by John Creasey
“Good evening, sir,” Lucy said. “These are for Mrs. Henderson.”
Henderson said, “Oh.” He reached out for them. “Do you know who they’re from?”
“With the compliments of Beryl’s, sir.”
Henderson did not find anything remotely surprising in Beryl’s sending flowers, for Felisa had spent much of the previous afternoon with the court dressmakers. He had hardly taken the flowers before the girl turned and hurried off, but he did not give her haste a second thought. He fingered the small envelope with a coronet and the name “Beryl’s” beneath it, and a printed Mrs. Elliott Henderson. As he turned, Felisa came from her room.
“Who was– Oh, flowers.”
“Beautiful, aren’t they?”
“Who would send me flowers at a time like this?”
“Who knows that it is a time like this?” asked Henderson gently. “They’re from Beryl’s. Where shall I put them?”
“I’ll take them,” said Felisa.
Both of them thought the same thing: that arranging the flowers in a vase would give her something to do. Henderson watched her as she went out, but he did not follow her. She put the wicker basket on a table, and unpinned the envelope, taking out the card without thinking.
A few strands of jet-black hair lay in the folded paper inside the envelope, and on the paper was a simple message:
If you want to see Nina alive again make sure your husband does exactly what he’s told.
Felisa stood staring down at the card and the hairs, so black and shiny like Nina’s. Of course they were Nina’s. She did not speak or move, and it seemed a long time before there was any sound.
Then Elliott came in.
The moment he saw her he knew that there was some new crisis. He stepped to her side and read the message that trembled in her fingers. When he looked up, she was staring at him. He had never before seen her as a stranger.
“Elliott - if you don’t do what this man says, I shall leave you.”
He did not speak.
“I mean it,” Felisa said. “I shall leave you.” When he still did not answer her voice rose. “Must you stand there like a dummy? Didn’t you understand what I said?”
“Yes,” Elliott answered. “I understand fully, Felisa.” He was thinking that he had hardly noticed the girl who had brought the bouquet, and that most of the time her face had been hidden by the flowers. But he had seen her walking away and he had noticed how tiny her waist was, and the shape of her legs, which were almost too thin. He was thinking another thing too - in its way as agonizing as any. He had soon to make a choice between doing what Felisa wanted and working with the police. It was not as simple a decision as it might appear. If he worked with Gideon, and he believed he should, and if Gideon failed to find Nina alive, then Felisa might in fact leave him. He had no illusions about that. In any case it would come between them in a marriage which had been as nearly idyllic as one could be. He was as much in love with her today as when they had married, but he had always known that she worshipped Nina, that Nina was vital to her happiness.
“You must do what you are told to,” she insisted.
“Felisa–”
“There is no point in arguing.”
“Felisa, we have the greatest police force in the world working for us.”
“You heard that man Gideon say that only two victims out of five had been rescued.”
“Because the relatives of those who died didn’t trust the police.”
“He didn’t say that. You know as well as I do that the police don’t often find the victims of kidnapping.” No matter how he hated to admit it, that was true. From the tragedy of Lindbergh to this day there was a ruthlessness about kidnappers; there had to be in any human being who could take a child from its parents.
“Yes, I know that,” Elliott told her. To lie, to hedge, to prevaricate, all these things were pointless with her; she had the kind of penetrating honesty which could cut through to the heart of any matter.
“Elliott, you must do what they ask.”
He nodded very slowly. He had not yet made his decision but to argue and to refuse just now would be the ultimate cruelty. He would have to make his decision on his own, and if he decided to go along with Gideon and Scotland Yard, and if Gideon failed, then ahead of him lay years of desolation.
If he could be sure that by paying whatever ransom was demanded he could save Nina he would not hesitate. But there was no way of being sure. So he had to do what he had done throughout his life: make a decision based solely on his own judgment.
It hurt him to see the sheen of tears in Felisa’s eyes.
“Now do one thing for me, honey,” he said. “Let me walk you through the park.”
She nodded, without speaking.
Hyde Park was filled with lovers, and they were as lovers too, so there was comfort for them. Elliott did not stay out long enough to agitate her, and when they reached the suite again she was much more relaxed.
“Do you think you’ll rest if you go to bed?” Elliott asked.
“I think so, darling. Will you fix me some hot milk?”
“Surely,” he said. They carried a small electric kettle and saucepan, and there was a refrigerator in the room. He “fixed” the milk with a table of sonoril, which was tasteless but should ensure her rest.
It was a little after nine o’clock when she fell asleep.
It was a little after nine o’clock when Nina woke to full consciousness and fear. That was when she discovered that she was bound hand and foot to the bed and was alone in darkness.
Panic was so raw in her that she could not think, she could only struggle, and struggling hurt her wrists and ankles. She shouted, but the walls seemed to throw her cries back at her.
Soon she lay in terror, sobbing.
Her mother lay in stupor, sleeping.
16: Demand with Flowers
There had been no message from Kate, so when Gideon reached home just after seven-thirty on a glowing evening, on the street where every tiny garden had its blaze of flowers and every newly painted door and window was bathed in sunshine, he expected to hear her call out. She did not. The house had the empty feeling he so disliked, but it affected him less by day. As he set about getting cold ham, cheese and pickles, butter and crusty bread he reminded himself that the last 93 bus from Epsom did not reach Putney Bridge Station until midnight, so Kate might not be in for hours. Perhaps it was as well. Here in this familiar house, every worn and shabby ornament or piece of furniture with its own association, he could think more about his own problem, and the Yard’s cases receded to the back of his mind.
He wasn’t exactly a wealthy man. Any knowledgeable people who visited him here would know that. But the house was his, bought on a mortgage spread over twenty-one years, and paid off seven years ago. They had inherited no money and little furniture, but over the years they had bought a few good pieces, including a Queen Anne court cupboard in the dining room and three Louis Quinze chairs in the front room, and nearly everything had quality. Bringing up a family of six children, seeing them through training for their different jobs, was an expensive business, and both he and Kate had always been thrifty - too thrifty, he sometimes thought - because they wanted to make sure of a comfortable old age. He would get a good pension, of course, but compared with a man like Henderson he thought in pennies against hundreds of pounds.
If he took the assistant commissionership he would get £2,000 a year more than he was now getting, he wouldn’t need to retire until he was sixty-five, and his pension would be correspondingly larger. He had given his life, everything he had, to his job, and this was the highest reward. Would anybody but a fool reject it?
Why was he so doubtful? Why had he been almost depressed instead of elated when Scott-Marie had offered him the job? Was it because of his anxiety for Nina Pallon? He wished he hadn’t thought of Henderson in any connection, because it brought the American’s stepdaughter’s plight to the forefront of his mind again.
He cut off another piece of red Cheshire cheese and popped it into his mouth off the knife. Kate would have either protested or stared long-sufferingly seeing him do it. Kate. Was it fair to hesitate when the extra money would mean so much more to her? It could make a lot of difference to the children too; their marriage did not lessen the parental desire to help.
Children. Their youngest daughter was about Nina Pallon’s age. Poor kid. What the hell was the right thing to do? A whole day had passed without any kind of clue.
The telephone bell rang. He stood up at once, still eating, swallowed the last of the cheese, lifted the receiver, and said: “Gideon.”
“George,” said Kate. “I thought you mightn’t be home yet.”
“Home, had supper, just about to read the paper,” he said with forced heartiness; over the telephone it would sound natural. “How’s Pru?”
Kate didn’t answer. Quite suddenly alarm coursed through Gideon.
“Kate, are you there?”
“Yes, dear,” Kate said. “Peter was passing, so I didn’t want to sound too worried.” Her voice fell to a lower key. “Pru really isn’t well, George.”
“Is it serious?”
“It could be.” Kate wasn’t giving him a straight answer. That might be because she couldn’t or because she hardly knew what to say over the telephone. “If she rests completely for the next two weeks she should be able to have the baby all right. If she doesn’t–”
“My God.” Gideon was really shocked. “Is it as bad as that?”
“George,” Kate said simply, “I’ll have to stay.”
“Of course you will. Stay just as long as you have to. I’ll be all right here - Rogerson’s not coming back for a while.” He brought those last three words out without hesitation. “So I’ll be standing in for him. I can bring most of the desk work home, I’d be no company for you.”
Very softly Kate replied, “Bless you, darling.”
“Don’t you go overdoing things, now.”
“No, I won’t,” Kate assured him. “Good night, dear.”
“Good night,” Gideon said gruffly. “Love to the kids.” He rang off, and stood beside the telephone with an expression which few at the Yard would have recognized. It had been a long time since any of the family had been seriously ill, and it carried his thoughts back to the illness and death of their seventh child. Their marriage had almost broken on that rock because he had left Kate with the sick child and gone out on a case. Gradually his thoughts changed. “Quicker Pru sees a specialist the better,” he said aloud.
He felt that he should have asked who had been consulted; suddenly there were a dozen questions he wanted to ask Kate.
A car drew up outside. He saw its dipped headlights through the panels of stained glass in the front door and heard it come slowly to a standstill. It seemed a big one. He expected to find it was a squad car from the Yard, but if it was, why hadn’t someone telephoned to warn him? One set of footsteps approached, and before the caller knocked, Gideon had switched the porch light on, and was opening the door.
Elliott Henderson stood there.
“Forgive this intrusion,” he said in his precise way. “I will be very grateful if you will spare me a few minutes.” It was one of those occasions when Gideon’s natural ability to close his mind to all but the immediate problem was invaluable. It was not easy to shut out the thought of Prudence, but he did.
“I can give you as long as you like,” he assured Henderson. “I’m alone, and you’re not interrupting anything.” There was not even the sound of radio or television. Gideon turned into the front room, partly Victorian parlour, partly drawing room, switched on lights, and drew the curtains. Most people here for the first time would have looked about them, if only covertly. Henderson appeared not to. “Have you heard from them?” Gideon inquired.
“My wife has.” Henderson held out the envelope with the note inside. “She is now sleeping under sedation and will not come out of it for several hours.” He watched as Gideon opened the envelope gingerly, and shook the card out; he picked this up by the edges. “I’m afraid both my wife and I handled that.”
“Be hard not to,” said Gideon. “Excuse me.” He went out of the room and picked up the telephone, dialled the Yard, and asked for Superintendent Scott. “Gideon here, Leslie. Have a fingerprint man sent out to my place at once, to do a job here.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve been burgled!” the night superintendent joked.
“Do you know if Hobbs is still out?”
“So it’s not funny,” Scott remarked. “Sorry, George. Yes - he called in from Kensington and asked if you’d left any message for him. I gave him the message about the tape recording with the professor’s opinion that the girl who telephoned is a Londoner from one of the southwest districts. Hobbs asked for more tapes to be run off by morning. I’m arranging that now.”
“See if you can find Hobbs, and ask him to call me here, will you? Henderson has had a written warning.”
“Oh, hell,” breathed Scott.
Gideon went back into the front room. Henderson was near the door, standing erect as a soldier on parade.
“They’re working on the tape recording of the woman who phoned your wife, placing the voice.”
“You’ve placed her environment?”
“We think we know that she’s a native Londoner from a south-western district. That doesn’t take us far,” warned Gideon, “but if we pick up one or two other facts we might be able to relate them. For instance, there seems a modicum of doubt about whether Schumacher was with your daughter all day. It’s possible that another girl was with him the afternoon, thus confusing us as to the time and place of the kidnapping. These aren’t facts, are not even definite probabilities, but they are distinct possibilities.” Gideon’s manner was almost didactic.
“Answer me one question,” Henderson said.
“If I can.”
“If Nina was your daughter, would you be reasonably confident of finding her? Have these fresh possibilities greatly increased the chances?”
Gideon answered bluntly. “Not greatly. A little, I think.”
“I know you cannot be influenced by other people’s emotional problems,” said Henderson, “but I must be. My wife is emotionally disturbed, almost to a point of unbalance. She wants to do a deal with Schumacher, or whoever the kidnappers are. I have promised her that I will. I now have to make up my mind whether to deceive her or not. The consequences of deception if you failed would be very grave indeed for both me and my wife.” Henderson smiled faintly, and Gideon waited, admiration and bewilderment mingling in his mind. He could not imagine any Englishman talking with such frankness, but he could well believe that it was the only way Henderson could clear his mind. In a way, Henderson’s position was rather like his: he could not talk to Kate. Henderson could not talk rationally to his wife, yet each man had to make a decision which would affect his whole future. “I am not asking you to help me decide,” Henderson continued. “I simply want to know what you would do in the circumstances, knowing all the facts. I cannot have your knowledge of Scotland Yard.”
Gideon thought, I can’t lie to him. Almost painfully he thought, If I could buy Prudence’s life I’d pay every penny I’ve got - and he can pay a million dollars without turning a hair. Next he thought, At least I don’t believe they’ll ever let Nina go free unless we find them and force them to.
Henderson was clasping his hands and pressing them tightly together.
Gideon said: “I would deal direct with the kidnappers and keep the Yard informed step by step, exactly as I advised before. Something they do or say, or some instruction they give, might be the lead we want. Once we know where Nina is, we should be able to save her. There’s one thing it’s easy to forget.”
“What’s that?”
“The kidnappers also are labouring under great emotional stresses and strains. Success is vital to them. They are affected as much by the chance of making a fortune as
you are of getting back a daughter. If it comes to the point where we have to admit we can’t help, by keeping us informed you won’t have weakened your own chances of buying Nina’s freedom.”
“There’s a thing easy for you to forget,” countered Henderson. “If I keep you informed, if I reach the point of an exchange of money for Nina, and if you act on information I’ve given you and Nina dies as a consequence, my wife will know what I did.”
“Yes,” agreed Gideon.
“But as a police officer you would have to act, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes.”
Thank you,” Henderson said. “I must try to sleep on it.” He turned to the door, and Gideon hurried after him, realized belatedly that he hadn’t offered a drink, decided this was not the moment, and reached the front door in time to open it. “Good night,” Henderson said.
“Good night, sir.”
A chauffeur was standing beside the car, a Rolls-Royce. Henderson climbed in, and did not once look back. The car moved off slowly and Gideon stood there, not knowing whether he had done the right thing. He could have temporized. He could have lied. He could have said that he would consult with his superiors in the morning. That last question had been the decisive one: Henderson might sleep on his decision but it was one he had already made.
The telephone bell rang. Gideon closed the door, walked heavily to the table and the instrument, feeling very tired.
“Gideon.”
“George, I think we may have made some progress in the Nina Pallon case,” Alec Hobbs said.
Gideon’s heart leapt as it had not leapt in years. Hobbs was too careful to raise false hopes, too level headed to show his satisfaction without good cause. Gideon had a wild thought, of rushing after the Rolls-Royce. He checked it.
“Good. Let me have it.”
“First things first. The girl with Schumacher yesterday afternoon was not Nina Pallon. I have now talked to seven people who saw them together. This girl was about the same build, but with much larger breasts. The Pallon girl has a boyish figure.”