“What on earth made you ask that?” cried Angela. The man who telephoned him was named Bensoni. I heard the head waiter say so. ‘Mr. Pensoni is on the line,’ he said. I haven’t any doubt at all.”
CHAPTER 19
Busy Morning
JOLLY was still up, the trophies on the wall glowed under special lighting; Angela, though wide-eyed, gave a gargantuan yawn.
“Ring Grice at the Yard,” Rollison said to Jolly. “If he’s not there, call him at home. Angela, pet, if you want to be up in time to greet the morning you’d better go to bed.”
He stopped her in the middle of another yawn.
“Not until I know what you’re up to,” Angela said. “Why is Bensoni—”
He patted her head with insufferable condescension as he passed on the way to the bathroom. When he came back, Angela was sitting, dwarfed, in his huge chair, and Jolly, looking rather like a rehabilitated mummy, was at the telephone.
“Mr. Grice’s home number is ringing, sir.”
“Thanks.” Rollison took the telephone as Grice growled a discouraging “Hallo’.
“I’m sorry about this, Bill,” Rollison said in his warmest tone. “But I did promise to keep you informed.”
“Then inform me,” Grice said coldly.
“The man who attacked Naomi Smith was Guy Slat-ter, and—”
“Mister Rollison,” interrupted Grice, “you didn’t wake me up in the middle of the night to tell me the obvious, did you? We have been pretty sure it was Guy Slatter all the time, but we can’t yet establish that he killed anyone.
From his reputation, we’re fairly certain that he’s not capable of running this by himself, certainly not of arranging for a gang of young ruffians to attack the hostel as they did tonight.”
“I heard a rumour about that,” murmured Rollison. “And I didn’t ring you simply to give you the name of the murderer. Someone slipped up badly tonight, and Guy had a call from a certain Mr. Bensoni.” There was a moment of silence, as if Grice were trying to see the significance of the name; and then his voice rose almost to shrillness. “Bensoni and Tilford !”
“Builders, construction engineers and estate de-velopers,” said Rollison earnestly. “They, at least, are used to organising demolition gangs and so forth, and there are already flats in construction on a nearby site!
“Are you absolutely certain about this?” demanded Grice.
“I am certain that Guy was called to a telephone by a man said to be Mr. Bensoni, while at a nightclub—what nightclub, Angela?”
“The Hip-Strip,” called Angela promptly.
“The Hip-Strip, in Soho,” said Rollison. “I also know that he then began to agitate to get back to the house. What happened when he got there, according to my niece Angela, is that he nearly caught a burglar and the burglar got away.”
“I wonder who that burglar was,” said Grice, drily. “Where are you?”
“At home—and I do not want to go to the Hip-Strip Club,” declared Rollison. “I want to go to bed, because I think it’s going to be a very busy morning. That house is being closely watched, isn’t it?”
“Not closely enough,” admitted Grice. “But it soon will be. Goodnight.”
Rollison put down the receiver as a miniature striking clock on the mantelpiece struck two. Angela rose slowly from the chair and peered up into Rollison’s face, like a trusting child.
“So I’m not such a bad detective,” she remarked.
“You have eyes like a hawk and ears like a bat’s,” answered Rollison. “Now you have to prove you can manage with four hours’ sleep.”
“Oh, that’s plenty for young people,” declared Angela, and skipped away to dodge his descending hand.
* * *
It was full daylight when he woke, to find Jolly by his side proffering tea and the Daily Globe on a tray; Jolly must have been out to get a copy as early as this. Rollison struggled up—as the miniature clock struck six. He felt a little heavy in the head and behind the eyes, but all that had happened and all that might happen today flooded through his mind by the time he was sitting up and opening the newspaper, while Jolly poured his tea.
“Shall I call Miss Angela, sir? She is very soundly asleep.”
“Give her another twenty minutes,” said Rollison. “I want to be off by seven.”
“To the hostel, sir?”
“To check with Grice, check with Ebbutt, and then get to Bloomdale Street,” answered Rollison. “I—my! They’ve certainly made it the story of the day!”
There, on the tabloid front page, was a picture of Sir Douglas Slatter, of the shattered window and of the house next door. The headlines screamed :
ATTACK ON MILLIONAIRE
VENGEFUL UNWED MOTHER HEAVES BRICK
“And if that isn’t actionable I won’t have breakfast,” said Rollison. He looked down the page to a picture of Anne Miller holding a baby, and the caption beneath this read:
CHARGED WITH MALICIOUS WOUNDING
The story of the hostel and the feud between the residents and Slatter was told brilliantly, in detail. There was one paragraph set in bold type, which read :
Mrs. Naomi Smith, Superintendent of the hostel, was viciously attacked by an unknown man outside the hostel. One of the residents is known to have been murdered. Two of the trustees have been murdered, also.
In the Stop Press, in red, was another paragraph.
Gang of youths attacked Smith Hall, residence for unmarried mothers in Bloomdale Street. Police drove attackers off. See story p. 1.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, Rollison turned to page three, where Gwendoline’s column always appeared. There was her photograph, and further down the page was a photograph of Naomi Smith outside Smith Hall.
The column was headed :
STRONG MAN RELENTS
The story read :
and property owner, could have brought despair to twenty-three mothers or mothers-to-be.
And Sir Douglas, strictly religious—some might say a religious bigot—has always said that if a young woman is unmarried when she has a child, she has cast herself out of society.
Twenty-five of these ‘outcasts’ lived next door to him in a mansion in Bloomdale Street, close to the University of London and the British Museum. Sir Douglas owns the property. He ordered, sternly, “out!”
Now, one of the unweds has been murdered, and another is missing.
And now Sir Douglas, the strictly religious multimillionaire, has relented. The remaining twenty-three will not be cast out. This multi-millionaire’s heart of stone melted. I salute him.
I wish I could also salute the police. Three people have been brutally murdered. All of them are closely connected with the Bloomdale Street mansion.
Why have no arrests been made?
What is the mystery behind this home where not only mothers and mothers-to-be should live in happiness—but where babies, under 12 months old, now live under threat of hideous death?
Rollison finished his tea as Jolly looked in, and said : “Your bath is ready, sir.”
“Yes. Did you read Gwendoline Fell’s column?”
“Very pungent indeed, sir,” Jolly said, as if with approval.
“I can’t think of a better word,” said Rollison. He lifted the telephone next to his bed and dialled Bill Ebbutt’s number at the Blue Dog. Almost immediately a woman answered in a bright Cockney voice.