by Peter Baron
The Squid rose to his feet, and his cold eyes bored into her relentlessly.
“I trust that your guardian will comply with my wishes,” he said, in a hard voice. “Either I receive that dowry, or you will find yourself beyond the need of it!”
“Meaning?” she asked, striving to retain her composure.
“That Treasury notes and banking accounts are not of much use in heaven,” he said, walking to the door and opening it.
She watched him with dull eyes as he went out, but made no move.
Slowly the door opened again, and the huge head peered round the corner.
“That is, assuming of course that you go to heaven,” said the Squid slowly. “And I very much doubt if butterflies with the dust off their wings ever go to heaven!” His eyes held an unpleasant promise as he closed the door finally on that ominous remark. The key turned in the lock.
Alone, Leslie’s self-control, which had stood her in such good stead, weakened abruptly, and she took refuge in a storm of hot, blinding tears.
XXVII. TELLS OF “LONG RED MOTORS”
Jimmy Craven strode moodily out of the offices of the Evening Mail and made his way towards Charing Cross Road.
The reporter was out of tune with the world that day and his heart was not in his work. Frantic anxiety for Leslie’s safety would not let him concentrate. Where was she? What had happened to her? Was she in danger? When would he see her again? The ceaseless round of questions throbbing through his brain tormented him almost beyond endurance.
He was aware that Sir Marcus, oblivious of Inspector Elveden’s advice, had sent a message that night to the Evening Mail accepting the Squid’s terms, but even that did nothing to relieve his disquietude.
Contrary to the reporter’s expectations, Freddie had been unable to throw any light on Leslie’s whereabouts. As far as Freddie knew, she had not been brought to the house in Wandsworth and she had certainly not been found there when the place had been raided. The gang must have left the place almost immediately after his escape—which was only to be expected.
Brooding miserably, Jimmy turned his footsteps in the direction of the “Shaftesbury” public-house.
For three nights he had haunted the place in the hope of seeing the Lag. He was convinced that Jerry, were he so minded, could throw some light on the affair. Despite the Lag’s repeated statements that he knew nothing of the Squid or his gang, Jimmy was sure that Jerry was connected with them in some way. But it was a delicate mission—practically accusing Jerry of complicity in abduction. At the first hint of suspicion the Lag would close up like an oyster and take refuge behind his customary profane and belligerent air of injured innocence.
Elveden’s examination of the Lag on the day following the abduction had resulted in nothing, and since that day Jerry had sedulously avoided his old haunts, which materially strengthened the Inspector’s theory concerning his complicity. Jimmy shared Elveden’s suspicion—had done for two years with regard to the Lag’s probable connection with the Squid—but he realized that to obtain any information he would have to tread warily. Very warily. Jerry, in common with all his kind, when driven into a corner would lie, and lie, and lie. Lie till it was difficult to separate the truth from the falsehood. The reporter’s three previous visits to the “Shaftesbury” had been fruitless, and he entered the public-house with the conviction that his fourth visit was not likely to prove any more productive, as Jerry would not be present. In that he erred. The first person he set eyes on was Jerry himself, leaning against the bar in conversation with the fat barman.
Jimmy did not vex himself with evolving elaborate theories to account for the Lag’s sudden volte-face. He hurried straight to the bar.
“I want a word with you, Jerry my errant lad,” he said quietly, catching the Lag by the arm with a gentle but none the less firm grip.
Jerry wheeled abruptly and set down his glass.
“O’os an errand lad?” he demanded belligerently. “Not so much o’ the ‘ail-feller-well-met, if you please, Mr. Craven. And go easy on this ‘ere gent’s D.B. bespoke, will yer?”
He disengaged himself from the reporter’s grip and smoothed his shabby coat.
“Blimey, you ain’t ‘arf hexited, ain’t yer?” he snorted, still ministering to his rags. “Muckin’ the goods about and ruinin’ the cut. ‘Old hup, will yer. Wot’s bitten yer now? Go on, break it gently. Where’s the fire?”
“I believe you can help me in a little matter, Jerry,” said Jimmy diplomatically, lowering his voice slightly.
Jerry eyed him mistrustfully.
“Let’s ‘ave it,” he suggested, without displaying much interest.
“It’s about the abduction of my fia—— of Miss Richmond,” the reporter said, watching the other keenly.
“Come again,” said the Lag, his face setting like a mask. “I ain’t the lorst prop-ty orfice. ‘Oo is this dame? Not the one wot the Squid collared accordin’ to the pipers?”
Jimmy nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving Jerry’s face.
“Yer don’t say so?” said Jerry surprisedly. “Gawd save me perishin’ sole, ‘ere’s another on ‘em. Elv’den was comin’ the old soljer abaht ‘er some days ago.” He nodded thoughtfully and rummaged in his pockets.
“Got the makin’s?” he asked after a futile search.
Jimmy proffered his cigarette case with a gesture of impatience.
“Match?” pursued the Lag coolly.
“Breath?” suggested the reporter sarcastically, as he supplied the other’s needs.
Jerry ignored the remark and puffed serenely.
“Well?” Craven prompted.
“Not bad fer a cheap and narsty ten for six fag,” said Jerry grudgingly; and, seeing the anger in Jimmy’s eyes, “Orl right, only me joke. I know what yer ‘arping on. That there Donah o’ yourn.”
Jimmy’s clenched hand dropped to his side, and the Lag sighed with relief. There had been a certain promise of sudden unpleasantness in the eyes of the newspaper man.
“Look ‘ere, young feller me lad,” said Jerry, tapping the reporter on the chest with a grimy forefinger. “I’m ‘andin’ yer the strite tip, I am. I don’t know nuthin’ abalit this ‘ere dame wot’s been an’ gone an’ got ‘erself ab——what you said. That’s on the level! I tole Elv’den that three days ago when ‘e cum worritin’ fer news o’ the bit o’ fluff. In course, Mr. Bloomin’ Know-All didn’t fall fer it. He wouldn’t. ‘Ees jest sich another unbelievin’ Jew as you, but it don’t alter the fac’s.”
The reporter eyed him dangerously. A certain amount of “stalling” he was prepared for, but confronted by an obstinate brick wall, his temper began to wear thin at the edges. He dropped into the vernacular.
“You’re going to spill it, old timer,” he said menacingly, “or I’ll see to it that you go up to the ‘Scrubs’ for a stretch.”
Jerry backed a step hastily.
“‘Ere,” he protested, “less o’ the Dempsey stuff, feller. I’m tellin’ yer, ain’t I? Think I’m a liar? ‘Sides, Mister Craven, yer right orf the map if yer thinks yer can send me up fer anythin’. I gotter cast-iron aleby fer thet night an’, wot’s more, E’v’den knows it. Napoo! I calls yer bluff!”
He eyed the other with virtuous disapproval.
“Lumme,” he grunted, as he saw that the reporter could not support his random threat, “you blokes is all the sime arter yer taken the count from Coopid. Restrain yerself, cut out the im-pet-oo-osity, can’t yer? If yer knew wot yer was lettin’ yerself in fer, wild ‘osses wouldn’t drag yer to the halter.” He laughed uproariously at his own joke and, seeing the reporter’s crestfallen face, became paternal.
“Don’t take on abaht it, Mister Craven,” he said sympathetically, and clapped Jimmy on the shoulder. “I was ‘ooked up to a woming onct. She didn’t arf useter lead me a dance an’ all. Every time she got outside a pint or two, she useter lay down the law wiv a flat-iron. Mostly on Saturday nights, that was. An’ they talks o’ conoobial blis
s! Search me, I ain’t never found any. Woming? I spits!”
He did, to the intense annoyance of a semi-sober female patron of the public-house.
“Cut that out,” said Jimmy, “and get down to it.”
The Lag’s tone changed instantly from half whining sympathy to snarling anger.
“Bit thick round the dome? I knows nuthin’ abaht this skirt yer ‘angin’ yer ‘at up to. Freeze on to that, will yer, an’ quit yer perishin’ cat-kisem!”
Jimmy, realizing the futility of arguing any longer, abandoned the contest. He was almost certain that the Lag knew more than he chose to reveal about the abduction, but his reason for keeping it to himself he could only guess. Possibly fear. Jimmy sighed resignedly. After all, the Lag was not to be blamed. His type, in constant fear of being “sent up” for something or other, regarded pressmen as informers and policemen as natural enemies.
Jerry wetted his finger and moved it suggestively across his throat.
“See it wet, see it dry,” he said solemnly; and added as an afterthought, “like me!”
He failed to make a connection. Craven looked away and thrust his hands dejectedly into his trousers pockets.
“If you knew how much this meant to me,” he said slowly. “I’m not trying to get you ‘jugged’ for anything. I’m only trying to find Miss Richmond. Be a sport, Jerry. You must know something; you must be able to help me. I won’t forget you, old man.”
The other leered skeptically.
“Ole man now, is it? No, in course yer wouldn’t fergit it. You’d ‘member it every time the missis went orf the deep end, an’ you wouldn’t call me ole man, neither. Aw, strike a light—strong wind blowin’.”
He edged away suddenly and glared over Jimmy’s shoulder.
“What the devil——“ began the reporter, and turned to find out the cause of the Lag’s sudden agitation.
“No, Elv’den,” grunted Jerry. “Not that it ain’t much the sime thing!”
He motioned disgustedly to Elveden, who had just entered and made his way across to them.
“This is fortunate, Mr. Craven,” he said, “I wasn’t looking for you, but I’ve got some news for you. Never mind about Jerry. He’s dead from the knees up!”
He eyed the Lag coldly.
Jerry removed his hand from the bottle he had seized and smiled amiably as he encountered the Inspector’s eye.
Elveden drew the reporter out of earshot. Jerry spat contemptuously.
“They’ve managed to trace the car,” Elveden said. “The woman at Putney Vale says it was a long, red, closed-in car. They lost track of it at Richmond in the High Street, but as nothing has come in from the other side or the outlying stations, we conclude that the car is still at Richmond. They’re making the usual enquiries.”
The reporter’s face, which had lightened momentarily, reverted to its former gloom.
“Richmond’s a big place,” he said despondently; and after a pause, “Is that all the news?”
The Inspector flushed slightly. To have one’s efforts lightly passed over in a demand for further effort was a little disconcerting.
“It’s a step in the right direction, I think,” he said, defensively.
“Go and have another think,” grunted Jimmy and, turning, mooched away.
The Inspector’s mouth curved in a wry smile. Young men in love, he reflected, were awkward customers. He looked round, and his eye fell on Jerry.
“I want a word with you,” he said, crossing to the Lag.
Jerry groaned.
• • •
The Inspector’s words, although unappreciated, did not fall entirely on deaf ears. The following morning saw Craven in Richmond. He had no very definite reason for going there. After all, Richmond was a big place and full of “long red cars,” as he soon discovered, in some cases to the annoyance of the owners who resented his detailed scrutiny of their property, a scrutiny which was often longer than either admiration or curiosity justified.
The various policemen he spoke to either knew nothing of the affair or were disinclined to discuss it, and Jimmy mooched about for some time with no definite plans.
Half an hour’s inconsistent rambling brought him to the bridge and he stared disconsolately down at the water for long enough to arouse certain horrible suspicions in the mind of an old lady, who, having no business of her own to mind, derived considerable pleasure from minding other people’s. The reporter’s black frown convinced her that here was a suicide in embryo.
For Jimmy, the morning, despite bright sun, was a black one. If only he could find some clew, some encouragement. Yet, short of a detailed search of every house in Richmond, which was manifestly impossible, there was very little he could do.
Head down and still musing, he drifted on with the crowd for a few paces and then stepped off the curb.
A passing motor promptly hurled him in a heap on the pavement.
“I knew he was going to,” said the old lady delightedly to the knot of loafers who materialized suddenly from nowhere. “He’s been watching the water for some time. He’s in trouble, poor lad, and thinks that way is easier. Help him up, one of you.”
She prodded an open-mouthed spectator sharply in the stomach with her umbrella, and the man stooped and assisted the dazed and shaken Jimmy to his feet.
Jimmy, rubbing his head, looked across the road to where the swerving car had pulled up.
With a grin he saw the irony of the situation. The car was a long red one!
A pompous fussy little gentleman, his portly figure impeccably clad in morning clothes, descended and hurried across the road.
“Really, my dear sir,” he said fussily, “a most regrettable occurrence. I am grieved—horribly so. My chauffeur, who is most careful I assure you, was quite unaware of your intention of crossing the road. I would not have had this happen for worlds. I trust you received no hurt?”
Jimmy, dusting his coat, smiled cheerfully. This really was a strange morning.
“That’s all right, Mr. Thyme,” he said. “No bones broken.”
Mr. Thyme stared perplexedly for some moments.
“You have the advantage,” he began slowly. “But, no—surely it is Mr. Craven? My dear fellow, I had no idea that it was you.”
“Or you wouldn’t have come back?” suggested Jimmy humorously.
“Tut, tut,” fussed the little man, “you must come home at once with me, and have a brush down and a drink. Most unfortunate, I’m sure.”
Gazing anxiously round, he hustled Jimmy away through the crowd to his car. Mr. Thyme had a horror of policemen, but the policeman who happened to be nearest was on point duty and unaware that anything had occurred.
Mr. Thyme gave his directions, and the gleaming Packard slewed round and headed back the way it had come.
“So disturbing, these street accidents,” murmured Mr. Thyme, removing his hat and mopping his perspiring forehead. “And the ensuing police inquiry wears one to the bone.”
Jimmy reflected that a few police enquiries would be beneficial to the little man’s figure, but repressed his desire to mention it.
“My place is quite handy,” Mr. Thyme rambled on, “in the Petersham Road, and looks on to the river. A charming little spot—a little damp sometimes——”
He kept up an uninterrupted stream of conversation until his car pulled up before a glass-roofed porch, leading to a handsome old-fashioned house hidden partially by tall trees.
A few minutes later, looking a little more respectable as a result of the efforts of a lean-faced valet, Jimmy sat in a long bright room overlooking the triangular garden which ran down to the river.
Mr. Thyme at a nearby table operated skillfully with a soda siphon and decanter.
“Allow me once more to offer my most profound regrets,” he said, proffering a glass of golden-colored liquid.
“Rather better than the more conventional and solid regrets,” smiled Jimmy.
“I shall be pleased to make any reparation that
lies in my power,” said Mr. Thyme kindly. “I am sure that no client expects such treatment as was meted out to you and is entitled to anything he might wish which would in any way serve to correct the bad impression he may have received. A new suit perhaps?”
The reporter shook his head.
“You can raise my interest to six and a half per cent,” he grinned.
Mr. Thyme laughed heartily.
“This abduction,” he said diffidently, “I refer to the case of Miss Richmond. A most appalling affair. I believe you—that is—there is some connection—er—you are——?”
He paused awkwardly and Jimmy good-naturedly came to his rescue.
“I am,” he said politely, “and I’m dashed anxious. That was my reason for being in Richmond this morning.”
“Indeed?” Mr. Thyme raised his eyebrows interestedly scenting a morsel of information that might be retailed at the lunch table to his various friends.
Craven nodded.
“A car, which was substituted for the taxi with which the Squid effected the abduction, was traced by the police to Richmond High Street, but no further information has been received about it. The car was described as a long red one, and I’ve spent the morning looking at ‘long red cars’ and getting my head chewed off by the owners.”
Mr. Thyme’s cherubic face creased in a broad smile.
“Alas, the irony of circumstances. As a result you are knocked down by a car answering that description. That also explains the visit I received from the local Inspector. He wanted to see my car.”
“I suppose you aren’t the Squid by any chance?” demanded Jimmy humorously, and as Thyme laughed politely, “But of course the gentle art of banking—a totally different branch of crime—occupies your time exclusively.”
Mr. Thyme enjoyed the joke at his own expense, and after a little more idle conversation, rose.
“Really, I have no wish to hurry you,” he said courteously, “but I simply must get in to town for a conference. I know you will excuse me. Perhaps I can offer you a lift to the station?”
Jimmy had had no previous intention of going to the station or of returning so soon, but in the circumstances there seemed little else to do. He accepted.