by Mark Walker
Mandy peered at her brother, wondering if he would ever grow up. She was quite pretty, extremely intelligent, and suffered terrible embarrassment at times being burdened with a big brother as groaningly ignorant as Michael could be. Yet she, too, longed for more real excitement just like her brother, and, truth be told, rather wished she could be with Brendalynn and the “show biz” folks just then. Her thoughts were interrupted, though, when Michael (who teased her mercilessly) proceeded to do so with a cap-full of leaves. They both proceeded to act like children, which, of course, they could not help but be.
Whilst Michael and Mandy were thus occupied, little Jen immersed herself in her own pile of leaves, which she had been collecting diligently. She was quite a sight in her slightly too large coat and red beret, as she emerged from the tumbled shades of gold, yellow, and bronze; her own long golden locks mixed in with the leaves and streaming over her bright blue eyes. She was the musical one who loved to sing and longed to take piano or violin lessons.
Michael and Mandy stopped playing and laughed at the sight of their sister. She was lying on her back making an angel in the leaves, along with the most awful noises. Suddenly she stopped, rose up (just to see if anyone was looking), and began to sing. “I’m a leaf angel! I’m the Princess of Autumn!”
“Oh, she’s telling porgies, again!” cried Michael.
“Jen, try to behave,” said Mandy.
Ever mindful of her sister, Jenny launched into a hysterical giggle and completely ignored her.
“Everyone will be staring!”
Just then, Mandy was thinking particularly of the boy she had noticed wandering through the crowd after the concert. He was a friend of Miss Welles’s friend Toby. She liked Toby all right, but not his younger friend—although it did not occur to her to wonder why she cared what he thought at all.
At that moment, across the road on the northwest corner of the stately square, inside the stately London Library, the haughty and severe librarian, Miss Chillglass, was picking up her things to leave for the day. To most people, Miss Chillglass was much as her name might imply, for she said little and kept mostly to herself. Slim and angular, she might have been attractive had she but thought herself so. She could almost remember a time when she had been. She took little care in her dress, preferring only the dullest of outfits, which today was a brownish, unbecoming wool suit. She removed the reading spectacles from her rather long nose, placed them in her purse, and locked her desk drawer. A twitch of a smile (which was all she generally allowed) etched the lines at the corners of her mouth as she reached up and lightly fingered the newly acquired extravagance at her throat (and such an adornment she had never before known), a golden pendant set with a large ruby, on a golden chain.
She had finally been able to collect it, early that morning, from the book with the secret compartment on the top shelf of the reference section. So often she had wanted to see it again and hold it! But just for today she would allow herself the extravagance, the daring, of wearing it in front of them, before she had to give it up. It had been the greatest pleasure she had known for many years. She had eagerly done all he had asked, pleased beyond belief that he had chosen her, and that he still thought of her thus. It also pleased her to see the looks her fellow librarians gave her, for she had not received such admiring glances for many years. So, with a curt nod and a good day to her three fellow librarians, Miss Chillglass donned her dull hat and coat. Her mouth twitched a final time. Her heels clicked across the marble as she exited the library. Then, as was her habit, she crossed the road into the gardens at the center of St James’s Square.
The lady was in a hurry, and anyone who noticed her would have thought she was late for a funeral—which, in an odd way, perhaps she was. She was dressed in widows’ mourning, all black, with a black hat and heavy veil that trailed slightly behind her, a black umbrella and shoulder purse clutched tight against her side. Despite the fact that her face was covered, blonde hair was evident under the veil, and one could not help but notice her shapely figure under the tight skirt and the brisk stride of her dark-stockinged legs as she whisked along. She came storming round the corner, nearly running down a shuffling old man with a cane who sputtered after her. The lady in black, body bent intently forward, brolly now upraised, went charging across the road, through the gate and into St James’s Square.
Jen first noticed Miss Chillglass.
“Look, Mandy, it’s the librarian.”
Mandy turned quickly. “Oh, yes.” She frowned. “Miss Chillglass. She always acts as if she smells something unpleasant.”
Little Jenny watched as Miss Chillglass disappeared from view, instantly dismissed her from her mind, and went on a quest for more leaves.
Momentarily, dark clouds obscured the sun, but not before the shadow of the Zeppo itself, like a looming phantom with cloak-like wings, passed directly over the square: an ominous portent of things to come. A sudden gust of wind tore hundreds more leaves from the trees, as a disturbance rippled through the spectators surrounding the musicians. There was a start from the group still huddled near the songbirds, and someone shouted, “Hoy! Stop, thief!” The boy Mandy had been noticing, Toby’s friend, came bursting out of the startled throng, running headlong. Michael and Mandy turned their attention toward the excitement, but Jen continued on her merry way. A large man in a bowler hat stuck out a hand and checked the progress of the reckless youth, and grabbing the boy by the scruff of the neck, shouted, “’Ere, ’ere!”
At that instant, little Jenny, yards away from this excitement, had some of her own: she tripped over her own feet and landed with a crunch in a pile of leaves. Looking up, startled, she was face to face with the soles of two shoes pointing straight into the air—the feet of the librarian, Miss Chillglass! Then, with eyes wide, the child saw a black-clad figure kneeling just beside her. The figure rose up, towering over her, and a veiled face turned briefly toward her. She saw a glint of red in the woman’s black-gloved hand, whilst the other hand raised a brolly threateningly above her. Then suddenly the bent silhouette turned away, scurrying off in the opposite direction.
“Michael, Michael!” Jen cried. “Come quick! Mandy, Miss Welles—over here! The librarian!”
First to hear his sister’s cries, and confused by all that had just occurred, Michael came at a bound.
Jen exclaimed, “She’s hurt! The librarian’s hurt! Michael, there’s a lady, a lady in black—she knows what happened! You’ve got to find her! Follow her! Now!”
Michael looked momentarily bewildered. Jen frantically pointed at the widow, who was just then disappearing through the gate and across the road.
“Go!” shouted Jen. Michael blinked and ran after the black retreating figure as he had never run before.
An extremely anxious Brendalynn Welles, followed by Mandy, rushed to Jen’s side, and they both drew in their breath as they stared down at the recumbent figure lying upon the ground. Jen threw her arms around Brendalynn, who, not seeing Michael, frantically called for help.
chapter two
999 to Vine Street
AN EMERGENCY CALL had come into Vine Street Station, where the dispatcher, in turn, had called the Yard. The operator transferred the call to the duty officer, who spoke into a loudspeaker asking for the first available detective for Section A. That was how Detective Sergeant Fred Bellows found himself flying through the air (literally) to become the first ranking officer at the scene of a crime committed just five minutes before in St James’s Square. He was harnessed into one of the new PUFF Packs, or Personal Utility Floating Facilitators (similar to a jet pack, though almost silent), that were used in emergencies to fly a single human for short excursions only. Sergeant Bellows felt distinctly uncomfortable in such a rig, and thanked the Lord it was not an Anti-Gravity Day.
Anti-Gravity Days, or AG Days, were those days in which the earth’s gravitational pull lessened by the most minute fraction, causing pedestrians to step ever more lightly, cyclists and motorists to tak
e extra care, but enjoy a smoother ride, and the London fog to lift ever so slightly. It also necessitated many minor adjustments to be made elsewhere for ships and all flying machines, which is why PUFF Packs were banned on AG Days—except in extreme emergencies—lest the wearer float off into eternity, or, conversely, crash to the ground, with the same effect.
The sergeant had good reason to feel uncomfortable. Tipping the scales at somewhat more stone than he should, Detective Sergeant Bellows was aptly named, for he looked as if he could stoke quite a fire if he blew hard enough. So, combined with his roundness, the wispy, soft puff of mechanical flatulence (actually the expulsion of the helium propellant) occasionally emitted by the PUFF Pack made his flight rather humorous indeed. Added to this, Sergeant Bellows was not at all fond of heights, and wending his way through the London skies, dodging buildings, wires, and the occasional Zeppo or Zeppouline, the sky blimp limousines, at high speed did not appeal to him. Yet, thankfully, his flight was a short one. Within minutes of leaving the Yard he was looking down over St James’s Square and swooping to a gently puffy landing, scattering hundreds of leaves.
“Great Galloping Gollywhoppers!” he muttered out loud, using his favorite expression as he quickly rid himself of the harness and flying cap and goggles, smoothed his hair, and pulled on his grey felt hat. Feeling more human now, he greeted the bobby who hurried toward him.
“Sergeant Bellows! Glad you’re here! A whizzer’s been putting the touch on this crowd, here to watch the songbird concert. One of them got ’im, and the rest have made a citizen’s arrest. Trouble is, a lady’s been hurt—badly, sir. Knocked down in the commotion, so it seems. Strange, though, as she’s well separated from the rest of the group. Worked over there, at the library, and one of her fellow librarians claims she’s missing a piece of jewelry—some sort of ruby pendant.
“This lad over here, the whizzer, claims he’s a friend of that tall, skinny one, who’s part of the songbird act, but we can’t make any connection between them and the nicking being done. The songbirds seem to be in the clear, but we’re still talking to the tall lad. Nothing on ’im, though, and he’s cooperating.
“Now, the whizzer’s got several stolen items on his person. People are identifying their goods right now, but there’s no sign of this necklace. And there are other complications, sir: no real witnesses except this young ’un over here with her sister and their nanny. Claims it was someone entirely different, though she didn’t actually see a thing. Nanny didn’t see it either, or the young ’un’s big sister. To top it off, there’s an older brother, and he’s nowhere to be found. The little one says he’s chased after some lady in black who was kneeling beside the librarian. And that this woman threatened her with a brolly. Can’t make head nor tails of it, sir, so you’d better sort it out. Chief Inspector on his way?”
The bells of an ambulance could be heard over the swell of crowd noises, police whistles, and traffic. The leaves were falling more quickly on Miss Chillglass, who had not moved. They could see no blood. Brendalynn and the girls stood nearby as two bobbies came up and knelt beside the recumbent figure. One was checking her pulse and vital signs, whilst the other said, “Best not to move her or touch anything. We’ll stay with her until help arrives, which should be any minute now.”
Miss Chillglass’s face seemed to be turning blue. Jen began to feel sick and so did Mandy, but she fought back the feeling and concentrated on her sister. Brendalynn Welles shielded them in her arms.
“Come on girls, hang on, it’ll be all right,” said Brendalynn. Though she spoke the words bravely, there was some doubt in the back of her mind, but she put her arms protectively round the girls’ shoulders and turned them away. Then, in the next instant, they watched in wonder as an officer arrived and landed in one of the new PUFF Packs, something they had never seen in action before. The ambulance orderlies arrived with a stretcher and carefully carted off Miss Chillglass. Most of the bobbies were taking statements from the crowd; one was holding Johnny Glams roughly by the shoulders as another put handcuffs on him. Another bobby was questioning one of Miss Chillglass’s coworkers nearby.
Brendalynn hoped her friends Kitt and Trilby were all right, and fervently hoped young Toby wasn’t involved. She didn’t know his friend Johnny well, except that he trailed after Toby like a lost puppy. She didn’t understand the connection between what had just occurred and her friends, and she was still reeling inside, a small crease of concern showing between her deep blue eyes.
A crowd was growing, and suddenly a large figure emerged from it and stood before Brendalynn and the girls. She recognized him instantly as the detective who had just arrived by PUFF Pack. A kindly, round, moon face beamed down at them, as he introduced himself. “Detective Sergeant Fred Bellows, at your service.” He showed his identification card, which quite impressed the two girls, and they took an instant liking to the rotund figure. He had full ruddy cheeks, dark brown button eyes, and a bushy brown moustache. Mandy thought he looked somehow familiar.
Brendalynn Welles asked, “Well, Sergeant, what’s to happen now?”
Bellows replied reassuringly, “You’ve nothing to worry about, Miss. The chief inspector will be here directly, and I’m sure we can sort through this whole nasty business. You’ll soon see for yourself. Right. Now, let’s start by telling me your names and where you live.” Sergeant Bellows began a quick but methodical interrogation (as was his way), scribbling in a small notebook. When they told him about Michael, he was astonished.
“Blimey!” he exclaimed. “Went right after this widow woman in black? Blimey! Good show!” Then he became serious again, screwing up his face thoughtfully. “Oh, but that could be quite dangerous, though, for your brother. The oldest now, is he? Best to tell me what your brother is wearing, and I’ll pass the word straightaway for our lads to be on the lookout for him.”
But this would not be necessary, for at that very moment Michael appeared before them, clutching his cap, his hair streaking across his face, panting and breathless. Michael had scarcely caught his breath, much less told his story, when above the noise of the crowd they heard a low rumble coming from the nearby street and everyone in the square turned at once.
It was the low, throaty growl of a motorcar. A magnificent red and black roadster squealed to a stop in a burst of leaves at the curb by the square. Detective Chief Inspector Kelly Riggs leapt out of the car and into their lives.
chapter three
Enter Inspector Riggs
THE CHILDREN WOULD NEVER FORGET the first time they saw Inspector Riggs—nor would you, or anyone for that matter. He might have been a cinema star. Passers-by might be heard to say, “Isn’t that Ronald Colman, the actor?” “Oh, no, he’s too young. I think it’s David Niven.” “No,” another would say, “it’s Errol Flynn.” Yet no actor had such style in dress or gait as he. Perhaps it was the almost perpetual twinkle in the startling dark grey eyes, or the jumble of plaids that made up his attire, which on anyone else would have been incongruent, yet the subtle plaid patterns, as worn by him, fitted together perfectly. In fact, Inspector Riggs would seem an advertisement for incongruity.
As a plain-clothes detective he should have been vaguely anonymous, yet due to his dress he was known, at least around the Yard, as the “Tartan ’Tec of Scotland Yard.” Yet when need be, Kelly Riggs could blend in perfectly with any setting or class, and by a mere change in costume, appearance, or mannerism, could assume almost any guise.
The slender but solid man who strode purposefully toward them was not especially tall, but he gave the impression of stature because of his blade-straight, almost military bearing; yet he moved with an easy, self-assured grace. His plaid attire was perfectly pressed, but once again, being incongruous, there was a simple, casual elegance to the way he wore it. A soft brimmed fedora was set at a rakish angle on the dark head, and a racing-gloved hand casually twirled a shiny walking stick. His teeth flashed under twin slashes of dark moustache. He spoke quickly and confidently.
“Ah, Sergeant Bellows. It appears you have the situation well in hand. I’ve heard the bare bones of the case, and I understand our unfortunate victim is off to hospital.” Kelly Riggs’s voice was resonant and good-natured, with just the barest hint of Scottish brogue. His eyes sparkled with amusement as he cast them over the children. “And who do we have here?”
“Sir, these may be the chief witnesses to the crime.”
The children looked up at him with more than the slightest bit of awe—admiringly in the case of Brendalynn Welles—and were introduced in turn by the sergeant.
“I am Detective Chief Inspector Kelly Riggs, of the C.I.D., Scotland Yard.” The inspector nodded, raising his hat. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said, “and terribly sorry that the violent methods of the criminal class have intruded on your afternoon. I hope the distress of what you’ve witnessed will be short lived.” He looked at them and said, “Quickly, if you would, please take a seat on that bench and I’ll be right along with you.”
Brendalynn took the children to the bench, and Riggs and Bellows held a brief exchange. Bellows gave him a quick sketch of events, filling him in on the uncertain relationship between the songbirds, Toby Knockknees, and the primary suspect, young Johnny Glams. He and Riggs spent a few moments near the path, bending, kneeling, and checking angles. They spoke briefly with the songbirds.
“Of course, we’ll have to have them in for statements. I only hope they have some solid information for us. We’ll get the songbirds’ statements tomorrow. Next, take a crack at this Toby Knockknees, and see what you come up with. If he’s tied in with our whizzer, take him into custody and send them both down to the Yard for questioning. If not, direct him over to see me. And tell the lads to step it up before the newshounds get here!”