The Toff and The Lady

His taxi pulled up outside the office of The Record.

The editorial staff would not come in until the afternoon— but some of the reporters might be gathered in the news-room or the canteen, before starting out for their day’s assignments. He found three of them in the canteen, and was greeted with a cheerful invitation to a cup of coffee.

“And what brings the great Toff along at this ungodly hour?” demanded a little red-faced man with a wrinkled nose and a wicked eye. He was a crime reporter of renown.

“They tell me he’s been frustrated,” said a tall, middle-aged man with a scar on his right cheek. “Perhaps he wants to become a newspaper man.”

“Not a hope,” said the third, the youngest of the trio. “Not one hope this side of the Great Divide, Rolly—we wouldn’t have you for a fortune!” He grinned and offered cigarettes, and then passed a cup of coffee. “Sandwich?”

“No, thanks,” said Rollison. He bent his eyes on the youngest. “Teddy,” he said, “I thought you would see that there was some life in The Record, but even you’ve disappointed me.”

“I resent that,” said the tall man.

“The Record,” said the little man, in a fruity voice, “is always first with the news, first with the views, a lively, witty, reliable and always accurate reflection of the opinion of the people. For exposure of all rackets, try The Record. Proprietor’s stated policy,” he added, with a grin.

“There isn’t much the matter with the blatt,” said the tall man, judicially. “It’s got its bad points, but it’s got a lot of good ones. What’s your complaint, Rolly?”

“The Barrington-Ley Bal Masque,” said Rollison. “Why didn’t you follow it up?”

“We squeezed it dry,” said Teddy.

“One day was enough,” said the tall man.

“I don’t know so much,” said the little man frowning. “I see what you mean. Now we’ve come out with this story about

Barrington-Ley. Is there a connection?”

“That’s what I want to know,” said Rollison.

“Your interest being?” asked Teddy.

“Impersonal,” Rollison assured him.

Teddy laughed. “What a hope!” He looked speculatively at the others. “Where did the Barrington-Ley story come from last night? Ticky found it, didn’t he?”

“Ticky?” echoed Rollison.

“T. L Keller, City Editor,” said Teddy. “He doesn’t often give us pieces of fruit, but he found something there.”

“Would he know that Barrington-Ley was missing?” asked Rollison.

“Now we’re finding out what Rolly’s after,” said Teddy, greatly pleased. “Friend of yours?”

“In a manner of speaking,” said Rollison. “And he has many other friends. Many will be on the war-path. That article amounts to defamation of character, and whoever started it is likely to get into a serious jam, unless he can prove that there’s something in it. I don’t look on The Record as an organ of unblemished reputation,” went on Rollison, “but I thought a word of warning might not come amiss.”

All three looked concerned. The Record, with all its faults, was regarded affectionately by most of its staff, and they would be concerned if there were any serious likelihood of trouble for anyone among them.

“Ticky’s in, isn’t he?” asked the tall man.

“Unless he’s got his ear close to the ticker in the City,” said Teddy. “Shall I go and see?”

“It might be a help,” said Rollison.

They went up to the next floor and along many narrow corridors until at last they reached a door on which was the name: T. I. KELLER. A squeaky voice invited them to enter.

Two girls were at small desks against one wall, and a small, extremely well-dressed man with a rose in his button-hole was sitting at an enormous desk, which was littered with papers. The tape-machine at his side was ticking away steadily, but he was paying it no attention. A pair of bright, bird-like eyes sur-veyed the newcomers, and a bird-like face showed some bewilderment at the sight of Rollison.

“I am very busy,” he said, in a falsetto voice. “Very.”

“The age of miracles is about to dawn,” said Teddy. “Pause for a moment, old chap. Here is Old Man Doom come to wave a shroud over your head—Mr. Richard Rollison.”

Ticky whistled.

“I thought I had seen you before.”

Teddy grinned. “What a newspaper! A member of the staff who thinks he knows The Toff! Rollison says you’ve pulled a boner about Barrington-Ley,” went on Teddy, “and I thought I’d let you see and disabuse him. The old blatt is never wrong.” He winked, and went out.

Keller did not look at him, but at Rollison. He seemed worried, his eyes looked less bird-like, and he dropped all the pose of too busy to see him.

“Are you serious?” he asked.

“The story isn’t liked in certain quarters,” said Rollison, anticipating the truth, “and there will be repercussions. Of course, if you can prove that he’s missing, that’s a different matter, although even then the comments about his companies are pretty broad.”

“Oh, they don’t matter,” said Keller, squeaking. “They’re facts—you can find them on the City page of any newspaper.

The other” he pursed his thin lips. “Are you from the family, by any chance?”

“They don’t know I’m here,” said Rollison.

“Hmm. Well, to tell you the truth,” said Keller, confidentially, “I got a little bit tiddly last night. Not a thing I do often,” he added, hastily. “I shot a line or two about the Barrington-Ley business, and a fat little chap who was in the “Chameleon” got my ear. Breathed deep, dark secrets. Barrington-Ley missing from home, family greatly worried, you know the kind of thing. I checked here and there—telephoned his country home and the London house, got evasive replies, and it all seemed to tie up. The truth is,” said Keller, a little sadly, “I ought to stick to the City. I always go outside when I’ve had one or two—subconscious longing, I suppose, I used to think I would make a good reporter. Er—seriously, will there

be trouble?”

“If I were you I would build a good defence,” said Rollison.

“Oh, I will. I will! It’s a good thing you warned me, or I would have forgotten it,” said Keller. “I wish I could think of the fat fellow’s name. He did give it to me. Smith, I think.”

“Or Brown,” said Rollison, sardonically, “or, by a great stretch of the imagination, Pomeroy.”

“It wasn’t Pomeroy,” said Keller, decidedly. “Nice little chap, very soft voice, looked like a butler.”

“Pointed chin with bags of flesh on either side?” asked Rollison.

“That’s the man! Now I come to think of it,” said Keller, “he was a bit anxious that I should know the whole truth. Usually they ask for a fiver for the story, and we don’t say no. He just wanted to dispense information. I say, is Barrington-Ley missing?”

“I shouldn’t rely on it,” said Rollison. “You can’t recall the fat man’s name, I suppose. Was it Shayle?”

“No,” said Keller, firmly. “No, it was something more common-or-garden that that. Smith has it. Or, as you say, Brown. I am a damned fool!” he added, shrilly. “Still. forewarned and all that. Very nice of you to come. I’ll have a de-fence like reinforced concrete if the Old Man asks me about it —and he will, he always does if there’s anything the slightest bit wrong. I say, old chap,” he added, with a sly look, “you couldn’t give me a pillar or two for the defence, could you? It’s your market, you know.”

Rollison said: “What time did you put the story in?”

“Oh, half-past one or thereabouts, it missed the country editions. That’s a help, the Old Man’s gone north, I think. Or was that yesterday? Why?”

“There was an attempt to murder Miss Barrington-Ley before midnight,” said Rollison. “You could have heard rumours of that, but because you wouldn’t put in anything you couldn’t vouch for, you didn’t use that story. That would show perspicacity wouldn’t it?”

“I say, that’s pretty good!” said Keller, beaming. “Miss B.-L. was hurt, was she?”

Yes. And if you have a word with Teddy and send him over to Barrington House to make inquiries, it would round off your defence,” said Rollison. “Of course, that’s only a suggestion.”

Rollison left the office, not dissatisfied. Before his righteous outburst at Barrington House, Pomeroy had made sure that the newspapers knew of Barrington-Ley’s disappearance, which was a curious fact, to say the least. Here was confirmation, if it were wanted, that there was much more behind the story than Grice suspected.

Rollison went to Aldgate by taxi, then took a bus along the Mile End Road. The people and the traffic streamed by him, and he felt stirred by this contact with the East End, which to so many looked drab and to him looked so colourful. People whom he knew or had met passed him, not knowing he was there, little crooks mixing with men and women who were as strictly law-abiding as any in the country, bookmakers perpetually warring with the police, professional pick-pockets and bag-snatchers who spent half their time in prison and the other half trying to keep out, but who did not seem able to give up the game. Here they thrived, amiable little people for the most part, with their own code of honour and a suspicion and dislike of the police which ran side-by-side. Nine out of ten he passed would no more steal or pick pockets than commit murder, but when the police wanted information about this man or that, they were sphinx-like. In many ways a strange motley, with a mixture of all races, Jews and Gentiles shoulder to shoulder in a curious fraternizing which so often led to many people, all self-righteous, drawing the wrong conclusions.

He almost forgot Lila, Countess Hollern, and over-shot his stop, so that he had to walk back along the crowded pavements, with trams clattering past him and shopkeepers’ touts watching him hopefully, for the rich sometimes came to the East End to pick up “bargains”, and complained when they were disappointed. There were two sides to every bargain in the East End.

One thing was noticeable; no one seemed to recognize him.

At one time he could not have walked along this thoroughfare without being noticed, spoken to, nodded at, pointed out and certainly scowled at ferociously. It was a reflection on the rarity of his visits of late.

At last he reached Eddie Day’s public house, behind which there was a gymnasium, for Eddie Day, a large man now running to fat, had been a boxer in his youth and still loved the sport. Chopping blocks and coming champions were nursed under his benevolent wing. Those who could afford to pay for training paid, those who could not were trained all the same, and few failed to recompense Eddie Day when they began to earn money.

There were only three people in the public bar, and no one was behind it. The occupants looked up at Rollison, and as quickly looked away. All were strangers to him, and all were suspicious of a well-dressed man of Rollison’s appearance in the bar.

Then Eddie Day waddled behind the bar. His face was pale, his eyelids drooped, he looked tired—as he always did—and his little ears, delicate almost as a child’s were prominent only because he was nearly bald.

“Hallo, Eddie,” said Rollison.

Eddie looked up—and his little mouth gaped. He raised both hands, kept staring, then broke into a smile which seemed to double the size of his mouth, and brought his hands crashing down on the bar.

“Bless my ‘eart an’ soul, if it ain’t Mr. Ar! Well corlummee, if it ain’t Mr. Ar! Well, I never did!” He took Rollison’s hand in his vast fingers and squeezed it. “I never did!” he said, wheezing. “I thought you’d deserted us, Mr. Ar, ever since the curate business you ‘aven’t put your nose inside the place. Good boy, that parson, though I say.it myself—do you know what?”

“What?” asked Rollison, greatly pleased.

“My ole woman’s deserted the Army, an’ now she goes to church, that’s a fack. Proper looks dahn on them brass-blowing buglers, she do, and her uniform—she just won’t put it on. I bought ‘er a n’Ancient an’ Modern fer ‘er birfday, you know, one wiv music, and she was as prahd as punch of it, proper prahd. Gets a bit monotonous singing ‘ymns every night.” added Eddie Day, “but still, anythink for a quite life, I says.” He paused, and then burst out: “Now what am I a-thinking of, Mr. Ar—what’ll you ‘ave? The same?”

“The same.”

“Good old mild and bitter,” said Eddie, taking a glass. “I remember the first mild-and-bitter you ‘ad in my ‘ouse, Mr. Ar, same as if it was yesterday. “Ere, I’ll tell you what—come into the parlour and meet the ole woman again. She’ll be tickled to death to see you.” He wheezed in high good humour, and added: “You know the way!”

Sitting in the parlour at the back of the pub, Eddie Day regaled Rollison with the local gossip, hoped that he would soon be about more often, said that Mrs. Eddie would soon be in, and then, when he seemed too breathless to talk any more, he leaned forward and said with a broad wink:

“What’s on your mind, Mr. Ar?”

Rollison laughed. “You’re a deep old scoundrel. Eddie!”

“You didn’t fink I fought you’d come to say ‘ow are yer at this time o’ day, did yer?” asked Eddie, with a shake of his head. “I know better’n that. If you’d come for that you would ‘ave chose to-night, when all the boys is abaht. Anythink much?”

“I don’t yet know,” said Rollison. “There was a little fellow picked up by the police last night—or early this morning. Known to use a knife.”

“Larry Bingham,” said Eddie promptly, and scowled. “Nasty little piece o’ work, that Bingham. I wouldn’t raise a finger to ‘elp ‘im, Mr. Ar, an’ that’s the truth. “Ad a cut at a lady in the West End, didn’t ‘e?”

“So that’s reached you,” said Rollison.

“Cor strike a light, we don’t miss much!” said Eddie. “Friend o’ yours? The lady, I mean?”

“Yes.”

“Dirty little tyke,” said Eddie, and then showed some alarm. “Larry, I means. Well. I dunno that I can ‘elp yer much, but

I do know this. He owed Malloy a pony. Usually does a job to pay off ‘is debts, Larry does, never got a penny to bless hisself wiv. You’d think a man would ‘ave the common to layoff the racket when it don’t show a divvy, wouldn’t you, Mr. Ar? I mean, I can understand a man keeping at the game if he’s making a good fing aht of it, although I don’t approve of it, mind you; I’m all for law and order. Malloy’s been very flush lately,” he added.

“Do you know whom Malloy’s working for?”

“No,” said Eddie. “He’s a close one, he is, but I’ll tell yer what—Percy Dann lives next door to Malloy, maybe he knows somethink. Should be in any time, ‘e always ‘as ‘is pint before dinner, Percy does. Just a minute, Mr. Ar, I’ll go an’ see if ‘e’s arrived.”

He came back in a few minutes, followed by a painfully thin and ugly man, with a despondent face and dreary brown eyes and an Adam’s apple which moved up and down above his choker. He wore an oily-looking cloth cap at the back of his head, and in his right hand he carried a pint glass.

Eddie said: “Got ‘im for yer, Mr. Ar!”

“Coo lumme, look-oo-it-is,” said Percy Dann, running the words together as if he could not utter them fast enough. “I-never-fought-I’d-live-ter-see-this-day Mister Ar. “Ow are yer?”

He extended a limp hand.

He let it drop into Rollison’s, and then gripped—and had Rollison not known that Percy Dann, for all his thinness, had remarkably powerful fingers, he would have been taken by surprise. Percy had spent several years in prison for using those remarkable fingers in order to pick locks, for he was double-jointed and had great dexterity as well as strength in them. He had since retired, and had succeeded in convincing the police that his only income now came from the little tobacconist’s shop in a side street leading from the Mile End Road.

“How’s Mrs. Dann?” asked Rollison, and Eddie gasped in dismay but could not prevent a five minutes’ discourse on the troubles of Mrs. Dann. She was not well. She had undergone two operations and the doctors didn’t know what they were doing; doctors, Percy Dann wouldn’t give a fiver for all the doctors in London; they had properly finished off his wife, they had, she was so weak she could hardly crawl about the shop. He began to go into some detail about the operations when Rollison asked him if he would have another.

“Why, sure, Mr. Ar,” said Percy, and finished his glass in a single gulp. “Same again, Eddie. I was saying”

“How’s Malloy getting on these days?” asked Rollison, quickly.

“Oh, ‘im,” said Percy, disparagingly. “I never did like that perisher an’ nor does the wife. Never will, neither. Why, lives next door to us, he does, an’ do you think ‘e made a single hinquiry about the wife when she ‘ad ‘er op.? Not ‘im. Didn’t trouble to hinquire once, not even when she come back.”

“How’s his business?” asked Rollison.

“Mighty suspicious, if you arst me,” said Percy darkly. “ ‘E’s got plenty of nickel, no questions asked. “E’d put Larry Bingham up ter that job larst night, if you arst me. Lot o’ coming and going there is, too. Why, if it ain’t Eddie wiv the goods,” he broke off, and did justice to the second pint, after wishing The Toff good luck.

“Who has come and gone?” asked Rollison, and before Percy could launch into a monologue, added: “Has there been a short, fat man who favours bright check suits?”

Percy looked at him shrewdly.

“Always on the mark, that’s Mr. Ar. You mean Ole Nosey.”

“Nosey?” repeated Rollison.

“S’right. I dunno “is name, but ‘e’s a reg’lar visitor, ‘as been for munce. Come along the road one day wiv a nose like a rear light—I remember it well because it was the day the wife come out, proper weak she was, but when she saw “is nose— laugh? She nearly died a’laughing! Said a man of “is age ought a know better than look through keyholes, she did; ‘e didn’t arf give ‘er a look. “Ad it for weeks, that nose. Well, a week, anyway.”

“How long ago was this?” asked Rollison.

“Matter o’ three or four weeks,” said Percy. “The wife’ll know, got a memory for dates, she “as. Tell yer what,” added Percy, lowering his voice. “Nosey was at Malloy’s last night, he was, and so was Larry Bingham. About eight o’clock, it was—what time did I get ‘ere, Eddie?”

“About eight,” said Eddie.

“Then it musta been a bit before,” said Percy, “I see them both, I did, I said to myself, they’re up to a bit o’ no good, they are. You can always tell. When Larry got knocked off, was I surprised? No, sir, you ask the wife. I told ‘er, I said to ‘er, there’ll be trouble, Liz, you mark my words, Larry’s been out-a work too long. No, I wasn’t surprised. Takes a lot to surprise me,” added Percy, darkly. “You’d be surprised at what I know—wouldn’t ‘e, Eddie?”

“S’right,” said Eddie.

“I take a man for what he is,” went on Percy, “never mind “is business so long as ‘e pays spot cash, no credit in my business, no more than there is in Eddie’s.” The thought amused him. “Well,” he said, when he had recovered, “does it ‘elp, Mr. Ar?”

“A great deal.” said Rollison, warmly. “Has Nosey been along this morning?”

“The wife never said so, and there ain’t much that misses the missus,” declared Percy, and went off into another paroxysm of laughter. “Malloy’s at ‘ome—” ad two telegrams, I can tell you that; I see the boy myself. If I knew what was in them telegrams,” added Percy, “I could tell you a lot, that’s a fact. Well I’d better get along, dinner’ll be waiting and the wife likes me to ‘ave it ‘or. Be seeing yer, Mr. Ar.”

“You’ll see me in ten minutes or so,” said Rollison, “I’m coming to have a word with Mr. Malloy.”

“Cor, lumme,” said Percy, “some people don’t arf like trouble, don’t they, Eddie? An’ some works fast, I will say that fer you, Mr. Ar, you don’t let the grass grow in the medder! Why don’t you come along o’ me, an’ meet the missus?”

“I don’t want you mixed up in this,” said Rollison.

“I dunno as I wants to be mixed up in it meself,” said Percy, frankly, “but I don’t mind lendin’ you a n’and. Come to think,” he said, “Malloy’s been ‘avin’ some posh visitors lately. Made “is wife mad, the wife says.”

Rollison said, quickly: “Women?”

“There was one skirt,” said Percy. “Little thing, wiv a nose aimin’ at the sky. You know. Snub. All lad-di-dah.” Percy raised his voice an octave. “Weally, Mrs. Malloy, I’m only a fwiend of your husband’s.” He laughed at himself, and added: “Only worse, Mr. Ar.”

“When was she last there?” asked Rollison, feeling quite sure that this visitor was Janice Armitage.

“S’matter of fact I think the wife said she was along there just before I come for me pint,” said Percy. “I was at the back an’ never see her. Tell yer what, Mr. Ar—if she’s there, I’ll be in the winder of my shop. Okay?”

“I’ll come five minutes after you,” said Rollison.

“Gimme ten,” said Percy, “I got to ‘ave me dinner. Then there was another skirt, I never see much of ‘er. Come arter dark an’ went aht arter dark.”

“Oh,” said Rollison, thoughtfully, and thought of Lady Lost. Percy could give no details except that he thought she had a fur coat.

“So long, thanks for the pint,” said Percy. He winked, offered his hand again and this time left it limp in Rollison’s, and then walked out.

A quarter of an hour later, Rollison followed him.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

MR. MALLOY

THE street where Percy Dann had his shop was long and narrow, with small houses on either side—one of long lines of drab terraces. Here and there a house was freshly painted, but the landlords of that particular street were not inclined to be generous with decorations.

Mr. Malloy lived in one of the houses which had been freshly painted. Next door, the paint from the shop was peeling off, the showcards in the window were brown with age and freely fly-spotted, a few cartons had fallen down and were covered in dust, and the window was still stuck with gummed paper as a protection against blast. Mr. Malloy’s windows, on the other hand, positively shone. The front doorstep, which was flush with the pavement, was freshly whitened, the brass letter-box and brass knocker, particular to that house, glistened in the sunlight. It looked an oasis of respectability in a slough of disrepute—but the police as well as Rollison knew that little else about Mr. Malloy was respectable.

No one knew exactly what he did for a living.

The police had never been able to take him to court, and although Rollison had heard vague rumours about him, he had never met the man; he had, however, seen him at a distance. He remembered a small, middle-aged man with sparse black hair heavily oiled and plastered over his cranium, showing little streaks of pink, a flabby face and a drooping moustache, also dark but streaked with grey.

As Rollison drew near the house, which was Number 91, he saw a figure at the window of the shop next door, and through the grime recognized Percy. At first he thought that Percy was beckoning him, but when the thin man waved his hand he decided that he was sending him away. That might mean that Janice had left, and suggested that Percy did not consider the moment ripe for a visit. Rollison motioned over his shoulder with his thumb, Percy shook his head vigorously and went through his former antics.

Then Rollison saw what he meant; he was weaving his forefinger about his nose; “Nosey” was inside.

Rollison beamed his thanks, and knocked heavily.

After a short pause a woman opened the door. She was dressed in dark blue, was neat and well made up, without being pretty or looking cheap. Narrowed blue eyes looked Rollison up and down, before she said:

“Good-morning.”

“Good-morning,” said Rollison. “I would like to see Mr. Malloy.”

“On what business?” she asked.

“Strictly private business,” said Rollison.

He is engaged.”

“Tell him to see me at once, or the police will be here within half an hour,” said Rollison.

The threat did not appear to frighten her, but it did make her narrow her eyes still more; they were curiously hooded, the lids thick and jutting out a little at each side of her eyes.

“You’d better come in,” she said.

She stood aside for Rollison to enter a narrow passage. A light was on above the stairs, otherwise the hall and narrow staircase would have looked dark. The walls were freshly distempered and the paint was fresh green—it reminded him of Phyllis Armitage at Leeming House. Hardly had the thought crossed his mind than the woman had passed him to enter a room on the right. Then he heard a familiar, feminine voice.

“I really don’t see what you mean.”

“Well, well!” murmured Rollison. “Sister Janice is on the scene again.” He could not hear what the woman said, but a man’s harsh voice was raised immediately afterwards.

“What is he like?”

The woman described Rollison so well that he silently congratulated her.

“Rollison!” exclaimed Pomeroy, his voice no longer soft and gentle.

“That b . . .” said Malloy.

“Why, that seems like Mr. Rollison!” declared Janice. She sounded greatly relieved.

“Be quiet, you little fool!” snapped Malloy. “Flo, take her next door.”

Janice exclaimed: “I won’t go next door!”

Her words were stopped abruptly; there was a sound which might have been the result of a blow across the face. Rollison turned the handle and flung the door open.

Half-way across the room, moving towards a door which presumably led to the back of the house, was Janice Armitage. Her neck was bent forward, her shoulders were against Malloy’s chest; he had his hands beneath her arm-pits and was dragging her with her heels sliding along the floor. The woman named Flo was opening the door, and Pomeroy was standing against a bookcase, looking thoroughly alarmed.

“Good-afternoon,” said Rollison. “How much is the entertainment tax?”

Malloy dropped the girl; her head struck his thighs, his shins and then the floor. He swung round on his heel, flinging words at Flo.

“Get out, fetch Mike, tell Barney”

Rollison said: “Stay here, forget Mike, ignore Barney.”

“Get going!” screamed Malloy.

The woman stood by the door, as if she were deliberately defying Malloy, whose flabby face was stained red. Pomeroy was still standing by the bookcase. He appeared to have recovered from the shock, and his right hand was moving slowly towards his pocket. Rollison saw a vase filled with artificial flowers on a table by his side. He picked up the vase and tossed it towards Pomeroy, saying:

“Catch!”

The man dodged to one side, and came nearer Rollison, who rounded the table, took Pomeroy’s right arm and held it high above his head, keeping the man on a stretch. He put his hand into the pocket and drew out an automatic, he dropped Pomeroy, who collapsed in a heap on the floor.

Malloy struck the woman across the face, a resounding blow which sent her reeling against the wall, and then he swung round on Rollison. He also had a gun. They appeared to level the guns at the same moment—and neither fired. For a moment there was silence, as if the room had become a vacuum. Then it was broken by a gasping sound from Pomeroy, who began to get to his feet.

“Sit down,” Rollison said to him, and Pomeroy collapsed into a chair. “Malloy, put that gun away.”

If Malloy decided to shoot, he was not likely to miss. Rollison watched his gun-hand, wondering if he could judge the moment when the finger moved on the trigger. Then he saw Flo, who had been leaning against the wall with her hands covering her face, peering between the fingers. She moved, startling him enough to make him swing round towards her, but she struck at Malloy’s arm and knocked the gun out of his grasp.

“You crazy fool !” she blazed.

Malloy, beside himself, turned on her. She struck out at at him, but before Rollison could reach the man he had caught her hair and pulled her towards him, forcing her down on her knees. Then Rollison struck Malloy on the side of the head with the butt of Pomeroy’s gun. Malloy did not even gasp. His fingers lost their grip, he staggered to one side and pitched down, lying across Janice’s legs.

“Aren’t we having a time?” said Rollison.

The woman was pushing the hair out of her eyes. She looked sullenly at Rollison and then at Malloy, and she was breathing heavily. Pomeroy was gasping for breath, as if the vicarious action had affected him. He was sitting like a little fat ball in a small armchair.

The woman said: “What do you want?”

“I wanted a talk with Mr. Malloy,” said Rollison, “but I shall need more now. Is the girl hurt?”

“No more than he is.”

“I hope you’re right. Who are you?”

“Mrs. Malloy,” she said.

“Not very loyal,” murmured Rollison.

“Do you think I want to see him hanged?” she flared.

“No,” said Rollison, slowly, “nor do you want to be hanged with him. Where are Mike and Barney?”

“Along the street.”

“Are they likely to come here in the next half hour?”

“Not unless they’re sent for,” she said.

“I hope that’s true, too,” said Rollison, and looked down as Malloy stirred. “Help him into a chair, and then put the girl on the settee.” He turned to Pomeroy, and his voice grew sharp. “So we haven’t met before, Pomeroy?”

The man said nothing, but licked his lips.

Rollison said: “You employed Larry Bingham, through Malloy, to attack Gwen Barrington-Ley, and then you spread the story of Barrington-Ley being missing.”

Pomeroy said: “I didn’t know Bingham would—use a knife.”

“Perhaps you prefer poison a la Countess,” said Rollison.

He needed no further proof that the Lady of Lost Memory was known to some people as the countess.

This was a different Pomeroy from the man at Barrington House, because he was frightened. His eyes opened, his mouth gaped; his nerve was completely gone.

“You—know—her!”

“Shut your damned mouth,” said Malloy.

He was sitting forward in his chair, looked dazed, and there was a trickle of blood from the side of his head. It ran down to his chin and disappeared under his collar. He was glaring at Pomeroy, and suddenly he changed the direction of his gaze and looked at his wife. Malignance indescribable was in his eyes, and he began to swear at her and she at him, both vitriolic, obscene.

On the settee, Janice Armitage did not stir.

Rollison looked round for a telephone, but could not see one. He might make Percy Dann hear, if he called, but a shout would be as likely to attract someone passing by, and an appeal for the police would be ignored, might even bring aid to the wrong side.

He could wait until Janice came round, he decided, and meanwhile he could question Pomeroy, now staring apprehensively at the Malloys, whose flood of abuse was slackening. The woman fell silent, but continued to glare at her husband.

Rollison said: “We’ll have the full story now, Pomeroy.”

Malloy swung round. “Keep your mouth shut!”

“Now, I said,” said Rollison.

Pomeroy was as much afraid of Malloy as of him, and licked his lips but remained silent. Then Janice stirred; it should not be long before she was able to go for help.

Flo Malloy said: “I’ll tell you, these damned fools don’t know when they’re beaten. Listen, Rollison, I . . .”

She backed away when Malloy rose to his feet. The man looked as if he would defy Rollison and the gun, and actually stepped towards her. For the first time Rollison saw that the woman was frightened. The glare did what oaths could not, and she shrugged her shoulders and looked away from him, with her lips tightly set.

“Don’t change your mind,” said Rollison to her.

“It’s changed for her,” said Malloy, turning towards him with a sneer. “You think you’re clever, don’t you—well, you’ll learn different. If you knew everything we could tell you, you still wouldn’t know much. If you want to know the whole story, find the Countess, she’ll tell you.”

Rollison said: “What countess?”

“I thought you knew all about her,” said Malloy, “and you thought I was unconscious.” He looked at Pomeroy. “He’s all gas, he doesn’t know a thing.”

That was the moment when they heard a sound inside the house.

Malloy moved his head round quickly, and Pomeroy clapped his hands together as if in anguish. Rollison whispered:

“Quiet—all of you.”

Malloy opened his lips, and then caught sight of the gun and discretion triumphed. Flo stared at the door which still stood ajar. Pomeroy was uttering little noises in his throat, but they were not loud enough to be heard outside.

“Malloy, where are you?” There were heavy footsteps in the next room, a smothered oath, and then: “You’ve got to get out, the police are coming!”

A man came into the room.

Rollison stared incredulously at Marcus Shayle, who stood, quite as dumbfounded, on the threshold of the room.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

HUE AND CRY

MALLOY took full advantage of the opportunity that offered. Looking round as Shayle paused, he saw that Rollison’s gun was pointing towards the door, and that Rollison was momentarily off his guard. He put his hands beneath the edge of the table and tipped it up, and as Rollison realized the danger the table struck him on the thigh. As he staggered against the wall he remembered Malloy’s gun, and tried desperately to regain his balance.

“Snap into it!” Malloy shouted.

Pomeroy bounded from the chair, jumped past Rollison and sped into the passage, while Marcus Shayle turned back and disappeared. For an agonizing moment Malloy and his wife stared at each other; then Malloy moved towards the gun.

Flo bent down, snatched it up and flung it through the window. There was a crash of breaking glass. Loud footsteps sounded in the street, and then grew fainter. From inside the house Shayle shouted:

“Don’t waste time!”

“If you breathe a word,” Malloy said to his wife. “I won’t rest until I’ve killed you.” There was no passion in his voice, it was a simple statement of intention. Then he went out of the door into the next room.

The front room was curiously quiet. The woman stood against the wall with her hands at her face, and Janice stirred again but did not open her eyes. Rollison tried the door into the next room, but found it locked. He went into the street, but there was no sign of Pomeroy. As he turned back into the little house, the door of the shop opened and Percy appeared, his Adam’s apple working at lightning speed.

“S’matter?” he demanded, shrill-voiced.

“Most of the birds have flown,” said Rollison.

“Cor-lumme, you didn’t start anything!”

“Not enough,” said Rollison. “The police will be here any moment, Percy, I shouldn’t stay if you don’t want to be a witness.”

“What, me?” said Percy.

He went back into his shop, and Rollison looked along the street. Two cars were coming round the corner. He shrugged his shoulders resignedly as he went into the front room. Mrs. Malloy had not moved, but she had taken her hands from her face and was staring at Janice, whose eyes were open and who looked bewilderedly about her. She saw Rollison, and tried to get to her feet, but dropped back with a gasp, and said plaintively :

“Oh, my head is terrible:

“Just sit still.” said Rollison.

The cars pulled up outside, and he met Grice on the front doorstep. It was a harassed Grice, with two sergeants who looked at Rollison in surprise.

“Are they here?” Grice demanded.

“No,” said Rollison.

“So you frightened them away.”

Rollison put his hand on the other man’s shoulder.

“A man who should be under arrest warned them. The gang would have been waiting here for you if he hadn’t arrived.”

Grice said slowly: “So Shayle came here.”

“Yes.”

“He broke away from the two men who brought him up from Devon,” said Grice. “That was at Waterloo, less than an hour ago, so he must have come straight here.”

“He warned them that the police were coming,” repeated Rollison.

“He gave this address when he cracked under questioning early this morning, and afterwards regretted it,” said Grice. “Have we got anything on Malloy?”

“Yes. Assault and battery at the very least.”

“Good!” said Grice. “Was anyone else here besides Malloy and his wife?”

“A certain sporting gentleman who calls himself Pomeroy.”

“So he is in it.”

“Of course he’s in it,” said Rollison. “You’re assuming that

Malloy’s wife went with them, aren’t you? She preferred to

stay behind, and but for her” He smiled, but without

much humour. “I’ll give her my thanks in person,” he went on.

Grice made no comment, and they went into the front room as two plainclothes policemen came through the other door, having gained entry through the kitchen. Mrs. Malloy was still standing by the wall, and when Grice approached her she looked at him steadily and said:

“I know nothing and I shall say nothing and all the police in London won’t make me.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Grice.

“And all the Superintendents, too,” she said, but there was no spirit in her and she dragged herself away from the wall to sit down on the arm of a chair.

Grice said slowly: “Mrs. Malloy, I don’t want”

“Steady old chap,” said Rollison, “she’s had a rough passage.” He saw the woman look at him in surprise. He then went to Janice’s side. Janice was pressing her hands against her forehead and complaining about a headache. Rollison felt no particular sympathy towards her. Grice said that he was going to take them both to Scotland Yard for questioning. Janice turned to Rollison with tears in her eyes and begged him not to let them, but he did not want to prevent the police from interrogating her.

Grice left a sergeant and a detective-officer to search the house, after Rollison had given him a detailed account of what had happened. Rollison particularly like Grice’s manner with Flo Malloy; he no longer tried to use the heavy hand, but helped her into the police car, where she sat next to Janice. Janice, knowing that she could not save herself from this indignity, sat in petrified silence.

Rollison sat next to Grice, who followed the leading car towards the main road.

“Was the Malloy quarrel genuine?” he asked.

“Yes. Malloy would have done murder, and his wife wanted to save him and probably herself from hanging,” said Rollison, “but I doubt whether she will talk now. If you had seen the way the man looked at her you would understand why.”

“Looked?” Grice was sceptical.

“I hope he’ll demonstrate for you one day,” said Rollison. “Well, there we are and we can’t do a great deal about it, except start a hue-and-cry.”

“That won’t take long,” said Grice.

At Scotland Yard he put out a general call for all three missing men. The two women were left in a waiting-room, with a policeman in with them and another outside the door, while Grice put the instructions through from his office, and then telephoned a report to the Assistant Commissioner. When he had finished, he leaned back in his chair and said:

“At least it was the Devon fellows who let Shayle go, we didn’t. He buttered them into letting him walk without handcuffs.”

“When did you know that he had talked of Malloy?” asked Rollison.

“Not until I knew that he’d got away,” said Grice. “The Devon fellows were so proud of having got something out of him that they said nothing in their telephoned report—they wanted to come and tell us how well they had done our job. Still, moaning about them won’t help. How did you get on to Malloy?”

“It was general knowledge that Larry Bingham owed him fifty pounds,” said Rollison, “and Larry has the reputation of paying his debts in kind. Larry was seen at the house yesterday afternoon.”

“You could have telephoned me,” said Grice, without much spirit.

“Yes, couldn’t I?” said Rollison. “I also heard that Janice Armitage was there, and I didn’t want to take chances with her.” He sat back.

Then: “Did you get any information about your countess?” Grice demanded.

“Your countess—my unknown lady,” Rollison corrected.

“So you’re sticking to that?”

“Firmly,” Rollison assured him. “What’s more, there is a chance that Lady Lost was at Malloy’s house for a while.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“From chance remarks,” said Rollison.

Grice raised no objection to Rollison being present while he questioned the women. He chose Mrs. Malloy first, believing that the longer Janice was on tenterhooks, the more readily she would talk.

Mrs. Malloy refused to speak, refused to admit that her husband had struck Janice or her, and remained tight-lipped, looking sullenly at Grice with her curiously-lidded eyes half-narrowed. She denied the presence of any other woman at the house.

“All right,” Grice said. “I’ll see you again later.”

She turned to go, with a man on either side of her.

“Flo,” said Rollison, as she reached the door.

She ignored him.

“Flo,” repeated Rollison, going across and looking into her eyes. “Malloy isn’t worth it. There’ll never be a future for you with him again. Although you tried to stop him from doing murder, he will probably be hanged. Don’t make it worse for yourself than it is now. If your worry is money, there are ways and means of helping.”

“I don’t want your help,” Flo said.

“You may do, later.” He turned back into the room.

“You’re fancying different types, aren’t you?” said Grice.

“Don’t be coarse,” said Rollison.

“Flo Malloy is as hard a nut as her husband,” said Grice. “I felt sorry for her at the house, because of what he’d said and done, but I shouldn’t be soft-hearted over her.”

Rollison made no comment.

When Janice came up she was in tears, and it took all Grice’s patience to coax the story out of her. She had been given Malloy’s address by Marcus Shayle, and had often been to the house—it was there that she received the “presents” he had sent her. She declared that she was desperately in love with Marcus and would do anything to help him, and she did not flinch when Grice talked of murder, but she did make a comment surprisingly shrewd for her.

“No one’s dead yet.”

“They did you go there to-day?” demanded Grice.

She sniffed and dabbed at her red-rimmed eyes; she looked girlish and might have appealed to the sympathy of some men at the Yard, but Grice was never impressed by tears or innocent looks. Eventually she told him that Pomeroy had sent for her and told her that Marcus would be released, and that she would be able to see him if she went the that morning.

“And what happened when you got there?” demanded Grice.

She gulped. “I—they—I mean Malloy, he said I was to— to go to Mr. Rollison’s flat!” She flung the words out defiantly, and then added, tearfully: “He wanted me to get the countess away; he said it was important, he wanted me to distract Mr. Rollison’s attention, he said he could look after the rest. And I was to get a key of the flat if I could—I don’t know what he thought I was!”

“Obviously he thought you were a friend of Mr. Rollison,” said Grice.

She simpered. “Well. I am, aren’t I?”

Grice kept a straight face with difficulty and Rollison agreed bravely that she was. This gave the girl more confidence, and Grice handled her well. The dress she was wearing might have come straight from a Paris salon, her shoes and gloves were of first quality, and her hair looked as if it had been dressed by an artist only that morning.

Grice finished his questioning at last, and Janice asked in her most little girl voice:

“Have I satisfied you, Superintendent? Please say that I have. I wouldn’t do anything that Malloy wanted me to if it would hurt a fly, I wouldn’t reelly.”

Grice’s voice hardened.

“You were very wrong not to tell the police your fiance’s address, Miss Armitage—had you given us the information earlier, a great deal of trouble might have been prevented.”

“Well” —she paused— “you couldn’t expect—I mean, you can’t expect a man to know how I feel about Marcus, can you?” I

Grice gave her up, but still spoke with a severe voice.

“I must warn you, Miss Armitage, that if you get any further information about any of them—Marcus Shayle, Malloy or the man called Pomeroy, you must tell us immediately. If you have a letter or a postcard, with an address or without, you must not lose a moment in telling us. If you do, you may cause even mora serious trouble for your fiance.”

“Would I?” asked Janice.

“You see,” said Grice, carefully, “it is by no means certain that Marcus Shayle is acting like this because he wants to. The others probably have some influence over him. It will be for his own good if he is found again. Do you understand me?”

There was a calculating look in her eyes.

“Yes,” she said, “I didn’t think of that before, I am sorry. If I have only a teeny-weeny note, or even a telephone call I will tell you right away, that’s a promise. Can I go now?”

“I will send a man home with you,” said Grice, pressing a bell. When a policeman in uniform entered, he told the man to take Janice to the waiting-room, and arrange for her to be taken home.

“Right-ho, sir. Come along, Miss.” The constable took Janice out, not before she had looked at Rollison beneath her lashes with a glance which she doubtless thought was alluring.

When the door closed behind her, both of them laughed.

“You’ve an impressive circle of friends,” said Grice. “Her type is as common as mud. She knew something of what was going on, and provided she came out of it well, she didn’t greatly mind. Shayle must be fond of her, or he wouldn’t lavish so much money on her.”

“Or,” said Rollison.

Grice frowned. “Oh what?”

“Or else he felt it wise to lavish clothes on her to make Sure that she kept her mouth shut,” said Rollison. “Perhaps there is more than fluff in that funny little head of hers. That’s only a suggestion, of course, and I may be quite wrong.” He offered cigarettes, and when Grice refused, lit one himself. “You’ll have her watched, won’t you?”

“Of course,” said Grice. He sat back and smiled, although his expression was grave and he seemed concerned. “Well, what about the Countess?”

“I’m a long way from convinced that she is a countess, or even if she is, that she’s half as bad as she’s been painted,” said Rollison.

“It isn’t like you to be so biased.”

“I’m judging from what I know of her. Bill, you started to base your case against her on the fact that she did not recognize certain tunes when they were played to her at the nursing home. That’s pretty thin.”

“It was an idea, no more,” said Grice, “and the rest developed directly from that. I’ve had a report in from the New York police,” he added, and took a telegram from his desk. “Read it, it might help to convince you.”

There was confirmation of the amount of money that had been raised by Countess Lila Hollern and of the fact that it was in her bank, under her name, and without a joint signature. There was also the admission that well-known members of New York banking circles and society had vouched for her, but a comment suggested that it might have been because of her looks. There was no doubt at all that the New York police considered that she had defrauded the public. The cable ended with the statement that action was being considered in New York, and the hope that if it materialized, Scotland Yard would be able to arrange for the countess’s extradition.

Rollison put down the cablegram and said slowly:

“Will you oblige them?”

“Not on the present evidence,” said Grice. “In any case I doubt whether the Home Office would agree—we’ve plenty to discuss with the lady over here!”

“When are you going to start?”

“When I know a little more,” said Grice. “Now, you’ve something on your mind—what is it?”

“Until she heard it in my flat, I don’t believe that she had the Yugo-Slav National Anthem played to her,” said Rollison, quietly. “I don’t believe the matron carried out the instructions and I believe she gave a false report.”

“You’re dreaming this up,” said Grice.

“Well, will you look into it?” asked Rollison.

After a pause, Grice said: “All right.”

“Don’t forget the police have made some errors in this case,” Rollison said. “First they let Lady Lost go from the nursing home”

“I’ve learned, since,” said Grice. “A visitor in a fur coat went in—and, naturally, when my men saw a fur coat come out, they had no suspicions. Later they saw another fur coat, asked the wearer questions, and then realized they had been tricked.”

The telephone rang as he finished.

“Grice speaking,” said Grice, into it. Rollison watched and saw his expression change, the skin grew tauter over his nose and cheeks, and while still listening he pressed a bell-push on the desk. At last he said: “Yes, stay there, touch nothing and move nothing, and allow no one else in the room. . . . If necessary lock the door, I will take the responsibility.” He replaced the receiver after a terse good-bye, and looked grimly at Rollison as a constable answered his summons.

Grice said: “Ask Chief Inspector Bernay to come in at once, then find out whether Sergeant Gorring is free. Tell the sergeant, if you find him, that we shall want everything for a case of homicide. He is to telephone Dr. Gray. Failing Sergeant Gorring, get Sergeant Anderson.”

“Yes, sir,” said the constable, as if Grice had asked for a sandwich, and turned and went out.

“Homicide,” murmured Rollison.

“If Phyllis Armitage told me the truth just now, murder,” said Grice, getting up. “I must pop upstairs and have a word with the Assistant Commissioner before I go. Are you coming?”

“Where?” asked Rollison.

“To the Lawley Nursing Home,” said Grice. “Miss Armitage went to see the matron and found that she has been killed.” He paused by the door, looked at Rollison thoughtfully, and then said with feeling: “There are times when you’re so uncanny that you scare me.”

Rollison said: “Uncanny? I simply look at the facts. I’ll see you there later,” he added, picking up his hat. “I’m going to Barrington House first.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

TALK WITH GWENDOLINE

ROLLISON took the lift to the ground floor and hurried towards the exit, then doubled across the courtyard, to the surprise of several policemen. He turned towards Parliament Square, beckoned a taxi which was approaching, and when the cab slowed up, he said: “Wait for me outside the telephone kiosk round the corner—we’re going to Park Lane.”

“Okay,” said the driver.

There was no delay when Rollison telephoned Jolly.

“Is there anything to report there?”

“No, sir. Our guest went for a short walk with her maid and they are now both back at the flat.”

“Good. Jolly, go to the Lawley Nursing Home quickly. Don’t let the police know that I sent you, if you should be seen by them—say you were curious about the matron, or something like that. Miss Phyllis Armitage is there—presumably in the matron’s office. She has had instructions to keep everyone out, so go to the window and try to talk to her. Get her story if it’s possible, and then report to the flat. If I’m not there, telephone Barrington House.”

“Very good, sir,” said Jolly.

“Get a move on, Jolly!” Rollison rang off and hurried to the taxi. There was no sign of Grice’s car as he passed the Yard. He sat back, lighting a cigarette. There was surely no further doubt that the matron had played a part in what had happened earlier. The trouble was to find out how Shayle, Pomeroy or Malloy had known that the Lady of Lost Memory would be put under her charge.

“Wait, will you?” he asked the taxi driver when they drew up outside Barrington House. “I may be half an hour.” He was already walking towards the front door as he finished speaking, and noticed with some surprise that the front gates were closed, preventing the taxi from going right in.

The footman, Farrow, opened the door.

“Good-afternoon, sir.”

“Good-afternoon,” said Rollison. “Is Miss Gwendoline in?”

“No, sir, she is not at home.” Farrow looked as if he were glad to say so.

“Mrs. Barrington-Ley?” asked Rollison.

“I am sorry, sir, but Madam is unwell, and unable to receive anyone.”

“Take her my card,” Rollison said, taking one from his pocket.

“I am sorry, sir,” said the footman, firmly. “The doctor was most emphatic—Madam is not to be disturbed. Madam was taken ill early this morning.”

Is she unconscious?” demanded Rollison.

“I have no information, sir, beyond my instructions.”

“When did Miss Gwendoline go out?”

“I have no idea, sir.”

As he spoke the door of a room off the hall opened and a maid appeared. Before the door closed Rollison heard Gwendoline’s voice:

“Tell him that he must come within an hour.”

“Very good, Miss,” said the maid.

Rollison strode past the footman, smiled at the maid, and reached the door. Farrow came after him, and when Rollison turned suddenly, he saw the man’s face set in alarm. The man actually stretched out an arm to stop him, but drew back when Rollison said sharply:

“Don’t ask for trouble!”

He was uneasily aware of the man’s tense gaze when he went into the room. But for the urgency of seeing Gwendoline, he would have paid Farrow more attention, for he had an impression that the man wanted to speak.

The morning-room was bright and sunny, with books in the corners and a small writing-desk, small easy chairs dotted about, and a low-sprung settee on which Gwendoline was sitting. She sat up abruptly when she saw him, and showed no sign of pleasure.

“I told Farrow that I was not at home.”

“And Farrow told me,” said Rollison. He closed the door, walked across and stared at Gwendoline. She looked as if die had had no sleep the previous night. Her eyes were bright and glassy, and her face was pale, the cheeks puffy beneath her eyes—obviously she had been crying. Her neck was heavily bandaged. Her hair was in disarray, and her tweed suit was crumpled. Cigarette ash covered the lapels and her skirt, and she looted almost disreputable.

“What is it now?” asked Rollison. “And why aren’t you in bed?”

“It was only a scratch,” she said. “My neck is stiff, that’s all. I don’t want to see you—I don’t want to see anyone.” Her voice was shrill with emotion.

“Have you been out this morning?” Rollison asked.

“No, I’ve been here all day.”

“Can you prove that?”

He stirred her to interest. She frowned, and then stretched out for a cigarette in a box by her side. Her fingers were stained brown with nicotine.

“If necessary, yes.”

“Has your mother been out?”

“No, she” She stood up quickly, wincing when she moved her head carelessly. “She had a heart attack this morning. I thought she was going to die. I think Andrew saved her life.” She looked a picture of despair as she stood there with the unlighted cigarette dangling from her lips, and her complexion rather muddy—never had Rollison seen Gwen Barrington-Ley looking so unattractive.

He said, quietly: “What brought the attack on?”

“I don’t know,” said Gwendoline, and then she flared up. “Why do you stand there asking questions? We asked you to help us, and all you did was to tell the police and let yourself be fooled by that damned woman! I thought you were a friend!”

“You make it very difficult for your friends to help you,” said Rollison, gently. “That doesn’t mean that they don’t want to. Gwen, were you speaking the truth when you told me that you had seen the woman at your father’s office?”

“Yes!”

“Did you see them together?”

“No,” she said, “she was waiting for him.”

“So other members of the staff must have seen her.”

“I thought you were a detective,” she said, sneering; that was not like Gwen. “It was his private office—there is an entrance from the street, leading to a small waiting-room, and anyone with a key can get in—anyone with a key. She had that key, do you understand? She had a key which I have never been allowed to use, even mother had never had one. That whore”

“Steady, Gwen.”

She flared up. “Steady, steady, steady! I tell you she’s a high-class tart, there isn’t anything to be said in her favour; I wouldn’t be surprised if she is behind all this!”

“All what?” asked Rollison.

“This dreadful violence! David’s disappearance. The attack

on me, and the at” She broke off, putting a hand to her

lips, and then added in a quieter voice— “and everything.”

“And the attack on your mother,” murmured Rollison.

She tried to stare him out, and failed. She tried to speak, but the words would not come. She was afraid.

“So Hilda was attacked,” he said. “Were you sending for Renfrew just now?”

She did not speak.

“You’ll have to speak sooner or later,” said Rollison, “you can’t keep it secret for ever. Gwen, what has made you behave like this? What has made a man like Renfrew stake his reputation on concealing from the police an attempt on your mother’s life? That is what happened, isn’t it?”

She said: “Damn you, yes!”

Rollison turned away and looked out of the window, where the grass was fresh and bright and a rose walk was ablaze with colour. It was a pleasant, peaceful scene, and the hum of traffic from Park Lane seemed remote from this seclusion!

“Gwen,” said Rollison, “if this comes out, and it probably will, Renfrew will almost certainly have his name removed from the register. He may never be able to practise again. I’m told that he’s a brilliant doctor, and I’m also told that he’s in love with you.”

You shouldn’t believe all you hear,” Gwendoline said in a muffled voice. “Talking won’t help, you can’t help, you lost your chance. Please go away.”

“There is too much at stake,” said Rollison.

“All you can think about is that woman!”

“And you and your mother, David, and several other people dragged into the affair, into danger and perhaps to disaster, through no fault of their own,” said Rollison. “Renfrew is one of them.” He hammered at that.

“Don’t keep harping on Andrew!” Gwen cried.

Rollison said: “There has been an attempt on your life, now on your mother’s, your father is missing and may be dead, the matron of the Lawley Nursing Home has been murdered”

Gwendoline screamed: “No! No!”

“In cold blood, not very long ago,” said Rollison.

Gwen stood up slowly, as if her limbs were operated mechanically. She took out a lighter and lit her cigarette, staring at him all the time. The room was very quiet.

“Who was the matron?” Rollison asked, gently.

“Is there—is there no hope for her?” Gwendoline asked.

“None,” said Rollison.

Gwendoline stepped to the window and looked out. Her eyes were half-closed, and looked too hot for tears. The cigarette drooped from her lips and smoke curved upwards, making her close one eye completely.

She said: “That matron is—was—a lifelong friend of mother’s. Mother financed the nursing home. David knew about it.” Her voice was low-pitched and monotonous. “Then someone found out. Pomeroy. I don’t know what influence he has over father, but he persuaded father to let the nursing home be used for—for people who were not ill. People who were supposed to be “resting”. I don’t know a great deal about it, except that father was uneasy. Violet—the matron—frequently protested, but there was nothing we could do; father insisted. Once or twice we knew that men or women wanted by the police were there under assumed names. It seemed madness, but—father impressed it upon us that we must not tell the police or make difficulties. So we let it go on.”

She paused, but Rollison did not interrupt.

“It has been happening for over a year now,” said Gwendoline, drearily. “It has been a constant source of anxiety, but the real worry has been David. Why did he let this man tell him what to do? If it were known that a man in his position was doing such things, it would ruin him. We were constantly afraid, and although he pretended that there was nothing to worry about, we knew that he was desperately worried. We tried to find out why, but couldn’t. It started from the time that Pomeroy came to see him. Many queer things happened from that time onwards. He transferred some of his business to Pomeroy, Ward & Pomeroy. He used them as the accountants and solicitors for the various charities which mother—mother tries to help. It didn’t seem to matter what Pomeroy wanted, he let them have their own way. I think they know where he is now.”

Into a pause, Rollison said:

“Pomeroy made you keep away from me, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you obey him?”

“Isn’t it obvious? We were afraid for father—we did not know what harm Pomeroy could do. And now Vi is dead, there will be an inquiry, everything will come out.”

“Are you sure that you don’t know what?” demanded Rollison.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I’m not lying now. There is no point in lying. The police will find out what happened at the nursing home, they will learn that mother financed it, they will ask questions—questions—questions! I’ve hated the sight of a policeman since this happened, I’ve hated the sight and mention of them!”

“The police will do nothing that isn’t necessary and won’t rake up muck for the sake of it. If a thing is done under coercion, the police don’t take such a serious view. That is, for crimes short of murder. Have there been any mysterious deaths at the nursing home?”

“No,” Gwen said, and then added almost inaudibly: You know what violence there has been.”

“You mean the attempt to kill the mystery lady?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know about it beforehand?” he asked, gently.

“I haven’t sunk as low as that,” she said. “No, but I knew afterwards that Pomeroy was aware of it. I heard Pomeroy talking to someone on the telephone. He had arranged that a new nurse, Armitage, should be engaged—that was done through father’s influence. I didn’t hear all the conversation, but I gathered that she was to be blamed for it. He had some particular reason for that, I don’t know what it was.” She turned and looked at him steadily. “If she had been arrested I would have told you, if not the police. Mother and I were quite determined, but when she was not affected, we did nothing. It seemed as if the police discovered the man who did it—did they?”

“Yes,” said Rollison. “His name was Shayle, Marcus Shayle.” When Gwen showed no interest, he went on: “A man of about twenty-seven or eight, pleasant-looking, with a round face and fair, curly hair. Does that sound familiar?”

“No,” said Gwen.

“You’ve never seen such a man with Pomeroy?”

“No.”

“All you know about that, then, is that Pomeroy wanted the woman dead, and also arranged, or tried to arrange, that someone else should be found guilty of her murder,” said Rollison. “You didn’t get any indication of the reason why he wanted that done?”

“No.”

“Gwen,” said Rollison, after a pause, “you have shown that you hate this woman, and you knew that someone wanted to murder her. If this story comes out, and it may well do so, it might be thought that you condoned it. You haven’t yet told me why you hate her so much. You must.”

“And then you will go and tell the police.”

“I shall tell them nothing unless I know it will save life,” said

Rollison.

She looked at him very steadily, before she said.

“Pomeroy always talked of her as the Countess. I hate Pomeroy more than I thought it possible to hate anyone! I heard him planning to have the Countess arrive here, pretend to be suffering from loss of memory, and be taken into the Nursing Home.”

“And then you heard him rejoice in the attempt to murder her.”

She said: “Are you a fool? It wasn’t really an attempt, I thought it was at first, but it wasn’t. She was made ill. but that was only so that she should win our sympathy. Don’t you understand? The whole elaborate plot was staged so that she could worm her way into our confidence and into father’s. She had already seen him in secret. I don’t know what they are planning. I do know that she was taking some important part in it. The very fact that there was an attempt to murder her is proof enough that she was to win our sympathy, and”

“Steady,” said Rollison. “You’re going too fast and getting illogical.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” demanded Gwen.

“It’s far too complicated. I think they wanted to kill her, and I think they were somehow prevented from doing so. And that is not only because I like the lady,” he added lightly, and he gave her the impression that he was much happier, “but I think I’m beginning to see the light. Tell me, did your mother ever see the so-called countess?”

“Once,” said Gwen. “We were out together, and I pointed her out.”

“Was she alone?”

“No, she was with Pomeroy.”

“Did he see you?”

“I think so. We ignored him. We have never acknowledged him when it was avoidable.” She stubbed out the cigarette and lit another.

Rollison said: “You and your mother saw her at the office or in the street, and apparently because you had seen her, probably because you pointed her out when she was with

Pomeroy, Pomeroy and his friends want you dead. You are still in some danger, Gwen.”

“It—it doesn’t make sense!”

“It makes more sense than some suggestions I’ve heard,” said Rollison. “Now, listen to me. There is danger, and there is only one way of avoiding it—by having the police in the house. You have a good excuse—the attempt to kill your mother.”

“We can’t” began Gwen.

“You must,” said Rollison. “Surely you’ve the wit to see that the police will puzzle it out before they’ve finished. Even if it drags on for a few weeks, until they catch Pomeroy. It will be far better to tell them yourself.”

She said: “I can’t do it.” She was distraught.

“Why not, Gwen?” he asked, gently.

“Because I am afraid for father!” Her voice rose. “I don’t know where he is, but I think Pomeroy does; I think that he has been taken away so that they can do what they like with us! If you could find him, if you could be sure that he is in no danger I would tell the police everything, but until then I can do nothing—nothing:

“All right,” Rollison said. “I’ll find him for you. But you may not like it when it’s done.”

“What do you mean?” she flashed.

“Haven’t you always been afraid that he is a willing party to all that has happened?” asked Rollison, and as Gwen stared at him in utter dismay, he added: “It’s quite likely that he is, you know. Do you still want him found before the police are told anything?”

“Yes,” she said. “But—I don’t think you can find him.”

“I think I can find him in half an hour,” said Rollison. “In fact in less—I can walk to the nursing home in twenty minutes.”

For a moment she looked as if she did not know what he meant. Then she backed away, staring at him with horror. She fumbled in a pocket in her skirt, and Rollison watched her narrowly, not alarmed for himself but afraid for her. She took out a box of matches and toyed with it. At last she tossed it on to a table, and put her hand into her pocket again. In her eyes was a wild look, and although she was silent she was obviously beside herself.

“I shouldn’t do that,” said Rollison.

He reached her in a stride, and gripped her wrist. She had started to take her hand from her pocket, and he saw the small automatic which she held. He pulled her arm up a little, and then, twisting her wrist, he made her let go. The gun dropped. She began to struggle, and he released her wrist and held her arms near the shoulders, tightly enough to hurt and to deny her any freedom of movement. Her face was distorted and her eyes were wild. He did not speak as he stared at her, trying to will her to give up the struggle.

Footsteps sounded in the hall, the front door opened, and there came a murmur of voices.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

HIGH TENSION

ROLLISON could feel Gwendoline’s body quivering. He relaxed his pressure slightly, seeing that her lips were also quivering and the wildness had faded from her eyes.

There was a tap at the door, and after a pause:

“Wait, please,” said Gwendoline, in an unsteady voice.

“It is Dr. Renfrew, Miss Gwendoline,” said Farrow.

“Ask him to see my mother first,” she answered.

There was a pause, but no sound of receding footsteps, and then Renfrew spoke in an anxious voice.

“Are you all right, Gwen?”

“Give me just a few minutes,” Gwendoline said, “I’ll come upstairs then.”

“All right,” Renfrew sounded reluctant, but the welcome noise of footsteps followed.

Gwendoline opened her lips, but Rollison moved away from her towards the door. She turned and looked out of the window, standing quite still, the shaking fit still on her. Rollison reached the door without making a sound, and then pulled it abruptly open.

Farrow backed away from the door, turning quickly on his heel. When he reached the door leading to the domestic quarters he looked round, but averted his gaze when he saw Rollison staring after him, Rollison turned back into the room, closed the door, and stepped to Gwendoline, who took out a handkerchief and began to blow her nose.

“What can I say?” she said hoarsely.

“Say nothing,” said Rollison. He stooped down and picked up the gun and held it out to her.

She flinched. “I don’t want it!”

He put it into his pocket without a word, but the fact that he had offered it to her would give her considerable psychological stimulus. He gave her a cigarette, and they lit up.

“Thank God it was you,” she said.

He smiled. “You see, I do sometimes turn up at the right moment!”

“I’ve behaved like a spiteful, venomous, murderous”

“Wildcat,” Rollison completed for her. “Daughter stirred to fury to save her father—it’s a common attitude in reverse. And people do all manner of strange things when they’re overwrought, as you’ve been overwrought during the past few weeks. Don’t exaggerate it, Gwen, and don’t think that I shall remember it against you! It must have been hard to keep going while believing that David was deliberately aiding and abetting crime.”

“It is hellish!” she said, her voice a-quiver.

“And it may be quite unjustified,” said Rollison. “What made you think so badly of David?”

“Everything—points that way.”

“Everything being generally known, or including something you haven’t yet told me?”

“I’ve told you everything,” Gwendoline assured him. “Rolly, please don’t try to soften it for me. I know you think the same, and I expect the police do. I’ve been trying to fool myself, trying to believe that it would not occur to anyone else, but I know it’s useless. I’ve wanted to believe the police are fools but I really know better.” She took a step towards him. “Do they suspect him yet?”

“They haven’t told me so,” said Rollison, “but they’ve kept a lot to themselves, and I can’t blame them for that. You’re wrong though, I don’t suspect David—any more than I suspect anyone whose part I don’t yet fully understand. My lost lady, for instance.”

“You’re really taken by her, aren’t you?” For the first time she spoke of the Lady of Lost Memory without bitterness.

If he were to gain her confidence, she must believe he was being wholly frank with her. So Rollison said: “Yes, Gwen, lam.”

Her eyes softened, and she touched his arm.

“I hope you’re right about her,” she conceded.

“Why have you been so set against her?”

“I’ve told you,” Gwen said, “except—well, I suppose you’d better know this. One day when I went into David’s room I found a letter which had slipped behind the bed. I shouldn’t have read it, of course, but the first word was “Darling” and it wasn’t in Hilda’s handwriting. It was—a love letter. It was written without any restraint, it proved that they had known each other for a long time—for years, Rolly. That, with David!”

Rollison said, slowly: “Was it signed?”

“Yes. Lila.”

“I see,” said Rollison.

In his mind’s eye there was a picture of David Barrington-Ley, that wiry whippet of a man, good-looking in an attractive way. He was a man with whom many women might fall in love—and yet something rang false about the idea of the Lady of Lost Memory being in love with David, something rang as false about the idea of his being in love with her.

“It’s quite true,” said Gwendoline, gently. “I can show you the letter. I’ve kept it for several weeks. Would you like to see it?”

After a pause, Rollison said: Yes, of course, it may give more information. I’d like to keep it for a while. Was there an address?”

“It was headed New York, and dated July.”

“She was there in July,” said Rollison. “What made you connect Lila with the woman you saw at the office?”

“On the telephone, Pomeroy talked of her sometimes as Lila, and the Countess at others.”

“I see,” said Rollison, and then Gwen took the letter out of her handbag and handed it to him. It was deep blue paper, of good quality. He put it into his pocket with a word of thanks, and tried to forget it, but the tension which had possessed Gwendoline transferred itself to him. It was difficult to be dispassionate and detached, hard to think, to judge what questions to ask.

“Have you really told me every reason for suspecting David?” he asked at last.

“Yes,” she said, “except the little indications, the trivial things one can’t put into words. He has behaved strangely in some ways, but in others he’s been as he always is when he’s got a big project in hand. He isn’t exactly absent-minded, but you can always tell that he’s really thinking about something else—do you know what I mean?”

“I know,” said Rollison.

“He isn’t a man to take kindly to blackmail.” said Gwendoline, “and I came to the conclusion that either Pomeroy was blackmailing him, or else everything was being done with his free consent. They’re quite friendly, too—Pom and David to each other. David friendly with a little fat louse like that!”

“Does Hilda know?”

“She does not!” said Gwen, emphatically. “That’s been one of my fears, that she would find out. There isn’t any need to tell her, is there?”

“None yet, at all events,” said Rollison. “I’m not even sure that you’re right.”

“I think you’re just being kind. Do you really think he’s at the nursing home?”

“Yes,” said Rollison. “There isn’t a better hiding-place, you know. Now you’d better see Dr. Andrew, or he’ll come down and accuse me of dallying with your affections.” He smiled. “Fond of Andrew?”

“Desperately.”

“Does he know what you suspect about David?”

“Yes—but no one else does.”

“I’d like a few words with him,” said Rollison.

“Of course,” said Gwendoline. “I’ll get him to come down.”

“I’d like to see him alone,” said Rollison, “before he is told what I know. Do you mind?”

“All right,” said Gwendoline. She moved towards the door, and when she drew level with him she paused and touched his arm. “Rolly,” she said, “I feel better than I have for weeks! It’s hard to say thanks.”

“Don’t even try,” said Rollison.

“I’m sorry about that letter,” she said, and then hurried out. There was more spring in her step.

Rollison sat down in an easy chair and lit a cigarette. The need in this case, as in so many others, was to disentangle the human emotions which played havoc with logic and often made black seem white. In the past he had not needed to worry about his own. Now he was defying logic and perhaps seeing black as white, but even with the letter in his pocket he could not convince himself that he was wrong about the Lady of Lost Memory.

He was sitting with his eyes closed when Renfrew came in.

“Why, hallo,” Rollison greeted, jumping up at once. He smiled at the tall, lithe, dark doctor, who seemed a little anxious. “How is Mrs. Barrington-Ley?”

“She’ll be all right,” said Renfrew.

“Gwen says she had a heart attack.”

“That’s right.”

Rollison looked at him steadily, and although the other met his gaze, he seemed a little nervous. Obviously he expected the diagnosis to be challenged, but Rollison tried another tack.

“Is photography a hobby of yours?” he asked, lightly.

“I do a bit,” said Renfrew.

“And do it well. I fancy,” said Rollison. “When did you take the photograph of Lila, Countess Hollern? And why did you send me a print?”

Renfrew did not move and tried not to show dismay, but he did not wholly succeed, and Rollison smiled, glad now to have his thoughts running more freely, the problem gaining ascendancy in his mind.

“You did send it to me, didn’t you?” he insisted.

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Renfrew, in a strained voice.

“You do,” said Rollison. “Look here, old chap, this business has gone far enough already. I think you sent the photograph to me because you knew that Gwen and Hilda were worried out of their minds. They had sworn you to secrecy, but you were alarmed and wanted someone to look into it, and you thought that the photograph would intrigue me.”

After a long pause, Renfrew tossed back his head, uttered a short laugh, and said:

“I didn’t dream you’d guess!”

“Have I got it right?”

“Yes,” said Renfrew. “Circumstances were hell for them, Hilda was as brittle as glass and Gwen was going to pieces. I knew that they were afraid . . .” He stopped abruptly, as if he realized that he had nearly made a damaging admission, and as he cast about in his mind for a plausible explanation, Rollison said:

“It’s all right, Gwen’s told me the whole story.”

“Everything!” exclaimed Renfrew.

“I think so. Her chief fear is that David is doing something he should not, and that at all costs they wanted to avoid that becoming known.”

“It’s right enough,” said Renfrew. He drew his hand across his forehead, and dropped into a chair. “It’s an enormous relief to hear that you know, Rollison. I tried to persuade Gwen to tell you before, but Pomeroy frightened her as well as Hilda. By George, it’s been a nightmare! Can you” —he was suddenly eager— “can you see any light?”

“A few glims in the distance,” said Rollison, “and I’m certainly not convinced that David is the villain of the piece. If he were being blackmailed, you know, he would do everything he could to prevent Hilda and Gwen from realizing it. That’s a point which you all missed, isn’t it?”

“I suppose we did,” said Renfrew, slowly.

“Two things need immediate attention,” Rollison went on, briskly. “First, what really happened to Hilda? Yes, Gwen confirmed what I had guessed, her heart-attack had unusual causes. You took risks, didn’t you?”

“There wasn’t any danger to her,” said Renfrew, defensively, “and if we were right and David was behind the attack, well— what else could I do?”

“Not much,” said Rollison, “What really happened?”

“Someone gave her a powerful injection of adrenalin,” said Renfrew. “If she weren’t as strong as a horse—constitutionally, I mean—it would have been fatal, but she threw off the effects. Gwen sent for me pretty quickly.”

“An injection,” murmured Rollison.

“She took a strong sleeping draught last night,” said Renfrew, “anyone could have got into her room and pumped the stuff in without waking her. Rollison, I’m pretty sure that footman. Farrow, is up to no good.”

“Did you make up the sleeping draught?”

“Yes.”

“Who else knew about it?”

“Several people,” said Renfrew. “Gwen, of course, Hilda’s maid, the butler—I expect it was common gossip below stairs. There was nothing secret about the fact that there was trouble of some kind in the house, and that Hilda wasn’t sleeping well. I suppose the other thing you want settled,” went on Renfrew with an abrupt change of subject, “is that photograph. That wasn’t difficult”

“It was taken before she arrived at the Bal Masque,” Rollison reminded him.

“Oh, yes, a week before. The woman dining with David at a small restaurant in the West End. I have a small Leica.”

“They saw you, of course?”

“Yes,” said Renfrew.

“Did David seem put out?”

“No—there was no cause for him to be, several other people were in the party. No one I know,” he added, “I’ve tried to think where I’ve seen them before, but I haven’t succeeded.”

“How did you know they would be together?”

“I knew that David was going out to dinner, and knew where,” said Renfrew. “I’d been treating him for gastric trouble, and there was no secret about that. I went with my sister. It was all quite usual. I didn’t tell Gwen or Hilda, of course, I didn’t want them worried unnecessarily. Er—and I’m afraid I sent a note to the Countess in your name,” he added, with a rather nervous laugh. “I got a friend to meet her outside the nursing home and then sent her along to your flat. Er—no resentment, I hope.”

Rollison laughed. “It was one of your good deeds.”

“Thanks,” said Renfrew. “Well, what are you going to do now?”

Rollison told him that he was quite sure that the police should be in the house, to prevent further attacks on Gwendoline and Hilda. Renfrew raised no objection to the police being told about Hilda’s collapse—there was no reason why he should not become suddenly suspicious of the cause of the heart attack.

The decision seemed to ease his mind. He could not stay much longer, he said, for he had several calls to make.

“Then telephone the Yard and make the report,” said Rollison, “and tell them when you’ll be free. I’ll have a word with them afterwards.”

When Renfrew had finished speaking to an Inspector, Rollison took the telephone and suggested that a police-surgeon should be sent along at once to examine Mrs. Barrington-Ley. He also asked that two men be stationed in the house. There was no demur.

“You’re not taking many chances,” Renfrew said.

“We’ve taken too many already,” said Rollison.

“Yes, well. I must get off,” said Renfrew. “Er—I can’t thank you enough for the trouble you’re taking and—and the way you’re helping us.” He wrung Rollison’s hand, and hurried off.

Rollison was on edge to return to his flat or to the nursing home. Gwendoline did not come back, and after ten minutes, he went to the door. The hall was empty. The house was so large that Gwendoline was probably out of earshot. He waited for a few moments, and then moved towards the stairs.

He had not taken three steps before he heard Gwendoline’s voice, raised in alarm.

“Rolly! Rolly!”

He raced up the stairs, urged on by the urgency in her voice, and she suddenly appeared on the landing, running towards him. She stopped to get her breath and waited for him, talking as he approached.

“Mother’s door is locked, I can’t get in, I saw Farrow come out of it; Rolly, what can we do?”

“Show me her room,” said Rollison.

She turned and hurried along the passages, turning now right and now left, and then stopped outside a door which was too strong to be broken open by the pressure of a shoulder. Gwendoline banged on the door and called her step-mother’s name while Rollison examined the lock closely. It was more suited to the door of a safe deposit than a bedroom.

“Is there another way in?” he demanded.

“No,” gasped Gwendoline, “only the window. Father’s room is next to hers, but that’s always locked.”

“Which is his?” asked Rollison.

She pointed towards the right, and then called her stepmother’s name again, but there was no response. A maid came hurrying along, greatly alarmed, and up the stairs ran a white-haired man, the butler, followed by a younger man whom Rollison had not seen before.

Rollison pushed past the maid and reached the door on the left of Hilda’s bedroom. It was ajar. He entered a small sitting-room, hurried across it, opened the window and looked out. It was a long drop to the ground, but there were window-ledges and cornices on which he could stand and get a grip.

He climbed out as Gwendoline came in with the butler and the maid close behind her.

“Put a ladder beneath Hilda’s window,” Rollison called.

He was clinging to the window sill with both hands, his head and shoulders above the level of the sill. He touched the top of the window below with his feet, let it take his weight, and then measured the distance to the next window—one which looked too small for Hilda’s room but might be a bathroom or dressing-room. There would be no great difficulty in getting to that, nor from it to the next room. He caught a glimpse of Renfrew behind Gwendoline, as he leaned sideways. He kept one hand on the sill—and, as he was groping for a hold on the next window ledge, he felt a sharp pain in the hand with which he was keeping his balance, a pain so sharp and so unexpected that he released his hold.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

NEAR THING

ROLLISON toppled backwards.

He had no grip with either hand, but he was standing on the ledge below; but for that he would have fallen without a chance of recovery. He tried to sway forward and grasped at a ledge, but it slipped from the tips of his fingers. By then he was almost upright, and his feet were still on the ledge; so he leapt backwards, in the hope of falling on his feet.

There was a lawn, with a stone path criss-crossing it, immediately beneath him.

He hit the lawn with his heels and pitched backwards. The back of his head struck the lawn, not two inches from the path, and the pain shot across his head, so violent that he gasped aloud. He felt a queer whirring sound in his head as his senses reeled. He was incapable of conscious effort, but instinctively tried to sit up, only to fail and to collapse again.

Out of the dimness and the growing darkness, he heard a voice.

“Don’t move, Guv’nor, don’t move, yer ruddy fool!” A hand pressed his shoulder to the grass, and then he was conscious of fingers touching his head. He felt no great pain. After a pause, the same voice came again. “Well, nothing’s broke, anyway.”

Someone else spoke. Rollison thought it was Gwendoline, but he did not know for certain. He felt himself being lifted to a sitting position, and there seemed to be nothing but voices and people crowding about him. He opened his eyes, and could see the people vaguely: two men in uniform, Gwendoline, the old butler and the younger man, who was putting a ladder beneath a window. There were other men in plain clothes. It dawned on him that the police had arrived.

A stocky man bent over him and he heard a gruff voice say:

“You can’t keep out of trouble, can you?”

It was Cray, the police-surgeon.

“Fell right on “is ‘ead, ‘e did,” said the man who had first spoken, and Rollison recognized the driver of his taxi.

“Head, eh?” said Cray. “All right, Rollison, I won’t hurt.” His fingers pressed Rollison’s cranium. “Now—feel anything?” Rollison shook his head and the pressure moved to another spot. “Anything there? . . . Or there? . . . What about that?”

Rollison drew in his breath and forced himself to speak.

“I’m—all—right. Get into—Hilda’s—room.”

“Hilda?” echoed Cray, and looked up at one of the plainclothes men, an inspector from Scotland Yard.

“He means Mrs. Barrington-Ley, sir,” said the butler, out of breath.

“Get to her!” gasped Rollison.

The Inspector and others turned, and, as Rollison sat up, supported by the taxi driver who was on his knees behind him, he saw a policeman start to climb the ladder. A little comedy was enacted then, when the Inspector pulled at the man’s coat and told him to come down, then began to go up first.

“Take it easy, man,” said Cray, still standing in front of Rollison. “They’ll do what they can.”

“Help me up,” said Rollison.

“You’ll be much better” began Cray.

“Help me up!”

The taxi driver put his hands beneath Rollison’s arm-pits and Cray took his forearms. Rollison was dizzy as he reached his feet and would have fallen but for their support. He stared towards the window, where the Inspector was peering in. The uniformed policeman was half-way up the ladder, behind him.

Then the Inspector bent his elbow and cracked it against the glass. The report as the glass broke was like a pistol shot.

The man would not have done that unless faced with an emergency. Slowly, Rollison moved towards the house, and the cabby and Cray went with him, one on either side.

“Must get upstairs,” Rollison muttered.

He thought the stairs would be too much for him, and he had to rest three times on the way up, but when he reached the landing he felt steadier. The butler had come behind them, and now he went ahead and led the way towards Hilda’s room. When they reached it the door was standing open and a police-constable was on duty outside. He stood aside for Rollison and Cray to enter, but refused admittance to the cabby, who called out that he would wait outside.

Cray stepped swiftly to the bed on which Hilda lay.

It was a magnificent room, magnificently furnished, but Rollison had eyes only for Hilda, who was on her back, her face a bluish grey, her eyes closed and her body motionless.

Rollison muttered:

“It’s probably adrenalin, injected. I know she’s had one dose.”

Cray opened his bag, took out his wallet and scribbled a few words on a card. He handed it to the policeman who had climbed the ladder, and said:

“Get this made up at the nearest chemist, and tell them it is urgent.”

“Right, sir.” The man hurried out, and Cray began to examine Hilda, who did not stir. Rollison sat on the arm of a chair, staring at the bed; the Inspector stood on the far side. A few moments later, Gwendoline came in. She stifled a scream, moved slowly to Rollison’s side, and stood watching. Renfrew did not appear.

Only then was Rollison again aware of pain in his right hand. Looking down, he saw that there was a cut, still bleeding slightly, on the fleshy part of the wrist.

There was a big bump at the back of Rollison’s head, which was tender when he touched it and which prevented him from wearing a hat; apart from that, and a piece of lint and sticking plaster on his hand, he did not feel much ill-effect from his fall. He sat back in the easy chair by his desk, with Jolly pouring out tea, and the Lady of Lost Memory staring at him anxiously.

It was twenty-four hours since his fall. In the interim, he had been in no state to talk or think, and his head still ached.

When he had left Barrington House, Dr. Cray had said that there was a fair chance of Hilda recovering. She had been moved to hospital, and Rollison was reasonably certain that she would be in no further danger. The footman, Farrow, had disappeared from Barrington House. Gwendoline and Renfrew had told their story to the police, who had been non-committal, but Rollison knew that a search was already being made for Farrow.

He had not yet heard Jolly’s story, nor heard from Grice. The friendly cabby had brought him to the flat. Policemen remained at Barrington House with Gwendoline and Renfrew.

“Are you sure that you won’t have a tot of whisky or brandy in the tea sir?” asked Jolly.

“No thanks,” said Rollison. I’m all right.”

“All right!” exclaimed the Lady of Lost Memory. “You look on the point of death!”

She was wearing a tweed suit, which Jolly had obtained from a theatrical costumier’s, was bare-headed and very lovely. It was not imagination that her eyes were filled with alarm. Rollison looked at her, and sipped his tea before he spoke.

“I’m not quite as bad as that. You lock delightful, and much better.”

“Oh, please!” she said. “Mr. Rollison, what happened? Was it to do with me?”

“Only indirectly,” said Rollison. “It’s a long and complicated story, and I don’t feel up to telling it just now.”

“I think you should go back to bed,” she declared.

“I think I will turn in for an hour or two. You won’t go out again, will you?”

“Not if you wish me to stay here.”

“I do.” Rollison stood up cautiously, went towards the doer, and then turned towards her. “One small thing—Mrs. Barrington-Ley is ill, I wonder if you would care to write a note of regret?”

“Of course,” she said. “Is she seriously ill?”

“I think she will soon be all right,” said Rollison. “Jolly will take the letter round.” He nodded and smiled, looking very woebegone, and then entered the bedroom. Jolly closed the door, and regarded Rollison with mild surprise.

“I don’t want her to go out again and I can’t shut her up in her own room,” said Rollison, “so field headquarters are moved into here. What happened at the nursing home?”

“I saw Miss Armitage through the window, sir, but she was most adamant in her refusal to speak to me, and consequently there was nothing I could do. The police were there very soon after me. Had the young woman been amenable I might have obtained useful information.”

“She was right enough,” said Rollison. “I like to think that she’s usually right. I hope Grice will soon turn up with the full story. You know what happened, I suppose?”

“I understand that the matron was murdered, sir.”

“Who told you that?”

“I waited until the Superintendent was there, and then managed to overhear a little of what was said,” said Jolly.

“I see. Well, plenty was doing at Barrington House. I got off lightly. Are you in a receptive mood?”

“I think so, sir.”

“Good! Then listen to me. Take Farrow the footman first,” said Rollison. “I have always thought him insolent, but I am not sure whether that’s the right word. He’s not a footman, and can’t hide it. He might be employed by Pomeroy. But on the other hand, someone sent me that photograph and so was sure of impending trouble; the same person might have employed Farrow to work and watch at the house.”

“You mean, perhaps, Mr. Barrington-Ley?” murmured Jolly.

“Yes.”

“Which would be a presumption of Mr. Barrington-Ley’s complete innocence.”

“I know,” said Rollison, “that’s what I want to presume. We’ll have to check on Farrow. Now, what of Dr. Renfrew?”

“I have made some further inquiries about him,” said Jolly. “He is in some financial difficulties. I do not know in what degree, but I hope to find out shortly.”

“If he’s desperately hard up, he might do odd things for money,” said Rollison. “Check that as soon as you can. And now . . .”

During the next quarter of an hour Rollison regaled Jolly with the salient points of the story, while he undressed, put on pyjamas and a dressing-gown and got into bed gratefully. Jolly arranged the pillows so that he had support for his neck without pressure on the tender spot of his cranium. Then he stood by the side of the bed.

“And so,” said Rollison, at last, “that’s the whole story. What do you make of it?”

“I am rather at a loss, sir, to understand your uncertainty about the footman,” said Jolly. “He certainly had every opportunity to inject the drug on two occasions—I assume that the second occasion was like the first, an injection of adrenalin?”

“It had the same effects, and Cray thinks so.”

“Then it is reasonably certain that it was administered by the same person, sir.”

“Yes. Adrenalin isn’t the easiest of drugs to obtain, you know.”

“No, sir, but unqualified persons have access to even more dangerous drugs than that—as you have often discovered.”

“The narcotics, yes. Adrenalin is a different matter. Why did Renfrew compromise his whole future by saying nothing about what he admits was an attempt at murder?”

“His explanation appears sufficient, sir,” said Jolly thoughtfully.

“Appears, yes. And it also would be a very good explanation if he actually gave the injection.” Rollison smiled at Jolly’s expression. “Suggestion not well received, Jolly?”

“Well, sir, with the utmost respect—would the man who first interested you in this matter and who arranged to send Madam here, take such a step?” asked Jolly.

“Meaning that the bump on my head is affecting my logic,” said Rollison. “Many things which Renfrew has done seem unlikely. Why did he get a friend to take her to his home—I mean our guest—and then send her here in a taxi? And why did he keep her away from here for several hours?”

“Is it so remarkable, sir?”

“At the moment, I think so,” said Rollison. “Renfrew was in a great hurry to get away after talking to me, but he returned remarkably quickly. The last thing I saw when I was hanging from the window was Renfrew coming into the room. Then someone stabbed me in the hand, with the unkind intention of making me break my neck.” When Jolly did not answer, Rollison went on: “The doubts about the villainy of Farrow the footman come in there. He wasn’t in that room. He had, apparently, fled the house before then. Renfrew was there with Miss Gwendoline, the butler, another footman, and the maid. Any one of them could have come to the window and used the knife, but it could not have been the footman.”

“I can follow you now, sir,” said Jolly obligingly. “But Dr. Renfrew”

“Is practically engaged to Miss Gwendoline,” said Rollison. “I would like to know a lot more about him. Background— real financial position, social reputation—all that kind of thing. Also, whether he possesses a Leica camera of the kind that can take excellent photographs through a waistcoat button-hole.”

“You mean that you doubt whether he did send the photograph?” said Jolly.

“I mean that I want to make sure,” said Rollison. “I put that statement into his mouth, and he accepted it after a noticeable pause. It might have been the result of being found out and being reluctant to admit it, but at this stage why should he be reluctant? What is more,” went on Rollison, warming up, “it might have been hesitation consequent upon getting an unexpected piece of information—hesitation while he made up his mind whether to turn it to his advantage or not. If Renfrew’s mixed up in this he would be smart enough. If he didn’t send me that photograph, he seized a unique opportunity to whitewash himself by agreeing that he did.”

“I suppose that is so, sir,” said Jolly, without enthusiasm.

“You still don’t like it?” said Rollison.

Jolly spent a few moments in profound reflection, and then said thoughtfully:

“I must admit that I see several difficulties, sir. For instance, would Miss Gwendoline be so easily deceived? You imply, sir, that Renfrew and Mr. Barrington-Ley were working in concert”

“Not Mr. Barrington-Ley.”

“Then I don’t quite understand you, sir.”

“It seems to me,” said Rollison, dreamily, “that someone is most anxious that we should believe that David Barrington-Ley is a scoundrel. So much points to him. The police will. I’ve no doubt, soon be working on that assumption, but—I know him fairly well. Jolly.”

“If you will forgive me for saying so, sir, you really allow personal liking to affect your judgment.”

“Not liking only, Jolly—my knowledge of the man. Two things are possible. One, that he had been blackmailed by Pomeroy, Shayle, and the others, and forced to behave in this uncharacteristic manner. Two, that he is doing it willingly. His wife and daughter lean towards the second, presumably. I lean towards the first. If we assume that I’m wrong, we must also assume that Barrington-Ley has been a party to all that has happened. Many things, some apparently contradictory, have happened, Jolly. First—and I think the incident which brought it all out into die open and was not, therefore, premeditated—the arrival of the strange visitor to the Bal Masque. Afterwards, there came what appeared to be an attempt to murder her, but because of what we have heard of Marcus Shayle’s instructions to Phyllis Armitage, that might have been simply an attempt to frighten her and encourage her to talk more freely. A nurse is a likely confidante, isn’t she?”

“Yes, sir, I think that is reasonable.”

“There followed what I think was an attempt on Phyllis Armitage’s life, which I was able to stop before it got really under way. Then a series of minor incidents followed with the sudden rush of events in the last few days. Barrington-Ley’s disappearance—the attempt to murder Miss Gwendoline, die two attempts on Mrs. Barrington-Ley’s life and, let’s face it, the attempt to-day on mine. Would a man attempt to murder his own daughter—or give instructions for such an attempt to be carried out, and would he kill his own wife?”

After a pause, Jolly said:

“According to the letter which Miss Gwendoline gave you, sir, there is a motive for his wishing his wife dead.”

“Ah, yes,” said Rollison. “But why his daughter?”

“She might suspect the truth, sir. From what you have told me, it is very likely that she had kept that back. It would be natural if she held back some of her grounds for suspicion of her father’s activities, if they included the attempt to murder Mrs. Barrington-Ley.”

“Yes,” said Rollison, slowly. “Yes. But I don’t believe it! Jolly, see if Lady Lost has written the letter to Mrs. Barrington-Ley yet, and if she has, let me see it before you deliver it.”

“Very good, sir,” said Jolly.

While he was gone, Rollison took the love-letter from his wallet and, for the first time, read it through. He did not enjoy it. The letter was well-written, but the English was a little stilted. It talked of difficulties, of the fact that “you” have not your freedom of love and longing—and when he finished, Rollison closed his eyes for a few moments, and wished that the Lady of Lost Memory had never come within his ken.

Then Jolly came in, carrying a letter.

The writing of the letter which Gwendoline had found was bold and clear; at a glance, the writing on the envelope which had just been addressed looked equally bold and clear. After a close inspection, he had to acknowledge that the two letters were written by the same person.

He said: “What is Lady Lost doing, Jolly?”

“She is in her room with the maid, sir.”

“I see. Jolly—what do you make of it now? Don’t hold your fire, let me know how you see the whole thing.”

Jolly said slowly: “There are some points which still mystify me, sir, but on others I think I am fairly clear. Unlike you, sir I incline towards the theory that Mr. Barrington-Ley is a willing party to the crimes, that he wishes to be free to marry Lady Lost, that to get his way he would even murder his daughter. For the rest, sir, it appears to me that he may be in some financial difficulties, and that he is tiding over the period by using the money which Lady Lost raised in America for the Yugo-Slav Relief Fund.” Jolly paused, and then asked quietly: “Shall I go on, sir?”

“Yes,” said Rollison.

“If I am right, then most of the other things fall into perspective,” said Jolly. “The one which might appear puzzling is the attack on you, but remember, sir, that members of the staff at Barrington House have, undoubtedly, a staunch loyalty to their master. The butler or even the maid, realizing that you constituted a great danger, might have made you fall, sir.”

“And then?” asked Rollison.

“Isn’t that sufficient?” asked Jolly.

“No,” said Rollison, emphatically. “It’s nothing like enough. You put David Barrington-Ley and—we’d better use this title now—the Countess together as a brace of unscrupulous scoundrels to whom murder and fraud are as meat and drink. And you fail to explain two things—first, that there was the attempt on the Countess”

“Which you have admitted was a fake attempt, sir.”

“I admitted that it might be. All right, there’s a second thing, Jolly. If they are what you think they are, if they have conspired to do these things, why did the Countess arrive, uninvited and unexpected, at that party? And was she at Malloy’s?”

Jolly murmured: “That first is mystifying, sir, but it may have been a way in which the Countess was to be introduced to the family and invited to stay for a while at Barrington House. We know that such an invitation was almost a foregone conclusion. If Mr. Barrington-Ley worked on his knowledge of his wife’s likely reaction, there is nothing surprising in that. And she might have been deliberately hiding at Malloy’s.”

“All right—what about the murder of the matron?”

“If you are right and Mr. Barrington-Ley has been in hiding there, the matron, who is a friend of the family, might have threatened to tell the police. That would provide motive enough, sir.”

“Yes,” said Rollison, after a pause. “I suppose it would.” He looked at Jolly with his head on one side. “In fact you’re right, you have a plausible case, you have worked this up as brilliantly as if you were a policeman! Do you know what I think about it?”

“No, sir,” said Jolly.

“I think it’s poppycock!”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Poppycock! Balderdash! Our friend the farrago of nonsense—oh, reasonable, logical, carefully prepared nonsense, but nonsense none the less. And what is more,” said Rollison, leaning forward and pointing a finger at his man, “I know what you are thinking and I know what Grice will say—I am influenced first by my liking for David Barrington-Ley and secondly by my quite incomprehensible confidence in Lady Lost. All right, Jolly! A lovely face and a lady in distress have blinded me to the facts—all right! I’m blind. But before you take me for treatment, find out what you can about Renfrew. Bring me the information as quickly as you can. Then find out what you can about Janice Armitage—not her sister, but Janice, the young one. The police will be watching her and probably making inquiries, but you might make a lucky strike.”

“I am ready to go at once, sir.”

When Jolly had gone out of the room, less disapproving than dismayed, Rollison scowled at the ceiling. He heard Jolly walk across the hall, and then the “maid” spoke. Almost at the same moment the front door bell rang. There was murmur of voices, and Rollison recognized Grice’s. Jolly opened the door again, and Grice came in, smiling as if all was right with the world. Yet beneath that smile there was a hint of uneasiness, as if he knew that he had come on an unpleasant errand.

“I told you so,” moaned Rollison. “He has it all sewn up, cadavers and all. All right, Jolly, you get busy. Remember that our reputation depends on this.” He waited until the door was closed, and then stared into Grice’s smiling face. Deliberately, he said, “Whatever you think, it’s wrong.”

“Well.” said Grice, “I’ve got Barrington-Ley under arrest. He was at the nursing home, masquerading as a patient.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

RENFREW

“MY dear chap,” said Rollison, “I told Jolly an hour ago that you’d find him there, and I told Gwendoline three hours before where you’d find him if you thought of looking. Now supposing you stop grinning like a sleek and over-fed Cheshire cat and examine your case for its flaws.”

Grice laughed. “You must have had a nasty bump!”

“I even had a fall,” said Rollison. “Let me remind you that no fall is so long or heavy as that which comes after pride, and never was pride so arrogant as yours just now. You think you’ve got it all solved, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Grice, and he was no longer smiling. “Rolly, what do you really think of the Countess?”

“I thought you knew,” said Rollison.

Grice said: “I’ve been thinking that it would be like you to pretend to have fallen for her, simply to pull the wool over my eyes.”

“Not at all true,” said Rollison. “Any wool blinding you was pulled by your own fair hand.” He was trying not to let himself feel so acutely depressed, trying to appear lightly sarcastic and so prepare himself for what Grice had to say. “Has Barrington-Ley talked?”

“No, except to say that he was drugged and woke up to find himself at the nursing home.”

“And you don’t believe him?”

“I do not,” said Grice.

“All right, let it come,” said Rollison.

Grice said, slowly: “We’ve also caught Pomeroy.”

“Remarkable! But isn’t catching crooks all part of police service?”

“And Shayle and Malloy,” said Grice.

“Quite a birthday for the police!” said Rollison.

“I wish you wouldn’t behave like this,” said Grice. “You can’t always be right, you know. The truth is”

“The truth is that you think you’ve come to the end,” said Rollison, “and this is how you’ve worked it out.” He did not give Grice a chance to interrupt, but talked swiftly. He put the case which Jolly had outlined, but in fewer words and with more telling effect, and he could see that Grice, if not actually astonished, grew more surprised as each item in the indictment against Barrington-Ley and the Countess unfolded.

Rollison spared himself nothing, and even mentioned the love-letter which Gwendoline had found.

When he had finished, Grice said:

“If you were advancing your own opinions and not guessing mine, I would still call it miraculous!”

“They’re Jolly’s opinions,” said Rollison. “Have you got anything to support such a case?”

“Yes,” said Grice. “Jolly was always more stable than you.”

“Never mind Jolly—let’s have your case,” said Rollison.

One half of his mind was paying close attention to what Grice said; the other was busy with thoughts of Lila, Countess Hollern. He thought she knew that he had not wanted to talk in front of her, and was therefore staying in her room. It was painful to think of her, and it grew more painful as Grice went on.

“Both firms of Pomeroy, Ward & Pomeroy are deeply involved,” said Grice. “Your Pomeroy is actually a partner of the accountants, although the others once denied any knowledge of him. The firm is handling the accounts of the Relief Fund, as I’ve said, and into the firm’s account all the American money was paid.”

“Ah,” said Rollison.

“Early this year,” Grice continued, “Barrington-Ley suddenly changed his accountants. He had employed the same firm for many years, but he transferred to Pomeroy, Ward & Pomeroy. On the firm’s statement, the accounts are in very bad order. Fat Pomeroy agrees, and says that Barrington-Ley knew it. His purpose was to get Pomeroy’s to produce accounts which would appear satisfactory. The Relief Fund money was to help to stabilize the position.”

“Wholesale falsification of accounts,” murmured Rollison.

Yes. There can’t be any reasonable doubt about it.”

“Fat Pomeroy denied any share in the firm, and the firm denied him.”

“That isn’t a crime in itself,” said Grice. “He told me that until the last moment he hoped Barrington-Ley would be able to put his affairs in order. He—fat Pomeroy—became involved, and decided to try to cover up the shortages. The rest followed naturally.”

“It could be the answer,” Rollison said. “Have you seen the accounts?”

“Not yet, but we’re applying for a Court Order to see them as well as the various banking accounts.”

“So you’re relying on fat Pomeroy’s word.”

“Why on earth should he lie at this juncture?” demanded Grice. “Shayle supports him in every statement, and their statements were made independently. Malloy knows little about it, apparently he was employed to supply violence when necessary. He employed the painter at Miss Armitage’s flat— yes, you were right about that, they wanted her dead. They don’t admit intent to murder, of course, only to frighten.”

“Why frighten?”

“They thought Janice Armitage had told her sister where to find Marcus Shayle, and in any case she could incriminate Shayle—as she did. Once we knew her story, the rest came logically. They were right to want her out of the way if they were to save themselves.”

“Yes,” said Rollison. “But there’s an answer to your earlier question—why should Pomeroy and Shayle lie at this juncture? Neither lies nor the truth will save them from punishment, but a confession, talk of King’s Evidence, putting the principal blame on Barrington-Ley—all those will help them.”

“Nonsense! They’ve practically admitted complicity in murder!”

“Oh, my dear chap,” said Rollison. “There was no murder until the matron’s. Has Malloy talked?”

“No.”

“But they’ve admitted they used him to provide the strong-arm men, you say. They’ll doubtless insist that he was instructed not to commit murder”

“They won’t get away with that,” interrupted Grice. “They’ve gone too far in their admissions.”

“Don’t forget that unless they killed the matron, which doesn’t seem likely, there’s no murder charge against them,” said Rollison. “They’re safe enough on that. They’re putting the blame on to Barrington-Ley, standing together to negate his evidence. Now you’ve got them, it’s their only wise course. But never mind, you’ve got your case, short of the matron’s murder. Let’s leave the sore subject of who killed her. When will you be able to examine the accounts?”

“This evening, I expect.”

“You can falsify accounts two ways,” said Rollison. “You can make good ones seem bad, as well as bad ones seem good. Don’t forget that.”

“I’ve never known you quite like this,” said Grice. “It isn’t any use trying to deny the facts.”

“I question their accuracy,” Rollison said. “There are two people in whom I believe—the Countess and Barrington-Ley. They are not, in my view, people who would become involved in such an affair as this of their own free will. That’s the issue, and your answer is different from mine.”

“Very different, apparently,” said Grice.

Rollison said: “And now you want to arrest the Countess for conspiring with Barrington-Ley, I suppose?”

“I must take her along with me,” said Grice, evasively.

“On a charge of conspiring to defraud?”

“I haven’t got as far as that yet.”

“I’m glad that you’re wideawake enough for that,” said Rollison, sitting up and pushing the eiderdown back. “You certainly haven’t got as far, you haven’t a charge of any kind which you can prefer against her. Pretending to having lost her memory? You might construe it into being a public nuisance but if I were you I wouldn’t try. Poisoning herself? Even you don’t believe she tried to commit suicide. And everything else that has happened in England in this affair took place when she was at the nursing home with a sound alibi, an alibi your own men provided, or else here, with one that the maid, Jolly, or I can provide. On the evidence of one letter and some gossip you can assume that she was having an affair with Barrington-Ley, but that’s no crime. Oh, take her along with you, old chap! Go through the motions of charge and arrest, and I’ll be on the doorstep with a complaint of wrongful detention before you can say knife.”

“Now, Rolly”

“Now Rolly be damned!” said Rollison. “Where are my trousers?” He took them from a chair. “I’ve warned you.” He sat down and pulled on his trousers, staring at Grice all the time. “Wrongful detention after you’ve been warned is serious. You haven’t a case, you know as well as I do that if you take her up before the magistrate you’ll get sharp words from the gentleman, unless you’ve a lot more to go on than you’ve told me.”

Grice’s expression told him that he had not.

“And there is another thing,” said Rollison, vehemently. “The police are no fools, but sometimes they have been fooled. You are being properly and completely diddled. On the evidence of a well-known East End crook who hires-out strong men for any beastly job that offers, of Pomeroy, a renegade solicitor-cum-accountant, and Marcus Shayle, himself detained on a charge of attempted murder, you’re assuming that Barrington-Ley is guilty of all manner of heinous crimes. Why? Only because it fits your own theory.”

“He hasn’t said a word in his own defence.”

“I should think not! David’s a good fellow, he would give you a chance of apologizing nicely and withdrawing the charge before he started to point out how completely you’ve been fooled. Where’s my coat?” He finished tying his tie, put on his coat and went on talking rapidly. “I’m serious. Unless you’re keeping something back, or are taking steps to extradite the Countess, you’ll arrest or detain her at your own risk and against all the opposition I can rake up—be it fair or foul!”

Grice said: “If I’d wanted further evidence against Barrington-Ley, I would have it in your story of the love-letter written to him by the Countess.” He was deliberately brutal.

“Bah.”

“Did you or did you not tell me about that letter?”

“I did. Here, I’ll show it to you.” Rollison tossed the letter to Grice, and waited while he read it through, and there was a curious expression in his eyes as he watched. He seemed almost elated.

Grice handed it back, but said:

“I shall probably need that as evidence.”

“That’s fine,” said Rollison, refusing to take it. “Use it as evidence! Try to get any conviction of any kind on the strength of it. Why, you addlepate, David Barrington-Ley’s name isn’t even mentioned! It was in his possession, or rather found behind his dressing-table, but there isn’t any evidence at all he received it or read it. Why shouldn’t my lady write to her beloved? I tell you that if you arrest or detain her, I’ll move heaven and earth to prove you a complete fool.”

“I shall leave the maid with her,” Grice said, after a long pause, “and I shall have her closely followed if she leaves this flat.”

Rollison raised his hands and beamed. He was almost gay, something had put new life into him.

“Threat withdrawn?”

“You know perfectly well that I can’t take her with me if you’re going to act like that,” said Grice. “I don’t think much of it, Rolly. You’re taking advantage of the fact that I told you what I was going to do.”

Rollison said: “Now be reasonable! I gave you good warning. I don’t want you to make a fool of yourself and the police force, and when this affair really breaks you’ll agree that it was a good thing. Er—seriously, now.”

“Well?” said Grice.

“What happened at the nursing home?”

Grice said, grudgingly. “Phyllis Armitage went to see the matron, at the matron’s request, and she found the matron dead.”

“By poisoning?”

“Yes.”

“Is Phyllis under suspicion?”

“No. The poison must have been taken an hour before she arrived. Barrington-Ley is under suspicion. He was there.”

“Poor David!” said Rollison. “Well, old chap, I don’t want you to feel that you’re not welcome, but I’ve a call to make. Stay here if you like, of course, I’ll trust you not to worry the Countess.”

“Where are you going?” demanded Grice.

“To see Phyllis Armitage?”

“Why?”

“Because I think they may have wanted to kill her for more reasons than one,” said Rollison, “and because she may know why, without realizing it.”

“I hope you don’t make a mistake,” Grice said. He followed Rollison out of the room, and they went to the front door. Before Rollison opened it, Grice turned and said with unusual seriousness: “Rolly, did you know the Countess before this started?”

“Great Scott, no!”

“Are you sure?” demanded Grice.

“I am quite sure,” said Rollison. “What makes you doubt it? I had her photograph, but I’ve told you about that.”

“I don’t mean her photograph,” said Grice. “I can’t believe that a woman whom you’ve known for such a short time would affect you like this.”

Rollison said: “Odd, isn’t it? I can hardly believe it myself! And that reminds me, I must tell her that I’m going out.”

He felt not only less on edge but possessed by an almost feverish excitement. Nothing seemed quite normal—except the smile with which the Lady of Lost Memory greeted him when he opened the door. She was sitting by the window, reading; the “maid” was opposite her, sewing.

“Are you better, so soon?” she asked.

“I was never really ill.” said Rollison. “Don’t get up.” He stepped across the room as she stood up, and shifted her chair. “But don’t sit so that you can be seen from the street,” he said. “And remember this—if anyone, any one asks you questions, even your maid, don’t answer. Don’t answer any kind of question put to you by anyone except me.”

“If you insist upon it, I will not,” she said, but she was puzzled and no longer smiling. “What troubles you, Mr. Rollison?”

“Unpleasant people,” said Rollison.

Downstairs, actually in the hall of the building, one of Grice’s men saluted him. In the street were two other men, and to one of them Grice, leaning out of his car, was talking earnestly. Rollison went the other way, soon found a taxi, and within twenty minutes he was walking up the stairs leading to Phyllis Armitage’s flatlet. The painters had finished, and the new paint was already scratched in places.

Phyllis herself answered his knock. She did not look particularly surprised, but asked him in.

“I suppose you’ve seen the police,” she said.

“Yes, and we’re not friends,” said Rollison. “Miss Armitage, I haven’t much time and I must have the answer to a single question before I go.”

“If I know the answer, I’ll tell you,” she promised.

“Think back to the afternoon when you left the nursing home.”

She frowned. “Yes.”

“The matron had tea with the patient, and the poison was administered before tea—that’s right, isn’t it?”

“Yes, so I was told.”

“You left the room about half-past three.”

“It was a little earlier.”

“Who came into the room before you left? I don’t mean Marcus Shayle, I mean who else on the staff or connected with the nursing home.”

“No one,” said Phyllis, eyeing him steadily.

“Are you quite sure?” demanded Rollison. “I mean, someone who had every right to be there, whose presence you would not perhaps notice specially, who always came about that time, who” He broke off, and there was a glint in his eyes. “Ah, you’ve remembered! Who was it?”

She said slowly: “Dr. Renfrew came in.”

“Did he send you out at all?”

“I had to take a message to the matron, yes.”

“So Renfrew was with her alone,” said Rollison, and there was a great relief in his mind. “That’s splendid! You’re prepared to swear to it?”

“Of course. He came every afternoon about that time, I didn’t really notice it. I am quite sure there was no one else.”

“That’s fine,” declared Rollison. “I think I’ll call that a day. Will you write that statement down and sign it?”

“Of course,” she said, now really puzzled, “but what has Dr. Renfrew to do with it?”

“More than we realize yet,” said Rollison.

He watched her as she wrote swiftly, signed what she had written, blotted it and handed it to him. He tucked the statement into his wallet, and turned to go. She followed him, and said in a low-pitched voice:

“Mr. Rollison, is my sister in serious trouble?”

“I don’t think so,” said Rollison. “Why?”

“If the police thought she deliberately refused to tell them where Marcus Shayle could be found, they might—well, they might do anything.”

“They won’t do anything about that,” said Rollison.

He smiled reassuringly and hurried out; and outside was one of Grice’s men.

Rollison stopped by his side, and said: “Be very careful of Miss Armitage. If anyone goes to the house, follow close on their heels.”

“I have my instructions, sir,” said the man.

“Are they the same as mine have been?”

“Pretty nearly.”

Rollison had kept his taxi waiting, and returned to Gresham Terrace, where he left it waiting again, and hurried upstairs. He was not surprised when the door was opened by Jolly before he reached it, nor that Jolly looked as if he had great news.

“Shall we go into your bedroom, sir?” asked Jolly, in a whisper.

“All right,” said Rollison, and once they were there, asked eagerly: “Well. Jolly?”

“I thought it better to return before I made inquiries about Miss Janice Armitage, sir.”

“What news about Renfrew?”

“He is very heavily in debt, sir.”

“Splendid! How did you find out?”

“From his receptionist. It is apparently an open secret to tradespeople and the like—I called prepared to ask indirect questions, and—ahem—I was taken for a bailiff, sir.”

“It can’t be as bad as that!”

“It is very bad, I assure you—the receptionist, a rather garrulous lady of middle age, has not been paid her salary for over three months. What is more, sir, much of the equipment at the surgery is not paid for, the receptionist told me that several of the firms who supplied it have threatened to take it back unless payment is made. Apparently Dr. Renfrew has lived on a very expensive scale.”

“The simple things!” exclaimed Rollison. “It couldn’t be better. Did you get anything else?”

“One or two other things, sir. The receptionist was quite an intelligent woman, and she was quick to recognize the description which I drew for her—of Pomeroy.”

“Is he a frequent visitor?” demanded Rollison.

“Less frequent than a few months ago,” said Jolly. “And the other thing is perhaps the most significant of them all. The receptionist, with whom I got on very well indeed, confided that she knows that everything stands or falls—I use her own expression, sir—by his relationship with the Barrington-Ley family. The strong impression which the receptionist has is that he hopes to marry Miss Gwendoline and so solve his financial difficulties.”

“Yes,” said Rollison. “Yes, he would.”

“I hope it helps a little, sir.”

“It helps a lot, for Renfrew probably poisoned Lady Lost. Stay here, Jolly. The police are watching the flat, as you’ve doubtless noticed, but I don’t want to take any chances with her.”

“I will be at hand for any emergency,” said Jolly. “Are you likely to be long, sir?”

“I hope not,” said Rollison. “I’m going to see Renfrew.”

“May I inform Mr. Grice, if he should inquire?”

“Provided I’ve first had half an hour with Renfrew on my own,” said Rollison.

He left as hurriedly as he had arrived, and gave the taxi driver Renfrew’s Wimpole Street address. Renfrew had been left out of Grice’s calculations, but that was a mistake. There had been other mistakes, not least his own, but he believed he had come to the end of them now.

The middle-aged receptionist, a neat, prim woman, opened the door, and when Rollison said that he had no appointment, said that she was afraid that Dr. Renfrew would not be able to see him. He was with one patient, another was waiting, and he had urgent calls to make after that. The woman looked fretful, as if she were very disillusioned of the young and handsome Dr. Renfrew.

“Take him my card,” said Rollison.

“I will give it to him when he finishes his present appointment,” said the woman. “But I think for a moment that it will be of any use your waiting. He is very busy to-day.”

“AH the same, I’ll wait,” said Rollison.

She shrugged her shoulders resignedly and then opened the door of the waiting-room. It was a long, impressive room, with a cold atmosphere perhaps suggested by the highly-polished Sheraton furniture. A long narrow dining-table held a dozen shiny magazines, dining chairs were pushed beneath the table and chairs with wooden arms were dotted about the sides. The sun shone through the fine net curtains at the windows and on the head of a man who suddenly hid his face behind a magazine as Rollison entered.

The receptionist went out, closing the door with a decided snap.

Rollison picked up a magazine, without sending more than a cursory glance at the other “patient”, but the quick movement had caught his eye. He glanced over the top of a Sphere, and the other looked furtively over Punch. When he realized that Rollison was staring at him, he averted his eyes and tried to hide his face again, but he was too late, and Rollison recognized Farrow the footman.

Slowly, and without speaking, both men stood up.

CHAPTER TWENTY

MOTIVES

THEY stood quite still, staring at each other. Rollison expected Farrow to show some sign of fear, but now that he had been recognized, the footman seemed prepared to put a bold face on it.

Rollison said: “I suppose you know that you are wanted for the murder of Mrs. Barrington-Ley.”

The footman said, sharply: “Is she dead?”

“There isn’t much hope for her,” said Rollison. “You know what happened, don’t you?”

“What?” Farrow did not seem unduly alarmed.

“She was given two injections of adrenalin, which affects the heart, and you had the opportunity each time. There is a warrant out for your arrest.”

“I didn’t do it,” said Farrow. There was no bluster about him, only a quiet and impressive confidence. “I think I know who did, though.”

“So do I,” said Rollison, and, moving towards the other, went on very quietly: “Why have you come to see Renfrew?”

“Why have you?”

“I don’t think we’re going to get much further if we keep talking at cross purposes,” said Rollison. He felt a quickening sense of urgency, and he glanced over his shoulder, half afraid that Renfrew might come in. “I don’t think you gave her the injections, but appearances are against you, and you are a sitting bird. If you know anything about this business, you probably know that already several people have been cleverly framed and blamed for crimes they did not commit. Barrington-Ley is among them, and might still pay for another man’s crimes. If you can give him the slightest help, you’ll also help yourself.”

“I wonder,” said Farrow.

“You haven’t much time to decide,” Rollison said. “Why did you go to work at Barrington House?”

“Because I was paid for it,” said Farrow. He gave a quick, mirthless smile. “I didn’t know what I was letting myself in for!”

“What inquiry agency did Mrs. Barrington-Ley hire you?”

For the first time he really surprised the man, who moved back a pace, and stumbled against a chair. For a shot in the dark it was an achievement, and with its success many other things fell into their right perspective. Rollison hardly heard Farrow’s astonished: “Well. I’m damned!” but realized for the first time something of the depth of Hilda’s mental torment. She had suspected David of wanting to be rid of her, suspected him also of fraud, and to try to find out the truth she had employed a man from a private detective agency. Pomeroy had raised no objection, had probably give his outward support, for such a man as Farrow was a ready-made victim for the frame-up which was planned.

“I didn’t think anyone would spot it,” Farrow said, in a wondering tone. “I’m from Morgan’s Bureau. I’ve heard of you, but”

“Let’s cut out everything that’s irrelevant,” urged Rollison. “Renfrew may come in at any moment and we want to get this ironed out quickly. Mrs. Barrington-Ley employed you to watch her husband, did she?”

“Yes.”

“For what reasons?”

“She was pretty vague. She said she thought he was worried and being blackmailed, but I soon found out she was afraid he was having an affaire and planning to murder her,” said Farrow. He joined Rollison and spoke in a low-pitched voice, glancing at the door from time to time. “I haven’t found a thing against Barrington-Ley. Absolutely nothing at all. The little fat swab, Pomeroy, has fooled B.-L., I know that, but I don’t know what he’s after. I do know that Renfrew tried to do away with Mrs. B.-L. I went into her room soon after he’d come out, after the first attack, and if I hadn’t made it plain that I had suspected him, I think she would have died. He pulled her round, and I let him think that I would keep my mouth shut for a share of the spoils. I’m here to collect— information, not spoils! I’ve made a full report in writing to the office, I’m not putting anything across you. I’ve come across a lot of people in my time, but I’ve never met a woman with more guts than Mrs. B.-L. That’s the truth, Mr. Rollison, and if I can put this clever doctor on the spot, that’s where he’s going.”

“He’s on it,” said Rollison.

Farrow snapped: “Are you sure?”

“Yes, quite sure. Have you got anything else?”

“Renfrew’s up to his neck in debt,” said Farrow. “He thinks he can put himself right by marrying Gwendoline. She’s lent him a small fortune already, but he just can’t hold money, his fingers are greased. His only hope is to get a bumper marriage settlement, and he’ll get a better one if Mrs. B.-L. is dead. The daughter will inherit all there is, then, and Renfrew will be on a good thing.” Farrow scowled. “I think he’s going to have a cut at polishing off Barrington-Ley when Mrs. B.-L. is dead and buried, but I can’t be sure of that. What are your ideas?”

“Not far removed from yours,” said Rollison, softly. “I didn’t see that motive, but I certainly should have done. Do you know anything about Pomeroy and the Yugo-Slav Relief Fund?”

“Not much,” said Farrow. “Pomeroy’s as slippery as they come. All I know is that he’s an outsize crook, and Barrington-Ley has been taken in by him—and I don’t mean maybe! Does that Fund matter?”

“Yes,” said Rollison. “And I think I see where it comes in. I”

He broke off, for Farrow, looking at the door, suddenly backed away and sat down. But it was only the receptionist, who looked even more sour.

“Dr. Renfrew will see Mr. Farrow,” she said, with a sharp glance at Rollison, “and you afterwards. He says he may be some time.”

“I think we’ll see him together,” said Rollison. He took the receptionist’s arm and she resisted in a flurry of alarm. “We’re on police business.”

“Police!” she gasped.

She stared at them, white-faced, as they crossed the hall to a room marked Dr. Renfrew—Surgery. But she made no effort to interfere, and Rollison, with a detaining hand on. Farrow’s arm, waited until she had disappeared through another door. Then he said softly:

“Go in and leave the door ajar, will you?”

“Any special questions?” asked Farrow.

“No, but speak clearly.”

Farrow was as helpful now as he had been hostile before, and he managed to leave the door unlatched without it being noticed, so that Rollison could hear every word that was said. He realized that someone else was in the room besides Renfrew, but did not yet know who it was.

Renfrew said: “I told you to come to-morrow, Farrow.”

“It wasn’t soon enough,” said Farrow, “I’m taking enough chances as it is.” He played up well, adding nervously: “How do I know I won’t be arrested for that murder?”

“She’s not dead yet,” said Renfrew, damning himself utterly. “I’ll see that you’re all right, Farrow, but not now. Did you see Rollison in the waiting-room?”

“Yes.”

“Did he speak?”

“No, but I don’t like the way he looks at me.”

“You fool!” came a woman’s voice, with a note of searing contempt which probably made Farrow flinch. You don’t like the way he looks at you! Why”

“Be quiet, Gwen,” said Renfrew, nervously.

Rollison, standing quite still, was aghast at the truth which was now all too evident. Gwendoline was in that room. She was a party to all that Renfrew had done, was in his full confidence and intent on keeping Farrow quiet.

So many puzzles were solved with that realization. Gwen’s manner before the attack on her; she was afraid he suspected the truth and in a mad moment, had thought of killing him. Her lies about seeing the Lady of Lost Memory, her hatred— to provide grounds for her behaviour—her anxiety to keep the a” air from the police, her complaisance with Pomeroy, who was a party to the plot; all those things fell into place.

There were others.

Everything Gwen and Renfrew had told him could be discounted. He should have realized before then Gwen had cut his hand to try to send him to his death. Renfrew had not been near enough to the window to use a knife. Her professed anxiety for her father and her carefully prepared story of her suspicions of him—all was false. She had once called at the Strand office of Pomeroy, Ward & Pomeroy, but he had not paid that enough attention.

How she had lied!

All that passed through Rollison’s mind as he stood in the hall. Then he pushed the door open slowly, and could sense the sudden tension which had sprung into the room, but he could not hurry; in whatever else he had been right, he had completely misjudged Gwendoline.

He went in.

Renfrew was sitting at a bureau desk in a large, plainly furnished surgery, and Gwendoline was by his side. When she saw Rollison she jumped to her feet, and into her eyes sprang an expression which he had seen before, at the time when she had drawn an automatic from her pocket. Then he had thought her overwrought and hardly responsible for her actions, but now fear made her desperate.

Renfrew backed further away. Gwendoline snatched her bag from the table and opened it.

Rollison said: “I shouldn’t do that.” The words were the same as he had used before, only their tone was different. She kept her hand inside her bag, and glared at him, while Renfrew, making a desperate effort to regain his self-control, stepped forward and slammed the door, avoiding Farrow who tried to stop him.

“It’s all right,” said Rollison to Farrow. He was still looking at Gwendoline, and she returned his stare with all the malignance of which she was capable, cold, murderous, utterly evil. “So this is how it is! With Hilda dead you would be worth a fortune on your father’s death.”

She said: “Don’t move an inch.”

He stood quite still.

“And I thought Renfrew was the evil genius! I almost wish that Hilda would die; you would then be hanged, the pair of you—hanged by the neck until you are dead”

“Be quiet!” screamed Gwendoline.

“With a bandage over your eyes and only the hangman on the gallows with you,” said Rollison, in a voice low-pitched with cold fury. “Clever Gwendoline! You showed Hilda that letter you found, didn’t you? You made her suspicious of David, you tortured her mentally and you tortured him, setting one against the other while you stood by and gloated, seeing your plans maturing and your hopes increasing, with your lover aiding and abetting. How long would you have waited before killing David?”

She said: “I am going to shoot you.”

“There are a lot of things you’re going to do,” said Rollison. “Among them you’re going to talk freely. Where does Pomeroy come in this, where does the Countess come in, where”

“Look out!” cried Farrow.

He shouted as Gwendoline snatched the gun from the bag and, watching her closely, Rollison flung himself to one side. Renfrew, uttering a hoarse cry, rushed towards the door. Farrow shot out a leg and tripped him up—and Gwendoline fired.

A bullet passed between Farrow and The Toff, another was nearer The Toff as he went forward, and the third hit the floor as he reached her and struck her arm down. He twisted her wrist until she gasped in pain and the gun dropped. But she was not finished yet. She pulled herself free and then flung herself bodily at him, gouging at his eyes, kicking at his shins and trying to knee him in the groin, but he got a grip on her wrists at last and forced her away from him. She stood like that, bent forward, the breath hissing between her clenched teeth. Behind them Farrow was standing over a prostrate Renfrew.

There was a wild banging on the door, and the receptionist screamed:

“Help! Help! Let me in, let me in! Help!”

“Keep her quiet,” said Rollison to Farrow, and the “footman” went towards the door, while Renfrew dragged himself painfully to his feet and Gwendoline dropped into a chair. He picked up her gun and motioned with it to Renfrew, making the man join Gwendoline. Renfrew stood beside her with one hand pressed heavily on the desk.

“And telephone Superintendent Grice,” Rollison called to Farrow.

Renfrew gasped: “Rollison, you’re wrong. We—we didn’t do anything; Hilda has a weak heart, she might die at any time, I tell you she might die at any time!”

“With help from adrenalin,” said Rollison, coldly.

“That wasn’t me, that was Farrow!”

“Not Farrow,” said Rollison. “Renfrew, if Hilda dies you’ll hang—unless you turn King’s Evidence. You might escape death if you do that.”

“Don’t talk to him,” muttered Gwendoline. Her eyes were bloodshot and she was still breathing through her mouth.

Rollison said: You had planned this before Pomeroy came along, hadn’t you? And Pomeroy discovered what you were doing and saw a way of turning it to his advantage;

Pomeroy was doing Barrington-Ley’s accounts” He broke off for a moment, and then his voice grew stronger and there was a note of elation in it. “I’ve got it! The simple things! The Relief Fund money was going through Barrington-Ley’s accounts, like a dozen other charity funds, the American money was rightly transferred here, Pomeroy was after it, he could best get it by falsifying the main accounts, appropriating the money but making it look as if Barrington-Ley had used it. The rumours about his financial difficulties were spread to make that look convincing—and what a chance for you, sweet Gwendoline! How well Pomeroy would make it sound —you would kill Hilda, he would kill Barrington-Ley, because if the rich man lived the truth would one day out. For his risk Pomeroy had the Relief money, for yours you had the fine inheritance. Pomeroy didn’t mention also that when you had it you would forever be in his power, did he?”

Gwendoline said, after a pause:

“It was all Pomeroy, all Pomeroy!”

“Yes!” cried Renfrew. “Yes, we couldn’t help ourselves!”

“You’d better rely on turning King’s Evidence,” Rollison said. “Denials won’t help you and nothing will help Gwendoline. Let’s have it Renfrew. You were in Pomeroy’s confidence, weren’t you—he could safely let you be in it, and he wanted you to do so many things, such as killing the Countess. He was to murder Barrington-Ley and you were to swear that it was suicide. Come on, Renfrew! Take what chance you have!”

“If you” began Gwendoline, grabbing Renfrew’s arm.

“Yes!” screamed Renfrew. “He made me do it, I couldn’t help myself, it was Pomeroy, all Pomeroy”

Then he began to talk, so swiftly and with such fluency that Rollison found it difficult to understand all he said. As he talked he damned Gwendoline so completely that she turned her bloodshot eyes away from Rollison and stared at the blank wall.

Farrow stood by the door, listening, saying nothing. He had pacified the receptionist, and except for Renfrew’s voice there was no sound in the room.

Renfrew had been desperately hard up, and so had Gwendoline, who received an allowance ample for her own needs but ridiculously small for his. His practice was small, for he had not been in Wimpole Street long, the expenses were enormous, his personal extravagance unlimited . . . .

Barrington-Ley would not increase his daughter’s allowance. Perhaps, thought Rollison, as he listened, David had some idea of the depths of evil that was in his daughter. She had evolved the plan to kill first Hilda and then her father; with Renfrew’s help it should be easy, he could have signed the death certificates. Had the plot not spread wider, they might have succeeded and now be living in luxury. But into the black plot came Pomeroy, fat and genial and garrulous, and above all dangerous. He came first because a company to whom Renfrew owed money had put the account into his hands. He appeared helpful and sympathetic and offered to advance money on expectations, and Renfrew told him of

Gwendoline and his hopes. Skilfully Pomeroy had drawn out of them the idea of murder, played on the theme and developed it; then whenever Renfrew showed signs of reluctance, used pressure because he knew the whole of Renfrew’s financial plight.

In all of this, Gwendoline supported Pomeroy.

Pomeroy, keeping in the background at the Strand offices, visited Barrington-Ley, won his friendship, won the business for Pomeroy, Ward & Pomeroy, ingratiated himself and at the same time spread rumours here and rumours there.

There was some truth in the cry: “It was all Pomeroy!” Some, but not enough.

“It was Pomeroy,” said Renfrew, “who had discovered that Lila, Countess Hollern, was in charge of the Relief Fund in New York, had influenced Barrington-Ley to sponsor the Fund in England, counting on willing assistance from Hilda. Pomeroy had arranged the transfer of the money and had the handling of it. Pomeroy put the whole foul plot into operation, conceived and executed it, with the help of Marcus Shayle and Malloy, of Janice Armitage—although hers unwittingly. It was Pomeroy who, through Shayle, made Phyllis apply for a post at the Lawley Nursing Home”

For the first time, Rollison interrupted.

“Could Pomeroy make sure that she got that post?”

“Of course he could!” cried Renfrew. “The matron was in his power, she had been mixed up in one or two unsavoury cases. Pomeroy discovered it, and made her do what he wanted. She said she would not go on after the attack on the Countess, but she was persuaded to continue when the Countess recovered. Then Pomeroy sent Barrington-Ley there, the matron knew he was drugged, she was going to tell the police. Pomeroy killed her”

Rollison said: “She was poisoned with the same poison as that used on the Countess, at a time when Pomeroy, Shayle, and Malloy could not have got to the nursing home.”

“I didn’t kill her!” gasped Renfrew. “Rollison, you’ve got to believe me, I didn’t kill her! I didn’t give the Countess enough for a fatal dose. I couldn’t really bring myself to kill

Mrs. Barrington-Ley!”

“But the matron was poisoned and she died,” said Rollison. He turned and looked at Gwendoline. Renfrew cried: “She knows where to get at my drugs.” Gwendoline sprang at him as she had sprung at Rollison. Her fingers clawed his cheeks until the blood ran, she bit and kicked and scratched him until Rollison dragged her away. As she was struggling in his grip and Renfrew was leaning over the desk with his face buried in his hands, there were heavy footsteps outside and Grice led in his men.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

MY LADY’S MEMORY

THERE would be bitter accusations and counter-accusations. Renfrew, Gwendoline, Pomeroy, and Shayle would malign one another and try desperately to escape their rightful punishment. Gwendoline and perhaps Renfrew would be hanged, the others would get long terms of imprisonment.

Pomeroy had been afraid that Gwendoline would betray him, and had instigated the attack on her—that had blinded them all to Gwendoline’s activities. It was known, too, that when Lady Lost did not die, Shayle wanted Phyllis Armitage to find out whether she had really lost her memory. The firms of Pomeroy, Ward & Pomeroy were no longer practising, and the principals and several members of the staff were under arrest.

The solvency of Barrington-Ley was now established beyond question and the run of selling on the Stock Exchange faded out. Barrington-Ley, who had been drugged by Pomeroy, but not seriously, for it would not have suited Pomeroy had he died before his wife, was constantly by Hilda’s bedside. Of her there were encouraging reports, and on the fifth day she was past the crisis.

So Barrington-Ley told Rollison, when he called at the Gresham Terrace flat.

“I’m more than glad,” said Rollison.

“I know you are,” said Barrington-Ley. “But for you”

“I don’t know that I covered myself with glory,” said Rollison. “It’s an old saw but a true one that the truth will out. Farrow, the man Hilda employed to find out what was happening, went a long way towards learning the truth.”

“There are a lot of things I don’t know,” said Barrington-Ley, “but I do know whom to thank. I wish there were a way of avoiding the trials, but”

He stopped, and Rollison knew that he was thinking of Gwendoline. However, there would always be Hilda for

Barrington-Ley; his grief would be softened by her.

The other man smiled, unexpectedly.

“I didn’t come here to be melancholy! Rolly, somewhere in this business a letter from the Countess has been mentioned. I gather that it was supposed to have been written to me. I received business letters from her, but I had never seen her until that night she arrived at the house. That is true, you know, whatever Renfrew said.”

“Of course it is,” said Rollison. “No intrigue by David!”

“But it must have been written to someone,” said Barrington-Ley, reasonably.

“Yes,” said Rollison. “I think she will know. She’s better in everything but her memory, and I shall give her the letter later this evening.” He was smiling, but there was a look in Barrington-Ley’s eyes which suggested he knew the smile was not a reflection of Rollison’s real feelings.

The financier took his leave, and then stopped at the door, by which Jolly was standing, to say that he had employed Phyllis Armitage to nurse Hilda, and that when the nursing home was free from police surveillance, as it would be soon, Phyllis might become the new matron. Then he went off, this man who was always striving to do good, to his wife and with his memories, while Rollison went back into the living-room and Jolly asked:

“Is there anything more you require, sir?”

“What time did the Countess say she was coming back?” asked Rollison.

“At half-past six, sir. It is now a quarter-past.”

“Thanks.” Rollison looked out of the window, frowning, and then said: “We don’t know who sent me that photograph, Jolly. We do know that Renfrew sent the letter in my name, and that one of Malloy’s men was to have killed the Countess on her way here, an attempt which didn’t come off, but the photograph remains a mystery.”

“I think it will be easily solved, sir,” said Jolly.

“By whom?”

“Well, sir, we have evidence that Mrs. Barrington-Ley was seriously perturbed, or she would not have resorted to a private detective agency. The photograph was not necessarily taken in London, since Renfrew lied about that to incriminate Mr. Barrington-Ley further. There seems a possibility that a photograph might be sent from America so that the Countess could be identified—it would be a simple precaution, I’m sure you agree. As Mrs. Barrington-Ley was the chief organizer for this particular Relief Fund in London, she was the most likely recipient of such a photograph.”

“Great Scott!” exclaimed Rollison.

“Exactly, sir,” murmured Jolly. “The love-letter, if you remember, was shown to Mrs. Barrington-Ley by Miss Gwendoline, so Mrs. Barrington-Ley certainly suspected that the Countess was involved with Mr. Barrington-Ley. What would be more natural than for Mrs. Barrington-Ley to send you the photograph?”

Rollison said slowly: “Nothing, Jolly. But why should Gwendoline turn up when she did?”

“Because she discovered what her mother had done, and was anxious to find out whether you were interested, sir. She told you her story, confident that it would mislead you.”

“I think you’re almost certainly right,” said Rollison.

A rather hysterical letter arrived that afternoon from Hilda: she had sent the photograph, she did hope Rollison forgave her; she had suspected David and dared not tell Rollison or anyone the whole truth. There were other things mentioned, and Rollison and Jolly sifted them from the irrelevancies which abounded in the letter. Hilda had employed Farrow and Pomeroy had discovered that without knowing what Hilda wanted Farrow to do. She had liked Pomeroy. He said that it was a splendid idea

“And then saw in Farrow a fine Aunt Sally,” murmured Rollison. “Well, that’s clear now.”

“One thing does puzzle me, sir—the attack on Miss Gwendoline.”

“If the truth does come out,” said Rollison, “I think we shall find that Pomeroy grew alarmed, because she was losing her grip, and he thought her better dead. If we don’t learn the truth, we shall have to assume that.”

Rollison was looking out of the window, and he stepped forward to see more clearly. Jolly stared at him.

The front door bell rang a few seconds afterwards.

“Thank you, Jolly!” said the Lady of Lost Memory, gaily. “Is Mr. Rollison in?”

“Yes, Madam,” said Jolly.

Rollison turned to greet her as she entered. She was wearing a simple dress of stone colour trimmed with maroon red, and a tiny hat of maroon red and shoes to match—for her luggage had been found at Mailoy’s house. It was known now that she had arrived in England a week before the Bal Masque, and that Pomeroy had met her and taken her to Malloy.

Flo Malloy, knowing that her husband and the others planned to murder Lady Lost, had frustrated several attempts. Then she had realized there was no hope while the woman remained at the East End house. Flo had found the dress and the coat, the only garments Malloy had not locked away, and helped her to escape.

But for Flo, the Lady of Lost Memory would not have lived.

When they had discovered her escape, Malloy and Pomeroy had gone post haste to Barrington House, for Lady Lost had known of the Bal Masque that evening. One of them had caught up with her and followed her into the grounds, attacked her and been disturbed by a couple strolling through the shrubbery. She had been knocked out—and, on recovery, had remembered nothing. Attracted by the lights, she had gone into the house.

She knew little of what had been happening since then.

Now her eyes were shining and her cheeks were glowing. She held out her hands to Rollison, who took them and laughed with her, although there was pain in seeing her so happy.

“Memory back?” he demanded. They could joke about it now.

“I keep recalling little things,” she said. “One day it will all come back. It must come back!” she repeated, and sat down on the arm of a chair, her smile fading. “I have been to see Mrs. Barrington-Ley. She is so kind. She wishes me to stay with her, and” —there was a hint of laughter in her voice— “I cannot stay here much longer, or all your friends will think badly of you!”

“Let them think,” said Rollison.

“I shall hate to go,” she said, “but I must, and soon. You understand, don’t you?”

“Of course,” said Rollison. “I have been wrong to let you stay for so long.” He took the folded letter from his pocket, handed it to her, and spoke carefully. “Before you go, read that. It might bring something to your mind. It was found by the police. I read it because”—he paused— “because I had to.”

She took it, obviously puzzled. She unfolded it, saw the opening words, and looked up at him, a new expression in her eyes. It was one almost of fear—perhaps of fearful hope. She began to read, but she had not read more than half the letter before she crushed it in her fingers and jumped up. On her face was a radiance which Rollison had hoped to see, but not because of this.

He made himself speak.

“You remember?”

“I remember! It is coming back, everything is coming back! My husband is in Paris, this letter which I wrote to him was not received. It must have been placed in an envelope sent to London. Where did you find it?”

“It was at Barrington House.”

“But I did not write there,” she said, “I wrote always to Mr. Barrington-Ley at the firm of Pomeroy, in the Strand. How did this get to Barrington House?”

“Pomeroy probably took it there,” said Rollison.

“Of course! Poor Paul, how disappointed he was not to receive my weekly letter!” She was in great spirits, and moved about the room excitedly. “I remember everything! Paul—my home—New York—everything, everything; It is glorious! It is wonderful!” She stopped suddenly, then moved towards him, took his hands in hers and kissed Rollison. He held her very tightly, and only when he felt her stiffen did he release her, afraid that he had given himself away.

But she was suddenly filled with great alarm.

“Mr. Rollison! I remember now, in New York I learned that this man Pomeroy intended to do harm to Mr. Barrington-Ley. A man whom he knew asked for my aid in deception, I refused it; immediately I sailed for London. There was a horrid week in a small house, where I saw Pomeroy. We must warn”

“There’s no need to warn anyone,” said Rollison. “It’s all over.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m quite sure,” said Rollison.

“I’m so glad,” the Lady of Lost Memory said. Then, after a pause: “Poor Paul! He will be frantic because he has not heard from me for so long. I must telephone him.” She looked towards the telephone, and Rollison, turning so that she could not see his eyes, went to it, lifted the receiver, dialled, and said:

“I want a Continental number, please.”

THE END