by Helen Wells
The inspector muttered, “She wants time to get instructions.” He advised his assistant to double the detail watching the doll-clothes shop.
“Two o’clock will be convenient,” the policewoman said into the phone. “The number where you can reach me is—” She gave a special telephone number that, Cherry understood, would reach this police office but would not reveal that fact to the thieves. “Yes, I’ll surely be here. Goodbye.”
Inspector Forbes turned toward Cherry. “Miss Ames, I regret cutting into a visitor’s limited time, but we shall need you here at two.” A speculative glint came into his eyes. “In fact, we may need you well into the afternoon, if you don’t mind a bit of action.”
Cherry tried to hide her excitement as she promised to return. The inspector then brought her up to date on what the Windermere police had discovered:
Not far from the Carewe Museum, near where the black Bentley had been abandoned, the police had dug up in the woods a false white beard, clothing worn by the fake Shah and his supposed wife, and the chauffeur’s uniform and cap. These had been half buried in earth and leaves. Evidently all three criminals had entered the woods before the robbery to change from their own clothes into disguises, then after the robbery they had changed back again. For their getaway they must have had a second car. Police had found fresh tire tracks in the woods.
“Then the getaway car must have been driven into the area by the third thief—the chauffeur,” Cherry said. “The fake Shah must have arrived there, driving the Bentley. Wouldn’t that explain why Miss Heekins had seen only him, and not the chauffeur, in the Bentley before the theft took place?”
“It does, indeed,” the inspector said.
“Do you suppose all three of the thieves are here—right now—in Edinburgh?”
“That’s a possibility we must work on,” the inspector told her. “Our chief interest, of course, is in the man who posed as the Shah—the key man in this theft. … Well, Miss Ames, shall we see you at two, then?”
Cherry nodded. It was a good thing that her patient’s appointment with the orthopedist was for this morning, not this afternoon.
By a little before eleven A.M., Cherry had called for Martha Logan at their hotel and accompanied her to the office of Dr. Malcolm MacKenzie. Today was the great day when the cast on Mrs. Logan’s arm might be removed. She and Cherry were hopeful as they walked into the orthopedist’s waiting room.
They both nearly fell over in surprise. There, about to leave, was Archibald Hazard, his left ankle swollen and bandaged. His left ankle! The fake Shah had turned his left ankle! Mr. Hazard was speaking to the nurse about his bill, and did not see them for a moment. Cherry struggled to recover her composure. She decided instantly to challenge him. If she could get any response from him—He turned around and saw them. She had a glimpse of the blinding shock on his face—and suddenly there flashed into her mind’s eye the image of the last time she’d seen Hazard, unexpectedly, standing in the street in front of the London restaurant with a stocky, dark-haired workman. Why, that’s who the “Shah’s” chauffeur might have been—the same rough, powerfully built man! She had been confused by seeing him in a chauffeur’s smart uniform and cap, and not in a workman’s rough clothes.
“How nice to see you again, Mrs. Logan,” Mr. Hazard said, seizing the initiative. There was a slight tremor in his voice. “What a surprise, Miss Ames. I hadn’t known you were coming to Edinburgh.”
“If you had known,” Cherry thought, “you might not have risked coming to Edinburgh yourself.” Still, Mr. Hazard seemed calm enough, unafraid of them. And why not? Cherry realized he had no way of knowing that she and Mrs. Logan had visited The Cat and Fiddle Inn, and learned about Meg Greene. He still might think they were fooled by the impersonations at the Carewe Museum. She must be very careful not to put him on the alert now.
Martha Logan looked baffled. “Hadn’t you intended to go from London to Paris, Mr. Hazard?”
“Oh, I changed my plans,” he said. “Some friends of mine here urged me to come visit them, and on a sudden decision I—ah—flew up from London.”
“He’s lying!” Cherry said to herself. She asked conversationally, “Have you been in Edinburgh long, Mr. Hazard?”
He seemed rattled by her question. “I’ve been here several days. Since—ah—last Wednesday,” he added. He pointed to his bandaged left ankle, grimacing. “I had a stupid accident the day before yesterday. Turned my ankle as I was hopping on a bus, and the bus started off before I was quite aboard.”
Martha Logan noncommittally murmured her sympathy. Cherry thought how cautious he was to account for the injured left ankle. He could guess they had seen the fake Shah turn his left ankle day before yesterday. At any rate, he was being very cagey and plausible with them, taking no chances.
“A wrenched ankle can be awfully painful,” Cherry said. “What a shame to have it happen on a holiday. You should have had your ankle treated immediately, Mr. Hazard, instead of letting a whole day go by. It must have swelled yesterday.” She was trying to draw him out. He was egotist enough to rise to the bait.
“Oh, and how it swelled!” he said. “Not right after I turned it—no swelling until yesterday, and I didn’t limp until yesterday.”
So that the police, on watch right after the robbery for a fleeing man who had wrenched his ankle, had no visible sign of an injured ankle to guide them. The ankle had swelled only yesterday; by that time Archibald Hazard could have made it to Edinburgh, taking cover in a great city.
He unwittingly confirmed this. “I did go to a doctor yesterday, one of these fine and famous Edinburgh physicians, but” Mr. Hazard complained, “he is a general practitioner. I’m not satisfied that he helped me. Not enough to suit me. So I’ve consulted an orthopedist this morning. So much better always to avail oneself of the best services.”
Yes, nothing but the very best of everything would do for Archibald Hazard, Cherry thought.
Martha Logan said that she hoped he would join them for lunch or tea within the next few days. From her faintly guarded tone, and the briefest glint in her eye, Cherry realized Martha was now suspicious of Mr. Hazard, and her invitation was intended solely to unearth information.
Mr. Hazard started to protest that he had so little time here, but Martha went on blandly, “We want to hear about your trip. I must tell you about the magnificent Carewe collection. Isn’t it shocking about the robbery there?”
His face changed color. “Disgraceful,” he said. “A loss to the nation. And the robbery at the Selsam Gallery! … So nice to see you. Give me the name of your hotel—” Cherry tried desperately to think how she could detain him—keep him from slipping away. “I may or not have time to see you again. Pleasant journey. Goodbye.”
Archibald Hazard limped out of the doctor’s office, and was gone. Gone!
“Cherry, your suspicions about him were right,” said Martha. “You’d better telephone the police.”
“Yes, immediately, so they can pick him up.”
Cherry obtained from the nurse permission to use a phone in another room, where she could talk privately. She called Inspector Forbes. She quickly reported in full all she knew and suspected about Archibald Hazard. She reported having seen Hazard in London with the workman who later, dressed as chauffeur, drove the fake Shah’s car.
Inspector Forbes’s voice on the phone sounded impressed, even excited. “Good, very good, Miss Ames,” he said. He asked her a few questions, then said, “Come in at two, as we said. We may have more information on Hazard by then.” He rang off.
“I just hope they catch him!” Martha Logan said, when Cherry told her about the telephone conversation. “Mr. Hazard is conspicuous enough, limping along on that swollen ankle.”
“He’s also smart enough to keep out of sight,” Cherry said dryly.
“Isn’t Archibald Hazard the cool one to be using his own name, after what’s happened!” Martha said. “Wait—he said he’s staying with friends here, didn’t he?
Of course, he may be lying about that, too.”
“What I want to know is—” Cherry paused, frowning, “what is Mr. Hazard doing in Edinburgh, anyway? Why here?”
The nurse interrupted them to say that Dr. Mac-Kenzie would see Mrs. Logan now.
After so much excitement, the interview with the orthopedist was placid. Dr. MacKenzie had a skill that Cherry at once respected. First, he had Mrs. Logan’s arm X-rayed, then talked with her and Cherry. How did the arm feel? How did the right hand feel? How was Mrs. Logan’s general health? He checked her over, remarking that her pulse was “a wee bit rapid.”
Martha Logan grinned. “That’s because I—Miss Ames and I—are having an exciting time in your city, Doctor.”
The nurse called the doctor into his darkroom to see the developed X-ray film. Dr. MacKenzie took a thorough look, then came back and said, “The bone has healed satisfactorily. We can remove the cast.”
Cherry was as glad as Martha, who joked, “I’ll miss that dear old cast. After wearing it for four weeks, it has become an old friend.”
To remove the cast, the doctor used an electric cast cutter with a little round saw on the end. It worked quickly and easily. Once her arm was free, Martha Logan was surprised to find it stiff and weak, and also painful. Dr. MacKenzie said that was to be expected.
“If you wish, we can support the arm in a sling for a while, to make you more comfortable,” he said.
“Unless it would be better to use the arm. I notice my elbow joint is stiff,” Martha Logan said.
Dr. MacKenzie nodded. “I would advise no sling, and gradual exercise”—he described a few simple ones—“until the muscles and joints get back to normal. It will be even more important, Nurse Ames, to encourage normal movements as often as possible, using the elbow and shoulder joints. I should think that will be sufficient exercise, since this was a simple fracture, and Mrs. Logan’s earlier exercises squeezing the rubber ball have prevented loss of muscle tone. Just be careful not to overtire your patient. And take good care of her skin.” Cherry knew that after cast removal, the skin would have accumulated waste products and be sensitive to the touch. She would bathe the arm gently and apply oil to soften the crusty old skin. “Also, Nurse Ames,” said the doctor, “you’ll need to massage the arm daily.”
“Certainly, Dr. MacKenzie,” said Cherry.
That was all. As they left the doctor’s office, noon church bells were ringing. It was a fine day and Martha laughed about the weather report: “Sunny, showers.” She wanted to buy them each a corsage, to celebrate getting rid of the cast. But Cherry reminded her, “We’d be late meeting Peter for lunch.”
Peter was already waiting for them at a table in the immense dining room, within view of Edinburgh Castle. He jumped to his feet as Martha and Cherry joined him. Then he noticed Martha’s right arm was free of the cast.
“Congratulations,” he said, helping them get seated. “To both of you.”
They chatted a little. Peter seemed preoccupied.
“I have something to tell you that troubles me,” he said. “Maybe it will make more sense to you than it does to me. Do you remember Rodney Ryder?”
They paused to order lunch. Martha said, “The droll young man who amused us so much in Stratford? Yes, of course we remember him.”
“Well, I saw Ryder here in Edinburgh yesterday morning,” Peter said. “About noon. He was at the Shakespearean loan exhibit—it opened Sunday.” This was Wednesday. “Big hall, big crowd. If there hadn’t been so many people to push past, I might have gone to speak to Ryder—or maybe not.”
“You sound surprised at seeing him,” Martha said to Peter. “He was awfully interested in the Shakespearean paintings, back there in Stratford. Evidently he was interested enough to come here to see the exhibit again.”
“I wonder,” said Peter. “Ryder was awfully ignorant. You’d expect a scholar to make a trip to see the exhibit again—but would you expect it of that lightheaded young man? And there’s another puzzle. When I saw him yesterday morning, he wasn’t at all that Rodney Ryder we knew in Stratford. He was serious, quiet and—er—sort of purposeful.”
Cherry remembered that this was the same description of Rodney Ryder’s personality given by his innkeeper when she and Peter went to look for him. She reminded Peter of the incident.
“That’s right,” Peter said. “Which is the true Rodney Ryder? He certainly didn’t look frivolous yesterday morning—he was wearing a conservative gray suit and hat. I’m baffled.”
“Could it be that he put on an act for us?” Martha said. “I would guess Ryder used you. He made himself entertaining to get acquainted with you, Peter, so he could use you—meet the curator through you, I’d say.”
“But why?” Peter said. “I can’t believe Rodney Ryder’s motive was simply enthusiasm for the Shakespearean paintings. And why did he suddenly leave Stratford without a word to any of us?—after we’d played tennis together constantly and I’d lent him a book! It’s not only rude, it’s baffling.”
“Yes, why?” said Cherry. “Especially why did Ryder go to the Shakespeare curator, Mr. Lawrence, without Peter’s knowledge or permission, and pass himself off as Peter’s friend or student, and then pump the curator for information? That bothers me.”
They looked blankly at one another, stumped.
“Anyway, there was Ryder,” Peter went on, “looking at the Shakespearean paintings with another man. And guess who it was? Remember that Mr. Haggard, or Hazard, on the plane?”
Cherry and Martha nearly jumped out of their chairs. “Archibald Hazard? With Ryder? Are you sure?” Cherry demanded.
“Yes, I’m sure,” Peter said. “He was limping—had something wrong with his ankle, sprained, I’d say—”
Cherry exclaimed, “There’s our answer! Peter, we saw Mr. Hazard just this morning, and he was in a great hurry to get away from us. Don’t you see?” she demanded of the other two. “Mr. Hazard and Ryder are here in Edinburgh intending to steal some of the Shakespearean paintings—I’ll bet you anything!”
Peter looked incredulous. Martha caught her breath, but asked, “How can you be so sure?”
“Look,” Cherry said. “Mr. Hazard used your contacts—directly at the Selsam Gallery, indirectly at the Carewe Museum. In both places paintings were stolen. Rodney Ryder used Peter’s contact to learn which of the Shakespearean paintings are the oldest, rarest, most valuable—that is, which ones to steal. And now Ryder turns up at the Shakespearean exhibit with Hazard. Don’t you see?”
Martha said faintly, “Yes, I see.”
“Well, I don’t,” Peter declared.
“We happen to know,” Cherry said, “that the fake Shah who stole the Carewe paintings was Mr. Hazard.” Peter’s mouth opened. Cherry stood up. “Please explain to him, Martha. I’m going to phone the police about Ryder’s being in Edinburgh with Hazard.”
“Wait,” said Peter. “I have more to tell you.”
Cherry sat down again. Peter said he had felt so curious about Ryder, and still so annoyed with him, that he had followed the two men, unobtrusively, when they left the exhibit hall.
“I shouldn’t say I followed them, I just happened to be going in the same direction they were,” Peter said. “I’m positive they didn’t notice me. I kept quite a distance behind them. Anyway, they were talking together too intently to notice me. I saw them go into a restaurant”—he gave its name—“on George Street.”
Martha Logan smiled. “I’ve heard of that restaurant. It specializes in roast beef, and, as Cherry may remember, our friend Mr. Hazard is particularly fond of roast beef.”
“Here’s hoping the restaurant people learned something more about him than we did. Thanks, Peter,” said Cherry. “Excuse me, while I telephone.”
She reached Inspector Forbes at once. He was extremely interested in what Cherry reported. He said he had no information on Hazard yet. With Cherry’s new information, the police would now try to locate Ryder, or both men together. The inspec
tor said his men were already systematically checking Edinburgh’s hotels and lodginghouses. As for the shopwoman, she was under twenty-four-hour surveillance and would be questioned later.
“We don’t want to arrest her just yet, because that would tip off Hazard and make him still more wary and harder to catch. If we arrested and questioned the shopwoman now, it’s doubtful that she’d tell us anything of value. We have a small hope that she might lead us to Hazard and now—this other chap—Ryder. If she is panicky enough, or stupid enough. … Well, Miss Ames, in view of what you have just reported,” said the inspector, “we shall strengthen our guard on the Shakespearean paintings.”
“As you remember, Inspector Forbes,” Cherry reminded him respectfully, “the paintings stolen from the Selsam Gallery in London—probably by Mr. Hazard—were taken during the night.”
“And you feel Hazard may attempt a night theft again? It occurred to me, too,” the inspector said. “You can rest assured that we shall keep an all-night watch. One more question. Is your friend, Peter Holt, with you now? … Oh, excellent. Will you tell him, please, that I need to talk with him about this Ryder chap. If Mr. Holt could come to my office at once …”
Peter was crestfallen when Cherry told him and Martha about the inspector’s request.
“Doggone it, just when I’d excused myself from my students so I could lunch with you!” Peter said. “Each time I find you, Cherry, we get separated.”
“I’ll try to see you later today,” Cherry promised. “Let’s try for five o’clock in the hotel lobby.”
Peter reluctantly left. Martha and Cherry finished their lunch. They remembered that Cherry had a two o’clock appointment with the inspector, and a promise of sleuthing or at least excitement for later this afternoon.
“If you want to come along, or even just go sightseeing,” Cherry said, “you’d better take a wee rest first.”
Her patient said “Aye,” to a nap. Cherry escorted her upstairs to their rooms, promising to telephone her soon. Then Cherry set out to keep her appointment. A misty rain was starting to fall. She did not see Peter as she entered police headquarters, only a man in kilts.