“Are you sure that you don’t know what?” demanded Rollison.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I’m not lying now. There is no point in lying. The police will find out what happened at the nursing home, they will learn that mother financed it, they will ask questions—questions—questions! I’ve hated the sight of a policeman since this happened, I’ve hated the sight and mention of them!”
“The police will do nothing that isn’t necessary and won’t rake up muck for the sake of it. If a thing is done under coercion, the police don’t take such a serious view. That is, for crimes short of murder. Have there been any mysterious deaths at the nursing home?”
“No,” Gwen said, and then added almost inaudibly: You know what violence there has been.”
“You mean the attempt to kill the mystery lady?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know about it beforehand?” he asked, gently.
“I haven’t sunk as low as that,” she said. “No, but I knew afterwards that Pomeroy was aware of it. I heard Pomeroy talking to someone on the telephone. He had arranged that a new nurse, Armitage, should be engaged—that was done through father’s influence. I didn’t hear all the conversation, but I gathered that she was to be blamed for it. He had some particular reason for that, I don’t know what it was.” She turned and looked at him steadily. “If she had been arrested I would have told you, if not the police. Mother and I were quite determined, but when she was not affected, we did nothing. It seemed as if the police discovered the man who did it—did they?”
“Yes,” said Rollison. “His name was Shayle, Marcus Shayle.” When Gwen showed no interest, he went on: “A man of about twenty-seven or eight, pleasant-looking, with a round face and fair, curly hair. Does that sound familiar?”
“No,” said Gwen.
“You’ve never seen such a man with Pomeroy?”
“No.”
“All you know about that, then, is that Pomeroy wanted the woman dead, and also arranged, or tried to arrange, that someone else should be found guilty of her murder,” said Rollison. “You didn’t get any indication of the reason why he wanted that done?”
“No.”
“Gwen,” said Rollison, after a pause, “you have shown that you hate this woman, and you knew that someone wanted to murder her. If this story comes out, and it may well do so, it might be thought that you condoned it. You haven’t yet told me why you hate her so much. You must.”
“And then you will go and tell the police.”
“I shall tell them nothing unless I know it will save life,” said
Rollison.
She looked at him very steadily, before she said.
“Pomeroy always talked of her as the Countess. I hate Pomeroy more than I thought it possible to hate anyone! I heard him planning to have the Countess arrive here, pretend to be suffering from loss of memory, and be taken into the Nursing Home.”
“And then you heard him rejoice in the attempt to murder her.”
She said: “Are you a fool? It wasn’t really an attempt, I thought it was at first, but it wasn’t. She was made ill. but that was only so that she should win our sympathy. Don’t you understand? The whole elaborate plot was staged so that she could worm her way into our confidence and into father’s. She had already seen him in secret. I don’t know what they are planning. I do know that she was taking some important part in it. The very fact that there was an attempt to murder her is proof enough that she was to win our sympathy, and”
“Steady,” said Rollison. “You’re going too fast and getting illogical.”
“Isn’t it obvious?” demanded Gwen.
“It’s far too complicated. I think they wanted to kill her, and I think they were somehow prevented from doing so. And that is not only because I like the lady,” he added lightly, and he gave her the impression that he was much happier, “but I think I’m beginning to see the light. Tell me, did your mother ever see the so-called countess?”
“Once,” said Gwen. “We were out together, and I pointed her out.”
“Was she alone?”
“No, she was with Pomeroy.”
“Did he see you?”
“I think so. We ignored him. We have never acknowledged him when it was avoidable.” She stubbed out the cigarette and lit another.
Rollison said: “You and your mother saw her at the office or in the street, and apparently because you had seen her, probably because you pointed her out when she was with
Pomeroy, Pomeroy and his friends want you dead. You are still in some danger, Gwen.”
“It—it doesn’t make sense!”
“It makes more sense than some suggestions I’ve heard,” said Rollison. “Now, listen to me. There is danger, and there is only one way of avoiding it—by having the police in the house. You have a good excuse—the attempt to kill your mother.”
“We can’t” began Gwen.
“You must,” said Rollison. “Surely you’ve the wit to see that the police will puzzle it out before they’ve finished. Even if it drags on for a few weeks, until they catch Pomeroy. It will be far better to tell them yourself.”
She said: “I can’t do it.” She was distraught.
“Why not, Gwen?” he asked, gently.
“Because I am afraid for father!” Her voice rose. “I don’t know where he is, but I think Pomeroy does; I think that he has been taken away so that they can do what they like with us! If you could find him, if you could be sure that he is in no danger I would tell the police everything, but until then I can do nothing—nothing:
“All right,” Rollison said. “I’ll find him for you. But you may not like it when it’s done.”
“What do you mean?” she flashed.
“Haven’t you always been afraid that he is a willing party to all that has happened?” asked Rollison, and as Gwen stared at him in utter dismay, he added: “It’s quite likely that he is, you know. Do you still want him found before the police are told anything?”
“Yes,” she said. “But—I don’t think you can find him.”
“I think I can find him in half an hour,” said Rollison. “In fact in less—I can walk to the nursing home in twenty minutes.”
For a moment she looked as if she did not know what he meant. Then she backed away, staring at him with horror. She fumbled in a pocket in her skirt, and Rollison watched her narrowly, not alarmed for himself but afraid for her. She took out a box of matches and toyed with it. At last she tossed it on to a table, and put her hand into her pocket again. In her eyes was a wild look, and although she was silent she was obviously beside herself.
“I shouldn’t do that,” said Rollison.
He reached her in a stride, and gripped her wrist. She had started to take her hand from her pocket, and he saw the small automatic which she held. He pulled her arm up a little, and then, twisting her wrist, he made her let go. The gun dropped. She began to struggle, and he released her wrist and held her arms near the shoulders, tightly enough to hurt and to deny her any freedom of movement. Her face was distorted and her eyes were wild. He did not speak as he stared at her, trying to will her to give up the struggle.
Footsteps sounded in the hall, the front door opened, and there came a murmur of voices.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
HIGH TENSION
ROLLISON could feel Gwendoline’s body quivering. He relaxed his pressure slightly, seeing that her lips were also quivering and the wildness had faded from her eyes.
There was a tap at the door, and after a pause:
“Wait, please,” said Gwendoline, in an unsteady voice.
“It is Dr. Renfrew, Miss Gwendoline,” said Farrow.
“Ask him to see my mother first,” she answered.
There was a pause, but no sound of receding footsteps, and then Renfrew spoke in an anxious voice.
“Are you all right, Gwen?”