IV

QUESTIONS

Rollison left his door ajar, so that he would hear when the inspector left Marion’s room, and whether he left alone. A door opened and closed and a man’s footsteps sounded, but not Marion’s. They drew near – and stopped. Rollison finished his tea and stood up as a tap came at the door.

‘Come in.’

Chief Inspector Allen, of the local police, had a fresh complexion and a big face, wide-set grey eyes which had an ingenuous look, a silky brown moustache, and a heavy jowl. When he smiled, it was as if he were making a special effort to be amiable, for his natural expression was almost mournful. He carried a Homburg hat, was dressed in a well-cut suit, and he looked warm.

‘Good morning,’ said Rollison.

‘Good morning, sir.’

Allen offered his card.

‘Police, eh? What’s up?’

‘You are Mr. Rollison, sir, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘The Mr. Rollison?’

Rollison chuckled.

‘Some might say so.’

‘I know, sir – the Toff,’ said Allen, who did not even try to smile. ‘I just wanted to make sure – you are that Mr. Rollison, aren’t you? Of London.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Very glad to make your acquaintance,’ said Allen. ‘I’d be grateful if you would answer a few questions.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Very good of you,’ said Allen. ‘Where were you last night, Mr. Rollison?’

‘What time?’

‘Seven o’clock onwards, sir.’

‘I was here until eight-thirty, went off just afterwards, drove about for a couple of hours, finished up at Latchet’s Roadhouse about eleven, and stayed until two o’clock. Too late, Inspector, that’s why I’m not dressed yet.’

‘I understand. Were you alone, sir?’

‘I was not.’

‘Would you mind telling me the name of your companion?’

Rollison drew on his cigarette, regarded Allen with some amusement, yet knew that behind his stolid exterior there was a shrewd, alert mind; no one reached the rank of Chief Inspector without reasonable qualifications. Allen would do everything according to the rule book, but would do it well.

‘Not at all. Miss Marion Lane.’

‘The young lady in Room thirty-one.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Were you with her all the time, Mr. Rollison – from seven o’clock until you got back here at—what time would that be now?’

‘Two-thirty. We came straight back. No, I wasn’t with her all the time.’

Allen’s eyes lit up.

‘Thank you, sir. What time were you separated from the young lady?’

‘From seven forty-five until half past eight. She was changing. You know what women are!’

The light faded from Allen’s eyes.

‘Apart from that, were you with her all the time?’

‘Except for ten minutes at Latchet’s, when she went to do some repairs. No more than ten minutes – she hated to miss a dance.’

‘I see, sir. No doubt about any of this, is there?’

Rollison beamed.

‘Not the remotest shadow of doubt, Chief Inspector. Now be a friend, and tell me what it’s all about?’

‘I’m making enquiries, sir,’ said Allen, blank-faced. ‘About a Mr. Henry Keller, who registered at this hotel under the name of Edward Marvel – perhaps you met him.’

‘Casually.’

‘When did you last see him, sir?’

‘Now let me see,’ said Rollison, and pretended to concentrate. ‘It would be about half past eleven on Monday morning. I’d been for a swim, and he was having a walk near the sea. I just caught a glimpse of him. When I got back to the hotel, he’d left. What about him?’

‘He was murdered last night, sir,’ said Allen.

Rollison strolled to the edge of the gardens, which led to the top of the cliffs, through a wicket gate and then along the cliffs. The little sandy bays and inlets looked perfect in the sunshine. Two small yachts, white sails moving like patches of snow against the blue, sailed sluggishly across the bay – one of them disappearing beyond the promontory where the current was so dangerous. Below, a few families were gathered on the sands with their children; this was an isolated spot, and only the discerning came here. He turned a corner and the hotel was out of sight.

He stood watching the horizon.

Superimposed upon it, there seemed to be the round, pale, and freckled face of Harry Keller, alias Eddie Marvel – with the sandycoloured hair and the innocent, baby-blue eyes. Then over that there came another picture – in which the sandy hair was smothered with blood, for Eddie-Harry’s head had been battered and his throat cut.

Allen had told Rollison all that he would be likely to find in the evening papers; nothing more. At Hexley, a small village on the coast thirty-two miles from this spot, Eddie-Harry’s body had been found at six-fifteen that morning. He had been seen in the village inn, where he had booked a room, at half past eight on the previous night, and had died about an hour later. That explained Allen’s disappointment over Rollison’s story, because if the girl had been with him at half past eight, she couldn’t have been at Hexley.

He didn’t know why the police had suspected that she might know something of the murder. There were many things he didn’t know – the police, as represented by the stolid Allen, would keep much to themselves. But he did know one thing; had he been anyone but Richard Rollison, Allen would have doubted his story.

He might still doubt it; might think that Rollison was protecting Marion-Liz, for reasons of his own.

Rollison didn’t feel sorry for Eddie-Harry; the man had been a nasty piece of work. It was easy to believe that he had drawn the girl into his racket – if Rowse’s story about her were true, then she would have been ripe for that. Was there any reason why Rowse should lie?

He could see none.

Why had Eddie-Harry been murdered?

It didn’t matter to Rollison, nothing in the case was of interest; Marion-Liz was a nice girl gone wrong, but she had her eyes wide open. He was not a reformer, there was no reason why he should exert himself for her, offer Reginald Rowse advice, or stir himself out of the laziness which was induced by this lovely spot. London in an August heat-wave would be abominably hot; he had no business to beckon him, he was on holiday. Let it stay that way. Forget—

‘Rolly!’

He swung round.

Marion-Liz, fifty yards away, came hurrying. She was carrying a suitcase, wearing a light coat over her linen dress, her lips were parted as if she were out of breath.

‘Rolly, will you help me?’

‘Now what? Running away?’

‘Yes, I can’t stand that man Rowse. He’ll hang about all the time I’m here and make a nuisance of himself. I must go. I slipped out of the back way, and he didn’t notice me. If you would help—’

Was she running from Reggie Rowse or from the police? Could she have any reason for wanting to run from the police because of Eddie-Harry’s murder?

‘How can I help?’ Rollison asked.

‘Take me to the station. My other case is in the room, packed. I’ve left some money in an envelope, to pay the bill – I’m not welshing. Rowse won’t know you’ve my case in the car. I can walk from here to the cross-roads, and you can pick me up there. Will you?’

He could say no.

‘It’ll take me twenty minutes or more, you needn’t hurry,’ he said.

‘Bless you!’ cried Marion-Liz.

He smiled and walked off, moving fast without appearing to hurry. Scepticism came up and walked by his side, but he didn’t discuss the situation with it. The girl went on, still burdened by the suitcase. He sauntered towards the hotel, and went in the back way. From the landing window, he saw Rowse walking about the rose-garden, and then moving towards the yew-hedge – where he could see the girl’s window.

Marion-Liz’s case was ready; an envelope addressed to Proctor was on the dressing-table. He opened it; there were ten pound notes inside. He sealed it again, took the case and went downstairs – and met Proctor coming out of the office.

Proctor’s eyes fell on the case.

Rollison smiled.

‘Yes, it’s Miss Lane’s. She’s leaving. You’ll find everything you want on the dressing-table, and if it’s short, call on me. Don’t talk about it yet.’

He took his car from the thatched garage and drove through a beech-copse towards the cross-roads. His gaze roamed over the oddments in his dashboard pocket, and he frowned; a knife was missing. It was an all-purpose knife with one stout cutting blade and several tools, too large to carry in his pocket.

Someone had taken a fancy to it.

It annoyed him, but he pushed the thought out of his mind, for Marion-Liz stood on the grass verge near the cross-roads, beauty against the green of oak and hawthorn, her eyes bright when he drew up. She sat beside him, as he put the case in the back. She didn’t glance right or left, and Rollison didn’t appear to; but he saw the man among the trees.

It wasn’t Rowse.

It wasn’t Inspector Allen, but it was probably a detective, watching the girl.