. “And now there’s no need for us to keep either you or Mr Rollison any longer.”

Rollison smiled. “Thank you, Inspector. My car’s just round the corner, but I don’t expect Miss Cordman feels much like driving, so I’d be grateful if someone could run the Morris back for me.”

Clay nodded, and taking Olivia’s arm, Rollison ushered her out of the flat and led the way downstairs.

Several policemen were stationed outside Number 5, but no one was near the Bentley.

Rollison saw Olivia in, then got in himself and took the wheel. She sat very still and was uncharacteristically silent as he drove. There was little traffic going in the London direction, but a lot coming towards them.

“Clay will be good when he’s had more experience,” Rollison said.

Olivia sniffed.

“I won’t be sorry to get some sleep,” he added, pulling up at the traffic lights at Swiss Cottage. Olivia sniffed again, and glancing down, he saw that she was crying, big tears rolling down her cheeks. “Hey, hey!” Rollison protested, with the embarrassment of seeing a woman cry. “It isn’t as bad as that!”

Through her tears, Olivia said: “Yes, it is.”

“But surely—”

“You don’t understand at all!” cried Olivia. “Tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands of women believe in Madam Melinska. Unhappy women, aging women, women with no hope, no purpose, no will to go on living. And she’s given them that hope, that purpose, that will. What do you think will happen to them if she’s found guilty? Oh yes, I know—”

A car behind them hooted impatiently.

“The light’s green!” ejaculated Rollison, and started off. The car behind roared past.

“—I know you think it’s a lot of poppycock, but whether it is or it isn’t—and it isn’t, actually—doesn’t matter. What matters is that all these people have faith in it. Most of them are simple, unsophisticated, decent people leading drab and dreary lives—they need this faith. You and that stuffy old establishment policeman think it’s merely a question of whether one woman goes to prison for a few years, but it’s much more than that. You don’t even begin to understand.”

Rollison pulled into the side of the road, which ran through Regent’s Park, took a handkerchief from his pocket, and dabbed Olivia’s cheeks. She took the handkerchief, dabbed more vigorously, and added:

“But don’t think I’m not grateful for what you’ve done.”

Rollison smiled gently.

“You’re quite a person, Olivia,” he said. “I’d no idea. I’ll take you home, and in the morning we’ll size up the situation and see what we can do.”

“So long as you’ll do something,” she said gruffly. “I have to admit, I am tired.” She smiled up through the drying tears, and added: “You’re quite a person, too.”

Half an hour later, he left her at Chelsea.

A quarter of an hour after that he reached Gresham Terrace, to find Jolly up and in a dressing-gown, but everyone else gone. Jolly looked more than his age, but seemed very relaxed and was obviously pleased to see Rollison.

“. . . Lady Hurst felt it wiser that they should all go back to the Marigold Club, sir, and of course they had police protection. I am sure there is no cause at all for alarm. Coffee, sir? Or tea? Or something stronger?”

Tea,” said Rollison, “and we’ll talk in the morning.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Jolly.”

“Yes, sir?”

“What happened tonight?”

“Lucifer Stride called, sir, to ask your opinion of Madam Melinska’s chances of being proved innocent. While we were talking I heard the prisoner stirring in the spare room, and went to investigate—and as I went through the door I was attacked from behind. But not by Stride, sir.”

“Can you be sure?”

“He uses a quite unmistakable perfume, sir. I feel quite certain I would have noticed it.”

“So you don’t know the attacker. Jolly, what do you think of Madam Melinska?”

Jolly looked upon him earnestly, obviously weighing his words with great care.

“If I may say so, sir, I think she is harbouring a viper in her bosom. I would not trust the young woman an inch, despite her quite remarkable gifts. Apart from that—we did agree that we might be aptly described as anachronisms, didn’t we, sir?”

“We did.”

“At the risk of appearing to be old-fashioned, sir—my impression is that Madam Melinska is a very good person, quite incapable of deceit or trickery, fraud or dishonesty of any kind. It is an opinion which your aunt shares fully. In fact, sir, Lady Hurst will be deeply distressed and—ah—displeased if you are not able to establish Madam Melinska’s innocence.”

Rollison lifted his brows quizzically.

“Even if she is guilty?”

“I don’t think Lady Hurst or I consider it a possibility that she is guilty, sir.” After a pause, Jolly asked: “Will you have your tea here, sir, or in your room?”

“In my room,” said Rollison, faintly.

* * *

Rollison woke to an unusual sound at this hour; men’s voices. First Jolly’s then the voices of strangers, one deep and somehow not English, the other native Cockney. Police? wondered Rollison. Ebbutt’s men? Then he heard the man with the deep voice saying:

“I think that’s the lot, sir.”

“I certainly hope so.” Jolly sounded unbelieving. Five sacks, did you say?”

“S’right,” the Cockney said. “Full to blinking overflowing, mate. S’long.”

Heavy footsteps followed, and the front door closed. There was silence. Five sacks? What would come in sacks and astonish Jolly? Rollison got out of bed and pulled on a blue dressing-gown, then went to the door and peered out.

Jolly was saying in a baffled voice: There must be a thousand in each.”

A thousand what?

Rollison reached the door of the living-room and saw five postal sacks dumped near the desk. Letters, thought Rollison, startled. Jolly, in his shirt-sleeves, stood and stared gloomily at the sacks.

“Someone’s written to us,” Rollison remarked.

Jolly started and turned round.

“Good morning, sir. I didn’t hear you. Yes, they have indeed.”

“I wonder if these could be letters of encouragement from strangers rooting for Madam Melinska,” mused Rollison. He untied one of the sacks and took out a handful of letters. “London, W.l—London, S.E.7— Guildford, Surrey—Amersham, Bucks— Isleworth, Middx. You try a few, Jolly.” He sat at his desk and slit open the five letters, then unfolded the first; a cheque fell out, for three guineas. The letter read:

“With very best wishes for your success in defending Madam Melinska—a small contribution to the cost of her defence.”

Rollison opened the next letter; it contained a postal order for five shillings. The attached note read:

“In defence of the truth.”

Jolly said: “A cheque for two pounds, sir, from someone who signs himself “Well-Wisher,” and a money order for thirteen shillings and sixpence, with a long letter on writing-paper inscribed with the signs of the Zodiac.”

“Open a few more,” Rollison told him.

Ten minutes later he picked up a pile of cheques and money orders, and made a rough calculation. Jolly watched him intently.

“Fifty-seven in all, and a total not far short of a hundred pounds,” Rollison announced. “And there are at least five thousand.”

“Ten thousand, I would say, sir.”

“Say two hundred times our hundred pounds,” Rollison said. “Jolly, it can’t be!”

“If the average remains the same, there are twenty thousand pounds in those sacks.” Jolly drew a hand across his forehead and went on in an unsteady voice: “I think I will go and make your tea, sir.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Only The Beginning

“Why, it’s absolutely marvellous!” cried Olivia, as she stared at the enormous piles of letters on Rollison’s desk. Her eyes were radiant, her cheeks glowing. It was half past ten, and she had just arrived. Except for a dozen telephone calls, two abusive, the others from people promising support, there had been no new developments. Rollison was dressed and had breakfasted, Jolly had regained his composure but was a little subdued. “It’s wonderful!” Olivia went on. “Look at them. How much so far?”

“Three hundred and one letters opened, and a total of five hundred and seventeen pounds, ten shillings and sixpence,” answered Rollison. “We shall soon hear remarks about fools and their money.”

“Not from you, I hope,” Olivia said. “These people aren’t fools, they’re simply—well, believers. But Rolly, you and Jolly can’t possibly deal with all of these.” She motioned to the unopened sacks and then opened one which was still three-quarters full. “And it’s only the beginning.”

“Beginning?” echoed Rollison, startled.

“Of course!” Olivia’s eyes danced. “Whenever we have a special competition or a mail-order special, we get a post like this on the first day, but the main post comes in during the next two or three days.”

“Don’t for heaven’s sake tell Jolly,” said Rollison wryly.

“As a matter of fact, sir,” Jolly said, coming from the door, “I wondered whether in these circumstances Mr Ebbutt’s men might have a change of heart. Their—ah—wives might have some sympathy with Madam Melinska.”

“But you can’t let a lot of ex-prize-fighters do this kind of work,” protested Olivia. “Rolly—do you know what?”

“What?”

“The Day is fully equipped to handle this sort of thing. Our record was fifty-three thousand competition entries in one day. We’ve nothing big on at the moment. I’m sure that our Mailing and Receiving Department would be glad to cope.”

“And what a story for The Day,” said Rollison drily.

“Exactly! It would be a sensation. And we wouldn’t charge for opening and sorting everything.” Olivia added ingenuously.

“Telephone your Mailing and Receiving Department, straight away,” said Rollison.

Before he had finished speaking, the telephone was in her hand. As she waited, there was a ring at the door, and Jolly moved towards it. At the same moment the unlisted telephone rang. Olivia talked, Rollison talked, Jolly and an unseen man talked at the door.

Rollison’s caller was Roger Kemp, his solicitor.

“Rolly, I’ve been through all the papers I’ve got, all the reports I’ve heard, and I’ve been through all my contacts at the Yard, and I’ve talked with counsel. Your Madam Melinska hasn’t a chance in a million.”

On the other telephone, Olivia was beaming with delight.

“Not one in a million,” echoed Rollison, his heart dropping.

“She might get a reduced sentence if we plead that she was in a trance and unaware of what she was saying, but we would have to convince a jury that she really does go into these trances and there are a lot of people who simply wouldn’t buy it.”

“Wonderful!” Olivia was saying, ecstatically.

“And that’s the best you can do?” asked Rollison lugubriously.

Jolly came in, carrying a thick wad of buff-coloured envelopes. Rollison saw but did not recognise them, thought “More letters,” and heard Roger Kemp say:

“You are sure you want to go on with this aren’t you?”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

“Yes, send a van,” cried Olivia. “And I’ll come back on it.”

“Up to you,” the solicitor said, “but she could be fooling you. So far the one argument in her favour is that she appears to be nearly penniless. If that were proved to be untrue, then she would get a very stiff sentence for trading on the gullibility of the public and betraying trust. But you know that.”

“How long?”

“I’d guess seven years.”

“Seven years? echoed Rollison.

Olivia replaced her receiver and came towards Rollison, but at the sight of his expression, the sound of his “Seven years? she stood stock still.

“. . . so be absolutely sure of yourself,” the solicitor said. “May I make a suggestion?”

“Go ahead.”

“Let me arrange a meeting between you, Madam Melinska and counsel.”

“I’ll think about it,” Rollison said. “Thanks, Roger.” He rang off, and looked into Olivia’s troubled eyes. “The law doesn’t share anyone’s faith,” he said. “Like Clay said, she could get seven years.”

“It’ s—impossible!”

“It isn’t, my dear. It’s grimly possible.”

Olivia was silent for a long time; then, suddenly, her face cleared and she gave a bright little laugh.

“It isn’t going to happen—you’re going to save her. Rolly, it’s all arranged, The Day’s sending a van and two men, you and Jolly won’t have to do a thing, and you can get the best counsel in all England with this money. My, what a story this is going to be! You needn’t worry, I know it’s going to be all right!” She flung her arms round him and gave him a hug.

“Excuse me, sir,” said Jolly.

“More letters?”

“Telegrams, sir.”

Tele—good Lord!”

“Oh, they’ll come by the hundred,” Olivia declared. “I tell you, you’re only just beginning to understand what people think about Madam Melinska. And they’re right, Rolly, you’ll find out!” She hugged him again, and asked in the same breath: “What shall we do with the money? Open a Madam Melinska Defence Account with it?”

Rollison said slowly: “No. Just a Madam Melinska Account.”

“Rolly, she won’t touch the money.”

“That’s good,” said Rollison.

“You still doubt her, don’t you?” Olivia said. “I—what’s that?” She ran to the window and looked out. “It’s the van! I’ll go and let the men in!”

Before Jolly could open the door she reached it and went bounding down the stairs. As she did so, the unlisted telephone bell rang again.

Rollison lifted the receiver.

“It’s the telephone answering service, Mr Rollison,” a girl said. “There are several calls which I really think you ought to make—two to the B.B.C. about appearing on a news programme tonight, and three from Independent Television. I’ve a note of the people concerned, if—”

“Just tell them I’m very sorry,” Rollison said.

“You don’t want to appear on television?”

“Not tonight,” Rollison said. “How are the other calls coming in?”

“We’ve two operators doing nothing else,” the girl said. “And all except a few are wishing you luck.”

“What about the few?”

“Abusive, sir, but nothing to worry about— not everyone believes in Madam Melinska, I’m afraid.” The girl laughed. “You’re sure about the television?”

“Positive,” said Rollison firmly.

He rang off as Olivia and two youths came upstairs for the mailbags. As she went out, shooing the youths before her, she called:

“Rolly, I keep meaning to find out how Lucifer is. Do ring the hospital.”

He had completely forgotten Lucifer Stride.

* * *

“He is doing as well as can be expected, sir.”

“Is he out of danger?”

“No, but every hour improves his chances.”

“Good. Has he had any visitors?”

“The police are at his bedside, sir.”

“Ah, yes. They would be. Thank you.”

* * *

“Is Chief Inspector Clay in, please.”

“One moment, sir—”

“Clay speaking.”

“Rollison here. How are you this morning?”

“Very well, sir, thank you. How are you?”

“Coping with many thousands of gifts for Madam Melinska’s defence.”

“Thousands?”

“Many thousands.”

“Really, sir—they always say there’s one born every minute!”

“Yes. Have the Webbs talked?”

“They haven’t changed their story in any degree at all.”

“Believe them?”

“That’s not for me to say.”

“No, I suppose not. Clay.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Have you talked to Michael Fraser, Edward Jackson and Jane somebody at the Space Age Publishing offices?”

“I have, sir. And they confirm your story.”

“I’m delighted to hear it,” said Rollison drily. “Tell me—do you think they could have tried to run me down? And attacked Lucifer Stride?”

“Not as far as I know, sir. I’ve checked their movements very closely.”

“Could they have murdered Mrs Abbott?”

“The man Jackson admits he was in Mrs Abbott’s flat and that he took away the file on Madam Melinska, but what Fraser and the girl say is correct, then he was back at the office with the file before Mrs Abbott was killed.”

“He was, was he? Going to charge him?”

“No decision has been reached, sir.”

“You’re commendably cautious. Chief Inspector—”

“Yes, sir?”

“Have you found out whether Madam Melinska has in fact substantial funds?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“If you find that she has, this will be evidence against her, won’t it?”

“Added evidence, sir.”

“Thank you, Clay, thank you very much; you’re being most helpful.”

“Thank you, sir.”

* * *

“Jolly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Could anyone have known that we were on the threshold of our fiftieth case?”

“I’ve found no evidence to show that they could, sir. I’ve checked with three of the most attentive newspapers and their files show under forty cases.”

“So no one could have known.”

“They could have guessed, sir.”

“Or “seen”?”

“I suppose it is conceivable, sir.”

* * *

“Richard?”

“Why, hello, Aunt Gloria.”

“It’s nearly lunch-time, and I’ve been expecting you to telephone all the morning.”

“I didn’t want to disturb you, Aunt.”

“There is no need for schoolboy sarcasm. I understand from Miss Cordman that a quite remarkable demonstration of public faith has been shown and that eleven thousand pounds have been subscribed for Madam Melinska’s defence. She is deeply touched.”

“It’s a lot of money, Aunt. Do you think she might now be persuaded to say a word in her own defence?”

“Precisely what do you mean, Richard?”

“I’d like her to meet counsel.”

“I do not believe she would refuse, but you must ask her yourself.”

“I’ll do that. How is Miss Lister?”

“The young woman appears to be greatly distressed.”

“I’m not surprised. Aunt Gloria.”

“Yes?”

“I noticed that she was wearing some nice-looking jewellery, a diamond brooch, ear-rings and bracelet.”

“Your powers of observation were always reasonably good, Richard.”

“Thank you, Aunt. How are yours?”

“Are you asking me whether the diamonds are real?”

“Yes.”

“They are.”

“Three thousand pounds’ worth of real, would you say?”

“Approximately, yes.”

“Well, well. Thank you very much, Aunt.”

* * *

“Mr Richard Rollison?”

“Speaking?”

“Your call to Bulawayo, Rhodesia, Mr Rollison.”

“Thank you . . . Hallo, Bill. How are you?”

“Very well, old boy. Suspicious of you, though. Why this sudden call from the dear old homeland?”

“A rich banker like you must be used to such calls. Could you do me an unlawful favour?”

“It depends.”

“You’ve doubtless heard of Miss Mona Lister.”

“I have indeed.”

“Is she rich? And have certain fairly substantial sums of money been credited to her account recently? . . . Wait a moment, Bill. I’ve air-mailed you a list of the amounts concerned. If you could check it or have it checked—”

“Quite impossible, old boy. No banker can divulge a client’s private affairs except to the police.”

“I know. But if you return my list with credits she hasn’t received crossed off, and those she has received in all their virgin freshness, I can deduce as necessary, can’t I?”

“Richard, you are a cunning so-and-so.”

“No doubt.”

“I make no promises.”

“Tell me one thing.”

“If it’s not divulging private and confidential information, I will.”

“Have the police asked to see Mona Lister’s account?”

“No. They haven’t asked me not to answer any questions about her, either.”

“Bill, you’re a devious fellow indeed.”

“How like like to recognise like, Rolly! I’ll be in touch.”

“Soon, please. Just as soon as you can. I’ll be very grateful.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Almost The End

For two weeks Rollison waited.

He was not inactive. Letters still came in by the sackful, some enclosing a shilling or two, one a cheque for a hundred guineas, and the total of contributions rose by startling amounts daily. Every newspaper ran the story, and Rollison and Jolly were under almost constant siege.

“How much more for Madam M.?” asked the Daily Globe. “Already over thirty-one thousand pounds have been subscribed, an unsolicited tribute to the great faith that so many have in Madam Melinska and the mysteries of the influence of the stars.”

“How great a folly!” demanded the solemn Guard. “It is almost unbelievable that in this day and age, some twenty thousand people should contribute to the defence of such a woman.”

“Can the Toff save Madam M.?” cried the Daily Record.

And so the headlines ran, from day to day.

The Webbs, both charged with kidnapping, were remanded in custody. Rollison went to see them twice, but they did not change a word of their story.

Michael Fraser and Ted Jackson, of Space Age Publishing, sent Rollison the reports for which he had asked, but neither contained any information other than that which they had already given him.

Any faint hope of saving the company had now vanished. “The money just isn’t there,” said Michael Fraser.

A letter reached Rollison two days late because of the diversion of his post to The Day.

It was from Bill Ebbutt.

“There’s no more hard feelings down this way, Mr R., but if you ask me, it would be better if you stayed away until this fortune-telling case is over. About two to one against Madam M. in these parts, I’d say.”

Despite the many thousands of letters Rollison had received, this was probably representative of a good cross-section of the public.

“Oh, they’re crazy,” Olivia Cordman said. “You don’t want any more proof that the woman’s genuine, surely.” She was working all day and most of the night making sure that every letter was answered individually.

“Rolly,” said Roger over the telephone, “if you want counsel to appear for Madam Melinska at the Magistrates Court, he’ll need briefing today. Normally counsel wouldn’t appear at this stage, but Sir David Bartolph is interested—very interested. He’s a bit of a clairvoyant himself, you know. A lot of queer rumours circulate about him. Madam Melinska couldn’t do better and she could do a lot worse if she lets him go.”

* * *

“If you really believe I should, Mr Rollison, I will certainly see this legal gentleman,” said Madam Melinska.

* * *

At the time Rollison was telephoning Roger Kemp to tell him that Madam Melinska had agreed to see Sir David Bartolph, Chief Inspector Clay was in the small hospital ward where Lucifer Stride had just been taken off the danger list. Stride’s face and hands were white as chalk, and he looked a sick man. Clay sat by his side, like a watching bulldog.

“Someone nearly killed you, Stride. This is their second attempt, isn’t it? And if you let them get away with it, there may be a third. Third time lucky, so they say.”

Stride moistened his lips, but said nothing.

“Who was it?” demanded Clay. “You won’t help yourself by keeping quiet, you know.” After a pause he went on: “Tell us the truth, there’s a good chap, and we’ll see that there isn’t a third attempt—but it’s got to be the whole truth,” he added warningly.

Stride’s eyes flickered towards him.

“Will you help Mona?” he whispered hoarsely. “It’s not her fault, I—I made her do it. I wish to God I hadn’t.”

“We’ll help her all we can,” said Clay reassuringly. “Now, who attacked you?—and why?”

Slowly, hesitatingly, Lucifer Stride began to talk. And the more he talked, the happier Clay looked.

* * *

Sir David Bartolph was a tall, distinguished-looking man, solid rather than fat, with iron-grey hair brushed straight back from his forehead, powerful shoulders, and a deep, pleasing voice. Rollison had seen him in Court, where he could be terrifying, but had never actually met him. He shook hands, but was obviously much more interested in Madam Melinska. Roger Kemp, short, alert, immaculately dressed, watched her fascinatedly.

They sat in a semicircle in front of Bartolph’s desk.

“Madam Melinska, let me say at once that I have read all the information available, including a most lucid statement from Mr Rollison—” he glanced approvingly at Rollison. “There is, of course, one somewhat damning factor—your own reluctance to admit that you recall what happened on any of these occasions.”

Madam Melinska, wearing a wine-red gown, a purple and gold scarf hiding her black hair, sat in an easy chair. Now and again she moved a sandal-clad foot; apart from that she appeared to make no movement at all.

“Do you understand me?” Bartolph asked.

“Perfectly, Sir David, although I do not agree.”

This man was a leading Queen’s Counsel.

“Indeed?”

“I am not at all reluctant to admit anything—I simply have no recollection of what I say during these readings.”

“You still persist in that contention.”

“I always persist in the truth, Sir David.”

Bartolph stared at her fixedly.

“Then can you give me your solemn assurance that your readings are genuine? Can you give me your solemn assurance that your knowledge of your clients, their lives, their families, knowledge which they take to be an example of your powers of clairvoyance, second sight, call it what you will—” Bartolph waved an impatient hand— “and by which they are so impressed that they are subsequently prepared to follow your advice regarding the disposal of, in some instances, very large sums of money—” Bartolph paused, as if to add weight to his words— “Madam Melinska, I repeat, can you give me your solemn assurance that this knowledge is the result of your powers of clairvoyance and that it has not been previously acquired with a view to winning the confidence of your clients?”

Madam Melinska met his gaze unflinchingly. “You have my solemn assurance, Sir David.”

Bartolph looked unblinkingly into the dark, gypsy-like face of the woman sitting before him, noting, with dispassionate appraisal, the beautiful bones, the proud carriage.

“Madam Melinska,” he said at last, “I have an important decision to make in the near future. It is a personal decision, and nothing to do with investing money or any problem arising from my profession. I would be grateful for any guidance you can give me.”

Roger Kemp pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. Rollison stirred.

“I will gladly help if I can.”

“May I know your fee in advance?”

“I charge no fee, Sir David. I do not believe it right to charge for an ability for which I am not responsible.”

“That is very unusual, Madam Melinska. One usually exploits one’s abilities to make a living.”

“It is not my way,” said Madam Melinska.

“How do you make your living?” asked Bartolph quietly.

“I live on gifts,” Madam Melinska replied.

“Gifts given out of gratitude.”

“Sometimes. And out of kindness.”

“Some would say that you place the onus of the size of your fee on others—that it would be fairer if you did make a charge.”

“That has often been said,” agreed Madam Melinska calmly. “It has also often been said of priests and holy men that they place the responsibility of keeping themselves on others whereas it should be their own responsibility.”

“Do you agree with that?”

“No,” answered Madam Melinska. “They— like myself—have certain powers. The practising of these powers requires deep concentration. They cannot switch this concentration on and off as if they were machines. It is not easy to acquire or to maintain a calm mind, Sir David. It is not easy for a man to be holy if he must always harass himself over the things he needs for living.”

“I think I understand,” said Bartolph. After a pause, he went on: “Do you think you can help me?”

Madam Melinska stared at him for a long time, then said very quietly, “I will try.”

“May we all be present?”

“As you wish. I shall close my eyes and clasp my hands. I may ask you questions from time to time. If I do, please answer very simply.”

“Very well.”

Rollison glanced across at Roger, almost uneasily. The woman sat motionless for several minutes—gradually her head drooped forward until her chin was almost at her breast. She seemed to be breathing more deeply, as if she were already sleeping. Suddenly she began to speak.

“I see young people, many young people, and one of them is a boy, almost on the threshold of manhood, a boy who is very like you. He is laughing and appears gay, as do all the others, but he is not truly happy and his gaze keeps straying to one of three young women across the room from him. This young woman is beautiful, very beautiful. She is tall and very dark. I do not believe she is English—she has a look of the Southern European, and yet . . .” Madam Melinska paused, and her hands seemed to press together more tightly. “There is an unusual mixture of ethnic groups in this room; some are Spanish—some are Mexican— some are Negro. The young man is in considerable emotional distress. He is facing an issue of great importance to him.”

She stopped; and began to rub her hands together very swiftly, almost wringing them. When she spoke again, it was slowly, and with even greater concentration than before.

“This—young—man—is—your—son. He is in South America—and he is undecided whether to return to England or whether to stay. His decision is dependent on the girl. No, not only on the girl, he has to make a choice. A choice between loyalty to his father—to you— and love for this young woman.”

Bartolph was studying her intently, his eyes narrowed to slits. He hardly seemed to be breathing.

“You wish to know whether you should, in his own best interests, compel your son to come home. You must not do this. You must allow him to choose for himself. There is no way you can be sure that your decision would be the right one. It must be his decision.”

She stopped speaking, the movement of her hands ceased; soon she was breathing more freely. It was several minutes before she opened her eyes, and then it was as if she had awoken from a long, deep sleep.

“I hope I was able to help you,” she said diffidently.

Bartolph was gazing into space, a far-away look in his eyes. “It—it’s uncanny,” he muttered. There was a moment’s silence, then, as if making an almost physical effort, he answered her question.

“Madam—” he hesitated— “Madam Melinska, no one—no one—apart from myself and my son could have known what you have just told me. And you will never realise how great your help has been.”

Rollison and Roger Kemp exchanged almost imperceptible glances. Roger let out a long, slow, almost painful breath.

Madam Melinska looked gravely across the desk at Bartolph, but said nothing.

Bartolph squared his shoulders.

“Madam Melinska, I will be glad to undertake your defence, although I must warn you that it will not be easy to persuade the jury that you are innocent of the charges.” The barrister taking over from the man, thought Rollison. “But I will endeavour—” continued Bartolph, placing the fingertips of each hand meticulously together— “to convince them that any advice you gave was advice given without your conscious awareness. Now we have a very difficult problem.” He looked at Rollison.

“Whether to use this defence in the Magistrates Court, or whether to allow Madam Melinska to be committed for trial at the Assizes so that I can plead to a jury. If we fail to convince the magistrate at this hearing, I doubt whether we should find it easy to convince a jury later.”

“What do you advise, sir?” asked Roger Kemp.

“On the whole—to allow committal, so that we have more time to prepare the defence.”

“Please,” interrupted Madam Melinska. “I think it would be much better if you were not to wait. If it is possible, I would like to return to Rhodesia next month.”

“If you’re committed for trial, it won’t be.”

“I am fully aware of the risk,” Madam

Melinska said quietly.

* * *

“That was incredible—absolutely incredible,” Roger said to Rollison. “Could she have already known about this son in South America, do you think?”

Rollison shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

Madam Melinska had gone back to the Marigold Club by taxi, and Roger and Rollison had taken their leave of Bartolph and were now at Roger’s office. Roger had a baffled, almost a dazed look, which told of the measure of his bewilderment.

Rollison frowned. “Bartolph knows that he hasn’t an earthly, of course. He’s sticking his neck out simply because she hit the nail on the head as regards his son. She certainly made a big impression there—I’ve never known a Q.C. plead in a Magistrates Court before.” He stood up. “Oh well, if you can think up some new angle I’ll be damned grateful. I’ll leave you to it, I can see myself out.”

As he moved towards the door, the telephone bell rang.

Roger lifted the receiver. “Who? Yes, he’s here.” He beckoned to Rollison. “Rolly, it’s for you.”

“Nice timing,” said Rollison, and stepped back to take the receiver. “Hallo . . . Oh yes, Jolly . . . Has it, then!” He stiffened—Jolly had reported that an airmail letter had just arrived from his banking friend in Rhodesia. “Open it, will you, and read it out to me.”

There was silence for a few moments. When Rollison spoke, his voice sounded heavy. “I see. Thanks.” He rang off.

Roger sensed his concern. “What is it, Rolly? Bad news?”

“Mona Lister has had the money. The money that the Webbs said was paid to Madam Melinska. It’s been paid into Mona Lister’s account—every penny of it.” Rollison paused for a moment, then looked at Roger very straightly as he added. “And Mona Lister is Madam Melinska’s partner.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Second Hearing

Rollison walked from the sunlit Temple Gardens, heavy-hearted, then towards the Strand. It was only a step out of his way to visit the Space Age Publishing offices, and he turned towards them, remembering vividly what had followed his first visit here. He was almost surprised when Jane did not come out of the door, stand and stare at him, and then run back inside. As he reached it, however, it opened—and he waited for events to repeat themselves.

Instead, Chief Inspector Clay stepped into the passage, with Michael Fraser just behind him.

Rollison drew back.

Clay gave the broadest grin Rollison had seen on his big face.

“Good afternoon, Mr Rollison. I was coming to see you. I’ve some news for you. Lucifer Stride has made a statement exonerating Mr Fraser and his friends of the murder of Mrs Abbott, and accusing Bob Webb.”

“So the Webbs were lying,” exclaimed Rollison.

“Well, it was their only chance to save themselves,” remarked Clay, in the heartiest of moods. “Can’t give you the details, but the Webbs weren’t after the dossier, they were after jewels—apparently Mrs Abbott had a great deal of jewellery lying around her flat, and the Webbs got wind of it.”

He went almost gaily along the passage and Rollison watched him turn a corner, then followed Fraser into the inner office. Ted Jackson was standing with his back to the window.

“Did you hear that?” asked Fraser.

“Yes. Afternoon, Mr Rollison. Sorry we gave you an unfriendly reception the other day—but we were just so mad at you for defending Madam Melinska. We got the crazy idea we might scare you into dropping the case. But I guess you got your own back.” He passed an explanatory hand over his jaw.

“Forget it.” Rollison sat down in an office chair of black plastic and bright tubular steel. “So you’re in the clear regarding Mrs Abbott.”

“But still broke,” gloomed Jackson. “Cigarette?”

“Thanks.” Rollison lit up. “Clay was in a very expansive mood. Did he tell you anything else?”

“Only that my half-brother, Lucifer Stride, was also after the dossier,” said Fraser. “It seems that he’d talked Mona into doing something she shouldn’t—Clay didn’t say what, but he did say she was put up to it by Stride—and they were anxious to find out if the Webbs had got on to it. So Lucifer moved in with the Webbs and pretended to be working with them against Madam Melinska—in fact, he was trying to find out exactly how much they knew about Mona. Just what she has been up to I don’t know.”

“I think I can tell you,” said Rollison slowly. “How’s this? It seems that most of Madam Melinska’s clients came to her with money worries. I understand that Mona was always present when Madam Melinska gave her readings, so she would hear whatever advice Madam Melinska gave. Supposing, whenever she advised her clients to make an investment, Mona told them they must make this investment through Madam Melinska, and then intercepted the money before Madam Melinska saw it.”

There was a moment’s pause.

“It’s possible,” said Jackson.

Fraser looked shaken. “You mean Mona’s at the bottom of the whole thing, and not Madam Melinska. I can’t believe—”

“I can,” Jackson interrupted. “Sorry, Mike and all that, I know you’re still fond of the girl, but you know how persuasive that half-brother of yours can be. And she’s fallen for him hook, line and sinker.” He turned to Rollison. “In which case Madam Melinska’s in the clear. But you’ll never prove it. If she was in one of her trances she wouldn’t know what Mona told anyone, and Mona’s not going to admit anything. And according to the Webbs’ dossier they had the devil’s own job getting any of the clients to give evidence. Wait a minute, though.” He looked across at Rollison. “Wasn’t your aunt—?”

Rollison interrupted him. “She was,” he said grimly, “and I’ve just remembered something. She sent her cheque direct to Space Age Publishing, Limited, and that disappeared as well. Which rather makes nonsense of what I’ve been saying.”

Jackson looked at Fraser. Fraser looked at the floor. For a few moments there was silence.

Then Fraser turned to Rollison. “I didn’t want to tell you this, I didn’t think it had any bearing on the case, but now I suppose I’ll have to. You know that Lucifer once worked here?”

Rollison nodded.

“He used to be a nice enough boy, though he was always weak. Couldn’t stick to anything and easily influenced. Well, I’m afraid he got into a bad set, and turned into the black sheep of the family. I gave him a job in the firm hoping he’d pull his socks up—but he didn’t.”

“Go on,” said Rollison.

“Well, one day I discovered he’d been dipping into the till as it were. A great deal of company money had been finding its way into his pockets, and I dare say your aunt’s cheque was part of it. That’s another reason why we’re broke. Oh well, it never rains but it pours.”

“We didn’t prosecute,” added Ted. “After all, he is Mike’s brother. And we didn’t want that kind of publicity. But we’ve got it now,” he went on gloomily.

“We’re the people associated in the public’s mind with Madam Melinska’s’—he corrected himself— “Mona s swindle. Oh, all right, Mike, Lucy’s swindle. No one’s going to invest with us now. If we could only keep going for another six months or so we might weather it—but what with Lucy helping himself so liberally, and now this, we haven’t a hope.” He looked at Fraser and shrugged helplessly. “Oh well, we did try.” Then making a brave attempt at flippancy, he turned to Rollison. “You haven’t got thirty thousand pounds to spare, have you?”

Rollison stared at him, blankly.

“Damn it, can’t a man make a joke?” demanded Jackson. “Pretty good effort in view of the state of the market.”

“Wait!” cried Rollison. “Wait!” He sat staring at the two men as if he could see right through them, then said in a strained voice: “Get me Roger Kemp on the telephone, will you? His number is . . .” As he waited, he still stared and a new hope began to put fresh blood in his veins. “Roger? . . . Roger, what would happen if Madam Melinska did put the money into Space Age Publishing? . . . The police wouldn’t have a case, then, would they . . . ? You’re quite sure? . . . Well, well, well!” He beamed up at Fraser and Jackson. “No, don’t go. Roger, I told you about these people who’ve sent all this money for Madam Melinska’s defence; there’s no reason why she shouldn’t invest it in Space Age Publishing, is there? . . . No legal reason why the money shouldn’t be used that way? . . . Wonderful!”

He rang off.

Ted Jackson was at the door.

“Jane, call the works, tell ‘emwe’re going on—fix the advertisements we cancelled. Yes, we can guarantee them, we’re back in business!” He swung round.

Michael Fraser was gripping Rollison’s hand.

“It’s the nearest thing I’ve ever known to a miracle,” he said. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“Don’t try,” said Rollison. “One condition— that once you’re back on your feet, all the people who’ve subscribed get their money back—or equivalent shares in Space Age Publishing.”

“Guaranteed!” cried Jackson. “Wait until the world hears about this.”

“But the world mustn’t hear,” said Rollison firmly. “At least, not yet. I want this to be sprung in Court.”

* * *

Olivia Cordman looked up from her office desk in a small room near High Holborn. Her spectacles gave her a touch of severity; here she was very much the editor. Rollison rounded the desk, took her hands, pulled her to her feet and kissed her.

“Rolly! I didn’t know you felt like that!”

“That was just a “thank you” kiss,” said Rollison. “Here’s one to say: “You’re the most perspicacious woman’s feature editor in the world.”“

It was several seconds before he let her go. When at last he released her, she drew back, breathless. “Rolly, you idiot, what on earth’s all this about. Whatever’s happened?”

Rollison told her.

* * *

There was not an inch to spare in Court on the morning of the second hearing, but this time Rollison sat on a bench behind Roger Kemp and Bartolph. In the public gallery Lady Hurst contrived to look as if she had enough room. The newspaper benches were overflowing. When Nimmo came in, brisk and businesslike as ever, the oak-panelled room was as crowded as the London Underground during the rush hour. Almost as soon as Nimmo sat down, the door beneath the dock opened and first Madam Melinska and then Mona appeared. The formalities were over in almost record time.

“How do the defendants plead?”

“Not guilty, your honour,” said Sir David Bartolph. “With your permission, sir, I would like to submit evidence forthwith and to plead that there is no case to answer.”

Nimmo looked across at Clay, sitting with the Public Prosecutor’s solicitor.

“What have the police to say?”

“We have more than enough evidence to justify asking for a committal for trial,” the Public Prosecutor’s man said, while Clay looked almost smug.

Nimmo darted a glance from one to the other. “I’m quite sure you wouldn’t waste the Court’s time, Sir David.”

“Thank you, your honour. I shall most certainly try not to. The facts of this case are simple. The accused are charged with misleading investors about the value of shares in a company known as Space Age Publishing, Limited, and also with misappropriating money paid for the shares bought on their advice. I herewith submit two facts and, if you wish, can produce witnesses to testify. First, that capital representing the full face value of the shares under discussion has been placed at the disposal of Space Age Publishing, Limited, by Madam Melinska. Second, that the orders received by Space Age Publishing, Limited are more than sufficient to ensure a profitable trading year and the payment of a dividend which will be guaranteed. In view of these facts I do not think there is a case to answer.”

Sir David Bartolph sat down.

Rollison had heard him and taken everything in, but had hardly seen him, for Madam Melinska’s eyes were turned towards him, Rollison, and there was such benignity in them, such gratitude, that he could not look away.

Suddenly it dawned on him that the Court was in an uproar.

Over on the Press benches, Olivia Cordman was jumping up and down excitedly. The crowded public benches were a mass of laughing, waving women. As the news spread, the queues of people stretching for nearly half a mile in each direction began to cheer; the police were helpless, traffic jammed and stayed jammed, and it seemed as if the cheering would never stop.

It was three hours before it was safe for Madam Melinska, Mona and Rollison to venture out, and Lady Hurst was waiting at the Marigold Club when they arrived.

“I must say I am very pleased with you, Richard,” she said. “It was highly gratifying. Don’t you agree, Madam Melinska?”

“I do indeed,” Madam Melinska said, taking Rollison’s hands in hers. “Mr Rollison, you will never really believe in your heart, you will always have doubts, and this is you, and I would not have it otherwise. Yet you are a man of great faith. What other man would attempt so often those tasks which the world believes are impossible?”

She paused, then drew him forward and kissed him on either cheek.

Rollison’s aunt wiped away what looked remarkably like a tear.

* * *

“And now there’s nothing left for you to do,” said Olivia gaily.

Rollison looked across a dining-table at the Savoy Grill, where she sat happy and slightly flushed with wine.

“Don’t you believe it,” he said. “Now that I’m on the board of Space Age Publishing I have to make sure that all those little people get full value for their money. I had a talk with Mona, by the way. As Jackson thought, the girl was completely infatuated with Stride, and prepared to do anything he asked. It was he who thought up this little investment racket, and so under his thumb was she that she agreed. But she’s come to her senses at last— and given Michael Fraser a cheque for every penny of the money she had from Madam Melinska’s clients.”

“So they’ll get their investments in Space Age Publishing after all,” said Olivia. “And Mike will get the investment money as well as Madam Melinska’s defence money. That ought to put him back on his feet.” Suddenly she looked grave. “But poor Mr Abbott—if it hadn’t been for Mona he would never—”

Rollison interrupted her. “It wasn’t because of the money he lost that Abbott committed suicide. He’d plenty to spare. After all, he left his wife pretty comfortably off, didn’t he— especially judging by all that jewellery the Webb brothers had their eye on. I’ve been having another chat with Michael Fraser—he used to be engaged to Mona and knew the family pretty well—and he says that Mrs Abbott’s possessiveness grew and grew until it was almost a disease. Abbott felt he just couldn’t stand it any longer. And you remember—” Rollison looked across at Olivia— “it was this same possessiveness that drove Mona away from home.”

“But Mrs Abbott told us—” Rollison raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Oh yes, she told us he’d killed himself because of the money he’d lost—in point of fact I think she’d fooled herself into really believing it, just like she’d fooled herself into believing that Madam Melinska had come between her and Mona— but this was because she simply couldn’t face up to the truth.”

“So she built up a great big hate against Madam Melinska and paid the Webbs to dig up anything they could that would reflect against her?” asked Olivia.

“She did. But it was Lucifer Stride’s little scheme for making easy money that the Webbs dug up—although they didn’t know that it was Stride’s scheme. In Mrs Abbott’s favour, all the evidence did point to Madam Melinska’s guilt.”

“She should have known Madam Melinska wouldn’t do such a thing,” said Olivia flatly. “I knew. But there’s still an awful lot unexplained. Who tried to run Lucifer Stride down outside your flat? Who tried to run you down? Who murdered Mrs Abbott? Who attacked Lucifer and Jolly—?”

“Easy, easy,” teased Rollison. “Not so many questions at once.”

“—the night I was kidnapped,” finished Olivia. “Don’t be a beast, Rolly. You know I’m dying to hear.”

Rollison laughed at her eagerness. “Okay, I’ll tell you. Four answers in one. The Webb brothers. You remember that Stride was pretending to work with them in order to find out if they’d discovered that it was Mona, and not Madam Melinska, who’d stolen the investment money?”

Olivia nodded.

“Well, the Webbs hadn’t found out about Mona—but they did find out that Stride was spying on them. They didn’t know what information he was after and they didn’t know whether or not he’d got it, but as they’d been pretty bad boys one way and another they got thoroughly rattled and thought they’d better dispose of him. Their first attempt was when they tried to run him down in Gresham

Terrace—the second was when Bob came to rescue his brother from the flat, and found Stride talking to Jolly.”

Olivia frowned. “What about the attack on you?”

“Once the Webbs had got all the information they could get regarding Madam Melinska, their job was finished. Mrs Abbott had stopped paying them, and they were a bit pushed for cash—so, knowing about the jewellery, they decided to break into her flat and help themselves. Mrs Abbott came back unexpectedly, one of the brothers panicked and strangled her, and they both took to their heels—” Rollison’s voice hardened— “running down Charlie Wray in the process. When they were back at 5 Hill Crescent Road, Bob discovered that he’d dropped his wallet. Afraid he’d left it at the flat, he came back to look for it, but couldn’t find it—panicked still further, and decided to burn the place down.”

“Did he drop it at the flat?” asked Olivia.

“He did indeed. According to Clay, the ambulance men found it on the bed underneath the body. It must have fallen there during the struggle. And lucky it was that it did,” added Rollison, “it was only when the police finally identified this wallet that the brothers broke down and decided to tell the truth.”

“But you,” urged Olivia. “Why did they attack you?”

“Well—” Rollison sipped his wine— “as Bob Webb left Mrs Abbott’s flat for the second time, he saw me arrive—then, half an hour later, the police. Talking it over, the two brothers convinced themselves that, during that half-hour, I must have found the missing wallet. So they paid me a visit, Bob waiting outside in case I’d seen him leaving the flat and might recognise him, Frank waving a gun at me on the stairs. When Frank didn’t come out but I did, Bob trailed me to the Embankment, and it was then that he tried to run me down. After that he went back to Gresham Terrace to rescue his brother. And the rest you know.”

“So it was the Webbs, and they weren’t telling us the truth,” said Olivia slowly. “And to think they had me prisoner,” she shivered. “And yet—” she paused— “the statements they gave us tallied so exactly.”

“Once they knew you were on their trail they guessed there might be trouble,” said Rollison. “So they concocted their story. Half truth, half lies—it sounded more authentic that way. It all seems so obvious now—but if Stride hadn’t talked, and if the police hadn’t found that wallet—”

“Oh well, you’d still have saved Madam Melinska,” cried Olivia happily, “and after all, the rest doesn’t really matter, does it? By the way, what made you think it might have been Mona who had the money?”

“A false clue, actually,” admitted Rollison.

“Or at least, a clue to the murder of Mrs Abbott, and not to the missing money—only I didn’t realise it.”

“What was the clue?” demanded Olivia.

“Mona’s diamond brooch and ear-rings. And bracelet. They cost a good three thousand between them and I couldn’t see Stride, or even Mike Fraser, giving them to her. In point of fact they were presents from her aunt, who had a great deal of jewellery. Had I known about this I’d have realised there was another motive for murder besides the dossier.”

“Well, it’s all sorted out now,” said Olivia. “Has Mona gone back to Rhodesia with Madam Melinska?”

Rollison shook his head. “No, Madam Melinska went on her own. Mona’s staying with Michael Fraser’s secretary Jane—I told you that Mona and Michael used to be engaged, didn’t I?”

Olivia nodded.

“They make a nice-looking couple,” Rollison added genially. “I shouldn’t be surprised—”

“What an old matchmaker you are,” laughed Olivia, interrupting him. “Just like a Virgoan. But it’s no use trying to change you. Anyway—” she lifted her glass to him— “here’s to you, the way you are.”

The End