Chapter Twelve

Catch

The hammer was high in the air.

Rollison could fling himself to the ground and with a chance of surviving, the worst of the blast and the wrecked engine would hurtle over him. He could try to close the bonnet, but there was no time to be gentle, and vibration might cause the explosion. If the hammer fell and the car blew up, then Maidment, the boy, and a dozen passers-by would suffer, some would die and some be maimed and some disfigured for life.

There was no time to think, yet these thoughts flashed through Rollison’s mind.

He acted, swift as the thoughts themselves.

He stretched upwards, clutching desperately for the head of the hammer; if he could catch it and fling it away he might yet save them all.

If he missed …

He leaned over the yawning engine, arm stretched upwards. Within a foot of him was the dangling cylinder, swaying gently as the car shook; remember, if he jolted it the cylinder would bump against metal and everything would blow up.

Rollison heard the sharp beat of the motor-cycle engine and thought that he heard running footsteps, but all he could see was the hammer, dark against the light-green foliage of the plane trees. The hammer was falling plumb into the engine. If he grabbed and missed, or if he caught and dropped it, that would be the end.

The head of the hammer was dull and grey; he could see where it had been used to strike cold chisels. He knew that its awkward balance made it hard to catch; but the cold steel struck the inside of his fingers, and he caught it and held on. But as he caught it he bumped against the car. His own terror was so great that he felt sure that he had wasted all this effort. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the metal swaying, and if nitro-glycerine was inside, that was the last thing he was likely to see in this world.

He heard it touch, gently.

He flung the hammer into the road.

Nothing else happened in the awful split second which followed. The cylinder did not blow up. It was swaying very gently, but no longer touching any metal part.

Then, abruptly, the other things about him became vivid again.

“What’s happening, Mr. Rollison?” That was Sergeant Maidment, urgently. “What is it?”

“What’s happening there?” a man called out.

“Sergeant,” Rollison said, and gulped, and saw that everyone was looking at him curiously. He did not know that he had lost all his colour and was deathly white; or that his forehead was beaded with shiny sweat. “Try and catch—that motor cyclist.”

“What—”

“Hurry,” Rollison made himself say.

Other men had come, and a car drew up, with two uniformed policemen in front. Maidment called out to them, and they moved off, hurrying, while Rollison took out his handkerchief and dabbed his forehead, and leaned against the car. His legs seemed likely to double up beneath him. The crowd was much thicker now, and the boy was in front, with Maidment and a second policeman close to Rollison.

“I must ask you—” Maidment began.

“Yes,” said Rollison. “Sorry. Move the crowd back, will you? There could be trouble.”

Maidment hesitated, then called out to a uniformed sergeant, who began to move the crowd away; half a dozen policemen helped him in their phlegmatic way.

“Don’t carry a whisky flask, do you?” Rollison asked. “Pity.” He took out cigarettes and lit one, and shivered. “Sorry. You have now seen everything—a man in fear of death.” He said that so quietly that only Maidment could hear, and went on in the same low-pitched voice: “Some joker tied what I think was a tube of nitroglycerine on to the starting arm of the car. It should have gone off when I pressed the self-starter, but I spotted something wrong, so was careful, and—”

Maidment was peering into the bowels of the Bristol.

“See it?” asked Rollison.

“Yes,” Maidment said, and moistened his lips. “Yes, I see it.” His voice was as low-pitched and dry as Rollison’s now. “If that had gone up, you—” he broke off, and turned to look at Rollison, with a very different expression in his eyes from any there had been before. Unbelieving? “Sure it’s nitro, sir?”

“No.”

“Doesn’t make much difference, you thought it was,” said Maidment. “I don’t think it ought to be touched, except by someone who knows more about the stuff than I do. I saw that motor cyclist throw something at you, d’you think he meant to start the concussion?”

“It looked like it.”

“Lot of people about here who ought to thank their lucky stars that you kept your head.” said Maidment, and stared at the cylinder as if wondering whether the vibration caused by passing traffic would set it off. “I’ll send orders for a message to Mr. Grice, sir.” He talked to the other constable, while the distant crowd grew restless. “No need for you to stay, sir, if you’d care to go and sit down somewhere, that’s all right. We’ll need the car for a bit, for fingerprints and that kind of thing.”

“Yes,” said Rollison. “Thanks.” He felt much better and straightened up. “I’ll stay until you’ve others here to help make sure no one gets too curious, or tries to rock the boat. If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. That’s the motto of Mr. Smith.”

Maidment was quiet. Uniformed men came hurrying towards them, and two were at the back of the restless crowd. The familiar: “Keep away and move on, please, move along,” came clearly.

Those at the back obeyed immediately.

The lad stared at Rollison, adoringly.

Maidment cleared his throat.

“What kind of devil are we up against, sir?”

“The worst kind.”

“I’m just beginning to realise what could have happened if you—” began Maidment, and went a bright, bright red. “First the incident at the tea-shop, and now this—”

“My busy day,” said Rollison. “It’s a good thing I can’t be in two places at once. Now your chaps are here in strength, I’ll move on, I think. I’ll be at my flat for the next couple of hours, anyhow.”

“I’ll tell Mr. Grice, sir.”

“Good,” said Rollison. “Thanks.”

He moved towards the thinning crowd and saw the boy, and recognised his expression as hero worship, although the lad did not know exactly what had happened. He put a hand on the narrow shoulder, and they made their way towards a corner. Rollison felt completely relaxed and still a little weak at the knees; he would not want to hurry for a while. He lit another cigarette, sensing the way the lad was staring at him, but finding it difficult to speak. Suddenly he said: “Do you work near here?”

“Yes, sir, just across the square.”

“Busy?”

“Well, it’s my tea break, really. I’d just come out for a spot of air. Crumbs, I’ll be late if I don’t hurry. I’ll catch it! You—you wouldn’t mind telling me what happened back at the car, sir, would you?”

“I will, later; I mustn’t now. Give me your address, will you? And also your name.”

“I’m Michael Abbott, sir, and—well, I’ve an envelope with my address on it. Will that do?” He drew out several dog-eared letters, obviously precious possessions, and carefully extracted a letter from one. “Will that do, sir?”

“Just right, thanks,” said Rollison. “Don’t be surprised if it’s a few days before you hear from me. I’ve a job on at the moment. And, yes, Michael, you helped very much.”

“I’ll gladly help any time you like,” Michael breathed. He hesitated, then made himself move away. “I must hurry, or the boss will give it me good and hard. Goodbye, sir.”

He held out his hand.

Rollison gripped it …

Rollison reached the corner, aware that several people were following him, and feeling much better since the talk with the lad. He glanced along a street leading into the square, and there were two taxis coming along, but each was full. A third came up, empty.

“Ah,” said Rollison. “Fine. Thanks. Twenty-two Gresham Terrace, please.”

He sat back, wryly amused because he had to go round the square, where the police were trying to keep hundreds of people at a safe distance. Then Rollison was sent by one-way streets to Gresham Terrace in thrice the time it would have taken him to walk. He paid his half-crown plus gladly, and stood outside Number 22, looking up at the window, wondering if Jolly had seen him.

He did everything with great deliberation and extreme care.

First, he unlocked the street door and pushed it open slowly, then looked behind it to make sure that nothing was hanging there, inspected the stairs as he went up to make sure there wasn’t another trip string, this time with a high explosive attached.

All seemed well.

The front door of his own flat opened as he reached the landing, and he stopped abruptly, half afraid of more trouble. But this was Jolly, elderly, sedate and upright, standing aside and waiting for him to enter, and showing obvious solicitude. Jolly would not need telling that the past hour or so had been strenuous in the extreme.

Rollison went in.

“Are we alone, Jolly?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank the Lord for small mercies. Have you ever heard of tea laced with brandy?”

“The kettle’s on, sir, and it won’t take a moment to brew the tea,” said Jolly. He led the way into the big room, guided Rollison towards a large armchair and hovered, as if to make sure that Rollison sat down before he went to the desk. Any other time the ruse would have failed. Now, Rollison was in the mood for a little fussing.

“I won’t be two minutes, sir,” Jolly promised.

As he went out, Rollison stood up unhurriedly, and went to the desk. There were seven messages, all received by telephone, and all written down in Jolly’s meticulous hand-writing. Each was from one of Ebbutt’s men, with reports about the people they had already visited. There were the lists which Zana had sent, too. Two of the reports were of especial interest, for each said practically the same as Grice had said: about a girl meeting with an accident, another being attacked with vitriol; this girl had gone to Canada.

One said that a girl had been scared by dogs; that was new.

“So it all seems to add up,” Rollison said, and went back to the chair, leaning back and closing his eyes the moment Jolly arrived, so that it looked as if he had been resting all the time. There was a chink of cups, and he could picture the broken crockery at the bottom of the stairs at Anne’s tea salon. When he closed his eyes he could see a lot of things.

He heard Jolly go to the cocktail cabinet to get the brandy, heard the gurgle of tea being poured out, the sharp sound of a cork coming out of a bottle. Jolly did everything very quietly, even to saying: “Your tea, sir.”

“Yes,” said Rollison, and sat up, pretending to yawn. “If you know of a better treatment than forty winks, tell me about it.”

“Eighty winks, sir.”

Rollison started, and stared.

“You, too,” he sighed. “Someone has been getting at you. Thanks.” The bouquet of the brandy was a tonic in itself. He sipped, then drank, and Jolly came back to pour out a second cup. The telephone was blessedly quiet, everything was blessedly quiet, and after the second cup and a cigarette, Rollison felt as if he could catch another hammer.

“Let me see any messages, Jolly.”

“Yes, sir,” said Jolly, “although most of them are negative. There hasn’t been much time yet, of course, and most of the reports are at second-hand, but there are one or two interesting factors.” He reported what Rollison already knew, and went on: “As far as I have yet been able to find out, however, all of them are perfectly well and working—some as models, some in different occupations. There is as yet no report that any of them has explained why she left Zana – except to give the reasons already quoted, sir – but the most significant message is one that isn’t written down. I took it just before your taxi pulled up outside.”

“Ah! What was it?” Rollison sat up.

“One of Ebbutt’s men, named Higgs, has done a little art school modelling himself, sir, and he knows some of the people in the sphere. He has met Rose Mary Bell on several occasions, and knows some of her friends. He appears to have followed a line of inquiry which promises results. He thinks he’s traced the young woman, sir.”

Jolly stopped.

Rollison stared, as if doubting the evidence of his ears. “Say that again.”

“He appears to be quite serious, sir, and feels confident that he knows where the young woman is.”

“Next time, break news like this gently,” begged Rollison. “Did you think to get the address?”

“Oh, yes,” said Jolly, “and as I distrust my memory on such details, I wrote it down, sir. Shall I get it?”

“Please.”

Jolly turned towards the desk, and as he did so the telephone bell rang. That broke the period of blessed quiet, and it did more, for it made Rollison want to do two things at once.

Jolly said quickly: “I’ll answer, sir,” and lifted the telephone, but Rollison stood up and stepped to the desk, while Jolly spoke.

Could Higgs know where to find Rose Mary?