by Peter Baron
They bowed to each other, and Leslie engaged her guardian in conversation.
“Let us gravitate to the bar,” said the Duke placidly, “and call me Erb, it’s so much more matey.”
Jimmy grinned and followed His Grace.
“With what poison can I assist in ruining your complexion?” the Duke asked politely.
Jimmy named a drink at random and, taking the opportunity of studying the other, decided that he was going to like this placid kindly gentleman.
“I gather that this kind of stuff is not much in your line?” said Jimmy.
“Depends on the year,” answered the Duke, holding up his glass to the light and studying it with the air of a connoisseur. “Now some——”
“The play, I mean,” corrected Jimmy, smiling.
His Grace shrugged.
“Child’s-play,” he observed. “By the way, Mr. Craven, your name seems very familiar.”
“I know your nephew, Freddie Leicester,” answered Jimmy. “He has probably mentioned it.”
“Possibly. It is a serious handicap.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” answered the reporter, reddening slightly. “There are worse names.”
“You misunderstand me,” sighed the Duke placidly. “I refer to the handicap of knowing my nephew. You have my sympathy. Have some more?”
“Sympathy?”
“No, gargle. The subject of that blighted boy always creates in me an unquenchable thirst.”
Jimmy shook his head and, the gong going at that moment, they made their way back to their respective seats. The Duke and Sir Marcus were three rows behind Leslie and Jimmy.
“Well?” whispered Leslie, as the reporter sank into his seat beside her.
“Yes, a deep one,” agreed Jimmy, “and fortunately less dry than I anticipated. Erb has a commendable thirst.”
They did not encounter the Duke and Sir Marcus again until they went out to the foyer at the conclusion of the last act. Both gentlemen were standing waiting for them, perfectly unmoved by the paroxysms of delight into which the audience had been transported.
“Can I drop you at Loseley House?” His Grace suggested courteously. “My car is outside, and it’s too early to go to bed.”
They accepted his offer and made their way to the gleaming Lanchester waiting by the curb.
A smartly liveried chauffeur closed the door behind them, and the car moved slowly off.
“Has anyone seen my erring nephew tonight?” the Duke asked casually, leaning back against the upholstery with a sigh of satisfaction.
“I helped him soak up a throat tickler at the Nocturnes earlier in the evening,” Jimmy volunteered.
“He means they had a drink together,” Leslie explained patiently.
“That boy—I mean Freddie—will go to a drunkard’s grave,” sighed His Grace. Then, reverently: “And what a grave. Have you any idea what particular dissipation he was contemplating, Mr. Craven?”
“He said something about diamonds,” answered the reporter, covertly squeezing Leslie’s hand, “and, by the way, call me Jimmy.”
“Diamonds?” asked the Duke. “He inherits my own irreproachable taste.”
“And mine,” said Leslie thoughtlessly, providing the reporter with a much sought opportunity.
Taking advantage of the cover offered by the Baronet’s conversation with the Duke, Jimmy leaned forward.
“Talking of diamonds,” he whispered, “what about Cartier’s——?”
“Not after a mystery play, Jimmy,” she said hastily, and engaged her guardian in animated conversation.
The reporter could not see her heightened color owing to the darkness, and for that she was thankful.
The Lanchester drew up in Eaton Place and Jimmy’s chance was lost. With a disgruntled expression he descended and helped Leslie to alight.
The little party had barely stepped out when the door of Sir Marcus’s house flew open and the portly figure of Fenton appeared in the doorway. The butler was visibly perturbed.
With one accord, Leslie and the three men hurried up the steps to meet him.
“Sir Marcus, Sir Marcus,” wailed the old man agitatedly. “Oh, Sir Marcus——”
“He means you,” said His Grace, touching the baronet on the arm.
“Get on with it, man,” snapped Sir Marcus impatiently. Fenton gulped and stared miserably.
“The tiara, Sir Marcus,” he said in a despairing tone.
“Exactly! What about it?”
“It’s gone, sir,” Fenton blurted out.
He wrung his hands agitatedly and seemed to be on the verge of tears. They followed him into the hall.
“What do you mean?” demanded Sir Marcus. “Burglary?”
The butler gulped again and nodded doubtfully, as if he felt personally responsible for the crime.
“You see, sir,” he began defensively—but Sir Marcus did not see. He brushed past the old man and, followed by the others, made his way up the stairs to his study.
The policeman stationed inside the door hastily extinguished his cigarette and nodded respectfully.
Ignoring him, the Baronet strode to the safe and made a hasty examination of the documents deposited there. Beyond a cursory glance round, he took little notice of the disordered state of the room.
“Let’s hear about it,” he said tersely, turning to Fenton.
Fenton looked nervously at the Duke and then launched into his tale.
“Mr. Leicester called here about an hour ago, sir, to get his cigarette case which he left here some few nights ago.”
“Freddie?” asked the Duke suddenly. “I knew that boy would come to a sticky end.”
He pursed his lips angrily and the butler, after a nervous glance at him, continued diffidently.
“I offered to get it for him, sir; but he went up himself.”
Again he glanced apprehensively at His Grace, as though expecting him to take up a vigorous defense of his nephew.
“Mr. Leicester was up here some time, and eventually I came up to see if I could assist him. The room was exactly as you see it now, sir, and Mr. Leicester said there had been a burglary.”
“And that,” said Framlingham bitterly, “is just the kind of brainy remark one expects from Freddie!”
“I telephoned the police at once, sir,” continued the butler, shifting from one foot to the other, “and the sergeant asked Mr. Leicester to step down to the station.”
“What?”
Loseley whirled suddenly on the startled butler and glared angrily for a moment. Recovering himself, he turned to the Duke. “Damned strange, Erb,” he said. “Nothing else seems to have been taken but the tiara, and yet the room——”
He waved his hand significantly. His composure was remarkable.
“They must have had a thorough search, and yet it beats me how they discovered the safe.”
He turned to Fenton.
“Clear this place up,” he directed, and then looked at the others. “I suppose we may as well go along to the station and get Freddie out of durance vile.”
“I always knew that blighted boy had criminal tendencies,” murmured His Grace. “If he had to disgrace the family, why the devil couldn’t he have done it like a gentleman? Got drunk and assaulted a policeman or something. Freddie never was conventional.”
“But it couldn’t possibly have been Freddie,” protested Leslie, impulsively stepping forward. “He wouldn’t have the——”
“You were going to say brains?” interrupted His Grace sorrowfully, refusing to be comforted. “I agree, but all that was needed here was low cunning and he didn’t use much of that. And why the fool had to mention his intentions to Jimmy here I don’t know.”
“He merely said he was interested in diamonds,” said Jimmy defensively.
“Very, I should think,” said His Grace. “However, I don’t suppose for a moment that brainless clown did it. He simply has a genius for appearing at the wrong place at the wrong time and landing himself in a
lot of fool scrapes.”
He looked wearily at the Baronet.
“Coming to release that perishing idiot?” he asked in a tired voice. “It would serve him right if you charged him with the robbery.”
Sir Marcus grinned and, followed by Leslie, turned to the door to look enquiringly at Jimmy.
“Are you coming?” he asked.
“No, sir,” said Jimmy, “I have somewhat to say to Fenton.”
The Duke eyed him suspiciously.
“The Press,” he said accusingly. “You absolutely reek of printers’ ink at the moment, you human bloodsucker. Notice the ‘news’ gleam in his eyes, Marky?”
The other smiled pleasantly.
“By the way, Jimmy,” he paused to add at the door. “If it’s any help to you, the tiara they got away with was a worthless imitation made by Levalleurs of Regent Street!”
• • •
Freddie Leicester stared vaguely at the Superintendent and then at the Sergeant, engaged in picking his teeth.
“What’s all this pother about, laddie?” he enquired gently. “And would you mind asking that sweet soul not to excavate his fangs so heartily?”
“You heard the Sergeant’s charge,” snapped the Superintendent. “He says he took you into custody in Sir Marcus Loseley’s study a quarter of an hour after the robbery had been committed.”
The Superintendent took up his pen angrily. He objected to being addressed as “laddie.”
“As a matter of fact, he doesn’t jolly well know how long after it was,” Freddie protested. “He was too busy raking his molars and apart from——”
“Name,” demanded the Sergeant inexorably.
“Frederick Herbert Leicester,” answered the accused obediently, “but look here, my dear old screech—”
“Occupation?” snapped the Superintendent. “And don’t call me ‘old screech.’”
Freddie shuddered: “Independent means,” he bleated.
“Address?”
“Framlingham House, Upper Berkeley Street,” sighed Freddie, as though repeating his alphabet.
“Framlingham House? That’s the Duke’s place, isn’t it? Any relation?”
“Nephew. But look here, I don’t want the jolly old news-vendors coming out with a paragraph about Freddie, The First Felonious Framlingham or some such tosh.”
“Nephew?” snorted the Superintendent. “Who? You or him?”
“Me,” said Freddie resignedly, “and see here, my dear old policeman——”
“What were you doing in Sir Marcus Loseley’s study at that time of night?”
“Collecting the jolly old cigarette container,” bleated Freddie. “Can’t a fellow call for his cigarette container without being accused of nobbling the family plate? I mean, bit thick, what?”
“What time did you arrive at Loseley House?”
“Round about nineish,” answered Freddie.
“Talk English,” snapped his interlocutor.
“Nine o’clock,” Freddie answered obediently. “Or possibly nine one.”
“Where did you spend the earlier part of the evening?”
“At the Nocturnes, old lad,” answered Freddie lightly. “Asked what the Nocturnes is, I should feel justified in saying a pretty fruity night-club.”
The Superintendent frowned sourly. “What doing?”
“Necking it with considerable gusto.”
The Superintendent grunted and fixed his eyes coldly on Freddie: “Have you any friends you could ring up to verify these statements?” he asked.
“No need,” responded Freddie. “They’ll all be here directly to gather their fallen child to their bosoms. I’ll tell them all the harsh things you’ve said to little Fred.”
His humor left the Sergeant and the Superintendent cold. The latter scowled blackly.
“Detained on suspicion,” he snapped, and began to write.
A policeman had already stepped forward when a diversion occurred.
Sir Marcus, followed by the Duke and Leslie, entered the station, and went to the high desk behind which the Superintendent sat.
“What ho, Erb!” Freddie cheered lustily. “Look what they’re doing to Fred! A moi! Un’and me, you ‘ound!”
This to the policeman, in whose face he shook a threatening fist.
The Superintendent looked at the newcomers suspiciously. “May I ask what you want?”
“I am Sir Marcus Loseley,” stated the Baronet, stepping forward. “I understand that Mr. Leicester is being detained here on suspicion of having stolen the Loseley tiara from my room tonight?”
“That is so,” answered the Superintendent, unbending a trifle “Pending your charge, of course.”
“Charge, fiddlesticks!” barked Loseley. “I do not intend to bring any charge. Mr. Leicester is a personal friend; the idea is ridiculous!”
“Bravo, Marky, give it him hot!” said Freddie, encouragingly. “Show him up—the nasty, evil-minded wretch.”
The Superintendent, glancing from one to the other perplexedly, encountered Freddie’s beaming face and frowned coldly.
“Honi soit,” said the young gentleman cheerfully.
“Mad,” grunted the Superintendent. “Am I to understand that you decline to bring a charge against this person?” he demanded of Sir Marcus.
“Oo—he called me a person,” wailed Freddie.
“Certainly,” the Baronet snorted. “Have the goodness to release him.”
Freddie joined the Duke and Leslie, turning to kiss his hand to the enraged Superintendent and the no less enraged Sergeant.
“Some other time, Rachel,” he said brightly.
“Oh, shut your fool head, do,” growled the Duke. “I notice that you keep my name well in the public eye with your scrapes. There will be a pretty paragraph in the dailies tomorrow, you hopeless clown.”
He grasped his nephew firmly by the arm and dragged him away. Sir Marcus, accompanied by Leslie, followed slowly.
In the station Sergeant Clarke and his superior eyed each other wonderingly.
“Well, I’m damned!” grunted the Sergeant.
X. “NOT TONIGHT, MR. ELVEDEN.”
The barman of the “Shaftesbury” placed Jerry’s drink before him and winked covertly.
“Friend of yourn left a message fer you, Jerry,” he whispered significantly.
“‘And it over,” directed Jerry, and a white envelope changed hands.
Jerry did not read the message at once. He stood at the bar for some time sipping his drink thoughtfully, at the same time covertly studying those present. Apparently he was satisfied by his scrutiny. He had his own reasons for not wishing to see either of the two people most interested in his comings and goings—Inspector Elveden and Jimmy Craven, particularly the former. Since his unfortunate meeting with the Inspector on the eve of the robbery at Loseley House, Jerry had been expecting to encounter the sweet-voiced Elveden at every corner. So far he had eluded him.
He stared down at the envelope which he still held. The day before an announcement of the theft had appeared in the papers and with it a statement to the effect that the stolen tiara was a paste imitation. On the whole, Jerry was not looking forward to the interview with the Squid and he had little doubt that this message was to make an assignation. The words—“It would be unfortunate if you made any mistakes, Jerry. Very unfortunate, for you”—stuck in his memory unpleasantly.
With another covert glance round the bar, he retired to a secluded seat and opened the envelope. As usual, the message was printed in block letters. He read—
“WATERLOO STATION. YORK ROAD ENTRANCE.
TONIGHT. EIGHT-THIRTY.”
Jerry lit a cigarette and applied the match to the message, grinding the ashes to dust beneath his heels as a final precaution.
He had only a quarter of an hour. With a slight tensing of his muscles he rose to his feet, buttoned his shabby coat and slouched out of the public-house. He made his way towards Charing Cross and, turning down Villiers Street, cr
ossed Hungerford Bridge and slouched across the road to the iron gates leading to the main entrance of the station.
Placing his back to one of the iron uprights, he lit another cigarette and disposed himself to wait.
As he had expected, he had no long vigil. At a few minutes past the half-hour a taxi drew up on the other side of the road in front of the coffee stall. Almost at once a black glove showed at the window and, with a hasty glance round, Jerry crossed the road swiftly and leapt into the cab.
“Drive like ‘ell!” he snapped, as he sank into the seat. “Elv’den!”
His survey had shown him that for once in a way he had been outmatched. A figure had come from the tobacconist’s on the corner as he crossed the road and he had recognized Inspector Elveden.
The taxi shot forward immediately and the barrel of a revolver dug into his side.
“Most unfortunate,” said the Squid in his habitual flat monotone. A black-gloved hand reached out and picked up the speaking-tube. “Make for King’s Cross,” he instructed impassively, and threw a glance over his shoulder.
“Our dear friend, Inspector Elveden, is following in a taxi,” he observed calmly, “but something tells me that this will not be his lucky night.”
Jerry turned round hastily, conscious of a pair of cold eyes that regarded him unswervingly, and stared out of the little window at the back of the cab. Another taxi was coming in their wake.
“Streuth!” he muttered nervously. “I didn’t know that lousy tyke was follerin’ me, Squid!”
“A compliment, my dear Jerry, a compliment,” remarked the Squid disinterestedly. “Quite flattering to receive the attention of an inspector of the C.I.D.”
A low laugh broke from him.
“We can only pray that his ill-advised interest in us will not result in a regrettable—accident,” he murmured, and abruptly his tone hardened.
“I take it you have seen the notice regarding the tiara. A nasty blunder, Jerry.”
Jerry tautened and stared round quickly.
“Honest ter Gawd, Squid,” he said, speaking with nervous haste, “I wouldn’t try ter twist yer. I ain’t no judge o’ sparklers. ‘Ow the ‘ell was I ter know they was duds?”
“You have them with you?” pursued the Squid coolly.