The police-car drew nearer. It was not more than twenty yards away now. Jimmy Mills went right to the back of the lorry and closely scrutinised their pursuers.
‘Why, there are only two of ’em,’ he announced, with a short laugh. Which was quite true, for the police had not anticipated anything out of the ordinary. Jimmy Mills returned to his seat by the partition and shouted some instructions to Jed Ware, who nodded, and narrowed his eyes in intense concentration on the road ahead.
The lorry swung down the next side-turning and was soon bumping down a narrow lane, which it almost filled. They continued in this fashion for the better part of a mile. The police had switched on their headlights now, and the men in the lorry let down the canvas at the back. Mills suddenly shouted to Jed, who brought the lorry to a standstill. The police car pulled up some five yards away, and its occupants alighted.
As they came level with the back of the lorry the masked faces of Jimmy Mills and Lucky Gibson were thrust through the canvas.
‘Were you wanting anything?’ demanded Jimmy in the politest tones he could muster.
‘Yes, you’re coming along with us,’ curtly replied one of the police, ‘on a charge of—’
He broke off abruptly as he saw he was facing two revolvers.
‘I don’t think so, Constable,’ replied Jimmy smoothly. ‘If you’re wise you’ll put up your hands quickly – both of you – come on now!’ he snapped, as he noticed one of them make an involuntary movement towards his belt.
Slowly the policemen raised their hands.
‘All right, Jed,’ shouted Jimmy, and Jed Ware slid swiftly past, flung open the bonnet of the car and wrenched vigorously at various wires.
‘That’ll take ’em a couple of hours to put right,’ he announced grimly, at length. He made his way back to the driver’s seat of the lorry, which presently rumbled on its way, leaving two very disgruntled policemen standing with their arms above their heads in the middle of a deserted country lane.
By carefully watching the signposts, they managed to find their way to Ashby, where Brightman’s luxurious American saloon was waiting just outside the town. On the way they had dropped the workmen at the railway station, after Swan Williams had handed each of them a bundle of pound notes.
‘What are you going to do with the lorry?’ asked Brightman, when they had reassured him concerning the Falkirk Diamond.
‘Leave it up this lane here,’ decided Jed Ware.
‘But the police are sure to find it.’
‘Yes, and a fat lot of good it will do them!’
They all piled into the back of the saloon car, which headed swiftly for London.
‘What about the diamond?’ queried Lucky, anxiously.
‘Keep it till we get to town,’ advised Brightman, busy at the wheel.
‘I’d sooner ’ave it out of me ’ands,’ protested Lucky.
‘All right, Lucky,’ smiled Lina, speaking for the first time. ‘I’ll take care of it.’ Brightman threw her a suspicious glance, but Lucky handed over the stone thankfully.
‘Blimey! I’m glad to be shot of that!’ he declared fervently.
Back in the shop Mr. Ronald Spears and the police sergeant were busily endeavouring to restore the lady customer, who had recovered from her swoon, only to lapse into a fit of hysterics when she recalled what had happened.
‘It’s no use, Sergeant. She can’t tell you any more than I have,’ Spears pointed out.
‘I must have her statement,’ insisted the sergeant. ‘Now come along, madam …’
For a moment, the lady looked quite intelligent.
‘They wore masks!’ she said, softly, then once more relapsed into incoherence.
‘Pull yourself together, madam, please,’ urged the sergeant, turning his attention once more towards the jeweller.
‘Who else was in the shop when it happened?’
‘Only the three of us, sir. This lady, whom I was attending to at the time, and this gentleman.’
‘Eh?’ snapped the sergeant, sharply.
‘This gentleman was sitting in the recess over there, waiting to see me on a small business matter.’
The sergeant turned to the man who had come forward as though reluctant to intrude.
‘Then I take it that you saw everything, sir, the same as the others?’
‘Everything.’
‘H’m – could I have your name, please?’
‘With pleasure,’ said the customer. ‘The name is Hargreaves – the Reverend Charles Hargreaves.’
CHAPTER XIV
At Bramley Lodge
Paul Temple always spent as much time as possible at Bramley Lodge, his house near Evesham, in the spring. Standing on a slope, this ancient Tudor mansion commanded a view of the Worcestershire orchard-country calculated to send any artistically minded spinster into ecstasies. In fact, you often saw them at blossom-time, seated at their easels, and busy with their water-colours.
After the attempt to kidnap Steve, Temple had insisted on bringing her to Bramley Lodge, where, he assured her, the country air would build up her health and the placid tempo of rural life would soon restore any nervous deficiencies. He added lightly that she might even feel impelled to start her book.
There followed five days of complete, peaceful serenity. Temple forbade her even to read the papers, declaring that sixteen-point headlines are calculated at times to produce a disturbing effect even on an ex-reporter.
But he read the papers himself. So he was not surprised to see Sir Graham Forbes’ huge roadster sweep round the curve of the drive one fine May morning. Steve heard it too, and was waiting in the hall when the Chief Commissioner was shown in.
Sir Graham looked very haggard, which was not surprising, as he had been investigating in Nottingham for the better part of the night.
‘I expect this business at Nottingham gave you a nasty jolt,’ sympathised Temple.
‘That’s putting it mildly. Have you seen the papers?’
‘Yes,’ said Steve promptly, smiling sweetly in reply to her husband’s frown. ‘I can’t quite see why the Front Page Men should trouble themselves over a small jeweller’s in Nottingham.’
‘This particular jeweller,’ quietly interposed Forbes, ‘had the Falkirk Diamond.’
‘Phew!’ whistled Temple, rising and walking over to the window, where he pensively regarded his beloved orchards for some moments.
‘The Falkirk Diamond?’ repeated Steve, somewhat puzzled.
‘Yes,’ said Forbes. ‘So far, we’ve kept it out of the papers, but the story is bound to break sooner or later.’ He drummed his fingers moodily on the arm of his chair.
‘Did you come down from town?’ asked Temple.
‘No, I’ve been in Nottingham all night. I motored down there with Mac and Hunter.’
Temple nodded, and resumed his thoughtful contemplation of the scene outside.
‘We’re in a jam, Temple,’ growled Sir Graham, ‘and believe me it’s a pretty bad one. Sir Stephen Frost came through on the phone first thing this morning. Apparently the P.M.’s in a devil of a rage. Something must be done about the Front Page Men, and done quickly.’
He thumped the table to emphasise his anxiety, then relapsed into gloomy silence.
‘Have you made any further attempts to find that warehouse?’ asked Temple.
‘My dear fellow, the river police have been literally combing the Thames-side,’ Sir Graham wearily informed him.
‘No luck?’
Forbes shook his head.
‘What about these men who committed the robbery at Nottingham?’ asked Steve eagerly, her reporting instincts now fully aroused.
‘The only information I seem to be able to extract is that they wore masks. We haven’t got a decent description of any of them with the exception of one or two navvies, who were probably toughs just got up for that particular hold-up.’
Steve leaned forward and stirred the log-fire which was still lighted in the mornings. Her husband, who h
ad been perched on the window-seat, came and settled himself in an armchair.
Forbes filled his pipe with nervous fingers and thoughtfully puffed smoke-rings in the direction of the fireplace.
‘Temple, you remember that man, Andrew Brightman?’ he began, reflectively.
‘Perfectly,’ said Temple.
‘I’m just a shade doubtful about that gentleman. Never liked the looks of him from the start.’
‘I could mention a few hundred people who are something of an eyesore to me,’ grinned Temple, ‘but that would hardly constitute evidence that they have any connection with the Front Page Men. Or even that they are criminals.’
Sir Graham nodded glumly.
‘All the same,’ he went on, ‘you remember Brightman told us that, acting on instructions received from the Front Page Men, he deposited a suitcase containing eight thousand pounds in the cloakroom of the Regal Palace Hotel.’
‘Well?’ queried Temple.
‘He cashed a cheque for eight thousand all right, but he didn’t deposit the suitcase in the cloakroom.’
Temple and Steve sat up and began to look interested.
‘How do you know?’ asked the former.
‘Because,’ said Forbes quietly, ‘they won’t let you deposit a suitcase in the cloak-room of the Regal Palace Hotel. They have a luggage depot in Villier Street.’
‘Smart work,’ commented Temple.
‘Hunter happened to find that out,’ conceded Sir Graham, a little reluctantly.
Steve was quite excited now. ‘You think that this man Brightman might be the leader of the Front Page Men?’ she demanded.
Forbes frowned. ‘I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, Mrs. Temple.’
‘But there must be a leader,’ argued Steve.
‘Yes, there’s a Front Page Man Number One all right,’ agreed Sir Graham, ‘but somehow I don’t think it’s Brightman.’
‘No,’ said Temple evenly, ‘neither do I.’ But he did not offer to give his reasons, and they sat in silence for some time, each debating the point in his mind.
‘I can’t help thinking that, whoever he is, Front Page Man Number One must be a sort of genius,’ announced Sir Graham at length. ‘Yes, a genius,’ he repeated emphatically, ‘with a strange, fantastic type of mind.’
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Steve.
‘Well, take the name of the gang, or organisation … it’s also the title of a very successful thriller, written apparently by a woman called Andrea Fortune – who nobody knows anything at all about.’
‘Perhaps she’s Front Page Man Number One,’ suggested Temple, diffidently.
‘Yes, that’s possible,’ conceded Sir Graham, but he was prevented from enlarging upon the theory by the telephone’s shrill ring. Temple answered it, and with barely a word handed over the receiver to his guest.
‘That was Inspector Nelson,’ Sir Graham told them, as he replaced the receiver. ‘I don’t think I told you he’s been trailing Goldie.’
‘You mean the piano-tuner?’ asked Steve, her eyes lighting up.
Forbes nodded.
‘Well?’ said Temple. ‘Apparently, Mr. J. P. Goldie spent the afternoon in Nottingham on the day of the hold-up.’
‘That’s interesting,’ smiled Temple. ‘Were there any customers in the shop when the robbery occurred?’
‘Yes, but they can’t tell us a great deal, unfortunately,’ said Sir Graham, with obvious regret.
‘Goldie wasn’t there by any chance?’
‘No.’
‘By the way,’ put in Steve, ‘have you had any news of Sir Norman Blakeley’s child?’
Once again Sir Graham had to admit defeat. This seemed to irritate him so much that he suddenly announced that he must return to London at once. He refused the Temples’ pressing invitation to lunch, declaring he had no time to lose. They saw him to his car. With one foot on the running-board, he hesitated.
‘Temple, if you should happen to think of anything …’ he murmured tentatively. ‘Or if by any chance you come across some clue …’
‘I’ll do all I possibly can, Sir Graham,’ Temple assured him. And the eight cylinders roared in unison as the huge car shot down the drive.
‘He looks terribly worried, doesn’t he?’ commented Temple, as they stood on the steps and watched Sir Graham disappear.
‘Yes,’ agreed Steve, ‘I wish he’d stayed to lunch. Carol says he misses half his meals when he’s on a worrying case, and a man of his age can’t be expected to …’
‘Steve darling,’ her husband admonished her gently, ‘for a moment I thought you were about to launch upon woman’s favourite lecture of all time!’ They both laughed, and went back to the hall.
‘I wonder if they’ll get away with the Falkirk Diamond,’ Steve speculated.
‘I don’t know,’ said Temple, lighting a cigarette, and flicking the match accurately into the heart of the fire.
‘Anyhow, the Nottingham robbery seems to show they don’t intend restricting their activities to abduction and murder.’
‘There never was any restriction on their activities, Steve,’ he replied. ‘This is the biggest organisation of its kind that we have had in this country. And something tells me that we haven’t heard the last of them by any means.’
‘This Mr. Goldie,’ Steve broke in. ‘Do you think he is …’
A quiet smile flickered around her husband’s mobile mouth. ‘I don’t know quite what to make of Mr. Goldie,’ he declared. ‘In fact, up to date, he presents the most intriguing problem of the whole business.’
There was a sound of screeching brakes outside, a car door slammed abruptly, and Steve ran to the window.
‘Why, it’s Gerald!’ she announced, greatly surprised, and went to open the door.
‘Hallo, Gerald; do come in,’ Temple heard her call out, as he rose to welcome their second visitor that morning.
Gerald Mitchell seemed very excited. He crushed the brim of his felt hat nervously in his hands as he came into the room, and occasionally his face twitched oddly, distorting his features in an unpleasant fashion. He seemed to be keyed up for some sort of ordeal.
‘Paul, I’m frightfully sorry bursting in on you like this,’ he apologised, ‘but I simply had to see you.’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said Temple, soothingly.
‘Do sit down, Gerald,’ invited Steve.
Mitchell shifted nervously from one foot to the other.
‘No, I’d rather stand, thanks, Steve.’ He put his hat on a side table, then picked it up again, and began fingering it in a manner which irritated Temple.
‘Have a drink, Gerald,’ suggested Steve, but he shook his head. ‘Then you must stay to lunch,’ she decided. ‘What you want is a good square meal.’ She caught her husband’s amused glance, and subsided.
‘Paul, I’m worried, hellishly worried,’ said Mitchell. ‘I’ve just heard something, and—oh Lord—I don’t know what to think.’
‘What you need is a good stiff whisky,’ began Temple, but Mitchell waved him aside.
‘No, no, I’m all right,’ he protested.
Temple and Steve regarded each other in some perplexity. Suddenly Mitchell took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow.
‘I saw Reed yesterday afternoon,’ he said. ‘And he told me about what happened that night Steve disappeared.’
‘You must have won your way to his rugged Scottish heart,’ smiled Temple, disarmingly.
‘He told me that Steve received a telephone message from Carol Forbes.’
‘No,’ interposed Steve. ‘It turned out that the call wasn’t from Carol.’
‘But—but you thought it was Carol speaking on the phone, didn’t you?’
Steve nodded. ‘I was positive. I’ve known Carol quite a while now. I both like and respect her, and I’m sure she was telling the truth when she said that she didn’t phone me.’
‘But—the voice …’ broke in Mitchell, urgently.
‘The voice was Ca
rol’s. I’m sure of it.’
‘No, no, it wasn’t! It wasn’t!’ cried Mitchell.
Temple took his arm. ‘Gerald, what is it?’ he demanded firmly.
‘I’m sorry,’ stammered Mitchell, ‘but I’m so worried about Ann.’
‘Ann?’ repeated Steve, taken aback. ‘What’s Ann got to do with all this?’
‘Oh, nothing!’ hedged Mitchell, a note of alarm in his voice. ‘Nothing—only—before we were married Ann was on the stage, you know …’
‘Well?’
‘She did impersonations.’ Mitchell seemed to get more and more distressed.
‘I don’t quite follow …’ Steve was beginning, when Mitchell shouted hysterically, ‘Don’t you see? She can copy almost anyone’s voice perfectly – quite perfectly.’
CHAPTER XV
Mr. Tony Rivoli Visits Scotland Yard
Sir Graham Forbes sat at his desk listlessly stirring a cup of very black coffee. He had had comparatively little sleep during the past week, and there was a network of tiny wrinkles around his tired, grey eyes. For the first time in his life, the Chief Commissioner felt every one of his fifty-five years weighing upon him.
His nerves, too, were suffering, and when the door was suddenly opened he started perceptibly. Hunter was the visitor, his face betraying the fact that he brought news.
‘Sir Graham, that youngster of Blakeley’s …’ he began, excitedly.
‘Yes?’ queried the Chief Commissioner, a little wearily.
‘He’s been returned!’
‘Yes—yes, I know.’
Hunter was astounded.
‘You know?’
‘I had the information last night.’
‘But—he was only brought back this morning.’
Sir Graham managed to raise a smile. Then his face became serious once more.
‘Hunter, I want you and Mac to pick up a fellow called Lucky Gibson. You’ll find his record in the files. I’ve a feeling he had something to do with the Nottingham affair.’
‘Yes, sir,’ assented Hunter, and at that moment the door opened, and Paul Temple was shown in.
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