“That will be a pleasure,” Rollison replied with relish.
Half an hour later, he was taken downstairs to the garage beneath the new building, and the first thing he saw in a bay near the ramp was his Bristol. A police mechanic moved over towards him and a sergeant whom Grice had sent down with him.
“Did you get that bomb off?” asked Rollison.
“No, sir, I did not!” the mechanic replied. “We sent for a bomb disposal squad, and they came pronto and prised it off. They said it would have blown up half the car, and you with it. It’s all okay now, though, sir.”
“Yes,” said Rollison. “Thanks very much.”
All right, he kept repeating to himself. All right. One moment he could have laughed at the ludicrousness of the fact that so much had happened. He must have been recognised by Effie, who had sent for the motor-cyclist: what other explanation could there be. At least, he wasn’t being held. He got into the car and saw that it was a quarter past five.
Pamela Brown was due at half past six, and —Good Lord! He’d forgotten Jack Fisher!
What would he find when he reached his flat?
Outside were policemen and near them roughly-dressed men, Ebbutt’s men, who had come to keep an eye on him at Jolly’s request.
He found Tommy Loman talking earnestly to Jack Fisher, in the big room, glasses in hand, whisky and a syphon of soda on a low table between them. He crept in the side way on recognising Tommy’s voice. He gave a soft whistle at the kitchen door, to alert Jolly, who turned at once.
“Are you all right, sir?”
“Yes. Why shouldn’t I be?”
“The radio mentioned you in connection with a fire in Chelsea, sir.”
“Did they mention Tommy Loman?”
“No, sir — no names were mentioned except that of a Mrs. King —”
“Jolly,” interrupted Rollison, “even our Grice tried to whitemail me about Effie King. In fact I still owe him a comment on what I think of her.” He leaned against the sink. “How long has Fisher been here?”
“About twenty minutes, sir. I thought it best to give them a drink and let them find their own level. It has been rather amusing — they are vying with each other in their knowledge of you!”
“What?” breathed Rollison.
“It is true, sir. Fisher has obviously followed your activities for many years with close interest, and whilst here Mr. Loman has learned a great deal from the press cuttings books and case histories. Will Mr. Fisher stay to dinner?”
“No,” answered Rollison. “I’d like him to go before Miss Brown arrives. Has anyone called?”
“No, sir. Mr. Ebbutt has sent six men who have stationed themselves in the street and at the back of the building. Two policemen are back and front, too. I don’t think there is too much danger,” Jolly added, soothingly.
“I shouldn’t be too sure,” said Rollison.
“Seriously, sir?”
“A man who escaped on a motor-cycle lobbed another bomb, this time a fire-bomb, at the house I was in at Chelsea,” said Rollison. “Then he seems to have escaped through a window and leapt on his motor-cycle as Loman would leap on his trusty steed. I’ll give you all details later. Er — Jolly.”
“Sir?”
“Miss Pamela Brown carries a pistol.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“Yes, indeed. If you think there is any need, take the gun out of her bag, take the bullets out, and put the gun back.”
“I will certainly do my best, sir. Have you any reason to believe that Mr. Fisher is armed?”
“I don’t yet know what to make of Mr. Fisher,” Rollison replied thoughtfully. “I shall soon find out.” He went to the study-cum-living room, to hear Fisher say with both heat and emphasis :
“I still say that his most remarkable case was the one about the voodoo doll. Did you read that?”
“Why, sure thing, I read all about it,” answered Loman. “It was fascinating, Jack. But the story I prefer is the one when he was helping those fallen women —”
“Angels.”
“Huh?”
“Fallen angels.”
“Sure, that’s what he called them,” conceded Loman, “but —”
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Rollison strode forward into the room at a pace suggesting that he couldn’t get in fast enough and had heard nothing of what had been said. “Mr. Fisher, I can’t say how sorry I am that I’m late.”
“It’s perfectly all right, Mr. Rollison. Don’t worry at all.”
“Jolly’s got you a drink, I see?. . . How about another?” He refilled Fisher’s glass while the man stared at him as if not quite sure that he was real. Soon, he was drinking their health, they were asking questions about the past and the future, but neither mentioned the present until Fisher asked:
“Did they find that motor-cyclist?”
“They haven’t yet,” answered Rollison.
“But he’s the key to the whole thing!” cried Fisher. “Once they know why he tried to kill you the rest is bound to fall into place. Isn’t it, Mr. Rollison?” He spun round to Rollison for confirmation. “They mustn’t let him get away!”
“They’ll catch him, sooner or later,” Rollison said reassuringly.
“They should have caught him already,” Fisher de-clared angrily. “I —” He broke off, and forced a smile. “Well, I don’t want to spoil a wonderful evening like this by losing my temper, do I?”
“Lost tempers can do a world of good,” Rollison soothed. “I came nearer to losing mine this evening than I have for a long, long time.”
“You!” exclaimed Fisher.
“How?” inquired Loman.
“You can’t start a story like that and not tell us what happened,” protested Fisher.
“No, I suppose I can’t,” Rollison said. “Well, it was something like this.” He moved to his desk and touched a switch which meant that in the kitchen Jolly would hear what he was saying. “I came upon the motor-cyclist again, or he came upon me,” he went on. “He was in the home — the flat — of an actor who plays character parts, and whose wife is going to have a baby.”
He paused.
Both men stared, and he was sure that Jolly was sud-denly spellbound, pausing in the middle of whatever culinary art he was engaged upon. Very carefully, he went on:
“The motor-cyclist first wrecked the place, with a hand-grenade I suspect, and finished it off with a fire-bomb. All of us were lucky to escape with our lives.”
“All of you?” asked Loman, faintly.
“Did the motor-cyclist get away again?” demanded Fisher.
“He did.”
“No wonder you were mad!”
“I wasn’t exactly angry about that, I was too glad to be alive,” Rollison retorted. “But I began to lose my temper when someone suggested that I’d thrown the bomb —”
“Who on earth accused you of that?” cried Fisher. “The little mother-to-be,” stated Rollison.
“The little bitch!” Fisher’s voice rose. “As if you —”
His championship of Rollison was almost too much to stand, Rollison thought; and wondered whether Fisher got all his thrills vicariously.
“Would you say that?” asked Loman, quietly. He had been eyeing Rollison very thoughtfully all the time. “In that condition women can say some wild things.” When neither of the others commented he added lamely : “I guess.”
“Women are always saying wild things,” grumbled Fisher.
“Richard,” asked Loman. “What made you angry?”
“They began to blame me when the woman had to be hurried off to hospital,” Rollison stated carefully.
Fisher groaned: “Oh, no.” He backed a pace to a chair and sat on the arm, gaping at Rollison, while Loman simply took another sip of his drink and remarked:
“They had to blame someone. Did the woman see the man or the motor-cycle?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“Well, perhaps they didn’t believe in him,” said Loman, with a slow smile. “Perhaps they were ready to believe that the man who won all these trophies was capable of anything.” There was a hint of laughter in his eyes. “Now if they started to suggest the baby was yours —”