The Toff In Town

He thought at first that he was bound to a bed or a couch, then discovered that he could move his arms freely, he wasn’t tied up. It was pitch-dark, and he wasn’t sorry; any light would hurt his eyes. The blood drummed through his ears with the effort of movement, and he lay still again.

Everything was quiet.

Yet—he could hear something. Faint sounds—very soft music. It wasn’t far away. He tried to move his head again, in spite of the pain which shot through it, but he could see nothing, and the drumming of the blood sent the other sound away. It might be his imagination. He relaxed again, and became aware of something he hadn’t noticed at first—perfume.

Where was he?

The perfume gave him a clue—and now that he was more capable of thinking and reasoning, he realised that he was lying on a comfortable bed or couch. This might be Pauline Dexter’s room. He couldn’t remember the scent, but it was a woman’s room, anyhow.

He had no idea how long he had been here, and could not guess how long it was since he had come round. Two things were important. He was alive and free to move. But he mustn’t move too quickly. That bump over the head had been pretty hard, and

What about Snub?

He felt sick with alarm as he thought of the youngster; then the alarm faded, for he remembered that Snub had been breathing. There was no reason to think that Snub would have been killed and he, Rollison, left alive. Odd how he took killing for granted in this business, although as yet—and as far as he knew—Merino had not ventured murder.

He heard a door open.

Something clicked, and a light appeared at the foot and sides of a door which was opposite the end of the bed. The glow was only a glimmer, but it enabled him to see the outline of the bed, his legs—they weren’t tied—and a wardrobe near him. He turned his head. Near him, on a bedside table, was a lamp; he had only to stretch out his hand and switch it on.

Someone walked along the hall.

The footsteps faded.

A sound—it was music, perhaps from a radio set which was toned down—crept into the room. Then the footsteps returned, and he heard a woman humming in a lilting voice.

Then the door closed again, and the light disappeared.

Rollison put his hand to his side and groped for his cigarette-case. He found it, and drew it out. Then he groped for his lighter, and thumbed that clumsily. The light from the flame hurt his eyes. He lit the cigarette, then held the lighter further away, to get used to it. It needed filling, and the flame soon died down, He let the cap click back, and put both lighter and case into his pocket. The little red glow near the end of his nose was hardly a light at all, until he drew at it—and then all he could see was the tip of his nose.

He sat up.

Springs creaked faintly; it was a very comfortable bed. He hitched himself up to a sitting position. The blood drummed painfully through his ears and the back of his head seemed to lift from his neck, but he set his teeth and sat upright, and gradually the pain eased. Next time he moved, putting his left hand towards the table-lamp, there was less pain.

He found the switch and pressed it

A subdued light filled the room.

He closed his eyes against the pain, but gradually opened them. He was able to recognise the room it was the flat in Lilley Mews, Pauline Dexter’s bedroom. On the dressing-table was a photograph of the girl, and next to it, that of a film-star masquerading in the guise of a Greek god.

Rollison put his feet to the floor.

The pile of the carpet saved him from making any sound, but the bed creaked again. After a while, when he had pressed his feet firmly to the carpet, he stood up. He thought at first that he would faint with the sudden pain, but it cleared slowly and soon he stood upright. He knew that he would be practically useless in any emergency, with a head as bad as this. He stepped to the dressing-table with its long, frameless mirrors, and sat on the stool. There was nothing the matter with his face or forehead. He put up his right hand and touched the back of his head gingerly—and winced with pain. He manoeuvred the side mirrors, so that he could get a back-view of his head.

There was a large swelling, but as far as he could see the skin wasn’t broken.

He finished the cigarette, feeling thirsty. He looked round the room, and saw a hand-basin in one corner. He reached it, half-filled a tooth-glass with water and, without troubling to rinse it out, gulped a little.

He finished the water greedily.

All the time he could hear that faint music.

He went to the door and tried the handle, quite expecting to find the door locked—but it was not He pulled it open. Odd, that he should be quite free to move about as he pleased. There was no sense in it.

A light flashed on, so bright that he gasped aloud and whipped his hand to his eyes. He saw nothing for some time except a red light through his eyelids. He leaned against the wall, recanting his thoughts—they hadn’t let him roam at will; this had been done so that he would think he could escape and then have his hopes dashed.

“Put that—light out,” he muttered at last, and opened his eyes a fraction, peered through a crack in his fingers.

“Oh, is it as bad as that?” asked Pauline Dexter, as if distressed. “What a shame! But you’ll soon be better. Come in and have a drink.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“REQUEST”

SHE slipped her arm through his and led him into the drawing-room. In a corner a radio was playing soft orchestral music, the air which she had hummed a little while before. She helped him to sit on a settee and, when he grunted as his head touched the back, she made a moue of sympathy and, handling him gently, pushed a cushion behind him so that he could sit upright Then she pulled a pouffe near, and lifted his legs on to it

“You’ll soon feel better,” she said. “Whisky? Or perhaps you ought to have coffee, after that blow.”

She went to a table near the electric fire. On it was a round glass coffee-bowl, and the coffee seethed and bubbled over the heat of a tiny methylated spirit lamp. Two cups were by the coffee-bowl, and she poured out.

“Milk?” she asked, “No, you ought to have it black, with plenty of sugar.”

She was dressed in a cream-coloured silk dressing-gown, fastened round the waist with a wide scarlet sash. On her feet were scarlet satin slippers. The frilly lace of her nightdress, or pyjamas, showed above the neck of the dressing-gown. Her hair was a mass of loose golden curls, her complexion pink as a child’s; and she wore only a slight touch of lipstick.

She stirred the coffee and brought it to him.

“Thanks,” muttered Rollison.

After a few minutes his head grew easier and he was not so affected by the light. She pulled up a fireside chair and sat in front of him, leaning forward with her arms folded.

“You must feel terrible,” she remarked. “Your eyes are all bloodshot, did you know? And they look glassy. But they haven’t marked you, thank goodness—there are so few good-looking men about, that I hate to think of one of them having his looks spoiled.”

“Very considerate of you,” murmured Rollison.

She laughed, and her teeth glistened and he could see the tip of her tongue.

“So you can still find a retort,” she marvelled. “I wish Merino hadn’t taken the steps he has done—I’m quite serious,” she added, as if he had shown that he disbelieved her. “I always think that persuasion is much better than violence, but he’s so used to having his own way. The trouble is that this way has often worked for him in other countries. He’s not English, you know—he’s a Cuban.”

“Indeed,” said Rollison.

“Although I suppose one ought to call him a cosmopolitan,” said Pauline musingly.

“Committing crimes all over the world,” said Rollison.

That depends on how you look at it,” the girl said. But now that you’re here and we’re alone, I’ve a favour to ask. I hope you’ll grant it because if you do, you’ll save yourself and the Aliens and perhaps a lot of other people a great deal of inconvenience.”

“Merino’s already asked me,” said Rollison, “and I am not in the mood to go abroad.”

“Oh, I don’t mean that,” said Pauline, her eyes wide and starry. “I always thought that he was silly to try to bribe you, but he’s been used to getting what he wants by offering money— or rather jewels—to V.LP.s. He’s been a jewel merchant for so long that he forgets there are other values. He hasn’t really found his own level in England. I shouldn’t be foolish enough to ask you to leave England. I won’t even ask you to keep away from the Aliens I Frankly I’m a little afraid that if Merino loses his temper he might kill Bob Allen, and I’m fond of the boy. Besides—the police would have to be consulted if murder were done, wouldn’t they?”

“I think they’d appreciate it,” said Rollison.

She laughed again.

“You’re rather sweet,” she remarked. “Is that cushion comfortable? You wouldn’t like another behind your head?” When he said “no”, she took a cigarette from a box near her, lit it, and then put it to his mouth—as he’d done to Allen. “Now you look better,” she said, “I like a man to smoke. Now, to my request! I want you to persuade Bob Allen to go through with the broadcast on Saturday, and to say exactly what I’ve told him to say. He can easily work it into his script, that can be arranged without the slightest trouble.”

“So he’s objecting, is he?” remarked Rollison.

“He’s so stubborn,” said Pauline. “He flatly refuses to do what I ask, but I feel sure he will listen to you. He may not have shown you much respect so far, but he’s impressed by you. If you exert yourself, you can arrange it——”

“So all I have to do is exert myself,” murmured Rollison.

“Yes—and not too much, I shouldn’t think,” said Pauline. “Of course, you won’t want to do it, I know that, but I think you will. He’s a nice lad, isn’t he?”

“Allen? He——”

“Oh no. That boy who works for you,” said Pauline, looking at him with mock innocence; suddenly he wanted to wring her neck. “The one with the funny little nose—I wanted to laugh when I first saw him, I should imagine he makes a lot of people feel like that. Isn’t it odd,” she went on, taking a cigarette, “that some people are born cheerful and everywhere they go they make friends and spread brightness and happiness, so to speak, and others—rather like your man Jolly—spread gloom. What is the boy’s name?”

“Higginbottom,” answered Rollison.

“Oh no!”

“James Higginbottom,” said Rollison firmly.

“Oh, how priceless! Why, it would almost be a relief to him to die, wouldn’t it, with a name like that?”

Then she lit her cigarette, and let smoke trickle from her lovely lips.

Her manner hadn’t changed; she was almost frivolous, like a young girl let loose in adult society for the first time. And she was provocatively attractive, but for the first time since he had come round, Rollison felt real alarm.

“You do understand, don’t you?” she cooed.

“Yes,” said Rollison. “Fully.”

“And you will persuade Allen?”

Rollison said quietly: “Yes, I will.”

Her eyes shone. She jumped up and clapped her hands.

“I knew you’d be sensible! I could tell it from the moment I first met you—Merino would have been much wiser to let me see you before he did, instead of playing that foolish trick with the nitro-glycerine. It was a risk anyhow, because there was no knowing who would be the one to stumble over it. It might have been Jolly, and although he wouldn’t have been much loss to anyone, I expect you would have been angry—even angrier than you were. So that’s settled.”

“That’s settled,” said Rollison, heavily.

“I’m so glad!” He thought it wouldn’t take much to make her pat him approvingly on the head. “Of course, you’ll have to play fair,” she went on. “You see, a friend of mine will be in the studio—it’s so easy to get people into that particular studio—and he’ll be listening. If Bob Allen should say the wrong thing, or anything foolish—well, then there would be an unexpected sound over the air. A shot. I wonder if a real murder has ever been broadcast?”

“And whom would your friend murder?” asked Rollison.

“Well, Allen perhaps—or you.” Pauline laughed. “I know you could tell the police or warn the officials, and try to keep suspicious persons away on Saturday night, but that won’t help you. You see, unless Bob broadcasts exactly as we want him to, you won’t see that delicious Higginbottom again. It must be vexing for you to be trapped like this, but I think you’ll be wise and not fight against it. A sensible man always knows when he’s beaten.”

“Yes, doesn’t he?” asked Rollison. “Where is Merino?”

“He’s gone into the country for a day or two, just in case there should be any trouble over the explosion,” said Pauline. “You haven’t told the police about that, have you?”

“No,” lied Rollison, without a qualm.

“I felt sure you wouldn’t. You’ve something in common with Merino,” she went on musingly, “you’re so fond of your own way.”

“And where is Allen?” asked Rollison, interrupting.

“Oh, back at Byngham Court Mansions by now,” answered Pauline. “He didn’t stay long. I told him what was wanted and gave him a copy of the new script—it’s not altered very much really—and told him he’d have to do it, or he’d know what to expect. I will say this for him, he’s not a coward, we haven’t been able to frighten him into submission. And I sent him away quickly because one of those pug-nosed men you’ve employed followed him, and I wanted to get the man away before you arrived. As soon as he’d gone, Higginbottom was dealt with. We’re efficient aren’t we?”

“No doubt about that,” said Rollison. “Is there any more coffee?”

“Of course !” She took his cup, filled it and brought it back. “I’ve given you a dash of milk this time, and not quite so much sugar. You’re looking rather better. I suppose it’s because you’ve a load off your mind now you’ve decided to take the sensible course.”

“Oh, do you?” said Rollison. “Supposing I were to get up and tie you in a chair, telephone the police and tell them all about this—what would you do?”

“I’d keep saying “Higginbottom”,” she declared and giggled. “Or else “Snub”. Don’t be awkward, will you?”

“Are we alone here?” asked Rollison.

“Oh no,” she said, “I didn’t take a big risk like that—one can’t always be sure that a gamble will come off—and you’ve such a reputation as a lady-killer!” She turned away swiftly and pressed a bell-push near the door. Almost at once there was a sharp tap. She called: “Come in,” and a short, stockily-built man appeared, wearing a handkerchief over the lower half of his face. And just behind him stood a still shorter man, also wearing a handkerchief mask.

“All right,” she said. “I just wanted to convince Mr. Rollison that I was telling the truth.”

The taller of the two promptly closed the door.

“And with a head like yours, you can’t be feeling much like fighting, can you?” condoled Pauline. “I wonder if you can drive yourself home?”

“I can get a taxi,” said Rollison.

“You may as well drive if you can, your car’s in number 5,” said Pauline casually. “We sent Hig—Snub off in the one he’d hired. He told us about that, he wasn’t feeling very brave and I don’t suppose he thought that would do any harm. Then we brought yours round here. Oh, you’ll want the key of your garage.” She took a key from a pocket in her dressing-gown and handed it to him. “We took it from Snub,” she told him. “I like that year’s M.G., don’t you? The acceleration is good and the springing first-class. Can you get up?”

She stretched out a hand to help him.

“I can manage,” said Rollison.

He did not trust himself to say much. The girl’s composure, the way in which she hammered every nail right home, was quite remarkably devilish. And yet, as she stood back and watched him with rounded eyes, she looked innocent, beautiful and delightful.

He stood upright; and his head did not ache so much.

“Why, you’re almost yourself, you’ll be able to drive without any trouble,” she said encouragingly. “I’ll get Max to take you over to the lock-up—unless there’s anything else you’d like to say?”

“There’s plenty I’d like to say, but it had better keep for another day.”

“Any day but Saturday.” Pauline went to the door and pressed the bell again. “Don’t try any tricks Mr. Rollison, will you? I really like your Higginbottom, and I could easily get fond of you. I don’t think very much of the Aliens, but that’s beside the point.”

There was a tap on the door.

“Good-night,” said Pauline. “Come in, Max.”

The smaller of the two men appeared; and Rollison had no doubt that it was the “boy” who had been with the “gasman” when this affair had first broken out into violence. Max showed a glimpse of an automatic, then put it into his pocket, holding it all the time. He opened the front door and a cool blast of air swept in.

Good-night!” called Pauline sweetly.

Rollison didn’t answer.

Max led the way across the dark mews to number 5 and opened the door. He switched on a light which cast a glow enough for Rollison to see about the garage. He went between the wall and the car—it was Rollison’s M.G.—and opened the driving door. Then, keeping his distance, and obviously pre-pared for Rollison to strike back, he watched while Rollison squeezed himself in and took the wheel. Rollison gave Max a sickly grin, pulled the starter and put the gear into reverse.

“Good-night!” called Pauline sweetly.

Rollison backed into the mews without mishap, although normally he would not have taken the wheel while feeling as he did now. He glanced round at Max, who stood by the open door, then drove off.

There was nothing unnusual about the streets of the West End. Occasionally a policeman plodded past, taxis and private cars moved about, there were a few pedestrians but not many in these side-streets. It was a bright night and cooler than it had been by day. Rollison found driving less nerve-wracking than he had expected; he could spare time to think. He wondered whether he had been right to come away—but he had been in no shape to plan and think, certainly not to take aggressive action.

He reached the garage at the back of Gresham Terrace, pulled up close to the closed doors, opened them and switched on the light; this was bright, and showed the neatly kept garage, two spare tyres, tins of oil and a few tools. He went back to the car and drove it in, pleased with himself because he judged it to a nicety, stopping an inch from the end wall, and then angry because he could dwell on such trivialities. He got out again, slammed the door and wished he hadn’t because it sent a stab of pain through his head, and then turned to leave.

He stopped abruptly; there was something in the back of the car—something he hadn’t seen before.

A hand lay on the back seat!

Someone was huddled on the floor of the car. Was it—was it Snub? Had that damned woman

He peered inside.

He saw a pale face and a black beard and a small hole in the middle of the man’s forehead.

This was Merino I

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CORPSE

EVERYTHING changed . . .

Rollison stared down at the dead man, hardly realising then that he had driven through the streets with a corpse in the back of the car, without even a rug thrown over it. He saw, not Merino, but Grice. Murder—and one could not play with the police when murder had been committed.

Everything he had planned, the half-formed idea with which he had been toying, all faded.

He straightened up, unaware of pain.

The light shone on Merino’s closed eyes.

Rollison moved slowly away from the car; he had not touched the corpse. The little bullet wound was a familiar enough sight to him; and the dark ridge round the edges, the trickle of blood; he had been presented with the corpse of the man whom he had thought responsible for all that was happening.

Grice’s picture faded . . .

Pauline Dexter’s replaced it, looking as she had when sitting in front of him, innocent-eyed, her brow puckered, her voice so light and silvery.

Rollison shivered.

Then, throwing off the tension which had fallen on him, he went forward again, opened the rear door and stood looking at Merino, who was squashed into the back of the car, one hand lying on his stomach, the other on the seat. He stretched out his hand and touched Merino’s; the flesh was warm, practically normal heat. The blood, glistening, looked as if it had just trickled out

Merino had been dead half an hour, perhaps, possibly an hour, certainly no more.

Rollison closed the door.

It would be pointless to go through the man’s pockets; anything which might help him or the police would have been removed. He did not doubt why this thing had been done; “They” were determined to prove they were capable of murder, and it would make him understand Snub’s danger still more clearly. Everything fell into place, except

Had the girl done this?

Or Max?

Was the girl or Max the real ring-leader of this series of crimes?

Had they fallen out with Merino, because of what had happened that afternoon?

He went out of the garage and closed the doors, locked up and walked through the empty street with a chill wind blowing into his face. He walked slowly up the stairs at Gresham Terrace, and was relieved to see a light under the door. Only then did it occur to him to wonder what the time was; not very late, or there wouldn’t have been so much traffic about. He fumbled for his keys, but before he could find them, the door opened.

“I’m glad to see you back, sir,” said Jolly quietly.

“Yes,” said Rollison. “Thanks.”

When they were in the hall and Rollison was plainly visible, Jolly began to speak—then closed his mouth and hurried ahead, to open the study door.

“What can I get you, sir?” he asked.

“Aspirins,” said Rollison.

“Some coffee——”

“Just aspirins.” Rollison went to his arm-chair and sat down. Jolly returned with three aspirins and a glass of water. Rollison swallowed the tablets, sipped, said “thanks” and then groped for his cigarette-case. Jolly took it from his hand and lit a cigarette for him.

“No one lets me light my own these days,” said Rollison.

•Indeed, sir?”

“But I’m not blaming you,” said Rollison. “Jolly.”

“Sir?”

“I’ve just driven through the streets of London with the corpse of Merino in the back of the car.”

Jolly backed a pace, and looked appalled. But in a moment his mask fell back into place. It was some time before he spoke, and throughout the long silence he stared into Rollison’s glassy, bloodshot eyes.

Then he said: “Where is the corpse now, sir?”

“Still in the car—in the garage.”

“Isn’t that a little unwise?” asked Jolly.

Rollison’s lips puckered into a smile.

“Sometime or other Barbara Allen told me that I was like a breath of fresh air,” he remarked. “You are obviously of the same breath, Jolly. Yes, it’s damned silly, but it took me rather by surprise. You see, I didn’t know it was there when I started out.”

“I see, sir,” said Jolly. “You didn’t, then, shoot Mr. Merino?”

“No, Jolly. I’m sorry.”

“I think perhaps it’s as well, sir. I feel sure that had you done so, Mr. Grice would have felt that you were taking too much on yourself. The—er—body was planted on you, then.”

He broke off, and this time could not keep back his exclamation of surprise.

“But—but you didn’t take the car, sir!”

“No Black Magic; it was borrowed for the occasion,” Rollison said. “Jolly, we’ve much too much on our plate, and I’ve some really bad news. We could shed the body——”

“I was going to suggest, sir, that I should take the car and endeavour to do some such thing,” said Jolly. “I feel sure that in the circumstances, it would be better if it were not generally known that we were concealing a corpse. I—did you say you had worse news, sir?” He looked appalled.

They’ve taken Snub,” announced Rollison.

Only then did he realise fully the regard which Jolly had for Snub Higginbottom. Jolly’s eyes half-closed, he raised his hands in a helpless gesture of dismay. Without asking if he might, he went to a chair and sat down heavily.

“Get yourself a drink,” said Rollison. “I’ll try one now, too.”

“Very good, sir.” Jolly went to the cabinet and poured out whiskies-and-soda, one weak, one strong. The weak one he gave to Rollison. He sat down again at a word from Rollison, and sipped.

“You—you’ve no idea where Snub is, sir?”

“Not the foggiest,” Rollison told him. “No easy way out of this, Jolly. I’ve been given an ultimatum, too. Er—what’s the time?”

“A little after twelve-thirty,” said Jolly. “I was getting worried, and would shortly have telephoned Ebbutt, in the hope that he knew something of your most recent movements. Snub— Snub did telephone though, it was his voice, I’m quite sure.”

“Oh yes No blame on Snub or you. They let him send for me and then shanghaied him. And they weren’t exactly gentle with me. A man named Max . . .”

Jolly listened to the ensuing recital without making any comment; and Rollison told it at some length, because that helped him to fix the details in his mind. He did not even hurry over the interview with Pauline Dexter, because he wanted to picture her, with that curious blend of naivete and blaseness, wanted to remember the inflection of her voice when she had “threatened”.

“And the question now is, what to do,” he said finally. “I’m empty of ideas, Jolly.”

Jolly, looking a better colour, stood up.

“We must do something about that corpse,” he said worriedly. “In most circumstances I would say that Mr. Grice should he consulted, but——”

“This being murder, he couldn’t hold his hand,” said Rollison. “He would immediately see Pauline and her staff, and might detain them. But Pauline was so very sure of herself. She must have other friends who are looking after Snub. She’s relying on the danger to Snub forcing me to keep silent. And she isn’t far wrong. There isn’t much we can do, Jolly. Grice will have Lilley Mews watched by now; we can’t take Bill’s boys along and raid the place. Even you’d like to use them for this, wouldn’t you?”

“I would, sir,” said Jolly. “You—ah—might make a further attempt to persuade Mr. Allen to talk. If you know what is behind all this, you will have a much stronger hand.”

“Oh, I’ll have another go at Allen,” said Rollison.

“On the other hand,” said Jolly, “I really don’t think you are well enough to see Mr. Allen to-night. I don’t like advising it, but the best immediate course is for you to have some rest. Your head looks very nasty, sir.”

“Oh,” said Rollison.

“I hope you will agree,” said Jolly. “Meanwhile, there is the question of the disposal of the body.”

“That must stay where it is,” decided Rollison, “we can’t cart a corpse about London. Jolly, bad head or no bad head, I must tackle Allen to-night. Get me a cab. And if this doesn’t work, I’ll get Ebbutt’s boys to tackle Lilley Mews, police or no police. I mean it,” he added, getting up with an effort.

Jolly was about to protest but changed his mind.

Barbara Allen opened the front door of the Byngham Court Mansions flat so quickly after Rollison’s ring that he knew she hadn’t been asleep. In fact she was fully dressed although she looked tired out. A gleam of hope sprang to her eyes when she first saw him, but he shook his head.

“Nothing new, Mrs. Allen, but I want a word with your husband.”

“Oh, please don’t wake him up,” she begged. “He’s dropped off to sleep, and——”

“I must have a word with him,” insisted Rollison. “I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t essential.”

She gave in.

“I suppose you must if you must. He’s in the spare room he went straight in there when he came in. He hardly said a word, and wouldn’t have anything to eat.”

She led the way to a tiny room, where there was a single bed, a small table and a corner cupboard. Allen lay under the sheet, wearing his singlet and trunks. He breathed evenly, and when Rollison called his name, did not stir. Barbara looked tense when Rollison shook Allen’s shoulder vigorously.

But Allen didn’t wake.

Rollison pulled up his eyelids and examined his eyes; they were contracted to tiny pin-points, and he judged from them that Allen had been drugged with morphia. He felt his pulse; it was very sluggish. He did not think the youngster was in any danger, the dose was enough to make him unconscious, but was not fatal.

He told Barbara, and added:

“It’s probably as well; at least he won’t be worried for a few hours. Keep him warm—and then go to bed yourself. There’s absolutely no danger. If I had my way, I’d give you a shot, that would send you off to sleep.”

“I haven’t slept—not really slept—for days,” she told him.

One of the most expert cracksmen in the East End of London had long since retired but, because of a service which the Toff had rendered him some years ago, agreed to have a look at the flat in Lilley Mews and to open the door. He found little difficulty in climbing over the back of the garage and dropping into Lilley Mews, without being seen by the two police-constables who were unostentatiously hovering near the entrance. What was more, he discovered an, easy way over the old buildings of the mews, and several of Bill Ebbutt’s men followed him.

The flat was entered.

No one was there; nor was there anyone in the upstairs flat.

It was after three o’clock when Rollison went to bed, and after eleven when he woke up. His head still ached and was tender where he touched it, but his eyes were clearer and he could move about without difficulty or pain. So he bathed, shaved and breakfasted, much as if it were a normal morning.

After telling him that Mrs. Allen had telephoned to say that Allen had come round about nine o’clock, but was still in bed, Jolly said little. The obvious thing to do was to tell Grice, but every time Rollison thought of that, a picture of Snub hovered in his mind’s eye.

He had no clue as to where to find Pauline Dexter, no idea where Blane, Max and the little man might be. Beyond inquiring at the Meritor Motion Picture Company’s office, there was little he could do to trace her. He telephoned a friend, who immediately assumed that his interest in Pauline was amatory, and promised to find out whether she had a cottage in the country or a pied á terre anywhere else in London. He warned him that Pauline was going about with a big South American. Rollison promised to take heed of the warning, then rang off, thinking about Merino. He had assumed that there would be nothing in the dead man’s pockets which might help, but it was possible that some fragmentary clue would be found, so he went to the garage.

In the street he was met by two men, one young and earnest, the other middle-aged and genial. One represented the Morning

Cry, the other a Sunday newspaper. It was a quarter of an hour before they left him, apparently convinced that there was no “copy” to be got out of him at the moment. Because of them, he went the long way round to the garage, and looked up and down the narrow road where it was situated, before unlocking the door. His heart began to thump; perhaps he was a fool to come here in broad daylight

Even with the door open the garage was poorly lit by day, because of the backs of tall houses on the other side of the road, which hid the sun, and in any case Merino was dumped well down, out of casual sight.

He slipped inside.

“Going places, Mr. Rollison?” a man asked.

Rollison stiffened, but forced himself to turn round slowly and to look at the speaker, who stood outside the garage, showing a polite smile.

It was the middle-aged reporter of the Morning Cry.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

TRICK TO JOLLY

ROLLISON turned his back on the car and leaned against it, maintaining his smile, and slipping his hand into his pocket for his cigarette-case. The reporter, named McMahon, was a friendly soul whom he knew well—but he was first and last a good reporter.

Rollison held out his case, standing so that McMahon could not get too near the car.

“Thanks,” said McMahon, who had no accent to justify his Irish name. “Well, are you?”

“I’m always going places,” said Rollison. “You take a lot of satisfying, don’t you?”

“I was taught to believe only half what I see and nothing that I hear,” said McMahon. “Come off it, and give me the story. And before you say there isn’t one, listen to me,” he went on. “Two or three of Bill Ebbutt’s bruisers were out all night and I heard a whisper that they’d been on a job for you. There was that explosion on the staircase yesterday. Is somebody trying to get a flat by bumping you off?”

Rollison said: “Well, you seem to know a lot.”

“Be yourself,” urged McMahon. “You’re not usually like this, you don’t hold out on us.” He stretched out a hand and pressed it against the corner of the M.G., and if he came a yard nearer, he would be able to see Merino. “Let’s have it, Roily. I’ll keep it off the record, if you like.”

“Nice of you,” murmured Rollison. “Perhaps you’re right, Mac——”

“Now you’re talking!”

“That’s the trouble, I’m not at liberty to talk.” Rollison smoothed down his hair, wincing when he touched the bruise. “I might drop you a hint, if that’ll help.”

“Maybe it will,” said McMahon.

“There might be something interesting in Saturday’s show of In Town To-night.” he began, cautiously, “and——”

“Oh, come off it,” said McMahon. He took his hand from the car and came forward, and Rollison’s heart beat faster, he found it almost impossible to keep quite steady. “In Town To-night’s a nice gossip column, but——”

“Oh, this is special,” Rollison assured him. “It might be sensational. Among others, the police will be present—although the B.B.C. may not know it. If you know anyone who can get you in——”

“I know Hedley,” said McMahon, and his eyes gleamed. “Okay, Roily I’ll be there—I’ll just breeze in.”

“For the love of Mike, keep it to yourself!”

“You bet I’ll keep it to myself—one reporter’s quite enough if anything’s going to happen there! Got any background stuff, so that I can write it up beforehand? I’d like to catch the Sunday Cry—don’t forget we’ve got a Sunday paper, will you?”

“I won’t forget, but I can’t give you any background,” said Rollison. “Aren’t you ever satisfied?”

“No, never,” said McMahon, “but thanks. Nice car you’ve got here,” he added, and looked deliberately into the back through the rear window.

Rollison stood waiting for the outburst, screwed up to a pitch of icy tension.

“Very nice,” said McMahon. “Which way are you going? If it’s Fleet Street, you might give me a lift——”

Rollison gulped. “I came to get some papers out of the car,” he said, and for the first time ventured to look into the back.

If Merino’s body were invisible from the rear window, he might yet get away with it; it was quite possible that the corpse had sagged down during the night

He couldn’t see the body.

The body wasn’t there.

Jolly looked up as Rollison entered the flat and remarked that he hadn’t been gone long. Rollison gravely agreed and went into the study, calling: “Jolly!” in a loud voice, as he reached his desk. When he turned round Jolly stood respectfully in the middle of the room, his brown, doleful eyes showing no expression.

“The body isn’t there any more,” announced Rollison slowly.

“I’m afraid I must accept full responsibility for that, sir,” said Jolly. “After you had dropped off to sleep, I couldn’t rest for thinking about it, and I put the situation to Ebbutt, over the telephone. He immediately agreed to take the necessary steps. I understand that the corpse now reposes in a box in the cellar of a disused warehouse.”

“Oh,” said Rollison heavily. “Trick to Jolly. You gave me the worst five minutes and the best split second I’ve had for a long time, and I freely forgive you.”

“Thank you, sir. And I have cleaned the back of the car and made sure that it can be used,” said Jolly, “There is no fear of any fingerprints being found. Unfortunately there was nothing in Merino’s pockets which would help us. But at least we have to-day in which to work without undue anxiety here. If only we had some indication of where Mr. Higginbottom might be, we could feel so much easier in our minds. I suppose you will find out what alteration was wanted in Mr. Allen’s script as soon as you can, sir?”

“Yes,” said Rollison. “I——”

The telephone bell rang.

He broke off and motioned to the instrument, and Jolly lifted the receiver, saying as if it were a refrain: “This is the Hon. Richard Rollison’s residence.” He had hardly finished before he lowered the receiver from his ear, and stared in astonishment at Rollison.

“It’s her!” he exclaimed.

“Pauline!” cried Rollison.

He should have expected a call, should have known that her daring outclassed even Merino’s. She would be as calm as she had been at the flat, and he must match it

He took the receiver and said:

“Good-morning, Miss Dexter.”

“I’m so glad we’re on friendly terms,” said Pauline, gaily. “I heard you call my name out when Jolly told you I was on the line. How is your poor head this morning?”

“Rather battered,” confessed Rollison.

“I hope it’s not so painful, you looked terrible last night,” said Pauline. “I knew you’d feel like murder when you reached home, that’s why I left the flat—and I shall stay away for a few days. I rang up to remind you that you must persuade Bob Allen to do what I’ve told him.”

“Not easily,” said Rollison. The way she had brought in the word “murder” was clever—she used the same method of oblique approach as with her threats.

“That’s good,” she said warmly. “And please don’t try to find me, you won’t succeed, I’ve been so careful about everything. You found that package in your car, I expect?”

“Package?” echoed Rollison.

“Yes, in the back.”

“I found nothing worth looking at,” said Rollison. For the first time, his spirits rose. Pauline should have let well alone, and not given him a chance to confuse and puzzle her. This was the first mistake she had made, and had slipped into it so unwarily. There was certainly nothing in it this morning; the car’s been thoroughly cleaned and the upholstery vacuumed. What was in the package?” Rollison sounded genuinely curious.

Pauline did not answer.

“You may as well tell me,” went on Rollison, earnestly. There isn’t much you’ve kept back from me. By the way, how is Mr. Merino this morning?”

“What a beautiful liar you are,” said Pauline.

“My dear Miss Dexter,” Rollison said reproachfully, “I don’t understand you. I thought we’d sworn not to deceive each other. Let me go over the details again. I’m to persuade Allen to incorporate certain alterations in his B.B.C. script, so that your message can go out to your friends. That’s it, isn’t it?”

“I said nothing about a message.” Her voice was sharp.

“But you talk so obscurely that I have to read between the lines,” protested Rollison. “And if the message doesn’t go out as you’ve instructed, one of your thugs will be on duty in the studio to take aggressive action. Very thorough, Miss Dexter.

Shall I see you there?”

“You will not!”

“Oh, what a pity,” said Rollison. “Because I think we ought to meet again before long—in fact before to-morrow night. I’m not at all sure that I’m doing the right thing by taking your instructions, but you may be able to convince me if we have a little chat. How about Blott’s, at twelve-forty-five? I won’t leave you in the lurch this time, and the waiter won’t spill your soup.”

“Obviously you’re feeling very much better,” said Pauline. I hope that doesn’t mean that the police have been consulted. If they show up, you won’t see Higginbottom again.”

He had so shaken her composure that she came out with a direct threat!

“No police—I always prefer working without them,” said Rollison firmly. “If I were to tell them about you, my pet, I wouldn’t be able to wring your neck myself. I’m looking forward to doing that later, but I’ll do nothing violent at Blott’s:

Her voice lost all trace of its silvery note, became coarse, ugly.

“I’ve warned you what will happen if Allen doesn’t alter that script.”

She was badly shaken, she had been living on her nerves, a tiny crack in her armour had quickly grown larger, perhaps large enough to destroy her defences.

“But he isn’t even going to broadcast,” he said gently.

“What!”

“I’ve been thinking about it, and I’ve just decided that it will be much better for him to stay at home to-morrow night,” Rollison said. “Pity in some ways; I think he would sound well over the air, don’t you? But it just won’t do, we can’t use the B.B.C. for such dark deeds as yours. And you’ve slipped away into the country, after giving him a dose of morphia, so I’ll give him another dose and take him away for a day or two. You’ve got Snub, I’ve got Bob Allen, and that about makes us equal. Good-bye, my pet!”

“Rollison!”

“What, are you still there?” asked Rollison, sweetly.

“Rollison, if you stop Allen from broadcasting, you——”

“Sorry, my love, but there’s no drawing back. Good-bye!”

“Rollison!”

He rang off.

Jolly stared at him with glowing eyes.

“And that was a nice instalment of reward,” said Rollison. “Jolly, telephone Ebbutt and tell him that I want to hide Allen away for a day or two. He must be able to collect him at short notice. I’ll go and get Allen, and take him straight to the gymnasium. “Right?”

“Very good, sir!”

Rollison hurried across the hall and downstairs, gladly enduring his aches and pains. The morning was much brighter, almost another day. He was angry with himself for not having thought of this before; it was so obviously the right thing, the only thing. Pauline desperately wanted Allen to broadcast. If anything could lure her out of hiding, making him vanish would do it.

He turned right, towards the garage, but before he had gone two steps a cheerful Cockney voice sounded.

“Want me s’morning?” demanded Perky Lowe.

Rollison swung round.

“You’re just the man,” he said. “Byngham Court Mansions, in a hurry!”

He was hardly inside the cab before it started off. He watched the passing traffic and the passing people with a benevolent eye, and now and again burst into a chuckle. He pondered over the new move, trying to see any way in which it would work to his disadvantage and perhaps put Snub in more danger; none presented itself. From the beginning, Merino and Pauline had been determined to make Allen do exactly what they wanted, and—he was necessary to their plot, necessary because of the proposed broadcast. Spiriting Allen away was the perfect answer to the threat to Snub.

A plain-clothes detective was in the street near Byngham Court Mansions, and undoubtedly he noticed who climbed out of the taxi which Perky pulled up close to the front door. Rollison hurried upstairs. When he reached the top, his head began to ache more painfully, but he was still in high feather. Sam was on the landing, and greeted him cheerfully.

Rollison rang the bell, and this time Barbara was no longer answering it. She looked surprised to see him, and her eyes were swollen, as if she had been crying.

“Well, how’s the invalid?” asked Rollison cheerfully.

“He’s—a bit better.”

“He’s still here?”

“Yes—yes, of course,” said Barbara. “He’s getting up now.”

“And in a bad mood, is he?” asked Rollison gently. “I shouldn’t be too worried this morning. Tempers get frayed after you’ve been drugged.”

“He seems to have gone right back,” said Barbara. “There are moments when I almost——”

She broke off abruptly.

Rollison said: “What was this morning’s trouble about? Any particular thing?”

“Well, yes—but that was the excuse, not the reason,” said Barbara. “He’s lost a piece of paper, on which there were some notes. I destroyed them by accident, and—oh, but it doesn’t matter !”

She turned away.

“Don’t let it get you down,” Rollison said quickly. “I’ve an idea which will help, I think, and—we’ll see it all through.”

Barbara didn’t answer.

Rollison called out: “Allen! Are you up?”

Allen called a surly answer from the big bedroom.

He was dressed, but hadn’t shaved. He stood by the window, with smoke curling from a cigarette which drooped from the corner of his mouth. His eyes were lack-lustre, and he showed all the symptoms that might be expected in a man who had been given a dose of morphia.

“Now what do you want?” he demanded.

Rollison said: “About this broadcast—Pauline Dexter wants you to make an alteration or two, doesn’t she?”

“I don’t see that it’s any of your business,” growled Allen. “In fact I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. Things aren’t any better, they’re worse than they were when you joined in. I was right when I told you to take your nose out of my affairs.”

“That’s a bit hard,” said Rollison mildly.

“Maybe it is, but now you know,” Allen put a trembling hand to his lips, to take the cigarette out “I’m tired of it all !” he went on unsteadily. “I’ve fought as much as I can, but I’m not going to fight any more. Pauline wants to have a say in the script—okay, she can have it. That’s final. And when I’ve broadcast on Saturday night, it’ll all be over—thank God, it will all be over!”

He turned away from Rollison.

Barbara in the doorway, looked from Rollison to her husband, but did not move.

Rollison looked at Allen’s set profile and squared shoulders

—and the three of them stayed like that for a long time. All was quiet in the room. In the street, traffic passed noisily; a boy walked, whistling shrilly, along the pavement.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

PRISONER

IF Allen broadcast to Pauline’s instructions, would Snub be all right?

And if the broadcast went off without a hitch and the woman’s purpose was served, would it really help Allen or his wife?

As he looked at Allen, Rollison realised that the events of the past twelve hours had affected his own judgment. He had been seeing things too close up, had been too worried because of Snub, talk of the broadcast and the murder of Merino, to see the whole facts.

Something was to happen after the broadcast—a happening so important, worth so much money, that Merino had been prepared to give away those stupendous diamonds to make sure nothing prevented it.

The wearing of Allen’s nerves; the lesser crimes; the capital crime; all these were due to one thing only—the unknown motive.

Supposing Snub were sent back after the broadcast, his life saved by giving Pauline the victory, would Snub rest happy? Would he, Richard Rollison, ever be conscience-free?

Rollison looked over the roof-tops, thinking on these things —and then glanced at Allen. And he saw in Allen’s eyes a glint which hadn’t been there before. It was a disturbing glimpse of something which he couldn’t place properly, unless it were this: that Allen had been so whipped and beaten by events that he had become cunning and crafty in his all-consuming desire to let the woman have her way, and so be free from trouble.

What had happened between Allen and Pauline Dexter?

He felt, vaguely and yet with a stirring of a new alarm, that she had bent him completely to her will.

Allen looked away, and spoke roughly:

“Haven’t you heard enough?”

“Yes, quite enough,” said Rollison. “I still think you’d better come with me.”

“I’m staying here!”

Barbara broke her long silence.

“Won’t it—won’t it be better just to let Bob broadcast?” she asked. “You said yourself that everything might be all right after Saturday. And if the broadcast can settle it, don’t interfere. It can’t do any serious harm.”

“I don’t give a damn what harm it does,” said Allen harshly. “I’ll be able to rest, that’s all that matters now. I can’t stand this any longer, my nerves won’t take it.” He shouted now. “So clear out, Rollison!”

“I wish it were as easy as that, but there are complications,” said Rollison. “Remember Snub Higginbottom?”

Barbara started. “Is he back?”

“Where does he come in, except that he works for you?” asked Allen. “I remember you, now. You were with him in Regent Street a few weeks ago—I told Barbara you looked as if you’d come right out of the pages of the Tailor & Cutter.” He gave a little, mirthless laugh. “That isn’t far out. Well, what about Snub?”

“He also lent a hand,” said Rollison. “As a result, he disappeared. Pauline Dexter tells me that she knows where he is. I can’t imagine he’s having a very nice time, and I don’t think they’ll stick at murder if it serves their purpose.”

Barbara exclaimed: “No!”

Allen swung round on her:

“You seem to have forgotten how to think or talk, all you do is to run round with a face as long as a wet week, bleating: “Oh, dear, what will happen next?” I’m fed up to the teeth with it.” He ignored the crushed look in Barbara’s eyes, and turned on Rollison. “Supposing Snub has caught a packet? That’s up to him—and up to you. I told you to keep out of it. I couldn’t have put it more clearly.” He stepped forward, and took Rollison by the shoulder. “You know where the door is— you know it a damned sight too well. I’m wondering if this was your little love-nest while I was away. Bar seems to think you’re the cat’s whiskers.”

Barbara cried: “Bob, oh, Bob!”

Allen pushed the unresisting Rollison again.

“Caught you out, have I? The guilty secret at last, and——”

Barbara said in a low, strangely clear voice:

“You’ve sunk about as low as men can sink. I’ve tried—how I’ve tried—to help you. But now——”

Allen shot out his hand and grabbed her shoulder. He pulled her towards him, as he had done when she had first threatened to ask the police to help. He seemed to have forgotten that Rollison was with them.

“You’ll stay here and do what you’re told I If you don’t, you’ll——”

He snatched one hand away and made as if to slap her across the face. Before his hand landed, Rollison jabbed a short-arm blow to the chin which made Allen’s head jerk back. He staggered away from Barbara, who stood as if petrified, her face white, her lips parted. Rollison pulled Allen forward and repeated the blow, and Allen slumped down, unconscious.

Rollison stopped him from falling heavily, then slipped his hand into Allen’s inside coat-pocket and drew out a foolscap envelope. Inside was a copy of the script which Rollison already had. There was also another typewritten sheet—and a glance told Rollison that it was the new version which Pauline wanted broadcast. He tucked the envelope into his own pocket.

“I think I had better get him away for a bit,” he said quietly. “He’s not himself, don’t forget that.”

Barbara drew aside in tacit acquiescence. Rollison dragged Allen to the door. Sam was in the hall, and his eyes rounded.

“Knocked ‘im cold?” he demanded eagerly.

“Help me downstairs with him, and then come up here— you’re on guard in the hall for the rest of the day,” said Rollison briskly. “Mrs. Allen will get you a comfortable chair. I’d rather you weren’t here on your own,” Rollison added to Barbara, who nodded vaguely, uninterested now.

They got downstairs without being seen, and the cab was so close to the entrance that it was easy to lift Allen inside without the man in the street noticing. Rollison climbed in and Sam slammed the door. Perky started the engine and drove away at moderate speed.

Allen’s head lolled back against the corner but he began to regain consciousness before they had reached Edgware Road. He blinked dazedly, sat upright and moistened his lips, then rubbed his jaw, which was already showing signs of swelling. He worked his mouth about slowly, but by then, there was an intelligent gleam in his “ Allison would not have been surprised had he tried to get out of the cab when they slowed down at a traffic jam. Instead, he looked at Rollison with sullen hostility.

“Where are you taking me?”

“To some friends,” said Rollison. “If you’ve any sense you’ll stay there, and you’ll be all right. Aren’t you tired of being Aunt Sally for Blane and his mob to knock down?”

“He’s not the only one who throws his weight about,” Allen growled. “Barbara shouldn’t—my wife shouldn’t be left alone at the flat,” he said. “It’s too big a strain on her.”

“So you have flashes of sanity,” said Rollison.

Allen drew in his breath—and then suddenly turned his face away. He gritted his teeth, as if to prevent himself from breaking down, took out a plump silver cigarette-case and rooted in his pockets for matches. Rollison gave him a light.

“What good will it do if I go into hiding?” Allen demanded at last. They’ll find me—they’ll always find me. They’re too strong for me and for you. It’s best to get it over; let them have their way. Perhaps I’ll be left in peace after that——”

“Isn’t it time you told someone what’s behind all this?” asked Rollison. “And why Pauline wants you to alter your script for to-morrow night?” When Allen did not answer, he went on: “This business appears to have started when you were half-way home from Burma. It followed something you did while you were in Burma. And it was something which made you more scared of the police than of Merino.”

“Who?” asked Allen, and added slowly: “You said something about Merino before—who is he?”

“Blane’s employer. Pauline Dexter’s boy friend,” said Rollison. “Haven’t you met him? He’s the man who telephoned you so often.”

Allen shivered.

“No, I haven’t met him, and I hope I never do. And—I’m not talking. It’s my affair, I’m going to do what the girl wants me to on Saturday, and then I’m through. If they won’t leave me alone then, I’ll kill myself.” He shivered again. “You may think I’m fooling, but I’ve never been more serious. I’m worth nothing to anyone. Bar looked at me just now as if she hated my guts—I know, I know, I asked for it, we needn’t go into that.”

Rollison said: “All right, you won’t talk about what happened in Burma——”

“I didn’t say anything happened there!”

“Then you won’t talk about the reason for the trouble, if you prefer to put it that way,” said Rollison, “and while you keep it to yourself, no one can do much to help you.”

“I don’t want anyone’s help!”

Rollison looked at him dispassionately, and could not feel much sympathy. Allen had become completely spineless— was sorry only for himself.

“I might let you have your own way if only you were concerned,” he said. “But Snub——”

“Don’t blame me for that! It’s your own fault.”

“Anyone’s fault but yours. Allen, I’m going on with this whatever you say or do. That’s final.”

There was silence . . .

Allen stared out of the window.

“What are you going to do with me?” he muttered at last.

“You’ll be told in due course,” said Rollison.

Allen didn’t protest. He’d lost all self-respect and every claim to help, and—Pauline Dexter had helped to make him the wreck he was. Sweet Pauline!

Perky took the back streets and came upon the Mile End Road by way of the Minories, then, driving along another narrow street, eventually reached the rear entrance to the gymnasium. Allen, slumped down in the corner, showed no interest in where he was going.

Rollison opened the door and jumped down.

“I’ll be back in a couple of jiffs,” he said, and added sotto voce to Perky: “Keep an eye on him.” He wondered, as he entered the comparative darkness of the big gym, if Allen would try to take this opportunity to escape.

In the corner, beneath the only lights, the fair-skinned young boxer was going for a man who had the advantage of two stones, years of experience and two inches in reach. The youngster gave an astonishing performance, knocking the other man about the ring as if he were a sack. Bill Ebbutt, gripping the rope tightly, stared with glistening eyes without offering a word of advice.

Rollison reached his side.

“Cor, strewth !” exclaimed Bill in a whisper, as he glanced round, “I told yer so, Mr. Ar, I told yer so—we got a champ there all right. Ain’t ‘e improved? Even in a coupla days, ain’t ‘e improved? Almost a miracle, the way ‘e’s improved.”

“He’s certainly good,” said Rollison. “Has he boxed in public yet?”

“Free times, before I got at ‘im,” said Bill Ebbutt. “Silly mugs, they’d ‘a let ‘im be knocked silly, all the guts would’a been knocked out’ve ‘im, ‘e wanted trainin’.” He raised his voice: “Okay, okay, Willie, leave a bit of ‘im fer ‘is missus. I’ll see yer in a minute,” he added as the boxers dropped their arms, “go an’ get a rub dahn. Not at all bad,” he added, for he was not a believer in excessive praise. Then he turned to Rollison. “You’re givin’ yerself quite a time, Mr. Ar, aincha?”

“One way and another, yes. Jolly phoned you about a hideaway, didn’t he?”

“Ho, yes.” Bill grinned, displaying his uneven, discoloured teeth. “I never would’a believed it, but Jolly’s getting’ quite pally. Want the man ye’ve brought now to keep that dead chap comp’ny?”

“No, Bill, this one’s alive. Young Allen. He might try to get away,” he warned, “I can’t quite make him out, but officially he’s hiding away from the police and from a woman who’s making merry-hell. If he does escape, don’t stop him—have him followed.”

“O-kay,” breathed Bill.

“And I’ll ring up for a report on how he’s behaving,” said Rollison. “Where are you going to send him?”

“ ‘E could stay ‘ere,” said Bill, but shook his head when he saw the frown on Rollison’s face. No? First spot the busies would look, I s’pose. Okay, then, ‘e’ll ‘ave to go into Dinky’s place. Know Dinky, don’t you?”

“That’ll do fine,” said Rollison. “Same address?”

“Same address,” said Bill. “Feed ‘im up like a prince, I s’pose?”

“Just look after him,” said Rollison. “I’ll tell Perky to go straight there, shall I?”

“Better not use Perky’s cab all the way, eyes at the back o’ their ‘eads, these flicking busies, an’ you never know wot the flamin’ narks might see. Coin’ with him?”

“Perhaps I’d better,” said Rollison.

“Okay. Tell Perky ter drive as far as Old Wattle’s,” said Bill, “I’ve told Wattle to ‘ave a van ready.”

Rollison nodded, patted Ebbutt on the shoulder, and went to the door. Before he reached it, Ebbutt was on his way to the dressing-rooms. Rollison smiled reflectively, then glanced into the cab and found Allen still hunched up in his corner.

“Old Wattle’s,” he said to Perky.

“Oke,” said Perky.

The drive to “Old Wattle’s took a quarter of an hour. They went through the dingier streets of the East End, passed row upon row of little houses, where children, some bare-footed and many of them in rags, played in the roadway and jeered and gestured at the passing taxi, and where women leaned against their doorways and talked with their neighbours and looked with furtive curiosity at it. Perky, who knew this district as well as he knew the West End, took a bewildering series of short cuts, drove under railway arches and down streets which looked as if they were dead-ends, skidded round corners, waved his hand at two policemen who were standing before a gaunt warehouse near the river, and eventually pulled up near a railway arch on which were the words: “Wattle—Storage—Removals—Garage.”

“Old Wattle’ was a very old man who needed a shave and a wash, and who smoked a dirty-looking black pipe. He carried on a curiously one-sided conversation with Perky, speaking in a voice so low that Rollison seldom caught his words As he waited, Rollison saw that all of the arches here were marked with the name Wattle. Presumably some of them were used as furniture warehouses; probably some were used, at times, to hide stolen goods.

Perky came away at last.

“Okay,” he said. “Get in.”

He revved up the engine and drove into the railway arch, which was dark and gloomy, lit only by the day-light which filtered through from the street. At the far end were several small vans and pantechnicons. Two or three men stood about, one of them making tea over a gas-ring. Nearest the road at this end of the arch stood a small, plain van.

Perky jumped down and told Rollison and Allen to follow him. He opened the back of the van, Rollison and Allen climbed in, and the doors were closed on them. Allen gave a long-suffering sigh, but made neither protest nor comment. They sat down on a wooden seat.

The van bumped over cobblestones, then smoothly along good roads. The only light came from a circular window in the back. Rollison realised that the driver was taking a roundabout route, to make sure that they were not followed.

At last they stopped.

“Here we are,” said Rollison.

The doors at the back were opened and a stranger—a little man in his shirt-sleeves—beckoned them. They were in a yard surrounded by high walls. At one end of the yard was a tall, Victorian house, an ugly pile which looked uninviting. This was Dinky’s—an apartment house in Bethnal Green.

Allen stood blinking in the bright daylight.

“What do you expect me to do?” he growled.

“Just stay where you are,” said Rollison. “I’ll see that your wife’s all right, and you’ll be safe here.”

“You mean, I’m a prisoner?”

Rollison said: “I mean you’ll be a fool if you leave.”

The journey back to Wattle’s took much less time than the outward journey.

Perky’s cab was gone. Old Wattle stood in the shadows of the arch, pulling at his pipe. He took it from his lips and pointed the stem towards one end of the lane. Another taxi, older and more dilapidated than Perky’s, stood by the kerb.

“Perky’ll be seein’ yer,” he announced.

“Thanks. Rollison slipped five pound notes into a grimy, calloused hand, and Old Wattle acknowledged these with a nod. Rollison entered the other taxi, and Wattle watched it out of sight.

At last, Rollison took the foolscap envelope from his pocket.

He had already read the original script, which told a little of Allen’s Burma ordeal. Brief though it was, something of his courage and endurance shone through. He read it again, thinking of Allen’s behaviour now, wondering whether the experiences he had undergone were alone responsible. Allen had lived nearly four years with a jungle tribe, had suffered badly from malaria, had several times tried to get out of the wooded valley where he had crashed, only to find great mountain ranges hemming him in. The tribe had never been beyond the valley; it had looked as if Allen would never get out. On one sortie, he had broken his leg, and although all that he was to say over the air was that a native doctor had set it, Rollison found it easy to read between the lines. He remembered Allen’s bad limp, due to that makeshift setting. It was a touching story of patient heroism during a period when Allen must have reached the utter depths of despair. In spite of his earlier disgust with him, Rollison felt his pulse quickening as he read the words which Allen was to speak:

“I’d lost count of time. I just gave up hoping. Then one day one of the natives came in, jabbering away and pointing at me. Others crowded round. I was told to pack the few oddments I still had by me, and get ready for a trek. Eight natives accompanied me. They made me understand that other white men were in the valley. I could hardly believe my luck.”

There the interviewer was to say:

“I can well understand it. And that was the end of your adventures?”

Allen’s next words read:

“I wish I could say so. I don’t really know what happened, but I assume my guides and I ran into a hostile tribe—and the other side had modern weapons. We were shot up. I escaped—the only one left alive. I thought that really was the end, but there was a party of white men—mostly Americans—who were making a documentary film, and I met up with them.”

“You just met up with them,” was the interviewer’s dry comment.

“Yes. And they looked after me and eventually took me to Rangoon.”

“Well, I won’t call you lucky,” the interviewer was to say, “but we’re all delighted that you came through, Mr. Allen.”

That was the final part of the original script—and the part which Pauline wanted altered. Before Rollison could study her version, the taxi stopped outside his flat. Rollison paid the man off and went upstairs. Was he right to blame Allen for his present frame of mind? Wasn’t he much more to be pitied than blamed?

He opened the front door, and was at once astonished—and delighted—for Jolly was speaking to someone in tones of unrestrained excitement.

“. . . wonderful !” Jolly was saying. “Wonderful! . . . No, he’s not in at the moment but he will be shortly, and . . . Just a moment, here he is!” He took the receiver from his ear and beamed at Rollison. “It’s Snub!” he declared in high delight.

That was the first time Rollison had ever heard him call Snub anything but Mr. Higginbottom.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CAT AND MOUSE

“WELL, Snub,” said Rollison. “You all right?”

“I could do with a square meal and I’ve a bump about as big as a dodo’s egg on the top of my cranium,” said Snub, “but apart from that, I’m fit. My good luck! I don’t know what’s come over these people, Roily, but they suddenly caved in.”

“Caved in?”

“Caught a wallop amidships and departed in pieces,” declared Snub. “Bit of a anti-climax, but I can’t say I’m sorry. They’d threatened all kinds of blood-curdling fancy tricks if I tried to get away, and I wasn’t looking forward to another love scene with the girlie——”

“Which girlie?”

“Why, Pauline,” said Snub. “She of the golden locks, the pink complexion and the black heart.” A subtle change came into Snub’s voice. “She’s a very nasty piece of work. I’ve had the wind up from one breeze and another in my time, but she knows how to make it a tornado. And all so sweet and sugary, too. But you’ve been at her, haven’t you?”

“I tried some new tactics,” said Rollison.

Snub chuckled, himself again.

“So I gathered. Until an hour ago she was all claws and blood-curdles, but she’s become a different woman. Moral uplift from the Toff, I shouldn’t wonder. She came to see me and didn’t talk nicely about you, but I gathered that you’d done a bit of gun-spiking. You whisked Allen away from under her nose, didn’t you?”

“More or less,” said Rollison.

“And does she want that lad to broadcast to-morrow I It’s her one desire, give her that and she’ll leave you the rest of the world. She emphasised what would happen to you and me if Allen were kept away from the studio—you wouldn’t think a luscious lovely like Pauline could be obscene, would you? I was locked in a room in a small bungalow, near Guildford, heard a car move off, waited five minutes and then gave close attention to the lock. When I got out, the bungalow was empty. All she’d left behind her was her potent and powerful perfume. I always think you can tell the nature of the beast from the pomades, don’t you?”

“Sometimes,” said Rollison. “Where are you now?”

“In the bungalow. The exchange is Guildford, so——”

He broke off suddenly, and Rollison heard his exclamation —which might have been of surprise or alarm. Rollison’s fingers tightened round the receiver and Jolly, his smile fading, stepped nearer to him.

While talking into the telephone, there had been a fatuous grin on Snub’s face. It was partly due to the reaction from tension—for his experiences at this bungalow and at the garage in Lilley Mews had not been pleasant. And it was partly due to the fact that he was talking again to Rollison and letting himself go. He finished his story and heard Rollison say:

Sometimes. Where are you now?”

“In the bungalow,” he said. The exchange is Guildford, so——”

And then he heard a sound behind him.

He swung round in the tiny, square hall, and saw the little man who was called “Max”. And he also saw the gun in Max’s hand. A small cupboard in the hall stood open; the little fellow had heard everything Snub had said. Snub kept hold on the receiver, but for a few seconds—precious seconds—he was petrified, and could not speak. Had he not been weak and weary from a sleepless night and lack of food, he might have done much better.

“Okay, I’ll take it,” said Max. He held out his hand, and Snub backed against the wall, still gripping the telephone. If he threw it at the little man, he might knock the gun aside. He raised his arm.

“Now don’t get violent,” said Pauline, from behind him.

She pushed him aside and took the receiver as it fell from his grasp. Max moved swiftly and hustled him away from the telephone, then stood back and kept him covered with the automatic. Pauline looked angelic then, and spoke in her most silvery voice.

“Are you still there, Roily?”

“Good-morning again,” said Rollison heavily. “Cat and mouse?”

That’s exactly what it is. You see, I’m determined that Bob shall broadcast to-morrow night, and I thought you might be persuaded to let him, if you had a word from Higginbottom.

We didn’t go far, just far enough to let him think that he was quite safe from observation, and then we came back. He does look sorry for himself—even worse than you did, and you know how bad you felt.”

“I remember,” said Rollison.

“And of course you might trace the bungalow,” said Pauline, “although I don’t think you’ll find it easy. I never think it’s wise to stay in the same place too long, though, do you?”

“One gets into a rut,” said Rollison heavily.

“You’re so understanding! We’re leaving, as I say, and of course taking Higginbottom with us. At least you won’t be able to say that you haven’t had a last word with him. It will be the last word, if Bob Allen doesn’t broadcast my version to-morrow. While we’re on the line, is there anything else you would like to ask me?”

“I don’t think so,” said Rollison. “We’re still even, my pet. I’ve got Bob and you’ve got Snub; we’ll see whose bluff is the stronger.”

“I really don’t care what happens to Snub,” said Pauline. “Well, I must fly. I——”

She raised her hand to Max.

He took a step nearer the telephone, and let out an eerie cry, as if he were being tortured, and the cry broke off with a strangled gasp.

Pauline put the receiver back to her ear.

“Poor Snub,” she said. “It’s such a shame, and it’s your fault really.”

Then she rang off.

Rollison did not enjoy the rest of that day.

There was no need to ask himself whether Pauline’s nerve would hold out; it would. He did not seriously doubt that she would, if she thought it necessary, kill Snub.

Farran, Rollison’s friend who had friends in the Meritor Motion Picture Company, called in the early evening. He was a tall, spare man with a beak of a nose and a bushy moustache. He had been able to discover little new about Pauline; she was being groomed for stardom and the general belief was that she would be a success. Nevertheless, she hadn’t many girl friends, and that, according to the informative Farran, was not solely due to the jealousy which almost invariably existed between starlet and starlet; Pauline had shown an utter ruthlessness in the film world, trampling over any and everybody who got in her way.

“She looks as soft-hearted as they come, but she’s a deceptive piece,” said Farran.

“Not your type, Roily. I’m surprised at you.”

“I always like to try my improving influence,” Rollison said dryly. “What about this fellow she goes about with?”

“Money,” said the friend, and sniffed.

“Not in the picture business?”

“Well, yes, in a way. Documentaries. Done some good stuff in India and the Far West, I believe. Just the man for Meritor Films:

“Why?” asked Rollison, with quickening interest.

“Well, Meritor are documentary specialists. Done a few comedies but no feature films. Then Merino arrives with money— he used to be a jewel merchant—and Pauline gets a contract for the lead in Meritor’s first feature. Curious fact, he took a flat above hers.”

“Very interesting,” said Rollison. “Any little love-nest in the country?”

Farran raised his eyebrows.

“I wish I knew just why you’re so interested, Roily, she isn’t your type. No, as far as I could find out, no one’s ever heard of a country cottage. Town-lover and all that. She’s been at the same flat for a long time, it was hers before Merino arrived. I can’t get a whisper, apart from that. Sorry.”

“Thanks for trying,” Rollison said warmly.

“My dear chap. Pleasure! I say,” went on Farran, “If you want a spot of strong-arm help I’m around and about all the time.” He paused, hopefully. “No? Oh well, I suppose I ought to know better than to ask. Sure there’s nothing else I can do?”

Rollison assured him that there was not, and Farran twirled his moustache and left.

“That is very interesting news, isn’t it?” asked Jolly, who must have been very near the door.

“I almost think we’re getting somewhere,” said Rollison softly. “Allen was rescued by a film party sent out by the Meritor Company. Where are the studios—any idea?”

“As a matter of fact, sir, yes. They are near Epping Forest. But our first charge is the B.B.C.”

“Oh yes, but the more irons in the fire the better. We could ask——”

At that moment the front door bell rang, to herald Grice. He was spruce and brown and obviously prepared to be aggressive, for there was suppressed violence in his tone when he spoke to Jolly. He was astonished when Rollison sat him in a chair and proceeded to confess, without prompting, that he had persuaded Allen to “hide” until to-morrow night. And:

“One or two of the other characters have taken a run-out powder, William! You don’t happen to know how good the Epping police are, do you?”

“Very good. Why?” asked Grice, somewhat dazedly.

Rollison leaned forward in conspiratorial fashion, and tapped his knee.

“Could you tip them off to keep their eyes open for Pauline Dexter, who works at the Meritor Studio? One day she hopes to be an actress. Blonde, beautiful, brazen and bad boys’ comforter, she may be somewhere near the studio with one or two extras or small-part players or technicians. I don’t know anything much against the lady,” he added, “but if she’s seen around, and the Epping bobbies tell you, and you happen to let me know, I think it would show some results. On the other hand, if she or her entourage knew she was being watched they’d all run out on us. Savvy?”

“I savvy,” said Grice dryly. “So, not satisfied with working independently, you now want us to help you.”

“Confound it,” complained Rollison, “when I use Ebbutt’s bruisers you complain; now when I come clean, you advise me to call on Ebbutt again!”

“I’ll speak to the Epping people,” promised Grice.

“Now that’s friendly,” said Rollison.

“But you can’t go on like this indefinitely,” Grice warned.

He left soon afterwards, and Rollison sat back and surveyed the ceiling, feeling flat after the spurious excitement of the two interviews. At least he had now taken reasonable precautions against disaster for Snub.

He called Jolly, and took out the B.B.C. script with the copy of Pauline’s alterations.

“Pull up a chair, Jolly,” he said. “Let’s see what we can make of Pauline’s message to the programme’s ten million listeners.”

“Or to a few among that number,” said Jolly prosily. “Supposing I make a copy of the amendments, sir—we already have two copies of the original script—and then we can study them separately and compare notes and suggestions.”

“Copy on,” agreed Rollison.

Jolly was speedy on the typewriter, and instead of sitting back and studying the original, Rollison stood behind him and watched the letters leap on to the blank white paper. Thus he read more slowly, and the new sentences were impressed vividly on his mind. These “new” passages were all at the end of the script, in those passages which Rollison had studied in the taxi. Jolly typed:

ALLEN : I’d lost count of time, but kept hoping. I’d picked up a bit of the lingo by then, and one day gathered that a neighbouring, but hostile tribe, was coming to pay a visit. My little crowd was in a panic. They said this other tribe was armed with modern weapons, supplied by the Japs. My people decided to break camp. I slipped away from them during the night, and heard the fighting from way off.

INTERVIEWER: You were glad to be out of it, I bet.

ALLEN : Oh, yes. And by good luck, I found a way through one of the passes and met up with a small party of film people—mostly Americans—on their way to Rangoon after taking some shots for a travel film.

INTERVIEWER : You were glad to be out of it, I bet.

ALLEN: I certainly needed it I shall never forget seeing white people again, after so long. I shall never forget their faces, either. I hope to meet them all again one day—the sooner the better. We’ve a lot of memories to share.

INTERVIEWER: YOU certainly have! Let’s hope you find them.

Jolly finished typing, and took the paper from, the machine. Then they compared the new version with the old.

“It looks very simple, Jolly, doesn’t it?” Rollison said at last. “In one way, sir,” agreed Jolly. “It conveys a clear message— that Allen would like to get in touch with the men concerned, that he remembers them, and that they have something which they ought to share with him. Do you agree, sir?”

“I don’t see what else it can mean. And if Pauline knows her job, she’ll make sure that the people for whom the message is intended will hear it. They’ll be warned in advance to listen to Allen that night, and they’ll probably obey. There’s a threat in the message too—that Allen would recognise all of them again. I can’t imagine the B.B.C. arguing against this, can you?”

“I see no reason why they should,” agreed Jolly. “And I don’t see how it would help us if they did.”

Rollison said: “I think I do, Jolly.”

“Indeed, sir? How?” When Rollison did not answer, and by his silence exhorted Jolly to think, the latter went on slowly: “We have only the vaguest notion where Snub has been. You know, sir, in spite of everything, I’m coming to the conclusion that we would be wise now to tell the whole story to Scotland Yard. We won’t find Snub or the girl, but the police might. I really don’t think you told Mr. Grice enough. Is there any other chance of getting results, sir?”

Rollison half-closed his eyes and looked at the ceiling.

“We can’t find Snub, there isn’t time and we haven’t a clue. But we do know that Pauline is desperately anxious for this particular message to be broadcast to-morrow. She’s gone to extreme lengths to make sure of it. Everything she’s done proves that it’s her priority Number One. And she told me that she would have a stooge in the B.B.C. studio who would make trouble if it weren’t broadcast in this version. Right?”

Jolly did not speak.

“And I believe she will do that,” said Rollison. “I think she’s proved up to the hilt that she’ll take any risk to get that message put over. And I think she’ll send someone whom Allen knows to the studio, someone who will put the fear of death into him, to make sure that he doesn’t get cold feet at the last minute.”

“Possible, sir,” conceded Jolly.

“Jolly, we must find Pauline or someone who can lead us to Pauline, or we’re lost. If her stooge is in the studio, we must find a way to force his hand. But if we tell the police, they’ll have to prevent the broadcast. Grice couldn’t gamble on a quick showdown in the Aeolian Hall. If he did . . .”

He broke off at a sharp rat-tat on the front door which cut across his words. Jolly moved quickly, but Rollison reached the hall before him. He switched on the light and saw a white envelope lying on the mat. He strode to the door opened it; there was a distant scuffling movement; whoever had brought that note had gone. Rollison rushed downstairs and into the street, calling:

“Perky!”

He saw Perky Lowe’s cab a few yards along, but Perky didn’t make a move towards him. He thought he heard running footsteps but could see too one, for the lighting in Gresham Terrace was very poor.

“Perky!” He hurried to the cab, but still the driver did not move.

Rollison saw why a moment later. Perky had been struck on the back of the head, blood matted his hair, and he was slumped forward over the wheel.

Perky Lowe came round when Rollison reached the flat with him, and Jolly helped to carry him to the sofa. He vaguely remembered a man coming along the street and asking if he were free, but he wouldn’t recognise him again. He’d said “no” —and had then been struck on the back of the head by someone who had approached from behind.

“But never mind abaht me,” he insisted. “I’m okay, Mr. Ar. You ‘ad any luck?”

“I don’t think so,” said Rollison, looking at Jolly, who had doubtless opened the letter.

“I’m afraid not, sir,” said Jolly. He took the letter from the desk and handed it to Rollison. Perky watched, with bloodshot eyes. Jolly stood erect and at attention, as he always did in moments of crisis. And Rollison read:

“The police will find Merino’s body; and the gun, with his finger-prints on it; and impeccable evidence that he shot Merino. But you can have the gun and the evidence after the broadcast on Saturday night, if it all goes well.”

“That settles the issue, sir,” said Jolly.

“We wait until to-morrow night, after the broadcast,” agreed Rollison.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

REHEARSALS

“OF course you can stay,” said Hedley, warmly. “Very glad to have you with us, Mr. Rollison—thought any more about that broadcast of yours, yet?”

“Not very much,” said Rollison truthfully. “I hope you will,” said Hedley. “Quiet a minute, the tenor’s going to sound off.”

He grinned and held up his hands for silence, and sat down on a slung-canvas chair, one of twenty or so which were ranged along the walls of the studio. The Italian tenor, a short man with a shock of dark hair, chest and shoulders like a bull, and plump hands which were clasped together nervously, spoke in frantic Italian to a much smaller man, obviously a foreigner, who kept pulling at his pink and blue tie and looking as if he would strangle himself. Another Italian, of aristocratic mien, sat at the grand piano in a corner of the large studio, his long, pale hands raised above the key-board. He glared at the pink and blue tie, and a compact, middle-aged man—a B.B.C. official with a patient, tired manner, kept saying:

“Now take your time, there’s no hurry—this is only a rehearsal, remember.”

The Italians jabbered on; the rest of the people in the studio watched them or someone else, openly or furtively; or else read their scripts or stared with wide-eyed interest at the upright microphone in front of the tenor, the two table-mikes planted on small tables at one end of the room or—greatly daring—through the glass partition which separated the studio from the next room. Some were composed and poised, others obviously and unashamedly nervous. One little group of young people gathered in a corner and whispered.

Rollison sat next to Allen.

The tenor opened his mouth, threw back his head, and let forth a tremendous bellow. The patient-looking man jumped, the pianist clutched his head in horror, the blue and pink tie suddenly became unfastened, its wearer jabbered. Hedley jumped up and went towards them, saying mildly: “That was a bit too loud.” The little group in the corner giggled, but the tenor seemed quite unaware of the minor consternation he had caused. He glared at the mike as if it would lean forward and strike him.

Allen stared at the scene with lack-lustre eyes.

Rollison had been to fetch him that afternoon, and as far as he could find out, Allen had made no effort to leave Dinky’s; had eaten and slept and mooned about all day. For different reasons, Allen and his wife were behaving in exactly the same way.

Obviously he had expected Rollison to come for him.

Hedley had been busy with the tenor, and beyond greeting them with a bright smile and a few cheery words, paid them no attention. The question of the alteration in the text had not yet been brought up.

Jolly was still at the flat, but was due to arrive here just after five o’clock. McMahon of the Morning Cry wasn’t here yet, but Rollison had no doubt that he would come. He looked round at the others. There were nine in addition to the Italian contingent, and he glanced down at the comprehensive script, covering each broadcaster which Hedley had pushed into his hand, trying to place the people from their appearance.

The stage and screen “comics” certainly weren’t here yet; he would have recognised them. A young couple, with blonde hair and nervous smiles, were sitting on two chairs, touching hands, leaning forward every now and again and whispering; they were the young Danes, he hadn’t much difficulty in placing them. A burly man in ragged and patched clothes, who had shaved badly and had long, curly side-whiskers, was standing in a corner, reading his script with a vast frown which wrinkled his forehead; he would be the busker, Rollison decided.

He glanced through the roneoed sheets. The “wandering artist” or the writer of inn-signs didn’t appear to be here yet— unless he was the pale, neatly dressed young man who sat by himself, smoking a new pipe. His name, according to the front page of the script, was Arthur Mellor. He was to broadcast first; the Danes were to follow; the Lundys were third, then came the busker followed by the tenor, with Allen the final act. Allen hadn’t glanced at his script—just seemed prepared to sit back and do nothing.

The tenor suddenly burst forth again, still much too loudly. Hedley pulled the mike away from him, the blue and pink tie fluttered wildly and its wearer held his hands palms outwards a few inches from the singer, urging him backwards. The tenor tried to watch him, the mike, the pianist—and suddenly tossed his arms high in the air, stopped singing, and struck an attitude which he proceeded to justify with a string of fluent Italian— including, as Rollison knew well, one or two of the choicest Milanese oaths.

His friends pleaded with him. The tired-looking man raised his eyebrows resignedly, spoke to Hedley and went out into the mysterious chamber behind the studio. There, three or four men were sitting, one of them with earphones on and looking very earnest

The altercation over, the tenor took up his stand again— and suddenly everything went right. His volume was exactly what was required, no one disapproved, the ends of the blue and pink tie hung straight and its wearer achieved a seraphic smile. This was reflected on the face of the tenor; the pianist also beamed broadly.

A curious thing happened.

Everyone in the studio stopped whatever he was doing and looked at the Italian. In the small studio his voice was loud but the notes were perfect, and they flowed easily and smoothly, he swayed slightly to and fro, keeping his hands raised, as if without effort. The tenor’s eyes were half-closed and dreamy, he were holding them out to some invisible maiden, appealing, beseeching.

Even Allen was affected.

Rollison fought against the seductive beauty of the singing and glanced at Allen, seeing his face relieved of strain—not smiling, but almost serene, as if he had been taken into a new world of peace. The tough-rough busker watched the tenor without blinking. The smartly-dressed man who was probably the wandering artist had his mouth open, and he also swayed from the waist. The two Danes held hands tightly. The little crowd which Rollison could not identify was the last to come under the spell, but its members fell eventually. Hedley looked dreamy. The weary-looking man, who wore a cream-coloured linen coat and flannel trousers, shed his tiredness. Two girl members of the staff stood near the piano.

The singer stopped but the spell remained, until he lunged forward and gripped one end of the blue-and-pink tie, and cried:

“It was wonderful—yes, yes, wonderful!”

Then he was submerged in a welter of congratulations from his friends. Hedley sent an inquiring glance towards the glass partition, where the earnest-looking man, smiling with quiet satisfaction, shook his head. Hedley turned to one of the girls and said sotto voce:

“We’ll give him another try-out at the last minute, let him rest now.”

Another man came into the room, dressed in navy blue, wearing brown suede shoes, ruddy-faced, smiling and cheerful. Hedley called him “Bill”, and brought him immediately to Rollison and Allen. Rollison stood up, Allen hesitated before following his example. If Hedley and “Bill” noticed that Allen seemed strained, they showed no sign.

“This is Bill Wentworth, who will interview you, Mr. Allen,” said Hedley. “Mr. Allen—Mr. Rollison.”

Wentworth had a quick, firm handshake.

“Satisfied with your script?” Hedley asked Allen.

“Er—I’d like a few alterations,” said Allen. “If—if that’s all right with you.”

“Oh, of course,” said Hedley. That’s easy enough, we’ll have a look at it in a minute. Better give the young Danes a run through,” he added to Wentworth, and took him off, saying: “Won’t keep you a jiff. Now there’s no need to worry,” he said to the Danes. “Just read naturally, don’t raise or lower your voice too much. The mike’s “live” on both sides.”

“Live?” queried the girl, brushing her blonde hair back from her forehead.

“Er—it can pick up anything you say, even a whisper,” said Hedley. “Speak into it, not to one side—keep a foot away. Don’t let the script rustle too much, or the mike will pick that up, too.”

The Danish girl gripped the script tightly, until her knuckles showed white and the paper quivered violently. Her companion moistened his lips, stared at the mike and then at Wentworth, who had his copy of the script flat on the table in front of him. He was calm, friendly and reassuring. He leaned forward and whispered something, and then looked round.

“Quiet, everyone, please,” called Hedley.

A hush fell on the chattering Italians, but they continued to whisper earnestly near the piano. Wentworth opened with a summary of the organization which the Danes represented, finishing with the question:

“And you like it here in England?”

“Oh, we do!” exclaimed the girl.

“It is wonderful!” cried the boy.

Wentworth shook his head and sat back, tapping his script. Hedley raised his hands hopelessly and watched, half-way between the table and Rollison and Allen.

“I’m sure it’s wonderful,” said Wentworth patiently, “but you have to read from the script—from the paper. Now, look—I finish by saying: “And you like it here in England?” and then Hilda—not you, Hans, you come next, when I’ve spoken again. Hilda, you answer, just as it says on the paper. Forget about the microphone, just follow my words on the paper as you’re told there—see your name?”

“But how foolish!” cried Hilda.

“I shall never do this,” muttered Hans. That thing—it frightens me.” He glared at the microphone.

“Oh, yes you will,” said Wentworth reassuringly. “Now try again.” He read casually and fluently, and finished: “And you like it here in England?”

Hedley turned away from them, cutting them from Rollison’s view, and bending low near Allen.

“We must whisper,” he said. “Have you the alterations in the script?”

“Yes, they’re down here,” said Allen.

“Let me have a look at them.” Hedley took the script and began to read, scratching his chin as he did so. Wentworth, the boy and the girl continued to read, and Rollison judged that they were still giving trouble, the girl dropped her voice too much at the end of every sentence, the boy had a tendency to shout.

“Still determined on doing the alterations?” he asked Allen.

Allen nodded without speaking.

“Anyone here you know?” asked Rollison.

Allen shook his head, then looked at Hedley, as if to say that he knew this man, whom he had seen when he had called on Wednesday afternoon. Hedley kept nodding, and began to read in a whisper. The Danish couple reached the end of their few minutes” trial and Wentworth raised his voice, while everyone in the studio relaxed.

“That was very good—very good indeed,” said Wentworth. He looked through the glass partition, and one of the people with the head-phones beckoned. Wentworth called to Hedley: “Freddy wants a word with you, Mark—Mr. Allen ready yet?”

“No, we’ll have to have the last bit of his script re-typed, it’s been altered and affects your cues,” said Hedley. “Peggy!” he called one of the girls and gave her hasty instructions, then hurried out of the studio.

“How are you feeling?” asked Rollison.

“Hellish!” growled Allen.

Rollison shrugged his shoulders, stood up, and walked across the studio to listen from further away to the burly busker who sat in front of the microphone with every appearance of confidence. From here, Rollison could also study Allen more closely. His forehead was still plastered and his face scratched, but his sullen expression was most worrying.

One of the girls came into the studio, looked about her and made a bee-line for Alien.

Wentworth, at the mike, began to read: “Artists have the reputation of being unconventional people, and in the studio to-night is Mr. Arthur Mellor, whose pictures have been hung in the Royal Academy but who prefers to paint in a rather unusual fashion—in the leafy lanes and lovely villages of England. That is so, isn’t it, Mr. Mellor?”

The burly “busker” said crisply:

“That’s right. I dislike towns, and I don’t see why pictures I paint should hang on the walls of houses where only a few people can see them. If they’re worth looking at, then I think everyone, rich and poor, should have a chance to see them and if they’re not worth looking at, they ought to be burned. I paint inn-signs—have done for years.”

Rollison grimaced to himself.

The burly “busker” was the travelling artist and the neatly-dressed little man was presumably the real busker.

Then Rollison saw that the girl had given Allen a note; Allen was reading it, his hands clenched, his mouth tight. He gave an almost frightened, furtive glance, searching the faces of all the people near him, then looked back at the note. He crumpled it up and thrust it into his pocket.

The wandering artist talked on about his inn-signs . . .

Rollison let a few minutes pass and, when there was a break in the rehearsal, strolled across to Allen, who met him with a cold, hostile stare. It would be useless to ask him what the message said, and Rollison sat down as if he noticed nothing. They waited until the artist’s rehearsal was over, and the well-dressed man approached the other table, where Wentworth awaited him.

“All ready?” asked Wentworth.

“Yes—fire away.”

“This is a world of queues,” began Wentworth, “and weary queuers are often entertained by actors who prefer the road and the pavement to the stage itself. With us in the studio is . . .”

Rollison slid his right hand to Allen’s pocket, felt the crumpled paper, caught it between his middle finger and forefinger and gently drew it out. Allen was quite unaware of what he was doing. Rollison slipped the paper into his own pocket. The other girl came in, carrying some sheets of paper, and

Hedley took one from her and brought it to Alien.

“Just check this new script, will you?” he asked.

Allen read it and after a few minutes, Wentworth looked across at them inquiringly. Hedley gave the interviewer the sheet of the revised script, and Wentworth scanned it, then nodded.

“All set?” asked Hedley, and Allen went slowly, almost nervously, to the table. He sat down, and Hedley took the seat he had just vacated.

“Very nervous, isn’t he—much more than I thought he’d be, when I saw him the other day,” he remarked. “He looks as if he’s had an accident.”

“He has, and it shook him up a bit,” said Rollison, “but he’ll be all right once the stage-fright’s over.”

“Mike-fright,” corrected Hedley absently. “Hallo, here are the Lundys.” He hurried across the studio as a couple in evening dress entered. The man was tall and good-looking, dressed in tails, a fitting foil to his wife, who wore a gown of blue sequins—a handsome woman. Neither of them looked like the comic turn they were on stage and screen.

Allen was talking freely enough, in a low-pitched, well modulated voice.

Rollison took out the note, and read: “Don’t forget you’re being watched in the studio. If you get a word wrong, you won’t leave the room alive.”

Rollison asked the girl where the note had come from, and was told that a commissionaire had given it to her. The commissionaire had said that a boy had brought it in—and Rollison needed no more telling that the messenger had been Max. He went into the street, and saw Perky Lowe a little way along. He strolled to the cab. Perky’s cap hid the adhesive plaster patch on the back of his head.

“Going places?” he asked.

“Not yet, Perky,” said Rollison. “Are there any more like you?”

“Cabbies, yer mean?”

“Yes, who’ll take a risk.”

“Make it worth their while?” asked Perky.

“Certainly.”

“How many do you want?”

“One will do,” said Rollison. “Ask him to come here right away, and if Allen comes out, to take him on. You wait for four minutes and then follow if I haven’t turned up. Is that clear?”

“Okay,” said Perky. “I’ll “ave ter fix it wiv me mate, so’s I can pick ‘im up, if “e “as free or four minutes’ start, but it’ll be okay. Why Allen, Mr. Ar?”

“Just an idea,” said Rollison.

He returned to the studio, where the Lundys were at the microphone, cracking away and keeping everyone, except the Italians, in fits of laughter.

“Not a doubt they’re good,” Hedley enthused, “it’s a good programme this week, isn’t it?”

“Very,” agreed Rollison, and added as an after-thought: “Who makes the Lundys’ films?”

“He was just telling me,” said Hedley. “They were with a Rank firm, but they’re just going over to some new people, the Meritor Company.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

ALL PRESENT

THE studio clock on the wall above the glass partition showed that it was five minutes to six.

The studio itself seemed a different place. It was warmer, and there were more people; the friends and relatives of some of the broadcasters had come, and chairs were set a few yards away from the microphone, so that they could listen without walking about the studio during the broadcasts. Rollison detected a slightly harassed air in Hedley, Wentworth and the tired-looking man, as the hour for going on the air drew near, but they had succeeded in putting the “performers” at their ease.

Everyone had been downstairs to the underground café and had tea; that interlude had helped them to get together. They now seemed like old friends. Rollison marvelled at the way in which he had come to know not only what the people looked like, but so much of their past lives. For each had rehearsed several times, until Rollison knew their life-stories almost off by heart. The busker and the artist were chatting freely in one corner, the Italians were congratulating themselves in another, and now and again the pianist strummed the keys. Hedley and the official staff were having a hurried consultation and looking at the tenor. The Danes, and several of the visitors, were chatting together. The Lundys and two other people in evening-dress were sitting in a row, swapping stories. Allen, who had rehearsed twice and seemed word and voice perfect, had lost something of his tension. Rollison, who had tucked the note back into his pocket, had watched every man and woman, every official who had entered the studio, but saw no one who appeared to take the slightest interest in Allen. Lundy certainly didn’t

Yet the note had been clear-cut:

“Don’t forget you’re being watched in the studio. If you get a word wrong, you won’t leave the room alive.” Little wonder that Allen was nervous!

He wasn’t sure whether Allen knew who was here, working for Pauline, but every time the door opened Allen glanced towards it, drawing in his breath.

McMahon breezed in, caught Hedley’s eye, grinned and nodded, saw Rollison and gave an almost imperceptible wink, and made straight for the Lundys. They obviously knew him. Someone asked what he was doing there and he turned the question aside easily.

Allen watched the newspaper man closely, suspiciously, having no idea who he was.

Rollison, now sitting next to him, asked quietly:

“Recognise anyone yet?”

“No.”

“Still determined to go on with it?”

“Of course I am. I can’t hold out any longer at this pressure. Don’t be a fool.”

Rollison said: “All right. Let me have another look at your script, will you?”

Allen hesitated, then held it out, Rollison read it as Hedley came up to Allen with the tired-looking man who had a friendly twinkle in his eyes and who had not raised his voice or shown any sign of impatience during the early, trying period of the rehearsals. He was the producer.

“All ready for your piece, Mr. Allen?” he asked “You’ve been word-perfect in rehearsals, and absolutely right with volume. You’ve a slight tendency to lower your voice at the end of a paragraph, and you might try to keep it up.”

“All right,” said Allen.

“I did wonder whether you’d care to start, instead of wind up,” said the producer.

“It would be over then—you’re a bit nervous, aren’t you?”

“I’d rather be the last performance,” said Allen with a sickly grin. “I—er—I telephoned my wife and told her that I wasn’t on until the end, she might miss part of it if I start too early. If you don’t mind——”

“No, no, that’s quite all right. It’s just as you prefer.” The produced glanced at the clock. “Ten minutes to go—Signer Toni, perhaps you will have one more rehearsal——”

“Si, si, signore.” Toni jumped towards the mike, gripped it, measured it, stared it in the eye and then took up his stance. The little comedy was played through again and went without a flaw, the purity of his voice held every one enthralled. McMahon looked at the Italian thoughtfully; in fact, everyone watched him, and so no one noticed the door open and Jolly put his head inside the room.

Rollison caught sight of him when he had been there for a couple of minutes, and immediately stood up and tip-toed across to him. Hedley turned and put his hand to his mouth for silence—Hedley and the producer were noticeably more touchy now that they were approaching the big moment

Rollison whispered: “What is it, Jolly?”

“I’m sorry to worry you now, sir, but I thought I ought to come,” said Jolly. “Mr. Higginbottom just telephoned.”

“Oh,” said Rollison heavily.

“He said that we were not to be intimidated because he was in difficulties,” went on Jolly. “But I gather from what he said, that he has been told to tell us to make sure the Mr. Allen broadcasts the new version. In fact, the woman came on the line and repeated her threat that we would not see Mr. Higgin-bottom again unless the broadcast went through perfectly. What are we to do, sir?”

Rollison said: “We must find out who’s watching Allen. There’s no other way.”

“I suppose not, sir,” said Jolly. “How—how do you propose to interfere with the broadcast, and make Mr. Allen say the wrong words?”

Jolly spoke carefully, as if he had difficulty in getting his words out. And between the lines, Rollison read his plea: “Can’t we let it go through? Can’t we give Snub this chance?”

The producer came up and spoke sharply.

“Come in if you’re coming, please—and no talking when the red light’s showing, we’ll be on the air then.”

“Sorry,” murmured Rollison. “Far corner, Jolly,” They tiptoed across the studio.

Allen was on an end seat of the front row. He glanced at Jolly without any great show of interest, and kept looking hard at McMahon. There was much hustle and bustle in the studio. The artist was at one table, the young Danes already sitting at the other one. The interviewer would move from the first to the second table to carry out successive interviews, being given time to move by an announcer, who would speak for a few seconds between each “act”. Only a few minutes remained. There was a sudden hush; everyone stared at the green light which glowed near the clock, waiting for it to turn red. A tall, good-looking young man arrived, one obviously known to the staff.

He moved to the upright microphone, buttoned his jacket, coughed and, without a glance at the script in his hand, began to speak.

He had been so casual that the others hardly noticed that the red light had replaced the green. In a voice so familiar that it seemed as if it came from a friend, he spoke briskly:

“This is the B.B.C. Home Service.”

Nothing happened when he stopped. Rollison looked about him in surprise, Jolly peered at the announcer, everyone waited and seemed to think some catastrophe had befallen the programme—and then Rollison saw that the announcer was looking through the glass partition and realised that the programme’s signature tune, the Knightsbridge March, was being played on a gramophone in the control room. The tall young man turned away and began to speak again.

“Once again we stop the mighty roar of London’s traffic and from the great crowds we bring you some of the interesting people who are In Town To-night!”

He stepped away from the microphone, and there was another silence while the London Again Suite, Oxford Street, was played over the air but did not sound in the studio. In the hush, it was impossible for Rollison and Jolly to whisper to each other. Then the wandering artist moved his script, coughed nervously, and Wentworth began to speak.

The programme was really on; in half an hour Allen would finish, that red light would fade, the green replace it. Green for safety . . .

Jolly put his mouth close to Rollison’s ear.

“You were going to tell me how you expect to influence what Allen has to say,” said Jolly. When Rollison simply looked at the back of Allen’s head, Jolly went on: “Are you sure it will be the right thing to do, sir? Is there any way of making sure that it will help the situation?”

Rollison said: “Jolly, supposing we do what we’re told—what will happen? Can these people afford to release Snub? He may have been on the spot when Merino-was killed—we still don’t know who murdered Merino, you know. It’s even possible that Pauline will manage to fake evidence which can’t be denied that Snub killed him. She’s clever and cunning, and I wouldn’t like to say that we can outwit her simply by giving way now and hoping to fight another day. Don’t forget that she’s put everything in getting that message put across to-night, and if she succeeds in that, then she’s won. If we’re to have a chance, the message mustn’t go out, and we have to find who ever is working for her here.”

Hedley glanced at him, obviously disapproving. The Danes had finished, the busker was about to perform. In the control room several people were standing against the wall. No one appeared to be taking any notice of Allen, but the minutes were flying by, and his turn would soon come. Next were the Lundys, then Toni—seven or eight minutes at the most remained.

“Well?” asked Rollison.

“You’re quite right, sir,” said Jolly, “but if Allen is determined to do what the woman has told him, how can you prevent him?”

Rollison said: “He’s sitting there with his script rolled up, he won’t open it again until he goes to the mike. Hemmingway’s advised him not to read it too often. He’ll be called to the table so that he’s waiting there while Toni’s giving voice. He might look through the script then and see it, but there’s a good chance that he’ll look on the first page and not turn over a leaf. Until he turns over, he won’t see what I’ve done.”

“What have you done?” asked Jolly in an agonised whisper.

Rollison said: “I’ve slipped back the original page of script —given him another copy. When he starts to read the second page, he’ll be reading that original, and he’ll be well on the way before he realises that it’s not the revised version. He’ll either stop altogether, or pause and then go on reading what’s in front of him. It’s going to be a tense minute, Jolly.”

“Tense !” echoed Jolly.

Hedley positively glowered at them.

Rollison stood up, waited until Toni had started to sing, then tip-toed towards Allen. He ignored the frown of many who glanced at him. And Toni’s singing reached a pitch of perfection which it was almost sacrilegious to interrupt. Rollison sat down on a chair by the wall, so that he could see everyone, including Allen.

Then he saw the door open.

He caught his breath. It didn’t open wide at first, no one else noticed it, the Italian’s voice drugged all of them—but Rollison watched the door, fascinated. Who would dare to come in now?

The door opened a little wider.

Rollison saw a hand gripping it—a small, gloved hand. Then a neatly shod foot and a well-turned ankle appeared; whoever it was, was dressed in black, with sheer silk stockings; he imagined Pauline’s golden curls.

The newcomer stepped in.

It was Barbara Allen I

She looked swiftly round the studio . . .

Hedley had seen her, and raised his hand in urgent warning. Allen, sitting at the microphone, looked up and stiffened. Rollison saw his scowl— he looked then as if he hated his wife. No one else appeared to notice that anything was unusual, and the Italian’s song came towards its end, a gentle, pleading end.

He finished . . .

“And also in the studio,” began Wentworth, smiling at Allen, “is a man who has one of the most remarkable stories ever told, to tell us. He is Mr. Robert Allen, until lately Wing Commander Allen of the R.A.F., who was lost in Burma for several years—exactly how long, Mr. Allen?”

Allen opened his mouth but didn’t speak. It was only a momentary silence, no longer than that which had followed the introductions of the other broadcasters, but to Rollison it seemed an age. Now, too, he had to try to watch Allen and the others in the studio—and Barbara. She took in the situ-ation at a glance, raised her hand to catch Rollison’s eye and began to creep round the walls of the room. Hedley went swiftly towards her, to try to stop her, but she ignored him.

Hedley had no answer to such defiance, but looked thunderstruck. Barbara passed in front of Jolly, who leaned forward as if to touch her, then drew back. Rollison saw her moving out of the corner of his eye, but couldn’t give her much attention, he had to watch the others. Some—the Danes, the young people who had come to watch, and the busker—were looking at Allen. The busker yawned widely; now that his part was over, he wasn’t interested in anything, or anyone else. But McMahon, the wandering artist, Toni and his little troupe, the Lundys and their friends, were all glancing down at their scripts. Any one of them might be following the script line by line word by word to check Allen.

Rollison was trying to do that.

Barbara drew nearer.

He put out a hand, glanced at her and touched his lips, hoping that she wouldn’t ignore him. He heard Allen answer another of Wentworth’s questions, and saw him fumbling with the corner of his script, to turn over.

Barbara crouched down on one knee, beside Rollison.

“He must do what she told him,” she whispered in desperate entreaty. “She’ll kill——”

Rollison gripped her wrist and held it tightly. Allen turned over the page. Two paragraphs were unaltered. The seconds which had passed so quickly before now seemed to drag; Allen appeared to weigh every word, as if he had difficulty in uttering it. His forehead was beaded with sweat, he kept rubbing his left hand against the seam of his trousers. Barbara was quiet now; she didn’t move but knelt there without trying to free herself. Jolly standing up, looked towards the audience from behind. McMahon, also standing at the side of the studio opposite Rollison, watched everyone lynx-eyed.

Rollison wasn’t looking at Allen now.

“I’d lost count of time,” said Allen. “I just gave up hoping.” He didn’t falter, he hadn’t realised that this was the original script. “Then one day one of the natives——”

He paused and looked up, sending a terrified glance towards the audience. Rollison saw that only one man, the actor Lundy, was looking at Allen before that pause, but a moment afterwards, everyone was staring at him. Hedley opened his mouth and gaped, Wentworth forced a smile, as if to say: “It’s all right, you’re doing fine,” but the pause lengthened.

Lundy half-rose in his chair, and his hand was pushed against his coat pocket.

Then suddenly Allen began to speak, more quickly than before, but with every confidence, and Hedley relaxed, Wentworth wiped his forehead.

. . . came and talked to me. I’d picked up a bit of the lingo by then. Apparently a hostile neighbouring tribe was coming to pay a visit. My little crowd was in a panic. They said the other tribe was armed . . .

Allen went on firmly, with the new script, Pauline’s script! He wasn’t reading; he was repeating something he had learned off by heart!

Lundy sat down again, few seemed to have noticed that he had moved. Wentworth said his little piece leading on to Allen’s final paragraph, the message which Pauline had been so anxious that he should put over; and which was put over.

“I certainly needed it. I shall never forget seeing white people again, after so long. I shall never forget their faces either. I hope I shall meet them all again one day, the sooner the better. We’ve a lot of memories to share.”

He finished, and wiped his forehead. Rollison hardly heard Wentworth’s final comment. Barbara was leaning against Rollison’s knee, as if the strain were too great to bear. There was a tense hush—and then the green light came on, Hedley clapped his hands together, and said gaily:

“A minute to spare—couldn’t be much better than that, could it? By jingo, it’s been a good night!” He waved to Rollison. The producer came out of the control room and made a bee-line for Rollison. McMahon looked across at Rollison and shook his head reproachfully—obviously he thought that Rolli-son had deliberately fooled him. The Italians were shaking hands with everyone, the Lundys and their friends were laughing and talking. Allen sat where he was, as if he could not find the strength to get up. One of the girls took him a glass of water.

The producer reached Rollison, glanced down at Barbara and frowned, then gave a pleasant laugh, and said:

“I hope I wasn’t too short with you just now; it’s a trying time, you know—always the same just before we go on the air.”

“You were patience itself, said Rollison, “I ought to be shot. Found it a bit of a strain myself,” he added, and then glanced down at Barbara. The producer took the hint and went to speak to someone else. Jolly hovered near. Rollison helped

Barbara to her feet. Her face was pasty-white and her eyes were filled with a horror which, a few minutes before, he wouldn’t have been able to understand. But he did now, he knew the whole truth. Jolly could not restrain himself, and leaned forward so that only Rollison and Barbara heard what he said:

“So he knew it off by heart, sir. We’ve failed.”

Barbara said weakly: “I must sit down.”

“No, we haven’t failed,” said Rollison. “I can see the whole story now, Jolly.”

“What’s all this?” demanded McMahon, pushing forward and standing squarely in front of the little group. “What can you see, Roily? If you haven’t a pretty good line in apologies, I’ll never do you a good turn again.” When Rollison just looked at him, as if commanding silence, McMahon paused and frowned. Allen moved towards the door—he was walking with his head bowed. Hedley was by his side, commiserating, unable to understand why it should have affected him like this.

“You know——” began Jolly.

“Oh yes,” said Rollison. “Don’t let Allen leave, Jolly.”

“He must leave! You mustn’t stop him!” cried Barbara, in a voice so loud that it sounded high above every other sound and made everyone swing round and stare. Even Allen turned from the door and looked at her. When she stopped the silence was profound.

Lundy broke away from his friends, and went to the door as if to leave hurriedly. He pushed Allen by the shoulder and opened the door with his free hand.

Rollison moved forward.

“Let him go !” cried Barbara, and flung her arms round Rollison and held him tightly, “Let him go,” she sobbed. “Let him go!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

WHAT HAPPENED IN BURMA

ALLEN went out, Lundy followed him, the door closed behind them. Barbara still clung to Rollison, but Jolly had hurried across the room only to be impeded by the Italian troupe. Hedley looked puzzled, but stood back discreetly. Rollison put Barbara gently aside and went in Jolly’s wake, but she wouldn’t let him go alone, she clung to his arm and followed him. No one spoke to them, although someone called out: “Shame!” By then Jolly had opened the door and Rollison hurried out, dragging the girl with him. She kept saying the same thing over and over again:

“Let him go, let him go, let him go.”

Rollison said: “Barbara, you’ve got to see this thing through. It’ll be for the best in the long run.” He stepped along the hall, past a startled commissionaire. It was dull outside and a drizzle was falling. Jolly reached the kerb and Perky Lowe pulled up in front of him.

“As ordered?” he demanded.

“Yes,” said Rollison.

“Follow that cab, Lowe,” said Jolly, pointing to a cab which had just moved off, and then realised that the instructions were superfluous.

“Get in,” said Rollison. He helped Barbara into the taxi. Jolly followed and was about to close the door, when McMahon came running and swung into the cab as it moved off. A little further along New Bond Street the other cab was gathering speed. There was no sign of Lundy or Allen.

“Two of ‘em got in,” said Perky cheerfully, shouting through the partition.

“All right, Perky—you just get a move on,” said Rollison. He sat back and took out cigarettes. “It’s all right Jolly,” he said “that cab in front belongs to a friend of Perky’s, I arranged for him to be at hand to pick up Allen.”

“I see, sir,” said Jolly; but obviously he didn’t see at all.

“Now supposing you give me the story,” said McMahon.

“Shut up, Mac,” said Rollison. “Think yourself lucky that I don’t throw you out on your ear. Barbara, don’t cry.” His words made Jolly and the reporter realise that she was leaning back with tears streaming down her face, making no attempt to stop herself. “It isn’t your fault,” he went on gently, “you’re not to blame.”

The words had no effect on her.

McMahon started to speak, then checked himself. He and Jolly sat on the tip-up seats, opposite the Toff and Barbara. Perky drove at a good speed towards Piccadilly, then to Trafalgar Square and along the Strand.

“Was it Mr. Lundy, sir?” asked Jolly.

“One of them is Lundy,” said Rollison quietly, “but he was present chiefly for our benefit. Jolly, he isn’t the real villain.” Rollison gave a harsh little laugh, and glanced at Barbara. She was still crying, stifling her sobs; and in the half-light she looked pathetic. “Surely you know whom we’re after, Jolly?”

“I—I’m afraid I do not sir,” said Jolly. “It appears to me that unless Lundy is our man, then we have lost completely. Allen remembered those lines perfectly, he didn’t have to read them.”

“He remembered them word for word although he didn’t have a copy of the new script for more than a few minutes, he could hardly have read it, could he? Yet he knew it off by heart. I’ve wondered several times whether you were right when you first reminded me that nice, young women sometimes married bounders, Jolly. You were.”

“Bounders? Allen?” gasped Jolly.

“Allen,” said Rollison. “I began to wonder when he went off with Pauline. He was at the flat about the time that Merino was murdered. And afterwards, he was adamant—he meant to broadcast at all costs. The way he behaved to Barbara wasn’t just the result of overwrought nerves. His own fear of the police proved he had committed one serious crime. He was obviously prepared to do anything to save his own skin.”

“Allen!” breathed Jolly.

Barbara opened her eyes and looked at him through the screen of tears; and then she relapsed into subdued sobbing, she could not keep silent altogether. McMahon sat without speaking. The taxi bowled along the Mile End Road—and then turned off, heading for Bill Ebbutt’s gymnasium; and Perky Lowe suddenly stepped on the accelerator and swung round the corner in the wake of the leading cab.

“Allen!” breathed Jolly again.

Rollison did not speak. The cab pulled up outside the dimly-lighted entrance to the gymnasium. Three or four of Bill’s men stepped into the murky street, and the comparative quiet was broken by angry voice—Lundy’s voice, which Rollison had learned to recognise while he had been in the studio. Lundy was protesting vigorously, but the driver of the first cab climbed out and suddenly it was surrounded by Ebbutt’s “boys”. Rollison opened the door of his cab and jumped down, saying: “Look after Mrs. Allen, Jolly,” and Jolly was compelled to stay behind, whether he wanted to or not. McMahon jumped out nimbly and followed Rollison to the leading cab. By that time the protesting Lundy had been dragged out of the taxi, and another of Ebbutt’s bruisers helped Allen out.

“Run through his pockets,” said Rollison, pointing to Lundy, and before the actor could protest, a man had patted him all over. This man drew out a pipe from Lundy’s right-hand pocket; and Rollison knew then that Lundy had pretended that the pipe was a gun.

Rollison and Allen came face to face.

“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” growled Allen. Clear out, and let me go home!”

“I don’t think you’ll be going home again,” Rollison said. He glanced at Ebbutt, who loomed out of the darkness. “Get him inside. Bill.”

“I’m not going inside anywhere!” Allen rasped.

“Oh, yes, you are,” said Ebbutt. He stretched out a colossal hand and yanked Allen by the collar towards the entrance. Allen kicked out and tried to free himself but failed, and another of Bill’s men came behind him. Allen started to kick and struggle, as if he were suddenly overcome by a frenzy. But he was overpowered, and there was nothing he could do to save himself from being taken into the gymnasium. The others followed in a little group—and Rollison, glancing out of the corner of his eye, saw that Jolly was escorting Barbara.

The big room was in semi-darkness.

Ebbutt and the other man released Allen, and he stood back against a punch-ball, biting his lips, glaring through the gloom at Lundy. And before any of the others could speak, he burst out:

“There’s your man! Lundy! He threatened me while we were at the studio. He had a gun—I don’t care what you took from his pocket, he had a gun!”

“Did he?” asked Rollison.

“It—it’s a lie,” muttered Lundy. “I—I had to pretend——”

“Pretend!” screeched Allen.

“You gave yourself away when you reeled off your new script so easily,” Rollison said. “If you’d had any sense you’d have gone on with the original.”

“Don’t be a fool!” cried Allen. “I’ve often mugged up a piece in an hour or two!”

“But you only had minutes,” said Rollison, “and that wasn’t your first mistake, Allen. If you’d been loyal to Barbara in spite of everything else, if you hadn’t played fast and loose with Pauline Dexter, you might have got away with it.”

“That’s a foul lie!” snapped Allen. “I’ve been a swine to Bar, but I couldn’t help it. My nerves“

“You act very well,” said Rollison coldly. “You fooled a lot of people, Allen. Of course, you weren’t putting on an act until you first went away with Pauline. She showed you a way out. Kill Merino, the man you feared, and share the proceeds with her. And you agreed. Since then you’ve acted very well— you were quite impressive at the studio. I suppose you took something to make you sweat realistically, just as you took morphia to make yourself sleep on Thursday and made it look as if you were still a helpless victim. And yet you probably killed Merino and——”

“I didn’t kill Merino!” cried Allen. “He didn’t matter to her, she could have shaken him off——”

He broke off, and drew a shuddering breath.

Rollison gave a little laugh.

“Yes, time to stop—you know a great deal about the relationship between Merino and Pauline, don’t you? But we’re wasting time. Lundy, how did you come to be forced into this?”

Lundy licked his lips.

Allen glared at him, and burst out:

“You’re trying to frame me—and so is Lundy!” screamed Allen. But you can’t get away with it It’s crazy! I’ve been having a dreadful time, my nerves are all to pieces, but I’ve been attacked—look!” He banged his forehead with his hand. “I didn’t do that to myself, I didn’t search my own flat. It’s a frame-up!”

He stopped, gasping for breath.

Barbara stepped forward into the circle of light, and said in a montonous voice:

“I can tell you. He——”

“Keep your damned mouth shut!” Allen cried.

Rollison said slowly. “This is one time when she isn’t going to do what you tell her, Allen. She tried to save you even in the studio, she wanted you to get away because she knows you’ll hang now that you’re caught But I think she’s seen the only sensible thing is to tell all the truth. Barbara, when did you learn all about it?”

She said: “Only—this afternoon.”

“How?”

She looked at Lundy. “He—he brought a message, told me all of it, told me that if it all came out, Bob would be hanged.”

Once she began, the words came freely enough.

Ebbutt put a hard, restraining hand on Allen’s shoulder, but Rollison was prepared for Allen to make a violent rush at Barbara as she spoke. “And I stayed in the flat, trying to decide what to do,” she went on. “Then—then I knew that I had to try to save Snub.”

Allen’s hands were clenching and unclenching, his lips were working and his face was distorted.

“I learned—that Bob planned—to have Snub Higginbottom blamed for Merino’s murder.” She turned to Rollison. “Lundy told me that he was one of the party which found Bob in Burma. It was officially a film party, and Merino was with them. But they weren’t just making films, they were looking for loot which the Japanese had taken from the Burmese and which was stored in a temple in one of the valleys among the mountains.” She caught her breath and turned towards her husband. “And Bob had already found it. He was kept prisoner by the natives because he knew where these jewels were. When he broke his leg, it was in trying to get away with the jewels with a native who was prepared to help him.”

No one spoke when she paused.

At last she spoke again, in a voice so low that they could hardly hear the words:

“Bob knew that he couldn’t do it himself. He sent the native with a message to a friend in Rangoon, a man named Maurice Fenton.”

Rollison remembered reading a letter signed “Maurice Fenton”, to do with one of Merino’s big accounts.

“And——” Barbara began afresh.

“You don’t know half of it!” cried Lundy. “Merino and I went out with the rest of the group—you know some of them, Blane and Max, there were a dozen altogether. And we reached the village. There were hundreds of natives armed with swords and spears, a pretty tough job—but we tried to reason with them. Allen wouldn’t stand for arguing. He’d got a machine-gun. The natives had found it, with some ammunition, and he’d rebuilt it, spent months doing it—and he mowed them down, he killed them in dozens!”

Lundy stopped; and no one moved or spoke, not even Allen

“It wasn’t any good leaving some of them alive,” said Lundy in a muffled voice, “so we finished them off, burned the huts down, and reported that we’d found the village set on fire by a hostile tribe—it often happens out there, no one was surprised. We got the jewels to Rangoon without any trouble, but getting them to England was a different matter. We divided them. Merino, Allen and I had the biggest lots, but everyone had plenty. They were smuggled back to England and the party split up, arranging to meet again when everything was safe, and the risk of danger was over. Allen fixed his story all right for the Press, same one as he broadcast. Then the trouble really started. Merino wanted the lot. He thought he could blackmail Allen into parting with his share, and get the others from those members of the party who still had some. He had a list of all the names and addresses—but Allen took it away from him.”

“Allen took it?” interpolated Rollison.

“Yes—so that he had the upper hand of Merino,” said Lundy. He talked eagerly, as if he were glad to get it off his mind. “Merino knew that one or the other—Allen or Pauline—had taken it There was only one, Merino wouldn’t have copies made, he didn’t want to be double-crossed. He plumped for Allen, that’s what started the violence. And Allen had been scared stiff of Merino all the time. Merino had Allen kidnapped and beat him up himself, then sent him back for the list, but Allen had lost it.”

“That scrap of paper!” cried Barbara.

“Yes,” said Lundy. “Merino sent Max and Stevie to the Aliens’ flat to look for that list. Only it wasn’t there to find, because Mrs. Allen had destroyed it by accident.”

“Well, that’s how it began,” Lundy went on wearily. “Allen fighting Merino, and Pauline standing by, on Merino’s side. And she saw that if they went on fighting, no one would get anything out of it. So she went to see Allen, and suggested they should murder Merino, collect all they could and get away from England. Allen fell for it. He—he’d come to hate his wife, he was just a savage brute by then. All he worried about was getting out of danger. He did kill Merino. I—I know, because I was there.”

A hush fell over them all.

“I couldn’t break away, they had me where they wanted me,” Lundy said hoarsely.

“You mean you didn’t break away,” Rollison said, and waved his hand impatiently when Lundy began to interrupt. “It want to know one more thing. What was the real point in getting Allen into In Town To-night !”

Lundy gave a mirthless laugh.

“That started as a joke. We used to listen to that programme when we were in Burma—listened to plenty, but that was the favourite—people in London while we were out there, get me? And I used to say that if we had to split up, I’d arrange to broadcast on the programme. They didn’t believe I could fix it, and used to chip me about it every time the show was on. Well, when the list was lost, we had to get in touch with the others who’d got so many of the jewels. Merino first suggested the way. It had been arranged that Allen or Merino would dispose of the jewels, you see, they would all be prepared to part. But we had to get in touch with them. And I was pretty sure that most of them would listen to the programme. Fixing it was easy, I didn’t even have to do that myself, Pauline did. Allen thought up his idea of fooling you with the altered script. After Merino was dead, you were the only danger. Once the broadcast was over, he thought there wouldn’t be any more trouble. He and Pauline were O.K., he didn’t see what you could do, because you would want to save your friend’s life. He was going to get out of the country with Pauline, when he’d collected all the jewels. He wasn’t going to share out the proceeds with anyone else. He had it fixed in his mind after Merino’s death, that he only had to stall until Saturday, get the message over, and arrange a meeting with the others before he walked out on them. The truth is——”

He broke off.

“Yes, let’s have the truth,” said Rollison.

“He’s crazy!” cried Lundy. “Living in a village drove him out of his mind. While he was there he just had one fixed idea, getting away with the jewels. When he got back, he wouldn’t think far beyond it. I knew he’d bring us to this.”

Lundy’s voice trailed off.

Rollison said slowly: “I think you’re right about Allen. His mind was turned.”

Lundy lit a cigarette with unsteady fingers, but the story had slackened the tension of the others. McMahon slipped away towards the telephone box, doubtless to reserve space in the Sunday Cry. Barbara looked dreary, and Ebbutt stretched out for a chair and pushed it behind her. She sat down. Allen stood quite still, looking into Rollison’s eyes.

“You’re quite a boy, aren’t you?” asked Rollison.

Allen said: “Maybe I am. So is your precious Snub. And Lundy doesn’t know where he is, doesn’t know where Pauline is either. I saw to that, I wasn’t taking any chances. What would you rather have? A rope for me and a bullet for Snub, or both of us alive and kicking?”

The only sound in the gymnasium was the heavy breathing of some of the men and, in the distance, McMahon’s voice on the telephone. The tension had suddenly leapt to a high pitch again, and obviously Allen believed that he had a chance to win on this last desperate throw. His eyes met Rollison’s in a challenge and defiance.

Then Ebbutt said wheezily:

“S’like that, is it? I bet ‘e knows where Mr. ‘Igginbottom is, though.” He took Allen’s arm, and although Allen tried to pull himself free, Ebbutt gripped his arms and dragged him towards the dressing-rooms.

Five minutes were enough to make Allen talk.

Pauline and Max, with one other man and Snub, were in a cottage on the borders of Epping Forest, near the Meritor Studios. Rollison had telephoned Grice, who had been in constant touch with the local police; they made the arrests. It was over in a few minutes. Pauline was caught completely unawares—rejoicing in the success of the broadcast. She hardly said a word, not even to Rollison, who was with the police. She had felt so sure that the alliance with Allen would succeed, believed that Rollison had been afraid to go to the police.

Snub looked a wreck, but the merry gleam in his eyes showed in spite of bruised cheeks and a swollen nose.

McMahon was near the cottage when the prisoners were brought out—and later, when Rollison passed a lighted telephone kiosk, he saw the reporter inside.

Rollison opened one eye and saw Jolly with his morning tea and the newspapers which did not usually arrive so early on Sundays. Jolly said that he had been out, and handed Rollison a copy of the Sunday Cry. McMahon had been allotted a huge headline and a great part of the front page. Rollison sipped his tea and read . . .

Two hours later he went to the Marigold Club, which was not a haunt of vice, or a luxury establishment where the wealthy were mulcted, but a club for women. On its committee was Lady Gloria Hurst, the Toff’s aunt. She had found Barbara a room at the club for the previous night. Tall and austere-looking, she received Rollison with a welcoming smile; for she was fond of him.

“How is she?” asked Rollison.

“As you can imagine,” said Lady Gloria. “But she’s young, she will be all right, although she’ll go on making mistakes.”

“Mistakes?” echoed Rollison.

His aunt’s eyes gleamed wickedly.

“She has a curiously high opinion of you,” she remarked.

THE END