The Toff and the Fallen Angels by John Creasey Page B

of mine,’ said Rollison.
    â€˜Professor Webberson, do you mean?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Did you know that he was a—ah—sponsor of Smith Hall?’
    â€˜Not until recently,’ said Rollison. ‘I did know that he was a man with an exceptional social conscience, and if he was a sponsor here, then Smith Hall was worth sponsoring.’ He smiled again and moved on.
    â€˜If you’ll spare just one moment—’
    â€˜I’m late already,’ Rollison said, and turned into the gate. A policeman, young and obviously admiring, stood just outside. ‘Good morning, officer. Am I the last?’
    â€˜One to come, sir, I believe.’
    â€˜Good. It’s always nice not to be last!’
    Rollison approached the house slowly, seeing it for the first time in full daylight. It was old, of weathered brick, ugly, but obviously spacious. It stood in its own grounds, like all the houses along here, but between the house itself and the walls dividing it from the other properties there was little more than a car’s width. Beyond the driveway along which he walked were three green-painted garages. The brick wall he had vaulted the previous night looked newer than either of the houses, and the grass on this side of it was still damp. He glanced up at the first floor windows of the house next door - and a young woman slipped out of sight.
    â€˜All right, Angela,’ Rollison said to himself, and he stepped on to the porch.
    Another policeman stood just inside; Grice certainly wasn’t taking the slightest chance. The door was closed, but opened before he had withdrawn his finger from the bell push. Standing before him was Anne Miller; obviously she had been waiting for this moment. In broad daylight, she looked a little older. This morning, she had brushed her hair until it had quite a sheen, and her tunic-type suit was inches longer than the one she had worn last night. Her eyes looked huge, and there were dark, patches under them - patches which should never darken the face of a young woman. The long, narrow face had a curious attractiveness; so did her small, exquisitely shaped mouth.
    â€˜Good morning, Anne,’ said Rollison.
    â€˜Good morning, sir.’ “Sir” was quite a concession. She closed the door, and went on in an almost conciliatory voice: ‘I’m sorry I made a fool of myself last night.’
    â€˜Who told you that you made a fool of yourself?’ asked Rollison.
    â€˜I didn’t need telling,’ she said drily.
    â€˜You need telling that when you open your heart and let the hurts pour out, you aren’t making a fool of yourself,’ Rollison told her. They stood together in that large hall with the portraits looking down on them, and he saw the shadows not only beneath, but in, her eyes. ‘I was ready to help all I could before we talked,’ Rollison went on. ‘Afterwards I wasn’t simply ready, I simply couldn’t start soon enough!’
    The way her face brightened showed both surprise and belief.
    â€˜You’re—you’re very kind.’
    He squeezed her hand as the door of the study opened and a man said: ‘We will have to start without them,’ and Naomi Smith appeared, her eyes lighting up when she saw Rollison. But after a glance at him and a quick ‘Good morning,’ she said: ‘Anne, if Dr Brown arrives, show him straight in, will you?’
    â€˜Yes,’ said Anne.
    â€˜Thank you, dear. Do come in, Mr Rollison.’ She opened the door wider and then stood aside, while two men standing by the fireplace, and one sitting on an upright chair with two hook-handled walking sticks, looked towards him. Nimmo, the physicist, tall, very thin, with a baldpate and a halo of grizzled hair, he recognised; Nimmo was standing by the side of a much shorter and much broader man, who had an iron-grey look about him - hair, eyes, suit, even his skin, appeared to be much the same