Rollison read until the light began to fade and he could read no more. Twelve men and women were listed in the dossier; each had been a client of Madam Melinska, each had been persuaded to give her a substantial sum for investment on their behalf. In every instance this money had disappeared.
No cases had been brought, some of the victims not wishing it to be known they had consulted a fortune-teller, others not wishing it to be known that they had lost money, or been made fools of.
Rollison sat back and reflected. It was chilly; once or twice he shivered.
After a few moments he left the car, carrying the brief-case with him, and walked to a telephone kiosk on the other side of the Embankment. The white hulls of old sailing ships which had carried countless heroes on countless adventures, gleamed in the dusk. Opposite, silent, ghost-like, was the Temple. Across the river the Festival Hall was bright with welcome lights, and the new Shell House was like a diamond corsage draped on the sky.
He dialled Olivia Cordman’s number. Brr-brrr; brrr-brrr: the ringing went on and on for what seemed a very long time. A shadowy figure approached, looking sinister, misshapen, in the half-light; a man waited close by, jingling coins. Brrr-brrr; brrr-brrr; brrr-brrr—Better give up, thought Rollison. Pity.
“Who the devil’s that?” demanded Olivia in obvious exasperation. “I can’t even take a bath without—”
“—a hungry man asking to be fed.”
There was a pause. Then: “Who is that?”
“My aunt calls me Richard.”
“Who—oh, Rolly: Pleasure took the place of exasperation. “Are you serious? Are you hungry?”
“Famished. I thought—” added Rollison diffidently— “that you might like to cook me supper.”
“I’d love to, but it will have to be bacon and eggs. That’s all I’ve got.”
“Just the supper we can talk over,” said Rollison approvingly.
Olivia laughed. “Was there ever a time when you didn’t want information? But honestly, I’ll love to see you. When will you be here?”
“Is twenty minutes all right?”
“Make it half an hour,” pleaded Olivia.
“Half an hour it will be.”
“That’s lovely!” She rang off, giving Rollison the impression of simple delight; and he remembered Jolly’s warning. Smiling, he went out of the kiosk and into the road—and a car, parked without lights, started up with a venomous roar. Suddenly the headlights were switched full on, blinding him. For a split second he could not decide whether to leap forward or back, the glare was mesmerising, terror pounded in his heart. Then he flung himself forward. The brief-case went flying, the roar of the engine was deafening, and Rollison felt a sensation almost of numbness as he fell full length on the hard concrete. As he fell, the powerful lights and a dark shape passed barely an inch behind him, and the roaring died away.
Another car drew up, brakes squealing, and two men leaped out of it. Rollison grunted and groaned as he staggered to his feet. The two men helped to steady him.
“Are you all right?”
“My God, that was a miracle!”
“The crazy fool!”
“Must be drunk.”
“How many were in it?” Rollison asked.
“Just the driver.”
“Must be drunk.”
“Are you all right?” the first man repeated.
“Er—yes. Bloodied but in one piece,” Rollison said. “Have you seen my brief-ca—ah!” A woman held it out to him. “Thank you very much. I—ah—must look where I’m going. Sorry to cause such a sensation.”
“If you’re all right—”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“Have you a car?”
“Are you all right to drive?”
“Are you sure? I’ll gladly take you—”
“Or you could get a taxi.”
As they talked, still excited and greatly incensed, they moved along the road until they reached the Morris. Bending his back to get inside was excruciatingly painful, and once in, Rollison sat back, sweating. The barrage of questions started again. They were embarrassingly helpful.
Help from many unexpected sources.
“I’m sure I can manage,” Rollison said.
“You ought to report it, you know.”
“Oh, no harm’s done.”
“He must have been mad.”
Or a murderer, thought Rollison.
“Well if you’re quite sure . . .”
They stood and watched as he drove off, handling the controls stiffly at first but gradually improving. He went cautiously to Cheyne Walk, where every parking space seemed full, then found a spot outside Olivia Cordman’s front door. Normally he would have slipped in without trouble. Now, turning to look round was like knifing himself in the ribs; it was even worse getting out. He looked about and saw an old-fashioned lamp-post with a bar just beneath the lamp, and eyed it speculatively; swinging was supposed to be good for a strained back. He stretched up gingerly, managed to get a hold, and hoisted himself high.
Soon he was swinging with greater pain at his shoulders than at his back, and when he walked again he was more sore than in pain. He glanced at his watch; it was exactly half an hour since he had telephoned Olivia.
She was on the seventh floor; happily there was a lift.
“Why, come in!” she said. Then she caught her breath. “Your jacket’s torn!” she exclaimed.
“You mean there’s some left?”
“And you’re bleeding!”
“Just a scratch.”
“Well anyway, you ought to have it seen to.” She took his arm firmly and led him along a passage and into the bathroom, sat him down, and studied him in the bright light. Then she poured water, and ministered, talking about nothing in particular, until at last she ushered him into the sitting-room.
“Will you eat first and talk after, or talk first and eat after?”
“Could I drink first?” asked Rollison, sinking into an easy chair.
“Oh, what an ass I am. What’ll you have?”
Rollison settled for a whisky, and soon began to talk. Olivia sat on a pouffe in front of him, peering earnestly up into his eyes. She looked appalled when he described the accident, but when he told her of the Good Samaritans her face lit up.
“So it did come true—Madam Melinska’s help from unexpected sources! You can’t doubt her after this.”
“Can’t I?” said Rollison grimly.
Olivia stared at him for several seconds, her expression slowly changing. The gay, almost child-like delight faded, she seemed to grow older, more severe, more authoritative. Her eyes narrowed to give an impression of great severity, and when she began to speak it was as if she were about to make an announcement of supreme importance.
“You are a Virgo,” she announced.
Rollison said, bewildered: “A what?”
“A Virgo. When were you born?”
“August the twenty-third, but—”
“I knew it,” said Olivia, as if pronouncing a death sentence. “You were born on the cusp, too. Leo gives you your arrogance and Virgo your scepticism. Only a Virgo would doubt Madam Melinska after this. Your East End friends desert you, and immediately you get a seething mob of helpers outside your flat. The police turn against you, and perfect strangers come to your rescue. This is exactly what Madam Melinska prophesied.”
Rollison said mildly: “I see what you mean. How quickly can you read?”
“Very quickly. It’s my profession.”
“If I cook the bacon and eggs will you read this?” Rollison asked. After a short but explicit account of how he had obtained it, he took the file out of the brief-case and handed it to Olivia, stood up, and made his way to the kitchen—small, modern, spick-and-span. In one frying-pan was bacon, in another, four uncracked eggs. On a table were fat, salt and pepper. Rollison lit two gas-rings, and began to cook as Jolly had taught him years ago. He could move freely now, and went about the task with slow deliberation, going through the whole case in his mind. Once or twice he peeped into the sitting-room.
Olivia Cordman was sitting upright in an armchair, poring over the file. Her spectacles had peach-coloured frames, and gave her a slightly school-mistressy appearance. Her only movement was the occasional wrinkling of her forehead, causing a straight furrow between her eyes.
Rollison took two small trays from a shelf, and soon he was laying a plate of steaming eggs and bacon on each. He checked that he had everything, then carried the trays proudly into the sitting-room. Olivia did not look up. He placed her tray on a small table by her side, his own on the pouffe in front of his easy chair. She did not appear to notice.
He began to eat. “Hm, very good.”
“It’s dreadful.”
“Don’t let it get cold.”
“It’s shameful.”
“It certainly will be, if you let that bacon congeal.” She looked up, glaring.
“This isn’t funny.”
“It won’t be, if you—”
She scowled at him, then, suddenly, her face cleared, she put the papers down, gave a little coo of satisfaction, and said:
“You’ve cooked supper—oh, you shouldn’t have. Why, it’s terrible, inviting someone to supper and then letting them cook it. But it looks beautiful.” She sprayed pepper liberally over her eggs and bacon, and began to eat with gusto. “Who taught you to cook?—You ought to do it more often. I’ll bet it was Jolly, he’s out of this world—an anachronism, poor dear. A bit like you,” she added, her smile robbing the words of any sting. “You’re both links with the past, and sometimes I hate the present.” She ate for a minute or two, and then said with troubled earnestness: “Can these beastly reports be true?”
“They certainly can be.”
“Then—are they?”
“If I’d seen them before, I don’t think I would have been so quick to bail the ladies out,” Rollison said.
“Twelve people advised to invest in Space Age Publishing and then cheated out of their savings—I just can’t believe it. And that poor Mr Abbott—” Olivia stopped.
“Not a pretty record,” said Rollison grimly.
“And when he died, Mrs Abbott employed private detectives to dig out everything they could about Madam Melinska?”
“Yes.”
“And this is what they found? I can’t believe it.”
Rollison frowned. “Well, either it’s true, or Madam Melinska is being framed—like the girl said. But if it is true and this story became public property, it wouldn’t do Madam Melinska any good at all. I believe someone broke into Mrs Abbott’s flat to steal this dossier—which had, of course, already been stolen by our friend Ted Jackson—if Jackson’s telling the truth, that is. Interrupted by Mrs Abbott, the thief lost his head, panicked, and strangled her—then set the place on fire to try to cover his tracks. Either that or he intended to both steal the dossier and silence Mrs Abbott.”
Olivia shivered. “Oh it’s dreadful, dreadful. And what’s even worse—” She paused, and Rollison waited with awed fascination to hear what was worse than murder— “what’s even worse, is the possibility that Madam Melinska might prove to be a fake. It’s terrible—no one would believe in fortune-telling again for years. Every fortune-teller would be absolutely discredited. It’s bad enough when half the people you meet are sceptics, and at best tolerate what they consider to be your folly, but if Madam Melinska is guilty—”
She broke off, and in that moment Rollison knew exactly how much this mattered to her. She was not exaggerating; she meant exactly what she said; and then caught her breath and cried out:
“Oh, no!”
“Now what?” asked Rollison.
“She knew about the attack on you—she warned you, didn’t she, she told you there would be danger. Oh, my goodness, this gets worse. If she is guilty, then she must have plotted your death. You know, Rolly, there’s only one thing to do. You’ve got to prove that she’s innocent.”
“Whether she is or not?”
“You know what I mean. Rolly, we must go and see her at once. I’ll know whether she’s lying. And I dare say you will, too,” Olivia added kindly.
“Ah,” said Rollison: “Give me a pencil and some paper, will you, and I’ll take some notes. It’ll be safer to leave the actual reports here . . .”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“To Tell The Truth”
Madam Melinska sat in an armchair, hands folded on her lap, face set in repose. As he talked, Rollison studied every feature and every line, and in spite of all he had read in the dossier he had a feeling of utter absurdity; it was ludicrous to suspect this woman of the crimes about which he was now talking. He went through them one after another, giving a precis of each. His aunt sat up-right in a high-backed chair, her face set in disapproval. Mona Lister lay back on a couch. Olivia sat on a stool, one hand at her chin, her brow furrowed.
“And according to this dossier,” said Rollison uncomfortably, rustling his notes to show his listeners that he was perfectly at ease, “you first advised your clients to make substantial investments in certain companies, then you persuaded them to hand you the amounts involved so that you might make the investments on their behalf. These investments were never made.”
“I was certainly consulted by all twelve persons you mention,” agreed Madam Melinska. “But in such consultations I am only the medium through which advice is given. I am completely unaware of what is said through me, Mr Rollison.”
“So you did give these twelve people consultations?”
“Yes. As I would you or anyone else troubled about the future and whom I might perhaps be able to help.”
“I see. And each of these twelve people gave you large sums of money which they understood you would invest for them?”
“That is not true, Mr Rollison.”
“Then they lied?”
“So it would seem.”
“Madam Melinska, I can believe that one of those people might lie—even though there seems little reason for his doing so—but that all twelve should lie is very hard to believe.”
She smiled. “I agree, Mr Rollison. It is very hard to believe. So hard to believe that I do not in fact believe it.”
Rollison frowned. “This isn’t funny!”
