by Peter Baron
“Yus, ‘ere,” and Jerry removed his bowler swiftly.
The gleaming tiara encircled his tousled head and he hastily placed it in the Squid’s outstretched hand.
The Squid accepted it silently and in the light of a lamppost that flashed by Jerry caught a glance of the huge head and the two gleaming eyes.
He shivered and drew away a little from the other.
“I never noo it, Squid,” he said huskily. “Cut me froat if I tell a He.”
“I should,” answered the Squid placidly. “Fortunately, I believe that for once you have departed from your usual inaccuracy.”
Jerry drew a breath of relief. In the darkness he could hear the Squid turning the tiara over in his hand.
“I got ‘em out o’ Sir Markis’ safe two days ago,” whined Jerry, striving to catch a glimpse of the other’s face. “An’ I mucked the room abaht like what you said I was to.”
A low laugh answered him.
“Exactly. I think I believe you, Jerry. The error is mine. I made the mistake of underestimating our friend Sir Marcus. Obviously he believes in the old saw—Praemonitus praemunitus. You wouldn’t understand, Jerry. Knowing the attraction that diamonds have for me, he prepares to meet any—er—untoward contingency. I shall give myself the pleasure of dealing with Sir Marcus at some future date.”
Jerry did not find the statement hard to believe.
He peered out of the window again. Elveden’s taxi had not gained during the past few minutes.
“‘E’s still follerin’, Squid,” he said.
“Naturally. What do you expect him to do? Go the other way?”
The Squid turned to observe the pursuing taxi and then picked up the speaking tube again.
“A little more speed,” he directed, and sat back.
Jerry spoke nervously.
“‘Ere, I want ter git outer this,” he whined. “Elveden an’ I don’t love each other much lately. This’d put the lil’ tin ‘at on it.”
“Cold feet, Jerry?” asked the Squid softly. “Do you really imagine I care what happens to you, or that I am likely to imperil my own safety, for your sake? Believe me, no. But if it will reassure you, allow me to say that nothing is further from my thoughts than a premature encounter with Mr. Elveden.”
“Well, lemme drop orf at Holborn Circus. I’ll tike me chanct, I will.”
“As you please,” purred the Squid, and Jerry rose to his feet.
As the taxi swept across the Circus, Jerry opened the door and, steadying himself, dropped into the road.
Staggering violently, he rolled sideways and collapsed into the arms of an astonished policeman on point duty.
The Squid’s taxi swept on and Jerry caught a brief glance of a black-gloved hand closing the door.
“Here, hold up,” grunted the policeman, and swung Jerry to his feet, holding him out at arms’ length. “What’s the big idea?”
With a furious glance at his captor, Jerry wrenched himself free and swung on his heel, but the man on point duty was too quick. His foot shot out and Jerry pitched forward over it.
As the policeman swung him to his feet for the second time, the other cab shot into the curb and the Inspector leaned out of the window, showing a small badge in his hand.
“Get in, Jerry,” he invited quietly and, helped by his captor’s none too gentle hand, the Lag stumbled into the taxi.
“Put it on,” directed the Inspector and leant forward to peer ahead at the back of the Squid’s taxi, by now holding a substantial lead.
He turned to the Lag and his white teeth gleamed as he smiled in his own peculiar way.
“Come into some money lately, Jerry?” he asked casually. “Or found some before it was lost?”
“No, I ain’t,” snarled the Lag. “Ain’t all got the luck to be per-lice inspectors. An’ ‘oo do yer think yer luggin’ abaht? This ‘ere’s a free country—almost.”
“Taxis cost money,” continued the Inspector in the same silky tone. “Fond of taxis, Jerry?”
“Fonder’n I am o’ your society,” growled the Lag.
“Would it be indiscreet to say you preferred the Squid’s company?”
But the old Lag was not caught so easily. He knew how to hide his emotions when necessary and Elveden looked for a betraying sign in vain.
“No, it wouldn’t,” Jerry answered curtly. “I prefer anyone’s society ter yours.”
“Obviously,” sighed the Inspector regretfully. “That was the Squid you were driving with, I believe?”
“You’d believe anything, you would,” grunted the Lag, “ ‘cept the truf!”
Elveden looked ahead impatiently. The two taxis were still the same distance apart.
“Get a move on.”
“Move on it is, sir,” answered the chauffeur obediently and accelerated. Almost at once a traffic jam made them slow down. A blue arm barred their progress. Elveden looked out of the window and gritted his teeth. The small badge came into evidence again and the taxi shot forward.
Another two minutes wasted.
“Interested in diamonds, Jerry?” asked Elveden at length.
“Not arf,” grinned the Lag, “wallows in ‘em, I does.”
“Where were you on the night that Sir Marcus had the misfortune to lose his tiara? Foolish of me, but I seem to connect you with that evening.”
“Lunching at the Ritz with Baldwin,” jeered the Lag.
“Really? Now I shouldn’t have thought——”
“You wouldn’t,” interposed the Lag with grim satisfaction-”Can’t break the ‘abits of a lifetime, can yer?”
Elveden, peering ahead, could find no reply.
At that moment the taxi in front slowed suddenly and came to a standstill before King’s Cross Station.
“Quick!” snapped Elveden, leaning forward and watching intently.
His own taxi accelerated immediately and the distance lessened rapidly. As they closed in, a puzzled expression crossed the Inspector’s face. No one had descended from the taxi save the chauffeur and he was leaning against the door smoking calmly.
Elveden’s cab came alongside and the Inspector jumped out, dragging the Lag with him.
The Inspector leapt to the door of the Squid’s taxi, swung the chauffeur out of the way and wrenched it open.
The taxi was empty.
“Where’s your fare?” demanded Elveden, turning swiftly on his heel and eyeing the driver.
The latter, an undersized man, removed his cap and scratched his head thoughtfully.
“I suppose you ain’t by any chance a Mister Elveden?” he ventured diffidently.
The Inspector started. “I am Inspector Elveden.”
The little man whistled and surveyed the other interestedly.
“Inspector, is it? That explains it. The bloke I was driving dropped orf at the traffic jam at the corner of Sidmouth Street. He told me to drive on to King’s Cross and wait there for him. Anything fishy about him, sir?
“Decidedly,” replied Elveden, smiling faintly, “but I think you mentioned my name, just now?”
The other shifted his feet uneasily and reddened slightly.
“You see, sir,” he said confusedly, “My fare told me if anyone asked me any questions—and he seemed to think they might—I was to ask if they was Mr. Elveden and if they said they was——”
He paused and looked even more uncomfortable.
“Go on,” directed the Inspector.
“Well, I was to say, ‘Not tonight, Mr. Elveden.’ No offense meant and none taken, I hopes, sir?”
He stared anxiously at the inspector.
Elveden bit his lip and frowned.
“No, that’s all right,” he answered. “Did you manage to get a look at his face?”
“No, sir. He had a black scarf round his face and I couldn’t see anything but his eyes.”
“Anything else you noticed? Any little detail, no matter how irrelevant it may seem.”
The man scratched his head and appeare
d to be debating.
“Medium height, sir,” he answered. “Dressed in black—black gloves and carrying a brown paper parcel in his hand.”
“Describe it.”
The chauffeur indicated its size and general appearance.
Had Jerry been present, he would have recognized it as one containing the Squid’s waxen head.
But he was not present, a fact that Elveden discovered two minutes later.
Whilst interrogating the driver, the Inspector had momentarily relaxed his hold on the old Lag and Jerry had been swift to disappear. It did not greatly worry the Inspector; he could lay hands on the Lag whenever he wanted him; but the fact that he had lost the man whom he confidently believed to be the Squid, incensed him.
Two days of incessantly watching Jerry in the hope that sooner or later the Lag would lead him to the Squid had had the desired result. And then to lose his man...
“All right, that’s all,” he nodded to the chauffeur.
Ramming his hands into his pockets, he turned on his heel and strode back by the way he had come.
Behind him the chauffeur resumed his position against the door of the taxi.
Lighting a cigarette, he smiled ironically after the retreating figure of the Scotland Yard man.
“Lumme, the boss is a cute hand,” he informed the sky, softly. “Not tonight, Mr. Elveden! Not likely, nor any other night either!”
He chuckled, much amused.
XI. FREDDIE IS NOT HELPFUL
“Frederick Herbert Leicester, who was detained on suspicion in connection with the theft of the Loseley tiara, was released this morning. Sir Marcus Loseley declined to bring a charge against his friend and made a statement to the effect that the stolen tiara was a paste imitation of the actual heirloom, which is deposited in Thyme’s Bank. There can be little doubt that the robbery was the work of the notorious Squid, for whom diamonds seem to have an uncanny fascination.”
The Duke of Framlingham laid down his paper and looked up as someone touched him on the shoulder.
Leslie and Jimmy, arm-in-arm, nodded cheerily.
His Grace rose with a welcoming smile.
“Ah, Leslie,” he murmured, “you make the old Park a sweeter place.”
He nodded cordially to Jimmy and set a chair for Leslie.
“Flatterer,” she reproved, sinking into her seat.
The Duke reseated himself and drew the reporter’s attention to the paragraph he had just been reading.
“Comes this from your masterly pen, James Craven?” he demanded accusingly.
“Guilty, my Lord,” grinned Jimmy.
“Call me Erb,” pleaded His Grace. “It is quite a nice article, but it makes no mention of Freddie’s criminal tendencies. A sad omission.”
Jimmy drew up a chair close to Leslie and, sitting down, lighted a cigarette.
“Thank you for the cigarette you haven’t yet offered me,” Leslie mocked as he replaced his cigarette case.
The reporter withdrew it hastily.
“Sorry, old thing” he apologized. “I’m a bit worried this morning. Bagshaw has been tearing his hair about the Squid story and I came in for the backwash. What do you think of the case, Erb?”
But His Grace was not to be drawn into a discussion on crime.
“Like the cigarettes it contains—cheap,” he said placidly, eyeing Jimmy’s open case with disfavor. “Don’t touch those lung perishers, Leslie.”
He proffered his own.
“Addiction to ‘Yellow Peril’ hints at a low mentality,” he said serenely.
Leslie smiled and accepted a Turkish. The reporter leant forward and held a match.
“Has anyone seen that indolent frog, Freddie, this morning?” asked the Duke wearily. “Or has the jail-bird retired to hide his diminished head? I can’t understand that boy. He comes and goes—and goes and comes. I suppose at the moment he is diligently thinking out a fresh way of bringing unpleasant notoriety on my name.”
Jimmy looked up at the blue sky, down at the green grass and then at Leslie. It was a nice morning and he was with the one girl...
“Feel like a gentle stroll, Erb?” he suggested, and prayed fervently.
His prayer was answered. Or perhaps His Grace was a discerning man.
“A stroll? Yes,” answered the Duke, his eyes twinkling. “One of your long nerve-wracking toils from one end of the park to the other—no. Run along, children. You have my blessing.”
They availed themselves of the opportunity and left him to his paper.
The park looked extremely attractive that morning as they paced one of its gravel walks, side by side. And Leslie, reflected Jimmy, looked even more attractive. The world was a good place. Keeping his eyes on the ground, he composed an elegant opening.
He looked up and found her watching him—and the words died on his lips.
“You’re very silent this morning,” she offered, with a sidelong glance.
“I’m thinking,” he volunteered, after a long silence.
“About your old Squid story, or something interesting?” she challenged and her own peculiarly provocative smile hovered round her lips and danced in her eyes.
“About matrimony,” said Jimmy weightily, and, chancing to catch her glance, he reddened suddenly.
She averted her head: “Is it permitted to inquire the nature of your conclusions on the subject?”
“I am thinking of marrying,” he replied, and quite unnecessarily added: “You know—getting married.”
There was an embarrassing silence.
Then: “Yes, one does usually connect matrimony with getting married. May I offer my congratulations?”
The reporter reddened again.
“Not yet,” he answered, a little confusedly. “You see—look here, Leslie old thing, do you like the name of Craven?”
It was out at last. He stopped and, turning, faced her squarely. But a woman is a woman.
“Yes, I see your point,” she retorted flippantly, “but what’s in a name? The girl would live it down if she was really nice.”
“But seriously, Leslie.”
She hurried on, still averting her head, lest he should see what was in her eyes. He followed dejectedly.
Leaving the park, they strolled along the Gore and came to a stop, as if by mutual consent, opposite Prince of Wales Terrace.
Jimmy stood there awkwardly, kicking his toe against the curb, and Leslie waited for what she was sure would come. Once he opened his mouth as though to speak and her heart missed a beat. But the minutes passed and he gave no sign. Looking at him, she saw that his eyes were fixed intently on the houses opposite. Two minutes earlier he had seen a familiar figure pass into one of the flats on the right-hand side of the road.
The figure had been that of Jerry the Lag and Jimmy wanted to speak to the Lag urgently. But Leslie had not seen and a puzzled expression spread over her face.
“What’s occupying the Craven brain, O pensive one?” she asked in a forced tone.
It was the reporter and not the man who answered.
“I’ve just seen a man I rather want to speak to.”
“Oh!”
That was all. Leslie turned away. It was not the answer she had expected. Excitement she had expected, but excitement prompted by something other than a mere man. Prompted, in fact, by a woman.
Her face and tone both showed disappointment, but he was too preoccupied to notice either.
“Look here, old thing, have you any objection to waiting half a jiffy? I don’t suppose it will be long, but I must see that chap.”
She nodded without much enthusiasm and looked away.
“Thanks,” he muttered, vaguely conscious that something was wrong.
As he spoke someone left the flat he was watching.
“Why there’s Freddie,” said Leslie, in a rather more enthusiastic tone. “Was it he you wanted to see?”
Jimmy frowned. It was Freddie Leicester, and Freddie was the last person in the world he had expected.
It was an awkward turn of events.
Freddie saw them almost as soon as they saw him and waving a cheerful hand, he galloped across the road, flourishing his hat and beaming amiably.
“Ah, children, imbibing the morning allowance of ozone?”
Leslie smiled.
“Hallo, old jail-bird! What’s it feel like to be an honest and respected citizen again?”
“Wonderful, queen of my soul,” Freddie answered ecstatically and posed grandly, forestalling Jimmy’s attempt to join the conversation.
“What do they know of Freedom who only Freedom know?” “he parodied absurdly.
“What a philosopher,” she scoffed.
“And what a philosophy,” he retorted. “I had visions of spending the night in a cop emporium and waking up with no one to bring the hot fluid and fungi remover—distinctly scaly prospect——”
Jimmy interrupted his friend’s paean of joy suddenly and determinedly.
“Did you see a down-at-heel tramp-like person enter the flat you have just left, Freddie?” he asked.
Freddie raised his eyebrows and smiled vacantly.
“You’re the only tramp-like person I’ve seen this morning, my dear old fright,” he answered. “Those trousers—that tie—James, why don’t you abandon that pernicious hire-purchase system?”
He eyed Jimmy’s baggy trousers and faded tie with a rueful countenance.
“Never mind my trousers,” interrupted Jimmy.
“I try not to,” sighed Freddie, “but really——”
“Did you?” persisted Jimmy obstinately.
Freddie turned to Leslie with a hopeless gesture.
“Has he been drinking anything besides chunks of the matutinal zephyr?” he demanded, and then, “Who is this tramp I haven’t seen, old lad?”
“Jerry the Lag,” and Jimmy watched his friend with curiosity.
Freddie regarded him blankly.
“Not a nag, is it?” he suggested. “Meantersay, I had a few doubloons on Jerry the Flier a month ago. M’m yes. He’d have done better if he had kept to running!”
“You haven’t seen anyone, then?” pursued Jimmy.
Trying to obtain information from Freddie was a hopeless kind of amusement.
It was Leslie who spoke, and there was a slight irritation in her tone.
“Supposing we move on! I’m tired of adorning this spot, anyway, and we shall be arrested for loitering in a minute.”