A Hundred Thousand Dragons

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  She shuddered once more. ‘Craig spoilt everything.’ She stopped, looking round anxiously. ‘I feel as if we’re not alone.’

  ‘We’re in the middle of London,’ Jack said easily.

  ‘No, it is more than that.’

  Jack squeezed her arm. ‘Come on. Which way is it now? We must be near Oxford Street.’

  ‘We’re not far.’ She pointed to an ill-lit passage. ‘That will take us to Oxford Street, yes?’ She swallowed and he knew she was suddenly nervous. ‘It is what you call a short cut.’

  ‘Why don’t you trust me, Freya?’ said Jack, without moving. ‘Why don’t you tell me what Craig has done?’

  ‘Craig?’ Her voice caught on the word.

  ‘I know you’re in trouble. If you’re Miss Kirsch you’re in big trouble. Is that what he’s holding over you?’ She looked at him without understanding. ‘There was the guard, the prison guard,’ explained Jack patiently. ‘If you know someone’s planning a murder and you don’t stop them, then you’re guilty of murder, too.’ She looked frankly puzzled. ‘Your husband killed a prison guard, didn’t he?’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ she said faintly. ‘You must be wrong. Lothar didn’t murder anyone.’ She put her hand to her mouth. ‘He can’t have done. He can’t have lied to me.’

  He looked into her anxious eyes and felt a surge of fellow feeling. He’d had an image of Freya and Freya had an image of Von Erlangen. Perhaps that was why she’d never left him. If she could delude herself, then she could be content. He was suddenly impatient with how blind she’d been. He sighed and started down the alleyway. ‘Freya, he did.’

  On the street behind them, Isabelle raised her eyes from the collection of old furniture in the shop window. ‘Have they gone?’ she asked without looking round.

  ‘They’ve just set off again,’ said Arthur. He narrowed his eyes. ‘It’s difficult to see in this gloom. They’ve turned into an alley, I think.’

  They walked to the entrance. The alleyway twisted between the blank high walls of the surrounding buildings. The grunt of traffic from Oxford Street sounded faintly, echoing through the narrow passage. Arthur pulled a face, looking at the two retreating backs of Jack and Freya. ‘It’s going to be fun staying out of sight along there.’

  Isabelle put her hand on his arm. ‘Arthur! Look!’

  Hugging the wall halfway along the alley, a man slipped out of the shadows. Arthur had a brief glance of an overcoated figure with a hat pulled low. The man pulled something that looked like a stumpy stick from his pocket and then, with one voice, both Isabelle and Arthur yelled together. ‘Jack! Look out!’

  The man in the overcoat struck.

  Jack must have sensed something before they yelled, for he turned his head and raised his arm to ward off the blow. They heard the crunch as the cosh went home. Jack crumpled. Isabelle screamed as a long-bladed knife caught the light.

  Freya Von Erlangen leapt at the man’s arm, sending the knife clattering to the ground. He turned and struck her a vicious blow with the back of his hand, sending her reeling. As Isabelle and Arthur raced up the alley, the man snatched up the knife, hauled Freya forward and, grabbing her arm, ran. Freya shook herself free, turned and saw Isabelle and Arthur.

  ‘Freya! Come back!’ yelled Arthur. She shrank away, then turned and ran after the man up the alley.

  Jack was lying sprawled with his arms flung wide. Arthur hesitated, seeing the fleeing figures ahead, but a groan from Jack brought him up sharp. He dropped to one knee as Jack groaned once more. He opened Jack’s coat, checking anxiously for blood. He breathed a sigh of relief as he saw his friend was unharmed. Freya Von Erlangen had saved him from that at least, thank God.

  ‘Stay with him!’ he said to Isabelle shortly and then ran along the alley.

  A few yards later and he was on Oxford Street, with its surging crowds and streams of traffic. Freya and the man were nowhere in sight. He walked a few yards up the pavement on either side of the alley, itching with frustration as he realized how hopeless the search was. They could be anywhere in this bright jungle of shops, cars and people. There was a policeman on point duty and, heedless of the squeal of brakes and shouts from outraged motorists, Arthur skirted through the traffic to him.

  ‘Here, what’s going on?’ demanded the policeman. ‘You’ll do yourself a mischief, crossing the road like that.’

  Arthur explained as rapidly as he could, and the policeman put his whistle to his lips and blew. ‘We’ll be there as soon as we can, sir,’ said the policeman.

  Arthur went back down the alleyway. Jack, he was relieved to see, was standing up, leaning against the wall, his head in his hands.

  He looked round as feet sounded in the alley. Two policemen loomed at the Oxford Street entrance. A third man in evening dress was behind them. It was Bill Rackham.

  ‘You absolute idiot, Jack,’ said Rackham. ‘What the devil d’you think you’re playing at, gallivanting off with Freya Von Erlangen, of all people? Who hit you?’

  ‘I think it was Craig,’ said Jack, nursing his temple. ‘All I can really tell you is that the bloke had a beard. By jingo, my head hurts! I half-heard something, then Arthur and Belle yelled a warning and I spun round. I only caught a glimpse before he lammed me with what I assume was a cosh.’

  ‘He pulled out a knife after you went down,’ said Arthur. ‘Freya Von Erlangen leapt at him and stopped him from stabbing you.’

  ‘Did she?’ asked Jack, looking heartened.

  Rackham looked at Arthur. ‘Did she get away?’

  ‘I’m afraid she did,’ said Arthur. ‘I shouted to her to stop but the pair of them were off like the clappers when they saw us coming.’

  ‘Freya too?’ asked Jack.

  Arthur looked at him sympathetically, seeing his friend’s shoulders sag. ‘I’m sorry, Jack. She could have escaped from him quite easily but she ran for it.’

  Rackham turned to the two policemen. ‘Go and see if you can find them. What are they wearing, Stanton?’

  ‘The man’s got a dark overcoat and soft hat and has a very full beard. The woman’s fair-haired and wearing a blue cloche hat and blue coat.’

  Jack nursed his head once more as the policemen set off. ‘Just because she ran off with him doesn’t mean she’s heart and soul on his side, you know. I’d just frightened her silly by talking about being an accessory to murder. It must have scared her witless, seeing Arthur and Belle bear down on her.’

  ‘If you say so,’ said Rackham dryly.

  ‘Incidentally, Bill, you guessed right. She’s Miss Kirsch and the woman in the Hammer Valley.’

  ‘So I gather,’ said Rackham. ‘My landlady sent your message round. I set off right away and was hunting round the Tottenham Court Road end of Melbourne Street, when I saw there was a flap on and was told a man had been assaulted in an alley off Oxford Street. I thought you were probably at the bottom of it. Honestly, Jack, you might have known you were walking into trouble.’

  ‘Go easy,’ pleaded Jack. ‘I’ve got a dickens of a headache. And really, Bill, what else could I do? I couldn’t let her simply walk away, could I? If she really is staying at the Stirling, that’s one more lead than we had before.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Rackham. ‘I’d better get on to that right away.’ He looked at Jack critically. ‘You don’t look up to much. How are you getting home tonight?’

  ‘I’m driving,’ said Stanton. ‘I parked my car in Jack’s garage.’

  ‘Well, if you’ll take my advice, you’ll go back to Hesperus.’

  Jack started to protest but Rackham waved him quiet. ‘I’m not lumbering myself with a bloke who’s just been coshed.’ He put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘Off you go, Jack. You look all in. And don’t worry. I’ll ring you tomorrow.’

  TWELVE

  Bill Rackham was as good as his word. The following afternoon he telephoned, but the news was, predictably, negative. ‘The Stirling Hotel deny all knowledge of either a Miss Kirsch or Mrs Von Erla
ngen,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not surprised. When I asked her which hotel she was staying at, she had to think. She obviously knew the Stirling though, and was close enough to be on the steps of the place when I went to meet her. What about the other hotels on Melbourne Street? My guess is she’s staying at one of those.’

  ‘Well, I checked those, of course, and drew a blank as far as any real information goes. However, I had my suspicious of the owner of the Balmoral, which is next door. He’s a foreigner of some sort, a big greasy beggar who I wouldn’t trust as far as I could throw an elephant, the type who’d say black’s white for a couple of quid. There’s no trace of Craig, of course, not that I expected to find any.’

  ‘He seems to have disappeared like an eel into mud,’ agreed Jack. ‘It’s surprising he’s still around. I thought he’d be on his way East by now.’

  ‘It might have taken him some time to arrange his exit.’

  ‘True. And he could have hung about for a bit trying to get the watercolours. I don’t know if Freya was working under her own steam when she tried to get the watercolours back or if she was prompted by Craig.’ His voice sounded doubtful.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Rackham.

  ‘Well, I would have said that Craig wasn’t a thief. Actually, that could be it, couldn’t it? If he finds the gold and comes clean, that’d clear his name of any lingering suspicions he was party to its disappearance.’

  ‘That’s going to do him a fat lot of good if we nail him for murder.’

  ‘Yes, but we haven’t made a fuss about it being murder, have we? As far as the newspapers are concerned it’s a tragic accident.’

  ‘I’m trying to get a toehold on this bloke’s character,’ complained Rackham. ‘You seem to be saying he wouldn’t run off with the gold . . .’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so, but I may be wrong.’

  ‘And yet, at the same time, he wouldn’t blink at murder? To say nothing of pulling a knife on you?

  ‘I was in the way. As for killing Von Erlangen, he’d probably see that as a justified execution. I didn’t say he was a nice bloke, Bill, just not a thief. Look, to go back to your search for Freya’s hotel. Freya said that she and Von Erlangen hired a car to go down to Vaughan’s. If you can find the garage they hired it from, it might give you a line on the hotel.’

  There was an exasperated noise followed by a pained silence from the other end of the telephone. ‘Have you the faintest idea of how many garages there are in London?’ Rackham demanded.

  ‘Heaps, I would have said,’ replied Jack cheerfully. ‘You could ask the Savoy which garage or garages they usually recommend to guests, and if that draws a blank, you can try the garages round Melbourne Street.’

  ‘The same Melbourne Street which is between the Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street? Why don’t you ask me to do something simple, like find a needle in a haystack?’

  ‘Because if you do find the garage,’ continued Jack, cutting through Rackham’s protests, ‘you might find a witness to what actually happened in the Hammer Valley. If Von Erlangen drove the car himself, we’re no further forward, but if he hired a driver then you need to speak to the bloke.’

  Once more there was silence while this sunk in. ‘Blimey, Jack, you’re right,’ said Rackham enthusiastically. ‘OK, I’ll do it. It’ll take time, but it’ll be worth it. What are your plans for the next few days? I want to keep you posted.’

  ‘Thanks, Bill, I’d appreciate it. I’ll be back in London on Sunday night for a few days. I’ve got a stint at the magazine, then I’m coming back for Isabelle’s wedding.’

  ‘Right you are,’ said Rackham. ‘I hope we can dig up something before the wedding, at any rate. Incidentally, I spoke to Ashley this morning.’

  Jack felt his stomach knot. ‘Did you tell him?’

  ‘Yes, of course I did. He’d guessed something was the matter, you know. You are an idiot, Jack. How did you expect him to react?’ Jack didn’t answer. ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘Thanks, Bill,’ said Jack quietly. ‘Thanks.’

  He put the phone down, but before he left the hall it rang again. It was Ashley.

  ‘Haldean? Is that you?’ Ashley sounded ill at ease. ‘Look, before I say anything else, Inspector Rackham told me what happened with you and this Von Erlangen character. He said you weren’t sure how I’d react.’

  ‘No,’ said Jack evenly. ‘I’m not proud of it, Ashley.’

  Ashley snorted dismissively. ‘You young fool. Give me some credit. I knew something was wrong. My word, when we do finally get our hands on Craig, I’m going to shake him by the hand. I’ve never heard anything like it in my life. I know there were some pretty beastly stories going the rounds in the war, but I thought most of them were propaganda. It took my breath away when Inspector Rackham told me what you’d been through. By jingo, I feel Craig deserves a medal.’

  ‘Thanks, Ashley,’ said Jack. He was more moved than he could say and hoped his voice wouldn’t betray him.

  ‘If Craig hadn’t seen him off, I’d be tempted to do the job myself. Anyway, that’s that.’

  And knowing Ashley, that was that. Jack felt such a surge of gratitude to the older man, he was glad that Ashley couldn’t see his face. ‘All I can say is thanks, Ashley.’ He paused. ‘Is that why you rang?’

  ‘Partly. I wanted to tell you I’ve just telephoned Vaughan’s house to arrange another interview.’ Ashley paused.

  ‘And?’ prompted Jack.

  ‘And I spoke to Oxley, Vaughan’s butler. Vaughan’s left the country.’

  ‘He’s done what?’

  ‘He’s gone. He left yesterday morning. He told Oxley he expected to be away for some time, and although he didn’t say exactly where he was going, he’s headed East. I suppose he’s going to look for this lost city.’

  Jack clicked his tongue. ‘I suppose he is.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Look, Ashley, we are right, aren’t we? I mean Vaughan can’t be up to anything dodgy, can he? I don’t like him chasing off like this.’

  ‘Well, I’m not crazy about it, but I think we’ve proved as much as it can be proved that Vaughan is in the clear.’

  ‘That’s true enough,’ said Jack doubtfully. ‘Well, good luck to him. I don’t know as I’d care to wander about the Hejaz on the off-chance.’

  ‘I was wondering if he was in any danger. I heard what happened to you last night and if Craig turns up, he might not be too happy to see Vaughan.’

  ‘No, he wouldn’t. Still, unless Vaughan knows a lot more than he told us, I imagine his chances of finding the city are nil.’

  ‘If he kept information to himself, he’s only got himself to blame. Incidentally, would Miss Rivers and Captain Stanton think it a liberty if I sent them a wedding present?’

  ‘I think they’d be very touched. Oddly enough, they’re off East as well. They’re going to Egypt for their honeymoon. Uncle Phil and Aunt Alice were stationed out there, years ago, and Isabelle’s always wanted to see the place.’

  ‘Well, if they run into Vaughan, tell him to send us a postcard.’

  A few days later, Sergeant Munson turned into Taylor Street, an obscure cul-de-sac off the Tottenham Court Road. Taylor Street contained a newsagents, a pie-and-mash shop, a cheap drapers, a Unitarian chapel and, at the end of the road, a commercial garage. According to the brightly coloured metal sign it belonged to The Klassy Kab Motor Hire and Conveyance Company (Prop: J.K. Bellweather). This must be, thought Sergeant Munson, about the fifty-first garage he’d been to.

  Sergeant Munson called to the boy washing down an Alvis in the yard, and repeated a version of what he had said so many times that week. ‘Hello, son. Is the boss about?’

  ‘Mr Bellweather, sir?’ asked the youth, putting the cloth in the bucket and wiping his hands on his overalls. ‘Did you want to hire a car?’

  ‘No,’ said Sergeant Munson, producing his warrant card. ‘I’m just making a few enquires. Nothing to get alarmed about.’ Or excited by, either, he thou
ght, following the youth into the garage. It was Thursday afternoon and Sergeant Munson was bored to tears. Inspector Rackham himself had checked the garages the Savoy had recommended, and when that proved fruitless, had handed the job to him. However, if Inspector Rackham wanted him to check garages, he’d check garages until he was told to stop, however pointless it was.

  ‘What did you say the gentleman’s name was?’ asked Mr Bellweather, picking up the ledger, once Sergeant Munson had explained his business. ‘Madison?’

  ‘We’re not sure what name he used. It might not even be a man.’

  Mr Bellweather frowned, running his finger down the page. ‘There’s no one called Madison, but we did have a booking on the 27th which might be the one you’re looking for.’ Munson felt a jolt of excitement. ‘Look, here we are,’ said Mr Bellweather, pointing out the entry. ‘It was a Mr Smith, staying at the Balmoral Hotel on Melbourne Street. He hired our Crossley 25-30 h.p. all-weather five-seater for the day at a cost of six pounds, four and sixpence. He took it down to . . . Sussex. That’s right. I see the driver’s made a note that he arrived back just after ten o’clock. Who was it? Oh yes. Bert – that’s Gilbert – Faraday.’

  ‘He was the driver?’ asked Sergeant Munson quickly. This is what Inspector Rackham wanted. ‘Would it be possible to speak to Mr Faraday?’

  ‘’Fraid not. He’s left. He went home that evening and sent a message round the next day to say that he’d found a better job.’ Mr Bellweather pursed his lips. ‘These youngsters have no staying power. Someone offers them three pounds a week and they’re off. Now, we pay our drivers two pounds five bob, but the money’s safe. These big money places are here today, gone tomorrow.’

  ‘Was Faraday friendly with any of the men here?’

  Mr Bellweather thought for a moment. ‘Crutchley’s your best bet. I think he’s in the garage now if you want a word with him.’

  Paul Crutchley put down the contact breaker he was cleaning and gave Sergeant Munson a worried smile. ‘I’m glad someone’s taking an interest in poor old Bert at last. I can’t make it out. I haven’t seen hair nor hide of him since last week. No one has.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s probably something and nothing, but I’d like to know who the geezer was that turned up for Bert’s wages.’