He called: “Jolly!”
Jolly was in the room in a trice.
“Have you ever seen this girl before?” asked Rollison, making way for his man. “The one in the olive green trouser-suit.”
Jolly, who had to go closer to the window in order to see out, said simply : “No, sir.”
“But we’ll recognise her if we see her again, won’t we?” Rollison mused.
“Would you like me to follow you in the Austin, sir?” asked Jolly, no doubt hopefully.
“So that you can follow her if she follows me,” inferred Rollison. “No, I don’t think so. I’d rather you were here in case some quick action on the home front is called for. But watch to see if she follows me out of the street.”
“I certainly will,” promised Jolly.
Rollison went towards the front door.
The unique quality of the apartment was that it had a lounge hall with a passage leading towards the domestic quarters and the bedrooms, and a door into the big study-cum-living room with its dining alcove. Along a continuation of this was a passage also leading to bed-rooms and the domestic quarters. Two people could play hide-and-seek for a long time in the flat. Rollison, encouraged and at times inspired by Jolly, had made some refinements. Both doors — the front one and the one leading to the fire escape from the kitchen — could be locked and made virtually impregnable. So could all the windows. Moreover, above the lintel of the front door was an ingenious contraption based on the principle of the periscope. By glancing up from inside, one could see the landing and the staircase beyond; and so be fore-warned if anyone lurked there.
No one did.
He opened the door and went down three flights of stairs, each flight divided with a half-landing. The stairs were of stone but covered now with druggeting of a dark purple colour. He ran down them, humming to himself, opened the street door and stepped out, blithely, and slammed the door behind him.
The girl was on the other side of the road.
Rollison showed no apparent interest in her, but turned right, towards other streets and, round the corner, a mews where he kept his car and Jolly’s. His was a two-year-old, grey-coloured Bristol, a hand-manufactured car which gave him much sensuous pleasure. He noticed an open M.G. sports car close to the entrance of the mews before unlocking his garage.
The M.G. was not empty when he drove out; the brown-haired girl was at the wheel and vibration of the exhaust pipe with its stainless steel fan-tail told him the engine was turning. He drove along Gresham Terrace, a street of tall, three-storey houses, some drab, some newly painted, and the girl followed. He crossed a stream of traffic in Piccadily, to turn right; and so did she. He took the underpass at Hyde Park corner but she did not; yet in Knightsbridge, opposite Harrods, she was close behind.
Occasionally, she appeared to lose him but as he drove on to the short section of the M4 Motorway, there she was; and when he went down to the cavern-like turn on to the Great West Road, she was on his heels. Until then he had simply allowed her to follow, but suddenly he put on speed, turned left at the first traffic lights into a road with houses on one side and the playing fields of ‘what seemed a private school on the other. He took the first turn right along here, and swung behind some trees; this was a place where he had caught followers before.
She passed the end of the street he was in, turning her head to try to see the Bristol. He was close enough to see the distress on her face; a kind of fear. There were no turnings off the street she was driving down and some distance along it was a level crossing; she might go on, hoping to catch up. Or she might turn back, thinking he had turned into the driveway of a house. He pulled out as soon as she had disappeared, and followed her — put on a burst of speed and suddenly brought the Bristol alongside the M.G.
“Pull in,” he ordered, and when she hesitated he roared: “Now!” and steered towards the smaller car. She pulled in quickly but did not jolt the car; nor did she stall the engine. He drew so close that the cars were almost touching before he went on: “Now, what is it all about?”
She would probably lie.
He noticed one man farther along the street, and two women at different windows, watching; each had no doubt noticed the way he had forced the girl into the kerb.
She stared at him, and he at her, each framed in an open car window. She had the most beautiful golden brown eyes, something he hadn’t been able to see from the flat window, and a superb complexion. He thought he read fear in her eyes, and began to wonder how best to ease that fear at least enough to make her talk, when she said:
“I can’t believe it.”
She had a pleasant voice, English as a summer meadow.
“What can’t you believe?” he asked, trying not to be too accusing.
“You are even more handsome than they told me,” she declared.
He stared. She smiled, tremulously. He snorted, and then, unable to help himself, began to utter a deep throated chuckle; immediately relief showed in her eyes, and she relaxed too.
“You are more handsome,” she asserted.
“I can’t tell you how proud I am,” Rollison said, and chuckled again. “You are much prettier than you looked from my flat window.”
“You saw me?”
“You intended me to see you,” he stated flatly.
Earnestly, and putting a hand towards him as if to touch his face, she said in that sweet-sounding voice:
“It’s impossible — I can’t even hope to deceive you?” Her eyes were huge.
“It would be fascinating to find out what would happen if you tried,” he remarked. “With most men no doubt you find it easy. Are you busy?”
“Well, not just now.”
“What do you mean, not just now?”
“I was busy, because I wanted to talk to you,” she told him, “and simply didn’t know how to go about it. It’s as pleasant as it’s easy.”
“I’m busy,” he interrupted. “I’ve an urgent job to do.” Her face fell. “Oh,” she said, as if crestfallen. “But we could talk on the way,” he added.
“On the way where?”
“Where I am going. You could come in my car and talk to me while I drive, a process called killing two birds with one stone.”
She gave a funny little shudder, as if not liking what he had said about killing. If possible, her eyes grew even rounder and more huge.
“Are you serious?” she demanded.
“Very serious.”
“Very well,” the girl decided, “I’ll come. Will you remember where I’ve left my car?”
“Yes,” he assured her. “This is where I always have the people who follow me park; that’s how I was able to shake you off so easily.”
“Oh,” she said, looking at him dubiously. Then she added earnestly : “I believe you’re pulling my leg.”
“Never!” he breathed.
She got out of her car on the pavement side, pulled the leather apron over the seats, against possible rain, then came round to him, clutching a large handbag made of two-tone canvas matching her suit perfectly. He had half expected her to run away but she showed no sign of that at all. He eased the Bristol away from her car, leaned across to open the far door for her. She got in with easy grace, studying his profile.
“Side face, too?” he inquired.
“In every way,” she assured him.
“Before long I shall feel flattered. Do you mind opening your handbag?”
“Doing what?” she gasped.
“Opening your handbag,” he repeated, pleasantly. “I just want to make as sure as I can that you’re not carrying a gun.” He beamed. “Please.”
She opened the handbag as wide as it would go. Inside was the expected variety of toiletries and make-up articles, a small purse, a thin wad of one pound notes, some keys — and a centre pocket which was fastened by a zip. He touched this with his forefinger, and she opened it.