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NEWS

Rollison moved to the window and glanced out, keeping close to the side, so that he couldn’t be seen from the street. A heavily built man was walking along on the other side, reading a newspaper. Iris stood with one arm raised, as if she wanted to strike Rollison and make him act.

There was no other sound outside.

Rollison went to the hall door.

He stood looking at it, and began to chuckle. Iris stormed towards him without a word, thrust him to one side and stared at the letter-box across the tiny hall.

A newspaper poked through.

‘My sweet, alarm for nothing at all, it’s just the evening papers.’

Iris caught her breath. Rollison went forward to take the newspapers, and Iris followed him, clutched his arm, and said urgently: ‘Don’t touch them!’

‘Why on earth not?’

‘I don’t have evening papers delivered, I always get one while I’m out.’

‘Well, well,’ murmured Rollison, and pulled the papers through. ‘So someone’s sent us a present.’

He took them into the living-room, and opened them out; there was a Star, Standard, and Evening News. The Toff was in every headline, and his picture was on each front page.

Something dropped from the Standard and hit Rollison’s shoe – a Yale door key.

‘Look!’ cried Iris.

‘Not bad,’ said Rollison, and his eyes were happy. ‘A present from Jolly.’

He opened the Standard, and there was a pencilled note, in the margin, written in Jolly’s precise hand. Iris peered over his shoulder, pressing against him in her eagerness to read. They read.

‘Twenty-seven Lumley Street,’ said Rollison, ‘top floor, a two-room flatlet, rented under the name of Stevens – isn’t Jolly wonderful? I’ll soon be away from here, Iris, but never out of your debt.’

He read on.

‘Hallo! He’s not wonderful, he simply works miracles. “There are three possible places where the woman Lane might be found, and the most likely is at 5 Hilton Street, Kensington – most likely, because the police are watching that address from a flat opposite. It is the flat of a close friend of Miss Lane’s, on the second floor. I obtained this information from Mr. Rowse, who was most anxious to be helpful, but was somewhat excitable. He had twice been interviewed by the police, but assured me that he had not given them the Hilton Street address.”’

‘How on earth did he find all this?’ asked Iris. ‘Let’s read on. “In view of the urgency and my own limited capacity, Lady Gloria made arrangements with the private enquiry agency of Kenways, whose report arrived a few minutes ago. Among Miss Lane’s associates are several ex-convicts and others whose activities are suspect.”’

Rollison learned everything that Linnett had told Jolly.

Iris gave up half-way through, walked away, and dropped into an easy-chair. Rollison finished reading, then took out a penknife and carefully cut out the writing on the margin, folded the piece and put it in his wallet, and screwed up the rest of the paper.

‘We’d better burn this.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘See Marion-Liz,’ said Rollison absently.

‘That woman! But the police are watching her, it would be crazy …’

‘That’s right, I’m crazy,’ said Rollison.

She jumped up, gripped his hands, and peered closely into his face.

‘Richard, listen to me. That would be walking into a trap. The police probably expect you to get in touch with her, the moment you go, they’ll pounce.’

‘They don’t have to see me go.’

‘You can’t make yourself invisible.’

‘I can do the next best thing,’ said Rollison, and returned her grip, then freed his hands and slid an arm round her waist. ‘Don’t worry, Iris. I started to gamble last night, this is only increasing the stake. And it’s a simple issue – proving that Marion-Liz was framed for that murder. If I can’t do that I’ve either got to retract my story or face a murder trial. Sad but true.’

She drew away.

‘I’d hate you to be caught. Is there anything else I can do?’

‘What about Reginald Rowse?’

‘I’ve managed to find some people who know a Reginald Rowse who owns some tobacco and cigarette shops, but is it any use now? Jolly’s been in touch with him.’

‘It might help if you make friends with Reginald,’ said Rollison. ‘But don’t overdo it. After I’ve left—’

‘Rolly, you don’t seem to understand, you can’t leave without being seen. They’ll stay outside by night, there’s a street-lamp quite near. There’s no back way and no fire-escape here. You can’t get away.’

Rollison said, ‘Let me pour you a drink.’

He went to a small corner cabinet, opened it, and revealed bottles and glasses. She just stood and watched him. His eyes held the brightness of daring, his lean body was relaxed. He was like no other man she had ever known; and he even silenced her fears.

‘In the roof at Gresham Terrace I’ve made a hole,’ he said lightly, ‘and once or twice I’ve had to get out by it. Where there’s a roof, there’s a way, old song! You will stay down here, I’ll look at the roof.’

‘You’ll never do it,’ said Iris desperately. ‘Your only hope is to stay here.’

‘Drink up,’ said Rollison. ‘Here’s to your bright eyes, my sweet.’ It was easy to make a hole in the roof, although it took some time. When he came down, Iris had overcome her fears sufficiently to be preparing a high tea. They had it, companionably, and he relaxed for a while afterwards; until it was time to go.

The weather favoured him. Clouds blew up, it was sultry hot, and the thunder could hardly be long delayed. But it was pitch dark on the roof of the house in Mayfair. He hauled himself through and groped his way across die sloping slates towards a chimney-stack, crouched there, and looked back at the hole – and at Iris’s head, which disappeared. He had made a neat job of the hole, Iris was going to spend the next half-hour trying to repair it; she might do that well enough to avoid notice if the police should search the flat.

After a while, he was able to see a little.

He lowered himself so that his feet were touching the guttering, and lay flat on his stomach, his head near the chimney-stack. Then he edged his way slowly towards the right – and the nearest corner. He didn’t need to go far; two or three houses would probably be far enough; he could reach a fire-escape and climb down to safety while the police watched the flat.

He reached the third house, and pulled himself up and then lowered himself again, so that this time he lay sideways to the gutter. He peered over. There was a square yard at the back of each house, and the concrete showed pale. He saw a man standing near the wall, three yards or so along.

He went on, until he was six houses away from Iris’s, then went through the nerve-racking sliding down the roof again. The man was now lost in the gloom, but a distant flash of lightning brought a sudden brilliance, and he saw the watcher clearly.

Thunder rumbled in the distance.

Rollison waited for the next flash, and saw the shape of a fire-escape about ten feet below him. He edged himself over as the first spots of rain fell.

The watching policeman’s natural instinct would be to glance up to the sky.

Rollison waited for another flash, and as it faded, lowered himself until he was holding on to the guttering, his feet not far from the iron landing; when he dropped he would make a lot of noise. As thunder cracked overhead, he dropped. He kept his balance and flattened against the wall. In the next flash, he saw the watching man standing against another wall, sheltering from the rain. It was coming down harder, splashing against the iron steps, soaking into Rollison’s clothes. He reached the yard between flashes. There were walls between the yards, so he was out of sight and out of immediate danger.

He turned up the collar of his coat, waited for darkness and thunder, and slipped into another garden. He climbed more walls, until he dropped into a street which ran at right angles to the one in which Iris lived.

The rain teemed down, splashing up from the roadway.

Lumley Street was a quarter of an hour’s walk away.

Rollison found the flat was in a terraced house, between Oxford Street and Grosvenor Square. The street door was open, there was a wall-board, with the names and flat numbers of the tenants. Lights showed beneath several doors as he went upstairs. He reached the flat Jolly had rented for him, opened the door, and slipped into a tiny hall – and saw a light shining from a room beyond.

His hand dropped to his pocket and about the butt of his gun.

A chair groaned, someone moved, a shadow appeared – and then a tall, lanky man, lean as a lath, appeared in the doorway. In spite of the heat, he wore a scarlet sweater with a polo collar. His battered face and cauliflower ears were red from the heat. His sparse hair was standing on end where he had been scratching his head. He rubbed his eyes.

‘Cor lumme, fought you was never coming,’ he said. ‘Can’t stay ‘ere all night. Crikey, look at you! Raining, is it?’

‘Skinner,’ said Rollison reproachfully, ‘you’ve been asleep.’

‘Wot if I ‘ave?’ demanded Skinner, from Bill Ebbutt’s gymnasium. ‘Can’t burn the candle at bofe ends, can I? Besides, wot else could I do? Strewth, you aren’t goin’ to start complainin’, are you?’

‘Never,’ said Rollison firmly.

‘Don’t sound much like it,’ grumbled Skinner. ‘If you arst me, it’s a ruddy big risk I’m takin’. Don’t mind tellin’ yer, I advised Bill not to ‘ave anyfink ter do wiv it. But you know Bill. Said there wasn’t anyone else ‘e could rely on, so I come.’

‘You’re a living wonder,’ said Rollison.

Skinner gave a choky laugh.

‘You just wait,’ he said. ‘Come in ‘ere.’

He flung the door wide open, and pointed.

A table was laid with a cold collation that would have done justice to a royal buffet. A bottle of wine stood with it, glowing ruby red and bearing a renowned label. Beyond the table, hanging on the picture-rail, was a suit of clothes which might have come fresh from the tailors; next to it a raincoat and a trilby hat.

‘Seein’s believin’, ain’t it?’ asked Skinner. ‘Don’t thank me, thank Jolly. Now ‘e is a proper marvel. Know wot ‘e did? Give a pal of ‘is a ticket to go to some cleaners where your clothes was being cleaned while you was away. S’fact. They ‘ad the mac, too. ‘Is pal give it to Bill, and Bill give it to me. I fixed it all, arter that – food as well, Jolly said that brand o’ wine was okay – Burgundy. Suit you?’

‘The question is, will it suit us, Skinny?’

‘Us. You inviting me to dinner?’

‘That’s right. I’ll change first, and then we’ll eat and talk. You’ve plenty more to tell me.’

‘Dunno abaht that,’ said Skinner lugubriously, but his eyes were bright. ‘It ain’t so much. But I’ve got a plan and some tools.’ He dived a knuckly hand beneath his jersey and drew out a canvas roll of tools, then dug into his trousers-pocket and drew out a fold of paper. ‘Wiv Jolly’s compliments, ‘e says. That’s a plan o’ the roof of the ‘ouse in Hilton Street, and those next door. The top flat’s empty – people ‘ave gawn aht. An’ Bill’s fixed a ladder, winder-cleaner’s, it’ll be easy as fallin’ orf a roof.’ Skinner raised his hands and drew back, mouth widening. ‘Strike me, easy as falling orf a roof – nar wot do yer fink o’ that, Mr. Ar? Talk abaht a joke …’

He roared with laughter.

‘Mind yer, I’m not expectin’ yer’ll fall, seriously. Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Ar. But it was funny, wasn’t it?’

‘Skinny, you ought to be on the stage.’

‘Funny fing,’ said Skinner, immediately solemn again, ‘I was only saying that to the missus, coupla days ago. The way I tells a story puts ’em in fits, it does. Well, wot are you waitin’ for? I’m hungry. Oh, I forgot. There’s a car for you rahnd the corner in Billing Street, a Riley – ‘ere’s the keys.’

Skinner repeated the story of the missing collection, the police theory, everything that had been written on the newspaper. He added that Jolly had arranged to have someone at Lumley Street by day and night, and a car handy. There was a telephone. Rollison memorised the number.

At half past ten the last vestige of the storm had gone; the stars were out, but there was no moon. The air was much clearer. Rollison kept the raincoat on, with his hat pulled well over his eyes, as he walked from Lumley Street. Five minutes later he sat at the wheel of a Riley.

Danger waited, at Hilton Street and beyond.

He knew much more than he had known in Devon, but still not enough. Those fingerprints on the handle of the spanner explained why Grice was so sure of himself. No framing could have been done more smoothly; on the evidence, Marion-Liz hadn’t a chance.

He couldn’t blame Grice or anyone for the line they were taking. There was one way to take the weight of suspicion off Marion-Liz – to find out who had killed Keller and who was framing her.

She was more likely to know than anyone else.

He’d studied the plan, knew where to find the ladder, had little doubt that he could get into her flat. The great danger would come if the police decided to raid it at the time he broke in. If he left the roof way of retreat open, he would still have a chance.

He drew up near Hilton Street, parked the car with the side lights on, and walked towards the back of the houses and the windowcleaner’s ladder.

He couldn’t see the police, but was sure that they were there.