by Helen Wells
Mr. Hazard made her a little bow, limped away, and sat down on the bed. Ryder sat beside him, changing his wet shoes for a dry pair.
“Any phone call from Mrs. Kirby’s kid, Amy?” Ryder asked. “I mean to say, after I left off playing blind man?”
“No, the kid hasn’t phoned here since lunchtime,” Hazard said, “asking what to do about Meg Greene’s ‘friend’ who telephoned the shop. That was the last phone call. I—um—don’t expect to hear from Mrs. Kirby. Not soon, at least. Either she’s lying low, or the police have arrested her.”
Ryder looked up nervously. “Will she talk to the police?” Cherry’s hopes rose, then died again as Hazard said:
“I doubt that she’ll talk. I paid her well enough to buy her silence, if the police question her. And she needn’t talk in order to save her own skin—she’s in no danger, nothing wrong happened at her shop, actually.”
“Well, will her kid talk?” Ryder asked, and answered himself. “No, the poor thing is scared to death of her mother. Even if the police would suspect a ten-year-old—”
In the midst of her own terror, Cherry pitied the child who had a criminal for a mother.
“Never mind the Kirbys,” Hazard said impatiently. “The main point is that the police are suspicious about you and me, now. I’ve decided we’d better take the Shakespearean paintings tonight, and clear out of here.”
“But can you do it with your bad ankle?” Ryder asked.
“There’s no longer much choice. I’ll manage. You’re a great worrier, Rod,” Hazard remarked.
Cherry listened numbly, as if she were having a bad dream. Ryder got up and paced around the room, passing Cherry as if she were a piece of furniture. Then he folded his long, thin body into the other wooden chair.
“I am worried about my wife,” Ryder said. “I wish I could be sure that she’s safely hidden at her mother’s house. No phone there, or I’d call from Edinburgh as I did before.”
“Shut up,” said Hazard. “You’re talking too much in front of the girl.” He jerked his head toward Cherry.
“Oh, all right, all right,” Ryder said resentfully. He sat brooding. Hazard stretched out on the bed. Cherry’s attention wandered.
She was in such physical discomfort that she almost cried. Her lips under the gag felt dry and stiff. The harsh ropes confined her to one rigid, aching posture. She tried to think. The detectives must have reported the incident of the blind man to police headquarters. But they had no leads to 26 Weir Street.
Cherry turned her head and saw an alarm clock. It read ten to five. She was to have met Peter at five, at the hotel. Perhaps Martha would keep the appointment for her, to tell Peter that she, Cherry, was missing. If only Peter’s talk with Inspector Forbes had uncovered some new lead, some way to find Ryder and this address! But the only information Peter had was the restaurant that Ryder and Hazard had entered yesterday, and that she had reported to Inspector Forbes by telephone at lunchtime.
“Surely the police have investigated at the restaurant by now,” Cherry thought. “I guess they didn’t learn anything, or they’d be here.” She lapsed into a dull, blank despair. She could only sit immobilized and wish for a drink of water.
“Rod,” said Hazard, sitting up on the bed, “lay out the things we’ll need tonight. On the cot.”
“Right.” Ryder stood up and stretched, looking fantastically tall. Then he brought, from the closet to the cot, a small claw bar, a jimmy, a chisel, two flashlights, two small, sharp knives, all small enough to fit in a man’s pockets, and a roughly sketched floor plan marked with X’s. Cherry watched, half sick with helpless rage.
Hazard ordered Ryder, “Next I want you to pack our clothes. Pack tight—”
“I didn’t hire on as your valet, Archie!”
“Just shut up and do as I say. Be sure to pack tight. Leave room for the rolled-up paintings.” Hazard glanced sharply at Cherry, then ignored her again. “Let’s eat early tonight.”
The two men discussed getting food in for supper. Cherry gathered that Ryder had been bringing food in from a local sandwich shop, particularly since Hazard had been spotted by the American women at the doctor’s office. It was clear that Hazard was not going to offer any food to their involuntary guest.… There was a sharp rap on the door.
Hazard and Ryder stiffened. They exchanged glances, but remained motionless and silent. Cherry thought of scraping or stamping her bound feet on the floor, to let the caller know someone was inside. But Hazard reached for the gun, and pointed it at her.
The knocking increased. A man shouted:
“Open up! Police! We know you’re in there—we heard you talking. Open the door, or we’ll break in!”
Hazard placed himself slightly behind Cherry in the chair. She realized what he was doing. If a gunfight broke out, she would be in the line of cross fire—and Hazard would use her as a shield.
“Open up!” the police shouted again. “We’ve got the stairs and all exits covered—this building is surrounded. The two of you haven’t a chance!”
Ryder was tiptoeing toward the closet, but then—as the police rained blows on the flimsy door—Ryder seemed to change his mind. He ran across the room to Hazard. Hazard looked up at Ryder inquiringly, expecting the younger man to speak. Instead, Ryder struck him, threw him off balance, and snatched the gun out of Hazard’s hand.
“All right, I’ll let you in!” Ryder shouted. “I’m not such a fool as to shoot it out!”
Hazard lunged for Ryder, but Ryder knocked him down. Then Ryder sprang to the door, unlocked it, and flung it wide open. Six detectives stood at either side of the door, guns drawn. One was the detective who had tried to follow Cherry and Ryder.
As the detectives rushed in, Ryder cried out half-hysterically:
“You can’t hold me on any charge! I was tricked into this! Hazard’s the man you want!”
“You sniveling liar,” Hazard sneered contemptuously. He picked himself up from the floor.
“Be quiet, both of you!” the detective in charge ordered. “Bally, Jock, untie the girl. Did they harm you, miss?”
She mutely shook her head. Two detectives freed her from the ropes, and looked at her carefully to see if she were all right.
Archibald Hazard limped over to the bed and sat down. He looked defiant. The chief detective, Graham Kerr—who said he was a cousin of the young policewoman, Mary Jean Kerr—told Ryder to sit on the bed beside Hazard. Then Sergeant Kerr came over to Cherry and asked solicitously:
“Sure you’re not hurt? Can we get you anything?”
“A glass of water,” Cherry said. “My—my hands and feet are numb.”
Sergeant Kerr sent one man for a glass of water for her. Bally and Jock helped her to her feet, and rubbed her tingling hands.
“Sergeant,” said one of the detectives, “have a look at what’s on the cot over by the window,”
Kerr picked up the diagram with the X’s. “What is this?” he asked. “Answer me, Hazard.”
Hazard did not deign to answer. Ryder, trembling uncontrollably, shouted:
“I’ll tell you everything you need to know! I’m sick of Archie Hazard’s highhanded treatment and low pay! I’ll tell you what it is. It’s a layout of the exhibit of Shakespearean paintings—the X’s mark the ones we planned to take.… Yes! Yes! … We were going to do it tonight! Only let me off lightly—”
“Tell them,” said Hazard, “about your wife. Or shall I?”
Ryder’s mouth closed tight. He turned on the bed and lunged at Hazard. Sergeant Kerr stopped him with his fists and gave both men a sharp warning.
“You can talk at police headquarters. We’re going there now. Will you be able to walk, Miss Ames? Our man will assist you down the stairs.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I’m feeling better.”
She had to go slowly down the stairs. She leaned on the arm of Detective Cox, who had tried to give chase. “I had a bit of foul luck in that traffic tie-up,” he said to her in apology.
“You did a good job today, Miss Ames.”
“I don’t think I’d do it over again,” said Cherry.
They reached the street. The rain had stopped. In the dusk a small crowd had gathered around the police cars. Detectives kept the onlookers back as Hazard and Ryder, handcuffed, were put into one car. Cherry rode with Sergeant Kerr, Cox, Bally, and Jock in another car. Kerr told Cherry that another detail remained in the house to collect the thieves’ tools, search their room, and talk with the Martins when the landlords came home.
The police cars traveled much faster than the bus in which Cherry had reached Weir Street. She asked Sergeant Kerr, “How did you find out about 26 Weir Street?”
“We went to the restaurant on George Street,” Sergeant Kerr said, “about one fifteen. We were unable to get any clue immediately, because yesterday’s lunch waiters do not come in today until dinner hour. However, the manager remembered that a waiter called John waited on two men answering to Hazard’s and Ryder’s descriptions. The manager gave us John’s home address and we looked him up.
“Unfortunately for us—and for you, Miss Ames—John was not at home. His wife said he had gone to the country for a hike, she didn’t know exactly where—but would be home at four o’clock.”
At four o’clock, Cherry recalled, she had been entering 26 Weir Street. The detective went on, “So we had to wait around until four, and then John came in. He remembered hearing Hazard say something about ‘he didn’t think much of Weir Street as a place to stay.’ We came right over to Weir Street, of course on the inspector’s orders. Then it took us a while to investigate several houses until we heard men’s voices and conversation, which we—well, we thought sounded like what we were looking for.”
“I had a narrow escape,” Cherry murmured, and Sergeant Kerr said, “You did, indeed, miss.”
The police cars drew up in front of headquarters. Hazard and Ryder were taken inside. As the detectives helped Cherry out of the car, she saw Martha and Peter getting out of a taxi. They hurried over to Cherry, relief and concern mixed in their faces.
“Thank heavens!” Martha exclaimed. “Cherry, you look shaken. Are you all right? What happened?”
Cherry told them briefly, as they went into the building and waited, as requested to do, in an anteroom. Peter was speechless. Martha looked rather sick.
“We’ve all been worried to death about you,” Martha said to Cherry. “After you and that detective went running off, Mr. Blair—he’s the other detective who was posted near the shop—notified Inspector Forbes by telephone. Then we came here to report details. The inspector was reassuring me that Mr. Cox would look out for you when”—Martha shook her head—“Mr. Cox walked in without you. Said he’d lost you! Well!
“But a minute or two later, the inspector had a phone call from Sergeant Kerr, who’d just learned from the waiter about somewhere in Weir Street. That gave me a little hope,” Martha said.
“Poor you,” said Cherry.
Martha shrugged. “Inspector Forbes finally persuaded me to go to the hotel and rest. But how could I rest? I waited until Peter came in at five, and told him you were missing, and—Well, we came here hoping we could help.”
“If I’d known earlier—” Peter said. “I feel awful about what you’ve been up against, Cherry.”
Cherry looked down at her sore, rubbed wrists. “I’ve been an idiot.”
“But such a nice, well-meaning idiot,” said Martha. They all had to laugh.
Sergeant Kerr came out of the inspector’s office and asked the three of them to come with him. They entered a glaringly lighted office with barred windows. Armed guards stood at the room’s two doors. A policeman stenotypist came in. Then Hazard and Ryder were brought in by the detectives who had captured them. When the inspector came in, everyone sat down. Cherry noticed Hazard’s and Ryder’s inky fingertips; the prisoners had been fingerprinted.
The inspector said, “We are going to take down preliminary statements from Archibald Hazard and Rodney Ryder. They will have benefit of counsel and a trial in due course. I should like our American visitors to listen, in order to verify or challenge anything in the statements of which they have firsthand knowledge. Mr. Hazard, we will begin with you.”
Sergeant Kerr prodded Hazard, who sullenly stood up. “By the way,” the inspector said, “we’ve been checking this afternoon by radio with the police in New York City, with Scotland Yard in London, and with Interpol headquarters in Paris, on the four criminals in this case. So you may as well talk, Mr. Hazard.”
Hazard stubbornly refused to say a word.
“Very well, Mr. Hazard,” the inspector said. “I shall read you Interpol’s dossier on you.” He picked up a typed report. “‘Archibald Hazard, forty, American. Real name Fred Walker. Several aliases given. Early in his life was an unsuccessful actor; now uses his skills in acting and makeup to change his identity on various burglary jobs. Well educated, with some knowledge of works of art. Known to the American police, so transferred his operations abroad. Acquainted in England with known criminals Rodney Ryder, Jessica Ryder, and Ben Egly.’” The inspector glanced up. “Shall I go on, Mr. Hazard? Or will you?”
Ryder called out shrilly, “If he won’t talk, I will!” Kerr silenced him.
“Very well,” Hazard growled. “I have excellent connections in the United States among—er—persons who can resell paintings in cities scattered all over the world—mainly in South America, and in Russia via the Asian route.”
“Do you mean,” the inspector interrupted, “that these persons would sell paintings you stole in England, to wealthy buyers on the other side of the world?”
Hazard said blandly, “That is correct, sir. To this end, I studied up on English painting and planned which ones I wished to take. I made New York my base of operations, and from there, I raised money for this trip, hired my three English friends, assembled my tools, got my passport—”
“A forged passport,” the inspector corrected him. “And no doubt a few disguises.” Hazard nodded. “Go on.”
“Then I had a stroke of luck,” Hazard said. “I saw an item in a New York newspaper saying that Martha Logan, the well-known historical novelist, would soon visit the private Carewe Museum in England. So I made it my business to be aboard the same plane as Mrs. Logan.” He smiled faintly in her direction.
Martha leaned forward, frowning and listening.
“It was quite simple to manage,” Hazard said. “In order to find out the airline, date, hour, and flight number on which Mrs. Logan would fly, I telephoned her publisher in New York. I represented myself as a reporter and said I wanted to interview her at take-off, and have my photographer take pictures of her boarding the plane. We made an appointment for an interview, and I was given the flight information. Of course I never showed up for the interview. Instead, I purchased a ticket for myself for the same flight. And then, once aboard the plane, I recognized Martha Logan from her photograph on the jackets of her books.”
Martha squirmed. “And then you contrived to worm out of me the date and hour when the Carewe Museum would he opened for me.”
“Exactly, my dear lady,” Hazard agreed.
“More than that,” Martha said in quiet anger, “you found out I was acquainted with the owner of a leading London art gallery. By entertaining me and my nurse at lunch, you connived to have me introduce you to the gallery owner, Pierre Selsam. I suppose it helped you to gain some inside information about how the gallery is operated.”
Hazard said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Mr. Hazard,” said Inspector Forbes, “I shall read you a report from Scotland Yard, whose men have arrested your chauffeur and accomplice, Ben Egly, this afternoon in London. The Interpol dossier on you mentions Egly, as you noticed, and this was of help to the police. Also, these ladies’ description of the ‘Shah’s’ chauffeur was of help.”
The inspector picked up another page and read: “‘Egly stated this afternoon that shortly a
fter Hazard visited the Selsam Gallery with the American ladies, he and Hazard burglarized the gallery during the night.’”
Hazard turned pale but admitted nothing. The inspector continued:
“‘The London police have located the rolled-up paintings from the Selsam Gallery, wrapped in three packages, hidden in an East End warehouse where Egly’s cousin works, in an unused storage room under a blanket. Police also found there the paintings taken from the Carewe Museum.’” Hazard needed a minute or two to recover from the shock of this news. “What about Egly, Mr. Hazard?”
Hazard said grudgingly that Ben Egly, who lived in London, was skillful with tools and had a practical knowledge of his country’s laws, customs, and roads—which Hazard, a foreigner here, needed. “I regard Ben Egly as coarse, ignorant, stupid though shrewd,” Hazard said, “but reliable enough if paid well. Not reliable enough to keep his mouth shut with the police…. After the Selsam burglary, I told him to keep out of sight and wait for my orders for the next job.”
“That was my job,” Ryder spoke up. But the inspector directed Hazard to go on. “We’ll get to you later, Ryder.”
Hazard said that early during his stay in London, he briefed his other two accomplices, young Mr. and Mrs. Ryder. Having read about the rare Shakespearean paintings being assembled at Stratford-upon-Avon, Hazard sent Rodney Ryder there to find out which paintings were the most valuable. Ryder was also to find out whether the paintings could be stolen in Stratford, or from the train en route to Edinburgh, or could more safely be stolen later from the exhibit hall in Edinburgh.
“To think,” Peter whispered to Cherry, “that I took him for a simpleton! For just a tennis partner!”