III

REFORMER’S ZEAL

The young man gripped Rollison’s hand and shook it vigorously, glanced at an open door and led the way towards it, words bubbling out of him.

‘Trust me to put my foot in it. I’ll bet nothing like that’s happened to Marion for twenty years! Which is your room?’

‘Next door,’ said Rollison.

‘You could have told me.’

‘You could have let me get a word in edgeways.’

‘Oh, lor’,’ said the red-haired young man with a most attractive grimace. ‘I’m always talking too much, it’s the Irish blood in me, I suppose. May I go in?’ He thrust open Rollison’s door and stepped inside, swept his gaze round, and went across to the window. ‘Sea view and everything, eh? Nice pub, this. I say, you’re up a bit sluggish, aren’t you? It’s after nine.’

‘I was out late last night.’

‘You old dog!’ The young man winked and then became earnest, gripping Rollison’s arm again. ‘I say, you can do me a heck of a favour. You’re just the man she might listen to. Marion, I mean. I can talk in absolute confidence, can’t I? I mean, a man like you wouldn’t go talking to the police and all that kind of thing, or let a girl down, would you?’

‘Try me,’ suggested Rollison, and lit a cigarette.

‘Sure. Well, it’s like this.’ The young man’s expression might have been that of his grandfather. ‘I’m in love with Marion Lane. I don’t give a damn what she’s done in the past, I want to steer her on to the straight and narrow. But she takes some steering! I’ve argued and reasoned and pleaded, done everything except go down on my knees to her, but it was n.b.g. So I’ve changed tactics and I’m getting tough.’

‘So I’ve noticed,’ said Rollison dryly.

‘I say, did you see it? Look here, don’t you think the rough tactics might work where everything else has failed?’

‘It would be a help if I knew what you were talking about,’ said Rollison.

‘But hang it, I—’

‘And who you are.’

The young man raised his hands and let them fall heavily, gave his attractive grin again, and went to a chair and sat down. At the same moment there was a tap at the door. A chamber-maid, smart and pretty, came in with tea; there were two cups.

‘I heard you were up, sir, and I know how you like your morning tea.’

‘Gertrude, you’re a gem,’ said Rollison. ‘Magnificent! Do you think I could have breakfast up here, too? In half an hour, say.’

‘Of course, sir.’

Gertrude beamed and went out.

‘They look after you, don’t they?’ said the young man.

‘You were going to tell me who you are and what this is all about.’ Rollison started to pour out. ‘Like a cup?’

‘Well, I don’t mind if I do. No sugar. As a matter of fact, I haven’t had any breakfast. I didn’t find out where Marion was until late last night, and started off at dawn. Drove like stink to get down here, too. She hasn’t been up to anything, has she?’

Rollison took him his tea, but didn’t answer.

‘Thanks. I see what you mean. Well, I’m just an ordinary cove, by the name of Reginald Rowse. Run my own little business and make quite a good thing of it. Family don’t like it much, they thought I ought to have gone into the family show – the law. Not on your life! I—great Scott!’

He gaped.

‘Now what?’

‘Reginald Rowse – Richard Rollison. R.R. We’re almost twins!’

‘Not quite,’ said Rollison solemnly. ‘What’s your business?’

‘Cigarettes and tobacco. I’ve several London shops, and a few in the provinces. Side lines too, of course. I do very nicely, thank you. The thing is …’ He gulped down his tea. ‘Oh, heck! I suppose you met Marion down here, just by chance.’

‘That’s right.’

‘What do you think of her?’

‘What would most men think of her?’

‘That’s the trouble,’ said Reginald Rowse, with sudden descent to misery. ‘She isn’t what she seems. Oh, she’s lovely to look at, and she has a wonderful disposition. Trouble is, she had a nasty upset a few years ago. Her father. He was mixed up in some jewel swindle, more sinned against than sinning, you know. He was sent to jail for seven years. It kind of put the iron into her soul. She lost her mother very young, Pop was the only thing she lived for, and – well, she turned sour on society. Some people would say that she turned bad, but I don’t believe it. I’ve warned her a hundred times that she will only land in jail, and she laughs at me. She’s no fool, but she thinks she can cock a snook at the law. She’ll come unstuck, it’s inevitable. Don’t you agree?’

‘It has happened.’

‘Come off it,’ said Rowse. ‘You know damned well that she’s bound to come a cropper. She’s playing the fool. That’s how I met her. She works with a nasty little tyke with about a dozen names. They tried to swindle me – said they could get me big supplies of cigarettes and tobaccos at a special discount, had a consignment ready and waiting, all I had to do was pay cash on delivery. I may look a mug, but I’m careful. The lorry-load of stuff was junk, of course – the cartons looked all right, but there were dummies inside. I spotted this as soon as they’d unloaded, and chased after them, gave the little tyke a beating, and started to work on Marion. Look here, Rollison, what’s on your mind?’

‘When you expected to get cheap supplies, did you wonder if the goods were stolen?’

‘Oh, that,’ said Rowse carelessly. ‘It seemed a genuine business at first, they had wholesaler’s notepaper and all that sort of thing. I’m not a buyer of stolen stuff.’ He brushed the question aside. ‘The thing is, Marion. She won’t listen to me.’

‘How did you find out where she was?’

‘She sent a card to a girlfriend. I ran into the girlfriend last night. So here I am. It wouldn’t surprise me if the little tyke—’

‘What does he call himself?’

‘Harry Keller. Sandy-haired, pudge of a face, eyes like a babe’s. Looks as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. If we could break his hold over Marion, I think she’d go straight. She must.’ He looked at Rollison earnestly. ‘It means everything to me. I’ve sworn that I’ll get her thinking along the right lines if it costs me every penny I have.’

‘Marion isn’t in a mood to listen to moralising from me or anyone else,’ said Rollison. ‘You might shake her into a different frame of mind. It’s worth trying.’

Rowse was eager.

‘You really think so?’

‘Could be, yes. What do you intend doing this morning?’

‘I’m taking her back to London.’

‘Is she doing any harm here?’

Rowse chuckled.

‘You don’t know Marion! If it weren’t so damned silly or if it were someone else, I’d be tickled to death. She’s a wonderful line of talk, and she specialises in elderly widowers or elderly bachelors gay. They think they’re doing fine with her, and she walks off, leaving them poorer by a few hundred or even a few thousand. They don’t say anything because of looking foolish if anything ever came out. Anyhow, no one’s ever had a crack at her yet, but she’ll try her ‘fluence on the wrong man one of these days, and after that – well, I don’t want her to make that mistake. Can’t really expect you to help, of course, but if you do get any ideas, I’ll be eternally grateful. Well!’ He jumped up. ‘Better go and see how she’s getting on. The shock should be wearing off by now.’

He grinned, shook Rollison’s hand, and went out; he was humming to himself as he closed the door.

Rollison opened it an inch, poured himself out another cup of tea and sat on the side of the bed, and listened while scepticism came a little nearer; Reginald Rowse was almost too good to be true. Rollison listened to good purpose. The first sound was a sharp exclamation. The second, a decided slap. He smiled faintly and went to the door, opening it another inch.

Reginald Rowse was backing away from the open door of Marion-Liz’s room. His hands were covering his face, in self-defence. She struck at him fiercely. The fury of the attack drove him back along the passage.

‘For the hundredth time I don’t want to see your silly face again,’ said Marion-Liz. ‘I’m sick and tired of you, I hate the sight of you.’

‘Now, Marion—’

Rowse dropped his hands.

She slapped him twice on each cheek. Then she swung round, went into her room, and slammed and locked the door.

Rowse straightened up, a hand fingered his face gingerly.

He had turned beetroot red, and his eyes were smeared. He took out a handkerchief and dabbed at them, turned slowly, caught sight of Rollison, and came forward miserably.

‘See that?’

‘Two people can get rough,’ murmured Rollison.

‘It’s hell. Of course I could have made hay of her, but couldn’t bring myself to it. Think I ought to have put her over my knee?’

‘She might have resisted,’ said Rollison mildly.

‘Hang it, what can I do?’

‘Let her have six months in jail.’

‘Damn it, I can’t do that,’ protested Rowse.

Before Rollison could speak, a man reached the top of the stairs – a heavily built man, dressed in a dark suit which made him look as if he were on business; certainly he wasn’t a guest. Behind him came a worried-looking middle-aged man – Proctor, owner of the Country House by the Sea.

‘Yes, she’s in, Inspector, but I can’t imagine what you want with her. She—’

He saw Rollison and Rowse, and stopped abruptly. They passed, on the way to Marion’s room. Rowse gripped Rollison’s arm very tightly, and spoke when they were out of earshot.

‘Did you hear that? Inspector. The police are after her. Oh, what a fool she’s been!’