by Mark Walker
“Right, sir!” replied Bellows, and he was off to a nearby call box at a speed belying his size. Riggs found the children and Brendalynn Welles waiting anxiously on the park bench. He began a quick interrogation. As they briefly recounted their stories, the chief witnesses inspected the chief inspector.
He was neither old nor young, yet there was rugged maturity and authority about him. His eyes, under dark brows with deep indentions in between, were very direct, dark, and piercing, and they crinkled at the edges when he smiled. His nose was longish and slightly crooked above the thin, clipped brown moustache, and his mouth was wide and firm, the deep lines around it showing he laughed frequently. His jaw was lean and savage.
He wore a belted mackintosh with slash pockets, a glen plaid jacket and waistcoat, dark tweed pants and a plaid tie with a pin that bore a Saint Andrew’s cross. However, rather than looking mismatched, all the plaid went together perfectly. Michael was particularly intrigued by his fancy double-headed walking stick. Kelly Riggs’s eyes intrigued Mandy—he’s ever so nice, she thought. Jen was near speechless, which was quite unusual, and Brendalynn Welles was captivated.
Even while questioning them, Riggs also quickly took stock of his witnesses. The nanny, Miss Welles, was frankly one of the most beautiful girls he had ever seen.
Her eyes were deep and soulful, and although there was a delicate fineness to her features, the lines of her jaw, nose, and high cheekbones held authority and a hint of ancient Celtic blood. The lips were full, and on the verge of what might be called pouty. Her pale complexion was enhanced by the blue-black hair that escaped beneath her stylish turbaned scarf with a touch of plaid, of which he approved, and although she was quite well dressed for a nanny, he noted she was still one of the new modern girls, making a way for herself in the world.
Of her charges, the little girl with the long blonde hair looked precocious and could probably be a handful in most circumstances, though now she was quite subdued. But since her observations might be the key to solving the case, he would have to handle her with care. The boy was obviously game for anything, and although not particularly rough and tumble, there was a bull-headed intelligence about his intense eyes. His sister also had intense and intelligent eyes, but was at an age when her emotions were battling against her brain as to which should gain the upper hand. Her features almost guaranteed she would be a beauty some day. Right now, her cheeks were fiery with passion.
“I know who did it, Inspector,” said Mandy gravely. “It was him, the pickpocket. He’s a friend of Toby’s, named Johnny.”
“But Mandy,” said Brendalynn quickly, “we don’t know that for sure. We didn’t actually see it.”
Mandy folded her arms and insisted, “Well, I’m sure it was him. It must be.”
“Now, lass, we must be certain before we shout the odds,” said Riggs.
Brendalynn turned to him. “Inspector, everything happened so quickly, I’m not sure any of us saw exactly what occurred. We know Kitt and Trilby and Toby, but we don’t know much about Johnny. He’s only been hanging about recently.”
“Now Kitt and Trilby are the songbirds, and this Toby is with them in the act sometimes, is that right? And what’s his last name, again?
“Knockknees, Inspector,” said Brendalynn with an impish smile.
“Ah, yes, of course,” replied Riggs dryly, standing. “And speak of the devil, here’s Mr. Knockknees now.”
Toby Knockknees long-legged it over. He was all of nineteen, tall and still awkward. He was wearing a slouch cap, and beneath it his spotted face bore an anxious expression. Riggs briefly interviewed Toby, and quickly found that he was as much in the dark as the others. He asked some pointed questions about Johnny Glams.
Riggs, like Sergeant Bellows, had decided in his mind that Toby wasn’t involved with the confusing events that had just taken place in the square, a square that was now teeming with witnesses, constables, detectives, and ever more onlookers. They were beginning to disturb the area near where the librarian had been attacked, and Riggs shouted to the constables to redouble their efforts to protect the crime scene. He knew the reporters would be on them any second.
Riggs said quickly, “Right. I’m afraid you are all going to have to repeat your stories one more time for written statements that I’ll ask each of you to sign. You’re our chief witnesses.” He patted Jen on the head, and she grinned so widely it exposed a newly missing tooth. “Now, how would you all like to take a ride in my automobile and pay a visit to Scotland Yard?”
“Scotland Yard!” murmured the children excitedly.
“Come along then, hurry!”
Bellows joined them, and the witnesses were hustled toward the low-slung roadster outside the gate of the square. Toby looked puzzled. “How can we all fit in your car, Inspector? I thought all roadsters had only two seats,” he declared.
“Ah, that’s where you’re mistaken, my young friend,” replied the inspector, as he quickly separated the cowling behind the driver’s seat. “Yes, most roadsters do have only two seats. But this is a Mark III Whip-Master Double Derby-Dasher, with a few hidden surprises, as you’re about to see!”
“Sergeant Bellows, too?” asked Toby skeptically.
“Have faith, lad!” said Riggs, as he locked the pieces of cowling down to the side of the car. “Quickly, now. We’ve got to hurry before the newshounds get wind of us.”
chapter four
The Dasher
AS IF ON CUE, A COUPLE OF reporters and photographers burst on the scene, as the constables tried desperately to keep the crowds of gawkers back. They were already shouting questions at Riggs and Bellows.
Kelly Riggs popped the lid and folded up a hidden seat in the slope-tail back of the Dasher, and quickly lifted each of the children into the seat. Then, he opened a concealed boot that easily held Sergeant Bellows’s PUFF Pack. Pressing another panel where the cowl had been revealed a double foursome seat. Brendalynn and Toby climbed in quickly behind the driver’s seat. The reporters were almost upon them. As soon as Sergeant Bellows was ensconced in his seat, Riggs pressed the starter and the engine burred to life, low and throaty, similar to Riggs’s Scottish burr. He flipped on the headlamps, released the brake, put the car in gear, looked back over his shoulder, and said, “Hang on to your hats now!”
The pursuing reporters were left behind, shouting unheard questions at the fast disappearing roadster.
“Regular riot back there, sir. Just wait ’till Fleet Street gets hold of this one!” said Bellows, looking over his shoulder.
“Aye, Sergeant,” replied Riggs, “they don’t call ’em newshounds for naught. Just like blasted vultures, they’ll turn the whole thing into a circus! Worse off, too, if our poor librarian doesn’t come through. And just in the nick of time to make their rags and latest GDRs, Gloom and Doom Reports! Ah, the wags from the rags of Fleet Street!”
Of course the reporters left behind in St James’s Square were not deterred by the lack of response to their questions, for there were plenty of people present who knew little or nothing of what had occurred, and who were ready and eager to expound upon their ignorance. And should the members of the press lack some bit of information—they simply made it up.
But the occupants of the Derby-Dasher were spared these noxious speculations as they sped down Charles II Street toward the Haymarket, avoiding the heavier traffic in the Mall.
The children had momentarily forgotten their unfortunate experience of the afternoon, as most children might. They were excited about their ride. It was a magnificent machine. The children marveled at the polished metal and rich leather upholstery, for it was no ordinary car. It was used, to be sure, but only one year old—a model Chief Inspector Riggs had picked up at an incredible bargain from a police auction of a thief’s property. It was a gem, and he kept the jewel gleaming. With the weather still pleasantly cool, it was a perfect time to keep the top down. The wind streamed through Jen’s hair, and they all had to hold on to their hats.
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br /> “Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” shouted Riggs.
The instrument panel lights of blue and amber reflected off the hulk of Sergeant Bellows and the sharp profile of Inspector Riggs. Bellows reached down and pulled up a microphone, and a small wireless antenna rose from the left-hand corner of the windscreen. He began calling in a quick report to headquarters. The children watched and listened, fascinated. A red light flashed and blinked from the control panel. After the sergeant had made his call, Toby asked, “Chief Inspector, please, would you tell us about your car?”
Chief Inspector Riggs called over his shoulder, “Why, lad, it’s a Mark III Whip-Master Double Derby-Dasher! One of the finest of all the speedsport roadsters. I just call it the Dasher. Because it’s a double, it’s got two of just about everything. Double klaxon horns and police bells, double rearview mirrors, double exhaust, and double V-8 or 16 cylinder engine, double headlamps, and so on. Even the seat you’re sitting on is a double, as it makes for a foursome.”
The burr of the double engine combined with the rushing wind swept the new passengers along in a current of excitement and adventure, as the streaming bright lights of one of the greatest cities in the world began pulsing on in the twilight. The super-streamlined car seemed to sail through the traffic as they whisked past Trafalgar Square and Nelson’s Column.
The car was one of Kelly Riggs’s great pleasures. “Yes, children, when I get the odd weekend off…”
“Very odd, indeed!” chimed in Sergeant Bellows.
“I like to take the Dasher up to the old family farm near Cambridge and run it about on the back roads of the property.”
The farm had been willed to Riggs by his late uncle on his father’s side, and a few of the old hands still worked there. It was a stunning setting, and Riggs could drive through its back roads as fast as he dared.
Riggs, like most policemen, had little time off and could only visit on the very odd weekend or occasional holiday. He lived mostly in a small, smart, comfortable bachelor flat in the Bloomsbury district of London. Thus it was that although Riggs had to endure the thick London traffic, thicker fogs, and seemingly endless drizzle, he always found it a treat to drive the Dasher. On more than one occasion he had had the opportunity to use its power as part of Scotland Yard’s famous Flying Squad, chasing down a notorious criminal.
As they motored down Whitehall, Mandy tried to imagine herself grown up, out for an evening, going to a big dance or on a shopping spree. Toby wished he owned such a fine machine, and Brendalynn imagined driving the car herself. Jenny was simply enthralled with it all, and Michael was now asking about the walking stick, perched between the seats. “Inspector, could you please tell me about your stick?”
“Ah, that, m’ lad! Sergeant Bellows here will give you the details, while I concentrate on the evening traffic.” He downshifted and gave a quick hoot of the double klaxons.
“The Fox and Hound cane,” said Bellows, turning, “that’s a good story! A few years back the inspector and I helped solve a case for a certain foreign government, when we nicked a gang of international forgers trying to copy their currency plates. In appreciation, their ambassador gave the inspector this special stick.
“So, why the fox on one side and the hound on the other?” asked Michael.
“I’ll bet it’s because he couldn’t decide whether the inspector was the hound doing the chasing, or the fox for out-foxing the crooks,” Toby said brightly.
Riggs and Bellows laughed. Riggs said, “Why, lad, you’ve certainly got that right. Perhaps you should be a detective someday.” And this lit a spark in the heart of Toby Knockknees.
Black and indigo clouds promising rain closed over the last blood-red ribbon of autumnal light hanging above the jagged London horizon. The car began to slow, and the tires squealed as they turned left just past the Cenotaph war monument into the drive between a pair of tall gates. Behind the gates, lit by floodlights, were tall, red brick, turreted buildings. They were at New Scotland Yard.
chapter five
The Yard
RIGGS PULLED THE DASHER INTO the large courtyard, busy with constables, police vans, and marked and unmarked cars. After quickly going through the formalities of admittance that Scotland Yard required, he and his charges were soon moving down a series of dull cream and brown corridors, up in a lift, and finally through a series of offices, each one more habitable than the last.
Through a pebbled glass door, they discovered a gas fire lit in the last warm, paneled office. Two desks sat at right angles to each other, the larger of which sat in front of a tall, leaded glass window overlooking the twinkling lights of the Embankment and the Thames. Around the walls were several diplomas and citations, mixed with photographs of individuals and groups, a large map of the city, and, of course, a portrait of King George.
Filling the rest of the room were several filing cabinets and bookcases, and two well-worn, comfortable leather chairs for guests, placed on a well-worn rug. There were stacks of files everywhere, including the other wooden chairs in the room. After Riggs and Bellows made room by clearing off the chairs, their guests were quickly settled in.
For several years Inspector Riggs had shared this room with Sergeant Bellows, except for the fortnight twice a year when the sergeant went through the pool to serve with another chief inspector. It was unusual for a chief inspector to share an office with an officer of lesser rank, but space was at a premium due to the brand-new and quickly growing Scientific Laboratory. Besides, they enjoyed each other’s company and had become fast friends.
The chief inspector sat with a hip on the edge of his desk. Switching on the green-shaded Bestlite (“the kind that Churchill uses”), he said, “Sergeant, get the Incident Room organized and have Detective Inspector Blaney come up.” Sergeant Bellows stepped out of the office through a second door with pebbled glass. After he left, a pert young woman with rimless glasses and honey-colored hair in a permanent wave entered the room.
“May I present the renowned Mrs. Peach, our indispensable right hand, majordomo, aide-de-camp, and, in short—secretary,” said Riggs. “We’d never get a case solved round here if it wasn’t for her.” At this she blushed, as he introduced their guests round in turn, ending, “They’ve witnessed a nasty bit o’ business this afternoon in St James’s Square.”
“Oh, yes sir, I’ve just heard—the first reports came down from communications just before you arrived,” Mrs. Peach said, smiling at the children.
Riggs said, “If you would, please send someone down to the canteen for sandwiches and make us some of your wonderful tea for a start. All round, including yourself—it’s going to be a busy evening. Then get your steno pad ready for some serious note-taking.”
“Right, sir,” she said crisply, and went off, a glow of excitement showing on her face, which always happened when her boss started on a new case. It was as though an electric current was turned on in the building with a buzz that was almost palpable. Riggs looked at the children, Toby, and Brendalynn Welles.
“Let’s get down to cases. We’re trying to contact Mr. Prescott on the road, and apprise him of the situation, so as not to worry him. So far, we’re not having any luck. Do you have any idea where he’s gone?”
“No, Inspector. He never discusses his business specifically, or where he’s going. If he’s traveling, he usually checks in every few days, or sends letters and notes by post. Oh, it won’t be the first time these youngsters have gotten mixed up in something. Why, just last month Michael made the most awful fuss over football scores with another boy and they started to fight. Why, they had to be pulled apart.”
“Well … well … he was totally wrong, that’s all!” cried Michael. “Why, Manchester United was…“
“We’ll have none of that, now!” cut in Brendalynn sternly.
Mandy giggled, “And guess where it was, too: at the library!”
“That’s quite enough, children!” said Brendalynn.
“Okay, okay,” grumbled M
ichael.
Riggs smiled. “Sounds like we’ll be in for a run with them, then.”
Brendalynn continued, “I’m studying the law and I know a little about what goes on, so hopefully I can make Mr. Prescott understand if there’s a problem.”
“Wonderful. Now.” He turned to Toby Knockknees. “It doesn’t appear that this Johnny Glams is the culprit where our librarian is concerned. He was certainly picking pockets in the crowd, but there’s no reason to believe he’s our man—or boy, rather—in this case.”
“I’m sorry I accused him, Inspector, but I was just sure he had done it,” said Mandy rather sheepishly.
“It’s all right, dear, it all happened so fast, and you were right to be suspicious,” said Brendalynn.
“I wish I could apologize,” said Mandy.
“Well, perhaps you can,” said Brendalynn evenly. “But you said Johnny Glams is known to Scotland Yard, Inspector?”
“Yes, nothing too serious as yet, but he’s vulnerable to falling into a life of petty theft and crime. The statistics make this altogether too plain. This time, I’m afraid, he’ll probably go behind bars for a few months. You could be a good influence on him, Mr. Knockknees. But what else can you tell us about him? Does he have any other associates? Does he hang about with any other criminal types that you know of?”
“Well, he’s a couple of years younger, and I think he has brothers and sisters. His mum is a sickly sort, and I think he has to take care of all of them. I’ve only seen them once, and that was a few months ago. You know, I’m getting inspired, Inspector, and I think I could be of help in your investigation. Maybe I could do some detecting for you and find out more about Johnny, or I could do some other detecting for you. I think it’d be grand to be a detective!”