‘Would you like to assist me in a little burglary tonight?’ interrupted Jim.
‘Burglary is my long suit,’ said Elk. ‘I remember once—’
‘There was a time,’ mused Jim, ‘when I could climb like a cat, though I’ve not seen a cat go up the side of a house, and I’ve never quite understood how “cat burglar” can be an apposite description.’
‘Short for caterpillar,’ suggested Elk. ‘They can walk up glass owing to the suckers on their big feet. That’s natural history, the same as flies. Where’s the “bust”?’
‘Park Lane, no less,’ replied Jim. ‘My scheme is to inspect one of the stately homes of England—the ancestral castle of Baron Harlow.’
‘He ain’t been knighted, has he?’ asked Elk, who had the very haziest ideas about the peerage. ‘Though I don’t see why he shouldn’t be; if—’ he mentioned an illustrious political figure—‘was in office, Harlow would have been a duke by now, or an earl, or somethin’.’
Jim looked out of the window at the Thames Embankment, crowded at this rush hour with homeward-bound workers. It was raining heavily, and half a gale was blowing. Certainly the fog which had been predicted by the Weather Bureau showed no sign of appearance.
‘The Weather people are letting me down,’ he said; ‘unless there’s a fog we shall have to postpone operations till tomorrow night.’
Elk, who had certain views on the Weather Bureau, expressed them at length. But he had also something encouraging to say.
‘Fog is no more use to a burglar than a bandaged eye. Rain that keeps policemen in doorways and stops amacher snoopin’ is weather from heaven for the burglar.’
Rain was falling in sheets on the Thames Embankment when the police car, which Jim Carlton drove, came through the arched gateway, and at the corner of Birdcage Walk he met a wind that almost overturned the car. He was blown across to Hyde Park Corner.
No. 704, Park Lane was one of the few houses in that thoroughfare which was not only detached from other houses but was surrounded by a wall. It could boast that beyond the library annexe was a small garden, in which a cherry tree flourished. A police sergeant detailed for the service appeared out of the murk and took charge of the car. In two minutes they were over the wall, dragging after them the hook ladders which had been borrowed during the afternoon from fire headquarters.
The domed skylight of the library was in darkness, and they gained its roof with little trouble. Here Jim left Elk as an advanced post. He had no illusions as to the difficulty of his task. All the upper windows were barred or secured by shutters; but he had managed to secure an aerial photograph which showed a little brick building on the roof, which was probably a stair cover and held a door that gave entrance to the floors below.
Jim drew himself up to the level of the first window, the bars of which made climbing a comparatively easy matter, and, detaching the hook of the ladder, he reached up and gripped the bars of the window above. Fortunately he was on the lee side of Greenhart House and the wind that shrieked about its corners did not greatly hamper him.
In ten minutes he was on the flat roof of the house, walking with difficulty in his felt-soled shoes towards the square brick shed. Now he caught the full force of the gale and was glad of the shelter which the parapet afforded.
As he had expected, in the brick superstructure there was a stout door, fastened by a patent lock. Probably it was bolted as well. He listened, but could hear nothing above the howl of the wind, and then continued his search of the roof, keeping the rays of his torch within a few inches of the ground. There was nothing to be discovered here, and he turned to the stairway. From his pocket he took a leather case of tools, fitted a small auger into a bit, and pushed it in the thickness of the door. He had not gone far before the point of the bit ground against something hard. The door was steel-lined. Replacing the tool, he pulled himself up to the roof of the shed, and he had to grip the edge to prevent being blown off.
The roof was of solid concrete, and it would need a sledge-hammer and unlimited time to break through.
Possibly there was an unguarded window, though he did not remember having seen any. He leaned across the parapet and looked down into the side street that connected Park Lane with the thoroughfare where he had left his car. As he did so, he saw a man walk briskly up to the door, open it and enter. The sound of the slamming door came up to him. It was obviously Harlow; no other man had that peculiar swing of shoulders in his walk. What had he been doing out on such a night? Then it occurred to Jim that he had come from the direction of his garage.
He heard a clock strike eleven. What should he do? It seemed that there was no other course but to return to the waiting Elk and confess his failure; and he had decided to take this action when he heard above the wind the snap of a lock being turned; and then the voice of Harlow. The man was coming up to the roof, and Jim crouched down in the shadow of the shed.
‘…yes, it is raining, of course it is raining, my dear man. It is always raining in London. But I have been out in it and you haven’t! Gosh, how it rained!’
Though the words themselves had a querulous tone, Mr Harlow’s voice was good-humoured; it was as though he were speaking to a child.
‘Have you got your scarf? That’s right. And button your overcoat. You have no gloves, either. What a lad you are!’
‘I really don’t want gloves,’ said another voice. ‘I am not a bit cold. And, Harlow, may I ask you again…’
The voice became indistinct. They were walking away from the listener, and he guessed they were promenading by the side of the parapet. Unless Harlow carried a light he would not see the ladder. Jim went stealthily to the back of the shed and peered round the corner. Presently he discerned the figures of the two men: they were walking slowly towards him, their heads bent against the wind.
Quickly he drew back again.
‘…you can’t have it. You are reading top much and I won’t have your mind overtaxed by writing too much! Be reasonable, my dear Marling…’
Marling! Jim held his breath. They were so near to him now that by taking a step and stretching out his hand he could have touched the nearest man.
The lights in the street below gave him a sky-line against the parapet, and he saw that Harlow’s companion was almost as tall as himself, save for a stoop. He caught a glimpse of a beard blown all ways by the gale…The voices came to him again as they returned; and then a sudden scraping sound and an exclamation from the financier.
‘What the devil was that?’
From far below came a faint crash. Jim’s heart sank.
Harlow must have brushed against the hook ladder and knocked it from the parapet.
‘You pushed something over,’ said the stranger’s voice.
‘Felt like a hook,’ said Harlow, and Jim could imagine him peering down over the parapet. ‘What was it?’ he said again.
This was Jim Carlton’s opportunity. He could steal round the side of the building, slip through the door which he guessed was open, and make his escape. Noiselessly he crept along, and then saw a band of light coming from the open doorway. Against such a light he must be inevitably detected unless he chose a moment when their backs were turned.
But they showed no inclination to move, and stood there for a time discussing the thing which Harlow had knocked from the stone coping.
‘It’s very curious’—the big man was talking—‘I don’t remember there was anything when we came here this morning. Let us go down again.’
The opportunity was lost. Even as Jim stood there listening he heard the feet of the men descending the stairs, the crash of the door as it was closed. He was left on the roof without any means of making his way to solid earth.
To communicate with Elk was impossible without inviting discovery. He took a notebook from his pocket, wrote a hurried message and, tearing out the sheet, wrapped in it a copper coin. He dropped it as near as he could guess in the vicinity of the place where Elk would be, for he heard the tinkle o
f the copper as it struck the ground. A quarter of an hour he waited, but there was no sign from below. He tried the door again, without even hoping that it would afford him an exit. To his amazement, when he turned the handle the door opened. Had Harlow, in his hurried departure, forgotten to lock it? That was not like Harlow.
Jim pushed the door farther open and looked down. A dim light was burning in the room below, and he had a glimpse of a corner of the secretaire and a stretch of red carpet. Noiselessly he descended the stout stairs, which did not creak under his weight, and after a while, coming to the bottom, he peered round the lintel.
The room was apparently empty. A big desk stood near the curtained window; there was an empty lacquer bed in one corner, and, before him, a door which was ajar. The only light in the apartment came from the reading lamp on the desk—he crossed the room and, pressing the lamp switch, put the room in darkness.
A light on the landing outside was now visible round the edge of the door. He peeped out and could see no sign of life. Before him was a stairway which led down to the lower floors of the house. Something told him that his presence in the house was known. On the left of the landing was another door, and the first thing he noticed was that the key was in the lock. Whoever had opened and entered that loom had gone in such haste that the key had not been removed. Jim saw his opportunity and in a flash, he leant over, gripped the key and snapped the lock tight. As he did so he heard a smothered exclamation from the room and grinned as he tiptoed down the stairs.
The lower landing was in darkness, and he could guide himself by his torch, testing every step he took, until he came into the dimly lighted vestibule, which, only a few days before, had been crowded with men and women, whose names were household words. He could heat nothing, and, walking swiftly to the door, grasped the handle. In another second he was flung back as though he had been struck by some huge invisible force.
He lay on the ground, breathless, paralysed with the shock. Then he heard the opening of a door upstairs, and somebody whispering. To touch that door handle, heavily charged with electric current, might mean death. The power which made the door a death trap for any burglar who succeeded in entering Harlow’s house, must come off an existing connection, he thought. He saw the two white buttons jutting out of the wall, though only one light was visible in the hall. He pressed the top button back, but the hall light was not extinguished. This must be the connection.
He tried the door handle again, touching it gingerly with his finger-tip. The current was off. In the briefest time he was in the street; and he advertised his escape by closing the door with a crash that shook the house.
Hurrying back to his car, he found Elk astride of the wall, in earnest parley with the police sergeant.
‘I was just going round to the back to see what had happened to you,’ said Elk, vaulting on to the sidewalk.
‘Did you get my message?’
‘What was it? I heard something fall, and thought you must have dropped the ladder. I couldn’t locate it anyway.’
It was long past midnight when the driver stepped on his brake before the entrance to Scotland Yard. And the first man Jim saw as he walked into the hall was Brown and his heart sank.
‘Anything wrong?’ he asked.
‘Miss Rivers has not returned to the house,’ said the detective. ‘I’ve been on the phone to Stebbings. He tells me that she left at six o’clock to deliver two letters, one to Ellenbury and the other to Harlow. I got through to Ellenbury; he said his letter was handed to him by Miss Rivers soon after six and that he hadn’t seen her since.’
Jim Carlton thought quickly.
‘Just before eleven!’ exclaimed Elk. ‘Gosh! I’d forgotten that!’
‘What?’
‘That’s the time he passed us and went into his garage—I could see the car from the top of the library—it wasn’t his own and I didn’t know it was Harlow until he turned into the gate at the end of the courtyard. And he was a long time in the garage too! I’ll bet—’
It needed this clue, slight as it was, to spur Jim Carlton into instant action. At two o’clock in the morning, when Mr Harlow was finishing his last cigar, Jim Carlton and Elk arrived with the backing of a search warrant…
‘How amusing!’ said Mr Harlow sombrely, as he rose from the table and handed back the warrant to Jim. ‘Do you mind letting me have a copy of that interesting document one of these days. I should like it for my autobiography!’
‘You can save your breath, Harlow,’ said Jim roughly. ‘The present visit is nothing more than a little inconvenience for you. I’m not arresting you for the outrage on Sir Joseph Layton; I am not taking you for the murder of Mrs Gibbins!’
‘Merciful as you are strong!’ murmured Harlow. ‘Murder is an unpleasant word.’
His face was rather pale and seemed to have developed new lines and furrows since Jim saw him last.
‘What’s this talk of murder?’
At the sound of the harsh voice the inspector spun round. Standing in the doorway was the hard-faced Mrs Edwins. It was the first time he had seen her, but he could recognise instantly from Aileen’s description. Stiffly erect, her arms folded before her, she stood waiting, her hard black eyes blazing with malignity. She was a more menacing figure then Harlow himself.
‘What is this talk of murder? Who has been murdered, I should like to know?’ she demanded.
But Harlow pointed past her.
‘“Murder” was not your cue, Lucy Edwins,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Your sense of the dramatic will be your ruin!’
For a moment it seemed that the woman would disobey that imperious gesture. She blinked at him resentfully, almost with hate, and then turned, stiff as a ramrod, and disappeared.
‘Now, Mr Carlton, let us be our calm selves. What do you expect to find in this house? I imagine it is something very important.’
‘Imagine!’ said Jim sternly. ‘Harlow, I’m going to put my cards on the table and tell you just what I want to find. First and foremost, I want Aileen Rivers, who came here earlier in the evening with a letter from her employer. She has not been seen since.’
Mr Harlow did not smile.
‘Really? Not been seen by you, I suppose you mean—’
‘Wait, I haven’t finished. A car was seen to drive away from Ellenbury’s office in Theobald’s Road at half-past five. Miss Rivers was in that car—where is she now?’
Harlow looked at him steadily. ‘I will not say that I don’t know—unnecessary lies are stupid.’
He opened a drawer of his desk with great deliberation, and, taking out a bunch of keys, dropped them on his blotting-pad.
‘You may search every room in the house,’ he said. ‘And then tell me if you are as wise as I!’
The library itself needed no prolonged inspection. Jim went up the stairs, followed by Elk, and came at last to the top floor, to find Harlow waiting for him at the door of the little elevator.
‘That is my housekeeper’s room’—he pointed. ‘You will recognise the door as the one which you locked a few hours ago.’
‘And this?’ asked Jim.
Harlow turned the handle and threw the other door wide open. The room was as Jim had seen it on the previous night, and was untenanted.
‘We will start with the roof,’ said Carlton, and went up the narrow flight of stairs, opened the door and stepped out onto the flat roof. This time he carried a powerful torch, but here also he drew blank. He made a circuit of the parapet and came back to where Harlow was waiting at the open door.
‘Have you found a secret stairway?’ Harlow was innocence itself. ‘They are quite common in Park Lane, but still a novelty in Pimlico. You can touch a spring, something goes click, and there is a narrow winding stair leading to a still more secret room!’
Jim made no answer to this sarcasm, but went downstairs.
From room to room he passed, but there was no sign of the girl or of the bearded man and at last he reached the ground floor.
‘
You have cellars? I should like to see them.’
Harlow opened a small door in the panelling of the vestibule. They were in a rather high, flagged passage, at the end of which was the kitchen and servants’ hall. From an open archway in one of the walls a flight of stone stairs descended to the basement. This was made up of three cellars, two of which were used for the storage of wine.
‘This is not the whole extent of the cellar space,’ said Jim suspiciously, when he had finished his inspection.
‘There are no other cellars,’ replied Harlow, with a weary sigh. ‘My good man, how very suspicious you are! Would you like to see the garage?’
Jim followed him up the steps, through the hall. He was being played with—Jim Carlton knew that, and yet for some reason was not rattled.
‘Harlow, where is Miss Rivers? You suggested you knew.’
Harlow inclined his head graciously. ‘If you will allow me to drive you a very little journey, I can promise that I will put an end to all your present doubts.’
They faced one another—Harlow towards the bright light that streamed from the garage.
‘I’ll call your bluff,’ said Jim at last.
A slow smile dawned on Harlow’s face. ‘So many people have done that,’ he said, ‘and yet here I am, with a royal flush permanently in hand! And all who have called—where are their chips?’
He opened the car door and after a second’s hesitation Jim entered, Mr Elk following. The big man shut the door.
‘I have a high opinion of the police,’ he said, ‘and I realise that I am making you look rather foolish: I am sorry! This story of Harlow’s penultimate joke shall go no farther than me.’
He moved away from the car and then very leisurely he walked to the wall, put up his hand, and the garage was in darkness.
Jim saw the manoeuvre and leapt to the door, but it was locked; and even as he struggled to lower the window, there was a whine of machinery and the car began to sink slowly through the floor. Down, down it went upon its platform and then, when the roof was a little below the level of the floor, the platform tilted forward, and the car slid gently onto an unseen track and thudded against rubber buffers and stopped.
The Joker ds(e-3 Page 16