by Peter Baron
Masters covertly signaled to the footman to efface himself.
Outside there followed a whispered consultation and then came the sound of the servants returning upstairs.
Masters, standing by nervously, and holding up his trousers with one hand, had never seen his master so enraged during the whole course of their relationship.
Suddenly the Duke’s angry eyes fell on the damaged Chippendale chair with which Elveden had tried to batter down the door.
“Oh, my God,” he moaned, “look at that chair!” and he rounded swiftly on the butler. “Where’s that blasted Inspector?”
At that moment “that blasted Inspector” put in an appearance. Framlingham’s eyes kindled as he observed the cool C.I.D. man.
“What the blazes do you think you’re up to?” he roared. “So much for your crack-brained schemes—you—you——Yes, that’s what you are!”
He glared speechlessly.
“Your Grace——“ protested Elveden, and the flood gates opened.
“Hold your confounded tongue, you blithering idiot!” raved the Duke. “Someone’s going to suffer for this outrage. Here have I been assaulted in my own house, gagged and tied up in that hellishly drafty hall for half-an-hour, half-choked and catching my death of cold——”
“If your Grace will allow me——”
“Bah,” snarled the Duke. “Two bahs! Look at that Chippendale chair! What do you think it is? A pick-ax? That chair cost a fortune—a fortune, and you—you——”
“I shall be pleased to replace that chair at your convenience,” said Elveden.
“I never doubted it,” retorted the other furiously. “And don’t talk in that easy go-as-you-please style about replacing a Chippendale. They don’t grow on mulberry trees. And now clear out before my present clemency gives place to homicidal mania. I’ll see you in the morning.”
With a cold bow the Inspector turned to go. The Duke turned scarlet.
“Fool,” he said politely, “are you going to leave me all night like this?”
He waved his manacled hands furiously in Elveden’s face.
The Inspector smiled with unmistakably malicious enjoyment.
“Unfortunately,” he said pleasantly, “I have no key that would unlock those manacles, and, as the Squid omitted to leave one, I am afraid that your Grace will have to have them filed off.”
With which he nodded coolly and departed, leaving the Duke too enraged to think of a suitable retort. Turning swiftly, he surprised the smile that Elveden’s words had occasioned Masters.
“What the devil are you grinning at, you blighted hyena?” he snarled. “Get out! You’re dismissed.”
Masters started and paled slightly. Nevertheless, he bowed respectfully and turned to the door.
“Very good, your Grace,” he answered.
“God give me patience,” raved the frantic peer. “Come back, you idiot. How am I to get these things off? Where’s that file, you blockhead?”
“I am no longer in your service, your Grace,” Masters reminded him icily.
Cornered, the Duke glared.
“Hell!” he muttered weakly. “You’re reinstated.”
• • •
Eight hours’ undisturbed sleep did much to restore the Duke’s normally tranquil temper. He glanced thoughtfully from the radiant face of Jimmy Craven to the no less happy face of Leslie.
“We’re engaged, Erb,” said Leslie. “You’re the first to congratulate us.”
“I knew it,” sighed Framlingham. “I’ve watched this disease developing for some time. Grab a couple of seats. You make the place untidy standing up.”
He sank into a chair and, pushing the cigarettes in Leslie’s direction, looked suspiciously at her companion.
“James,” he said searchingly, “you have not come here to paint roseate pictures of love and a cottage for two, have you? In my present enfeebled state and at this foul hour I could not——”
Jimmy waved a reassuring hand.
“You don’t have to,” he grinned. “I have another reason for inflicting myself.”
“Don’t tell me it’s friendship,” pleaded the Duke.
“It isn’t,” retorted the reporter. “I am here officially.”
His host groaned dismally.
“How you fellows smell out a story beats me. Like swarming locusts—if locusts swarm. Greedy, blood-sucking, preying——”
“I met Elveden on my way here,” interrupted Jimmy. “He was coming out of Sotheby’s. He mumbled something about buying you a Chippendale chair and looked pretty black——”
“In anticipation of the crepe his relations will soon be wearing,” snorted the Duke. “If you knew what that fool was responsible for——”
“That’s why I am here,” retorted Jimmy, and produced a notebook and pencil. “Shoot, Erb. You have our ear.”
“If you think,” His Grace began in measured tones.
“Only when necessary,” the reporter informed him placidly.
“Don’t interrupt,” he was reproved. “I say, if you think I am going to allow myself to be relentlessly ravaged by a rapacious reporter——”
“Go on, Erb,” Leslie interrupted encouragingly, “—reckoning on reaping reams of really ripe and relevant—”
The Duke held up his hand and glared scathingly at the newspaper man.
“I will tell you nothing,” he declared.
“But the truth,” agreed the reporter approvingly. “It will be a strain, I know. But bear it like a man. Now—gently, but lucidly.”
“Look what you’re marrying, Leslie,” the distracted aristocrat said despondently and succumbed.
Jimmy’s pencil moved steadily and swiftly, while his noble friend gave a detailed account of the events of the previous night in tones of subdued wrath.
“And Elveden,” he concluded, venomously. “Elveden—I say, Elveden——”
“He means Elveden,” said Leslie interestedly.
“I do,” snarled the Duke. “What that man knows could be put on a postage stamp with a two-inch margin round it.”
He turned to Leslie.
“You’d better withdraw, my dear,” he said. “I wish to give Jimmy my impressions of Scotland Yard. I hope that notebook isn’t inflammable, James.”
“Go on, Erb,” she invited. “Don’t forget I’ve heard Marky play golf.”
“It’ll cramp my style horribly,” growled the Duke. “Which is a pity when I feel so fluent. And you might add, Jimmy, that the fools haven’t found my precious nephew yet. Not that I want the fool found, but as he’s bound to turn up sooner or later, I might as well have something else to curse them for.”
The arrival of Masters to announce that Inspector Elveden wished to speak to him momentarily deprived the Duke of the power of speech. Then he snorted angrily.
“Is the man tired of life?” he demanded. “Show him up.”
Leslie rose to her feet.
“Jimmy, you can take me home. I have no particular wish to meet the Inspector.”
“Your lightest wish,” her lover murmured gallantly.
He turned to their host. “Can we leave by the servants’ entrance, Erb? I’ve no particular wish to meet Elveden myself. He might try and hold this story up, and it’s too good to be missed.”
“You can leave by the coal chute, if it pleases you,” growled the Duke, preparing for battle. “Through that door,” he directed, indicating a half-open door opposite, “across the room and down the stairs at the end. And hurry. I have an idea that I am going to spread myself somewhat definitely.”
They vanished hurriedly and Framlingham rose with a grim smile to meet the Inspector.
“I dropped in to see if you succeeded in ridding yourself of the manacles, your Grace,” Elveden murmured.
The Duke gathered his resources.
“I’m glad you did,” he said, coldly. “I didn’t get a chance to say half I wanted to last night. Sit down and listen.”
The Inspector shru
gged resignedly.
“If your Grace alludes to the damage I did your chair——”
“Chair?” hooted Framlingham, bristling with fury. “Don’t talk in that cold-blooded manner! That was a Chippendale.”
“I am afraid I do not appreciate the distinction,” apologized Elveden. “It is too subtle.”
“I suppose you know what bonds are?” snorted the Duke.
“There again your Grace will doubtless be somewhat better informed,” smiled the Inspector. “You were—er—somewhat wrapped up in them last night.”
His Grace stuttered angrily.
“I’m sending my doctor’s bill in to you,” he raved. “Twenty minutes, tied up in a drafty hall. Enough to kill any man. And, talking of bonds, your enchanting friend relieved me of a hundred of them last night.”
Elveden whistled blankly.
“As many as a hundred?” he asked.
“Yes, don’t stand there gaping, man,” snarled Framlingham. “A hundred! You know what a hundred is, don’t you? Taken from the old English ‘hundred,’ pronounced ‘hundred’ and meaning ‘hundred’!”
Elveden shrugged.
“I have every hope of being able to return them to you in due course,” he said slowly. “The whole affair was unfortunate, of course, but I am thankful that it was no worse.”
“Worse? You did say worse?”
Momentarily his Grace lost the ability to express himself. But only momentarily.
“I come home,” he said distinctly, “I am knocked down in my own hall. Gagged, tied up for half-an-hour in a position that gave me cramp. My butler uses me as a doormat. I have to have iron or steel manacles filed off my wrists—a confoundedly painful business—and——”
“I also had a reverse,” interrupted Elveden. “The Baraipur string is gone——”
“Don’t interrupt,” shouted the Duke. “I haven’t finished yet by a long chalk. My Chippendale is ruined, my cigars are smoked like Woodbines, my whisky is swilled like water, and my flower beds are trampled to death by a man who is here to protect my interests. By a man who suggested the whole damn thing. You’re right. It might have been worse, but not much. Apart from those pleasant little trivialities, I spent a charming evening.”
“I can only apologize,” said Elveden, “and use my best endeavors to restore your bonds.” He glanced at the clock. “I regret having occupied twenty minutes of your valuable time. Good-morning.”
The Duke snorted and rose to his feet.
“And that,” he said rudely, “you might have said twenty minutes ago. And, talking of empty remarks, you made a nasty insinuation last night regarding my friend Sir Marcus Loseley. Did you see him after all?”
Elveden flushed and turned round at the door.
“I did not,” he answered slowly, “and that is what gives me confidence in my power to restore your bonds.”
Turning his back on the astonished peer, he stalked out of the room.
XXIII. AN ABDUCTION
Fenton picked up the telephone, detached the receiver, placed it to his ear, listened for a moment, and then turned to his master.
“The Duke of Framlingham’s butler, sir,” he said. “He wishes to speak to you. He says it is a matter of the greatest importance.”
Sir Marcus rose to his feet and took the instrument.
“Hallo?”
“Sir Marcus Loseley?” asked a trembling voice.
“Speaking.”
A sigh of relief came across the wire.
“This is the Duke of Framlingham’s butler, sir. Could you possibly come here at once? Something terrible has happened.”
Sir Marcus frowned blankly.
“Terrible?” he said. “What do you mean? What can have happened?”
“I—I—can’t explain over the telephone, sir, but please come at once,” and before the bewildered Baronet could reply, the line went dead.
Sir Marcus replaced the instrument hastily and turned to his butler.
“Fenton, tell Miss Leslie that I have been unexpectedly called to the Duke of Framlingham’s house,” he instructed, and strode out into the hall.
Hastily pulling on a coat and cap, he left the house and hurried round to the garage.
Five minutes later his car drove out of Eaton Place.
From the window of her dressing-room, Leslie watched his departure with a little frown.
“Ring for Fenton, Sadie,” she said, turning to her maid.
Sadie turned obediently to the bell, but was forestalled by the arrival of the butler in person.
“Oh, Fenton, that was Sir Marcus who left the house, wasn’t it?” Leslie asked.
“Yes, Miss Leslie,” answered the butler. “He received a telephone message and told me to tell you that he had been unexpectedly called to His Grace of Framlingham’s house.”
Leslie bit her lip perplexedly.
“Did he say why he was going or how long he would me?” she asked vexedly.
“No, Miss Leslie.”
“Very well, that’s all.”
The butler retired, and with a little frown puckering her forehead Leslie reseated herself at the dressing-table and allowed her maid to resume her ministrations.
“What time is it, Sadie?” she asked, fidgeting with the pear-shaped pearl pendant at her throat.
“A little before a quarter to seven, Miss Leslie.”
“And dinner is at a quarter past,” pouted Leslie. “I do wish I could cure Sir Marcus of wandering off at all times without warning. Especially when we have a guest to dinner.”
She sighed despondently.
Sadie, putting the finishing touches to her mistress’s hair, crooned sympathetically.
“He will probably be back in time, Miss,” she said consolingly. “He would be, if he knew what a picture you looked.”
Leslie stood up and surveyed her slim figure, draped in filmy pink, critically.
“I hope so,” she replied. “Has Mr. Craven arrived yet?”
“I’ll see, Miss.”
Again she was forestalled. Fenton stood in the doorway, proffering a visiting card.
Sadie handed it to her mistress and Leslie, with a puzzled look, saw that it was one of Sir Marcus’s cards.
Scrawled across it in her guardian’s hand were the words: “Come at once to Erb’s place, Leslie. Don’t waste any time.—Marcus.”
“A taxi is waiting at the door, Miss,” Fenton informed her as she dropped the card on her dressing-table.
“Taxi?” she asked with a puzzled frown. “Where is Sir Marcus’s car?”
“I cannot say, Miss,” replied Fenton. “The chauffeur says he has instructions to drive you to Framlingham House.”
With a vexed expression Leslie caught up her cloak and turned to the door.
“If Mr. Craven arrives before I return, ask him to wait, Sadie,” she directed.
“Very well, Miss.”
Leslie hurried downstairs.
Outside, the taxi-driver leant over and opened the door.
In the act of entering the taxi, Leslie saw Jimmy Craven turn the corner, striding along like one whom the cares of the world could not touch.
He saw her at the same moment and waved encouragingly. Pausing with one foot on the step, she waited for him to come up.
In a second two black-gloved hands reached out and dragged her roughly into the taxi.
A hand was thrust over her mouth, drowning her startled cry of “ Jimmy!”
The reporter broke into a nm and at the same moment the taxi moved away.
Twenty yards away, Jimmy spurted desperately and, overhauling it, boarded the dashboard.
A black-gloved fist shot out of the window and, landing squarely in the reporter’s face, precipitated him into the roadway, where he collapsed ungracefully into the gutter.
A passer-by helped Jimmy to his feet and for the next few minutes Eaton Place was beguiled with the spectacle of a hatless, mud-bespattered and wild-eyed young man pursuing a fast traveling taxi and sh
outing at the top of his voice, “Stop that taxi!”
A policeman detached himself from the corner of Cliveden Place, and, raising an authoritative white hand, stepped out into the road.
It was all over in a second.
The taxi swerved violently—an agonized scream rang out, and the policeman was hurled on to the pavement. He fell awkwardly, his neck twisted ominously. He died before anyone could reach him.
Jimmy, with a gasp of horror, watched the taxi take the corner on two wheels and turn into Cliveden Place. A crowd was collecting around the dead man.
Turning on his heel, the reporter dashed back to the house, brushed past the astounded Fenton, and plunged into the drawing-room.
Two minutes later he was talking swiftly but lucidly to Inspector Elveden.
Elveden listened intently to the volley of words fired at him across the wire, and then, setting the instrument down, turned sharply to a sergeant of police standing a few feet away.
“Warn all stations to stop a taxi, hackney carriage pattern, No. L 70654, last seen in Cliveden Place.”
“Why the devil do I have to be pestered with ordinary local work?” he growled.
The sergeant saluted and withdrew.
Forty minutes later he returned, ushering in a perspiring and excited young man whose clothes bore eloquent testimony of close contact with Mother Earth.
“Any news, Elveden?” gasped Jimmy.
“Only the details of the accident,” answered Elveden, and turned to find Jimmy with his head buried in his hands.
He leant over and patted the reporter kindly on the shoulder. “Stand up to it, Mr. Craven,” he said quietly.
Jimmy groaned. “Black-gloved hands,” he said miserably. “You know what that means.”
Elveden started. “By George, the Squid! Are you sure?”
“Certain,” muttered the reporter. “That’s why I rang you.”
“They’ll get him if it’s humanly possible,” said Elveden. But his tone was not convincing. The knowledge that the Squid had perpetrated the outrage put a different construction on the whole affair.
His hand crashed down on the table in front of him.
“By God, he’s piling up a pretty score against himself,” he rapped out harshly, and then in a quieter voice: “Essex had a wife and two little ones.”
“Who’s Essex?” asked Jimmy dully.