The Toff and the Fallen Angels by John Creasey Page B

your neck out,’ said Grice. ‘I’ve seen you before when you’ve a guilt complex working like a computer in your mind. Don’t stick your neck out too far, even for Angela. Think three times before you do anything off your own bat - and use us as much as you can. You may not believe it, but I’m as anxious to find Angela as you are.’
    For the second time, Rollison warmed to the policeman.
    â€˜I believe you,’ he said. ‘And you’ll watch this house closely, won’t you?’
    â€˜A mouse won’t be able to get in or out without being seen,’ Grice boasted.
    Rollison nodded, turned to the study door, which was closed, and tapped. There was a muted call of ‘come in’. He found Naomi sitting behind the desk and Anne Miller lying back in a small armchair in front of her. She appeared to be all legs and long, loose hair, and had the face of tragedy.
    â€˜You needn’t have any fear of being attacked,’ he said. ‘The police will make sure of that.’
    â€˜Yes, I suppose they will,’ said Naomi, as Anne Miller looked up at Rollison from those sombre dark eyes. ‘And there will be no way of keeping this out of the newspapers, will there?’
    â€˜Absolutely no way at all,’ said Rollison.
    Momentarily, Naomi Smith closed her eyes. Then she seemed to make a physical effort to pull herself together, braced her shoulders and spoke more crisply.
    â€˜Then we shall have to try to turn it to advantage. I’ve asked those of our sponsors who are free to be here at twelve noon in the morning, Mr Rollison. I will be most grateful if you will join us.’
    â€˜I’ll be glad to,’ Rollison accepted. ‘One question. How do you get on with your next door neighbour?’
    â€˜We don’t get on,’ answered Naomi Smith.
    â€˜That old lecher!’ exclaimed Anne Miller with sudden venom. ‘He used to think that all he had to do was open his window and beckon, and when he learned that we’re in the baby business strictly for love, he started a virtue-and-hate campaign. Laughable, really. But—hateful.’

    Rollison pulled up outside his house in Gresham Terrace, and decided to leave his car there. He did not feel like taking it to the garage and walking the five minutes back. A light was on in his living room, and he saw the curtain move and a brighter light appear for a moment: Jolly had heard the car.
    It was a little after two o’clock.
    Jolly, dressed as if it were midday but looking very grey and tired, was at the flat door.
    â€˜This won’t do,’ said Rollison, with forced jocularity. ‘We can’t have you losing your beauty sleep.’ Then he saw Jolly’s expression, a warning in itself, and realised that someone was in the flat. Inwardly, he groaned, for the last thing he wanted was another argument . . .
    Unless this were news of Angela.
    â€˜Good evening, sir,’ said Jolly. ‘A Miss Gwendoline Fell called about an hour ago, and insisted on waiting.’ There was a world of resentment in that insisted. ‘I told her that there was no assurance that you would see her.’
    â€˜And I said you’d better,’ declared Gwendoline Fell, from the inner door.
    Rollison went in and looked across at her levelly. Her golden-brown hair was tumbled, her big blue eyes were tired, but she looked ready enough for battle. She also reminded him, rather strangely, of Angela.
    â€˜And what makes you think I wouldn’t be happy to see her?’ he asked lightly. ‘Some coffee and sandwiches, Jolly.’
    â€˜At once, sir.’ Jolly disappeared by the alternative route to the kitchen, and Rollison beamed down at Gwendoline.
    â€˜Come and sit down.’ As they went into the big room, he added: ‘Are you old enough to be offered a drink?’
    â€˜You really do have the most execrable sense of humour,’ she remarked.
    â€˜Yes, I know.