by Mike Dorrell
‘Snowey. Snowey.’
Gradually, the figure eight stopped moving and Snowey found himself staring at the familiar close-shaven features of Dick Barton.
‘Cor lumme, sir. Somebody dropped the roof on me, I reckon.’
Barton crouched down beside the ex-sergeant. What happened, Snowey?’
Snowey managed to struggle to a sitting position. ‘I don’t rightly know sir,’ he managed, ‘and that’s a fact.’ He rubbed his aching head. ‘Oh – now I remember – this young lady came to the door.’
Barton’s question was to the point: ‘What young lady?’
‘Said she was Mr Marley’s fiancée,’ Snowey continued. ‘When I let her in she pulls a gun on me.’ He stopped speaking for a moment to rub his head again. ‘Foreign, she was.’
Dick Barton didn’t like the sound of what Snowey had described. He had a nasty suspicion. Quickly, he got to his feet, strode across to the bedroom door, and flung it open.
‘Just as I thought,’ Barton said. ‘The bird has flown.’
Snowey got to his feet and walked across the room. As he looked into the bedroom he felt a right Charlie. There was no sign at all of Rex Marley, crooner and drug addict. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Barton,’ Snowey said.
‘No good crying over spilt milk, Snowey.’
Still, Snowey felt that he had to explain further. He’d never done anything like this before. Not even in France. ‘She seemed on the level,’ he said. Then there was a pause. ‘Apart from the accent.’
‘What was she like?’ Barton fired staccato questions. ‘Describe her.’
‘Well ...’ Snowey tried hard. His head was still aching all over the place. ‘She was a bit of all right – dark hair – lot of make-up and that – big fur coat.’ He couldn’t go any further. ‘I dunno.’
Dick Barton’s impatience showed. He must try and make Snowey think a bit harder. ‘That could describe about fifty thousand women in the metropolis alone,’ he began. ‘There’s nothing else you can think of? No detail, no matter how small?’
The last question seemed to do the trick. Snowey looked at Barton. He became excited. ‘Here – wait a minute. There was one thing.’ He was remembering better now. ‘When she pulled the shooter on me, her fur coat sort of opened a bit and she was wearing a big brooch on her dress. Funny sort of article,’ he said with his usual relish. ‘Shaped like a Christmas tree.’
‘A Christmas tree?’ Barton wanted to be sure that Snowey’s memory wasn’t playing tricks on him.
‘Yeah,’ Snowey said quickly. ‘Only it wasn’t.’ Words failed him again. ‘I was ... I’ll tell you what it was like.’ He grappled once more with the description of the thing that he had seen. ‘It was like Chinese writing.’
‘An ideogram?’ Barton wanted Snowey to be more precise.
Snowey made a puzzled expression. ‘I dunno about that sir. It was like Chinese writing – you know.’
Barton’s face creased thoughtfully. He was trying to make the connections. And the theories that he was coming up with weren’t pleasant ones. ‘You said the girl was foreign. She wasn’t Chinese, was she?’
Snowey was on safer ground now. ‘A chink? Oh no sir – not that foreign.’
But Barton’s mind was made up. As usual, once he had made a decision he acted on it immediately. And now, especially, there was no time to be lost. ‘Come on, Snowey – we’ve got work to do.’ He started to lead the way out of the flat.
Following closely behind, and still with the remnants of a bump where he’d been coshed, Snowey was less enthusiastic. ‘Stone the crows sir, we ain’t going to China this time of night, are we?’
You could never tell with Dick Barton.
It wasn’t China exactly, but it was about the nearest that Dick Barton could get to it. The place was a small, but expensive Chinese restaurant situated off Gerrard Street in Soho. It was one of many places that he had known before the War. The food was usually excellent, and sometimes, the information was good.
Dick Barton was sitting with Snowey and an Oriental gentleman called Mr Chen at a table in the corner of the Eastern style room. The walls were covered with a heavy red brocade, with gold Chinese dragons embossed on it, and, in the far corner there was a set of brass gongs in a bamboo frame. Nearer, a stick of incense was burning. The perfume, like Mr Chen himself, was totally inscrutable.
The gentleman from the Orient was sitting at the table wearing a long brocade robe and a skull cap. Up to this point, he had said nothing at all.
Dick Barton finished his preliminaries and turned to Snowey. ‘Can you draw the brooch for Mr Chen, Snowey?’
Snowey didn’t like the place much, he could hardly breathe what with all that incense and stuff. But he followed the leader, as always. ‘I don’t know about that, sir,’ he said. ‘I was never much of a hand at this drawing, but I’ll have a go.’
Snowey drew a paper table napkin towards him, brought his pencil stub out of his pocket, gave it a lick, and frowning with concentration, carefully made a drawing something like a child would do a Christmas tree. When he had finished he passed it over the table to Mr Chen.
It was a while before the Chinaman spoke. When he did it was with no apparent sign of regret. ‘In Chinese this mean nothing.’
‘Sure you’ve got it right, Snowey?’ There was no anxiety in Barton’s voice, merely the desire to know.
‘I think so sir. Let’s have a butcher’s.’ He leant across the table and pulled the napkin back towards him. There was silence for a while as he studied his attempt.
‘No – it ain’t quite right. Let’s have another go.’ And, with even more concentration than before, Snowey began again.
After a while, he spoke. He was still apparently not satisfied with his effort. ‘No – it ain’t quite right. Let’s have another go.’
The procedure was repeated.
‘It was more ... one of the sides was different,’ he said at last.
‘Assymetric?’ Barton cut in.
Snowey grinned. ‘If that means both sides wasn’t the same, that’s what it was, sir. Like ...’
He was trying hard. Once more, he made his attempt at a facsimile of the ideogram.
‘There,’ Snowey said when he had finished. He pushed the paper across the table to Mr Chen.
The Chinaman stared for a long moment. Not a muscle in his face moved. Eventually, he spoke: ‘It like this?’
‘Something like that – yes,’ Snowey replied. He couldn’t do any better.
‘It not have one more stroke, like ...’ Mr Chen left his sentence uncompleted as he drew a horizontal line across the top of the ideogram.
Snowey became very excited. ‘Yes! That’s it! That’s exactly it!’
The moments ticked by silently. Still, Mr Chen said nothing. At last, he moved his eyes from the paper and looked up at Dick Barton. A complete change had come over the Chinaman. From inscrutability, his expression had changed to one of fear.
‘I cannot help you, Mr Barton.’
The special agent could not fail to notice the transformation that had come over Mr Chen. ‘You don’t know what it means?’ Even as he spoke, Dick Barton knew that his assumption was not true.
Mr Chen got to his feet. He stood over the table. It was not regret that motivated him. It was terror.
‘I’m sorry,’ Chen said. ‘I cannot help you. I and my family owe you much, Mr Barton – but this, I cannot help you. Please go.’ Soundlessly, and very quickly, Mr Chen left the two enquirers sitting at the table.
‘Well, well, well.’ Even Dick Barton was surprised.
It was Snowey who spoke first. ‘Something seems to have upset him, sir, don’t it?’
Barton held up the paper napkin and looked at the ideogram. ‘To be more precise, Snowey – this seems to have upset him.’
Snowey said nothing. He got ready to leave the restaurant.
Dick Barton had scarcely arrived home before the telephone began to ring in his living-room. He picked up the phone and lis
tened intently. It was Sir Richard Marley on the other end of the line. And the news was bad. Turning to Snowey, who had just entered the room behind him he said; ‘Come on Snowey. We’re off again. Miss Marley has disappeared.’
Less than twenty minutes later Dick Barton and his right-hand man were sitting in the sumptuous study in the Marley home, while Sir Richard, dressed in a silk dressing gown over his pyjamas, was pacing up and down in front of the fireplace while he explained the situation to them. ‘I left that night-club soon after the débâcle with my son and came straight home,’ Sir Richard said worriedly. ‘I had my usual nightcap and then went up to my room. I read for a bit then put the light out – but I couldn’t sleep. My mind kept going over and over what happened at the club. To cut a long story short, I got up again, knocked on Virginia’s door and found she wasn’t in, came down here and telephoned you.’
‘I see.’ A concerned frown crossed Barton’s face. There was even more skulduggery going on than he’d thought. ‘And you didn’t hear Virginia come in?’
Sir Richard stopped pacing for a moment. ‘No – but then I wouldn’t – my room is right at the top of the house.’ Barton commented crisply: ‘I dropped her here at exactly twelve fifteen – I remember looking at my watch.’
‘Did you see her come into the house, sir?’ Snowey’s question was a good one. He felt he had to make up for the bloomer he’d made earlier in the evening.
‘Good point, Snowey,’ Barton added. He got up from his chair and stroked his chin. ‘No, I didn’t as a matter of fact. As I drove off she was just getting her key out of her handbag.’
Snowey didn’t want to jump to conclusions. ‘So ...’
‘It’s quite possible she never came in at all.’ Barton finished off the thought that his ex-sergeant had begun.
It was Sir Richard’s turn to join in the theorising; ‘You mean ...’ he began.
Dick Barton interrupted once again. ‘I don’t know yet, Sir Richard. I just don’t know. But wait a minute, I’ve got an idea.’
Snowey smiled when he saw Dick Barton make for the door. He knew all about Barton’s famous ideas. He’d had four years of them, and every one had turned out to be a jump ahead of what everyone else was thinking. He saw the look of alarm on Sir Richard’s face next, and reckoned he would have to do what he could to reassure him.
Dick Barton came out of the front door of Sir Richard Marley’s house and crossed the road to the taxi-rank and cab shelter that was directly opposite. It was a tiny, steam filled place, built of wood and corrugated iron. There was a table in the middle of the room, around which three cabbies, still wearing their caps and mufflers, were sitting.
‘Evening chaps,’ Barton said briskly. ‘Or should I say good morning?’
The cabbie nearest to Barton looked up from the thick bacon sandwich he was tucking into. ‘Where do you want to get to, guv?’
‘I’m happy enough where I am, thanks. I’m looking for information.’ Dick Barton reached into his inside pocket, took out his handsome pigskin wallet, and extracted two pound notes with a flourish ‘There’s these two crisp one-pound notes for anyone who can provide it.’
More than a murmur of interest passed around the table. The first cabbie who had spoken even put down his sandwich.
‘I want to find someone who was on the rank at a quarter past twelve,’ Barton continued.
It was a cabbie from the other end of the table who replied. ‘Nah – they’d be well gone by now, guv.’
‘Never mind,’ Barton said. ‘Pass it around among your mates. At a quarter past twelve I dropped a young lady off at Sir Richard’s house opposite – number thirty-eight. I was driving a black Riley Monaco.’
The one with the sandwich spoke again. His mouth was full. ‘What do you want to know then, squire?’
‘I want to know what happened to her after I drove off. I left her on the doorstep.’
Barton grinned as cries of ‘shame, shame’, echoed around the small, steam filled room. That’s as may be,’ he continued. ‘But she never went into the house and I want to know why.’
Then, he squeezed past the table and walked over to a small notice board that was screwed on to the wall. Taking a drawing pin from the edge of an advertisement for a tyre firm, he pinned his visiting card to the cork board.
‘My card’s there,’ he pointed out. ‘Anybody who saw anything unusual – just give me a ring. Okay? And don’t forget that two quid.’
The burly cabbie at the far end of the table replied for the others. ‘Right you are, guv. We’ll pass it around, eh, lads?’
There were murmurs of approval.
‘Right,’ Barton said. He turned towards the door. ‘Bon appetit, gentlemen.’
‘And you, guv,’ said the first cabbie. He took the last bite of his sandwich and wiped his hands on his muffler.
In the meantime, in the study of Sir Richard Marley’s house, amongst the leather armchairs and the rows of books with real gilt lettering on their spines, Snowey was doing his best to keep his end up. ‘But if anyone can find her, sir, Mr Barton can,’ he was saying for the umpteenth time. ‘I remember when our company was crossing the Rhine ...’
Dick Barton came in and overheard the last part of Snowey’s remarks. ‘Now then, Snowey,’ he ordered. ‘Spare my blushes.’
Turning around to face Barton, Snowey grinned. He was glad to see him back. ‘No, give the devil his due, that’s what my old mum always says.’
Sir Richard interrupted the friendly banter. His tone was anxious. ‘Any luck, Dick?’ He was obviously hoping that Barton had solved the mystery.
‘Not yet, Sir Richard – but I hope we’ll have some leads soon.’
At that point the telephone rang. Even in the heavily furnished room, the tone sounded shrill and menacing.
‘Who the dickens can that be at this time of night?’ Sir Richard addressed the question to no one in particular. It was obvious that the strain of the events of the last few hours was beginning to show on him, Dick Barton thought.
‘Hello, yes.’
While Sir Richard answered, Dick Barton moved to his side, and motioned to him. His former employer held the phone so that they could both hear the caller’s replies. Barton had more than an intuition that all was not well.
When the voice at the other end answered it was not friendly. It was insinuating and foreign, and more than slightly menacing.
‘Sir Richard Marley?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Sir Richard, you will be well advised to stop Dick Barton meddling in my affairs.’
‘Who is this?’ Sir Richard’s tone was outraged. He turned to Barton who gestured to him to calm down.
‘My name does not matter,’ the voice continued. ‘Your daughter is safe and well. If you want her to remain in that condition – call Barton off.’
To Barton’s prompting, Sir Richard said: ‘How do I know that Virginia’s safe?’
The deadly voice spoke again. ‘To prove my good faith I will allow you to speak to her. Here.’
There was a terrible silence. Sir Richard exchanged glances with Dick Barton. The Special Agent nodded, and then went across the room to another telephone. Sir Richard was left alone to hear the voice of his daughter.
‘Daddy?’
‘Virginia! Are you all right?’
‘I am all right. I’m at ...’
Sir Richard heard his daughter give a little cry. And then, suddenly there was no more of Virginia’s voice at all.
‘Hello? Hello?’ Dick Barton’s old employer was now shouting down the telephone.
It was the insinuating foreign voice that picked up the conversation again.
‘Don’t be alarmed, Sir Richard. Virginia has come to no harm, despite her foolishness. Nor will she come to harm as long as my conditions are met.’
‘How am I to know that?’ Sir Richard demanded.
‘You will have to trust me.’
Again, Sir Richard’s reply was angry; ‘I see no reason
for doing that.’
‘You have no choice, Sir Richard.’
The owner of International Engineering could no longer contain himself. ‘You unutterable swine
But, even as Sir Richard was shouting down the phone, the line went dead. And if he, or Dick Barton, or particularly Snowey White could have seen the well manicured hand that replaced the receiver on the other end of the line they would have been even more alarmed. For on that hand was a gold ring. And on the ring was an ideogram that tallied exactly with the one that Snowey had drawn with Mr Chen, and which in itself, matched the brooch worn by the foreign woman with the automatic pistol in her muff who had abducted Rex Marley.
What is the meaning of the mysterious Chinese symbol? Why has Virginia Marley been abducted? Will her father abide by the conditions laid down or will Dick Barton continue his search for her and her brother?
Read the next chapter of: Dick Barton – Special Agent.
Chapter Three
Virginia Marley, daughter of millionaire industrialist Sir Richard Marley, has disappeared after having appealed to Dick Barton for help with her brother Rex Marley, the crooner, who has become a drug addict. Sir Richard gets a threatening telephone call warning him to take Barton off the case.
Now read on...
‘He’s cut me off.’
Sir Richard Marley stood at his end of the study with the telephone still in his hand and the expression of outrage still on his face.
Meanwhile, at the other end of the room, Dick Barton was doing his best to trace the menacing telephone call that had revealed that Virginia was in the clutches of an unknown enemy. He held up his hand to silence Sir Richard, then he told him what he was doing.
‘Yes,’ he was saying into the phone. ‘I see ... Barking 0731. Can you give me the address?’ The operator was proving to be slightly sticky on this one; she declared that it was against the rules. ‘Oh – but rules were meant to be broken, my dear.’ Still, she wanted to know what his business was with the caller.
