by John Creasey
“And yet we can exert a lot of influence,” Scott-Marie observed. “I’ve just been to Scarborough, as you know. Reports about most of the matters discussed were given to the newspapers, but some were confidential. And among those not told to the press is the growing anxiety about the conditions and the situation caused by immigration. There is strong feeling that it isn’t being handled very well by anybody.”
Gideon made no comment.
“I was asked - as was every Chief Constable present - to investigate the local situation from the police point of view.”
Gideon stirred uncomfortably.
“That’s all right provided it’s understood that the police is only one point of view, sir. There’s a tendency in the press—” He broke off.
“Go on,” urged Scott-Marie.
“A tendency to make us the scapegoats,” said Gideon. “It’s one thing for us to have a problem like the smuggling, which overlaps with social and industrial aspects; it’s quite another for us to be regarded as the only people responsible. And there is that tendency, sir.”
“Yes,” agreed Scott-Marie. “There were some delegates at the conference who know this and resent it very much. I think I would like to discuss it with you, Riddell, and those Superintendents of Divisions where there is a larger-than-average proportion of coloured immigrants. While it’s a long-term problem, there are short-term dangers, so I ought to do this fairly soon. When will Riddell be back?”
“In three weeks, sir.”
“Then we’ll set the date a month from now; check with my secretary, will you? Brief the Divisional men and Honiwell, and a few days before the conference - those conferences! - let me have a written assessment. Then you and I can talk about it the day before, say.”
“I’ll arrange all that,” Gideon said. There was something else he wanted to say, but he wasn’t sure this was the time. And he was tempted to tell Scott-Marie about Thwaites’s suspicion of Sir Richard Falconer, but as it was only suspicion and not yet strongly based, he decided not to.
“Some doubt in your mind?” asked Scott-Marie.
“I’d like Hobbs to be with us at all stages, sir, unless you’ve any objection,” Gideon answered.
“None,” said Scott-Marie.
“And—” Gideon hesitated again, and did not feel very pleased with himself, but he had gone too far now, and went on: “Shall I brief the Assistant Commissioner, sir?”
“I will inform him,” Scott-Marie said, in a more formal tone than he had used before.
“Thank you, sir.” Gideon finished his brandy, then straightened up in his chair. “I really ought to be going, unless there’s something else urgent. I promised to look in at the Yard before going home. Something had cropped up just before I started out, and I don’t know the significance of it yet.” He was still tempted to mention Falconer, and annoyed at his own indecision.
“Then I mustn’t keep you,” Scott-Marie said. They both stood up and went toward the door, and as they entered the passage the telephone bell rang in the room behind them.
“You answer it, sir, I can let myself out,” Gideon said.
Scott-Marie hesitated, then turned back toward the remorseless insistence of the bell’s ringing. “All right, do that - good night.”
“Good night, sir.” Gideon opened the door and noticed with wry amusement that the Commissioner of Police had the most elementary system of burglar prevention. He felt the rain wafting gently into his face and hesitated; he would get soaked if he were out long in this, but the call for Scott-Marie had prevented him from sending for a car. He would manage. He closed the door firmly. There was a police call box not far away, and he could wait on a nearby porch. Then a taxi came splashing past, its sign alight, and he let out a bellow which made the driver slam on his brakes. Sprinting after it, he was halfway between porch and taxi when he heard Scott-Marie behind him, with a parade-ground roar: “Gideon! Gideon!”
Gideon managed to pull himself up and half turned. “Coming, sir.” He looked at the driver, a little man with a huge nose. “Wait for me, please.”
He turned back to Scott-Marie, who was outlined against the light of the hall.
“Sir Richard Falconer is on the line,” he called. “You’d better hear what he has to say.”
17: Urgent Call
Scott-Marie turned back in to the house; Gideon hesitated and, rain making a film over his face and beading his eyebrows and hair, went to the taxi driver, who had pulled in and switched off his “For Hire” sign.
“Sorry,” Gideon said, and put six shillings into his hand. “It might be too long a wait.”
“No hurry where I’m concerned, Mr. Gideon,” the driver said.
“Oh. Recognized, am I?”
“Yes, sir, often see you about. Be a privilege to take you as a passenger.”
Gideon half smiled. “Thanks. I’ll be as quick as I can.” He went into the house and took out his handkerchief to dab his face dry. Every now and again, his habit of going without hat and coat let him down, and it was surprising how wet he had got in the past few minutes.
Scott-Marie was holding the receiver to his ear; once or twice he attempted to speak, but Falconer obviously talked him down. When he saw Gideon, he pointed, stabbing his finger toward the back of the house, and it dawned on Gideon that he was telling him to go somewhere—ah! The cloakroom, beneath the stairs. Gideon went in, dabbed himself with a towel, and came out feeling much drier. He found the Commissioner standing in the library doorway.
“Falconer is worried about his daughter, who has been missing for several hours,” Scott-Marie announced, with a dry, almost wintry smile. “Naturally, he would like the whole of our resources concentrated on finding her. If we don’t exert ourselves, he will undoubtedly bring all kinds of pressure to bear tomorrow, which could make unnecessary difficulties, but—” He spread his hands. “I do, of course, leave it to you.”
As Gideon listened, he knew that he could no longer put off telling the Commissioner the whole story, and he wondered with sudden raw urgency whether Thwaites had discovered something more about the rumour of Falconer’s involvement. He must find out as soon as possible; but first he had to tell Scott-Marie.
Falconer put down the receiver after talking to Scott-Marie and drew a hand across his head. He was trembling. His wife was astonished and, in a way, touched. He went across to a table, took a cigar from a silver box, pierced the end, then came back to the big couch and stood looking down on her.
“What did he say?” she asked.
“He told me that he would start inquiries at once, but—” Falconer paused to strike a match and to puff at the cigar. “But he pointed out that Christine can hardly be regarded as missing.”
Gently, Charlotte Falconer said: “It isn’t much after eleven o’clock, Richard.”
“Do you mean that you don’t regard her as missing?”
“I think she may simply have carried her rebellion a step further,” Charlotte replied; for her to challenge his opinion so positively was almost daring.
“I do not believe that Christine would act so much out of character,” Falconer insisted. “And if there is no news of her by morning—”
“Oh, there will be! She’ll be back tonight.”
“I hope so,” Falconer said. “I hope so very much.”
He broke off as Davies came in, soft-footed. Davies would only appear at this hour if there was an emergency or an unexpectedly late caller, and Falconer swung round on him with unusual vehemence.
“What is it?”
“A young man is here, sir,” Davies said.
“Young man?”
“Perhaps it is Lancelot Judd,” Charlotte said, getting up quickly.
“No, my lady, I would recognize Mr. Judd’s voice,” said Davies. “He has phoned here for Miss Christine several times. This gentleman did not give his name but said he has a message from Miss Christine. That is why I let him in.”
“Where is he?” Falconer demanded.
“Tell him I’ll see him very soon,” Falconer said. “Where is Mr. Oliphant?”
“He went out earlier in the evening, sir, and told me that he might be late - might not be here until tomorrow, in fact.”
Falconer nodded, and the butler went out, as soft footed as when he had entered. Falconer drew deeply at his cigar, where half an inch of greyish-white ash now showed, and began to move about nervously.
“I should have told Oily to stay in tonight” he said vexed: “This is no time for him to dally with his girlfriend.” He paused, then blurted out: “Charlotte, I am deeply troubled about Christine. Have you the slightest reason to think that she might have eloped with this man Judd? Could this be the caller’s message?”
“Good gracious!” exclaimed Charlotte. “The thought didn’t cross my mind.”
“You are not—you are not deliberately protecting her? Giving her time to get out of my reach?”
“No, Richard, I am not,” answered Charlotte Falconer. She got up and moved toward him, took his hands in hers, and felt the chill of his fingers and the agitation which made him quiver as if an electric current were passing through his body. “No, my dear, I would not dream of doing such a thing to you. You can trust me, Richard, you can trust me absolutely.”
He gripped her hands tightly for a few seconds, then let them go.
“I should know better than to doubt you” he said. “Well, I must go and see what this fellow has to say.” He turned and hurried out, without looking backward, so he did not see how motionless his wife stood as she watched him. She was like a statue. He went into the hall, told Davies to stay within call, then turned in to the morning room. It was here that the family received casual guests whom they did not want to entertain officially.
A young man stood with his back to the fireplace; a tall young man dressed rather as an exquisite, with over-long hair beautifully groomed and shining golden in the soft light. His eyes, narrowed, were very bright. He wore a suede suit with unusually short lapels, and a carefully arranged cravat, and he looked very young, certainly no more than twenty-two or three. Christine’s age. Falconer was tempted to demand “What do you know about Christine,” but he fought for self-control
“Good evening.”
“Good evening, Sir Richard. It is very good of you to see me.”
It was a pleasing voice, which was one good thing, thought Falconer. But why didn’t the youth come straight out with the message from Christine?
“I would not have called so late had it not been on an urgent matter.” There was a hint of insolence in the youth’s manner as he spoke.
“Be good enough to come to the point,” Falconer said.
The young man did not answer, and belatedly it occurred to Falconer that he should have asked his name. He was in the grip of a tension such as he had not experienced for many years, but if he lost his control this apparently foppish young man could too easily take advantage of him. So he waited.
The stranger spoke with great precision.
“It concerns the safety of your daughter Christine, sir.”
Falconer almost cried out: “Safety?” but he still maintained that iron self-control.
“Go on, please.”
“Christine is late home tonight,” the youth stated.
“I am aware of it.”
“Aren’t you curious about the reason?”
“I am always curious about the mental processes of the young.”
“Are you, indeed,” the young man said. “I said that my business concerns Christine’s safety.”
“I heard you.”
“Aren’t you concerned?”
“I am very concerned.”
“I am glad to hear it,” the young man said. “She can be returned to you, unharmed.”
“If she isn’t, then those responsible for harming her will rue it very much indeed,” Falconer said grimly.
“I doubt that,” said the young man. There was something almost feline in his manner, and now he gave the impression that he was fully aware that Falconer was hiding his fears and his tension, was suffering anguish; and that he, the youth, enjoyed what he was doing with sadistic relish. “I doubt that very much indeed. Don’t you want to know where she is?”
“I want her here, unharmed.”
“On certain terms,” the young man said, “you may have exactly that.”
“We can discuss terms afterward.”
“Oh, no, Sir Richard. We shall discuss terms now.”
“Tell me how much money you require in exchange for my daughter,” Falconer said coldly. “I will consider the exchange then.”
The young man smiled. He had a honey-brown complexion and his teeth were white and even. There was tawniness about his eyes, and his lips were well-shaped and soft.
“It is not a question of money,” he stated.
“That I do not believe.” Falconer took the stub of the cigar from his lips and laid it on an ashtray without shifting his gaze. But it was difficult to keep his hand steady, difficult to prevent his voice from rising, and even more difficult to restrain the impulse to knock the smile off the sneering face in front of him.
“Whether you believe it or not, it’s the truth,” the young man insisted. “You have a remarkably fine collection of pictures and objets d’art, Sir Richard.”
“We are not discussing my collection.”
“I am,” said the young man. “Perhaps I should introduce myself. My name is Robin Kell. I am reasonably intelligent, and I have a fair knowledge of art, especially paintings and small antiques. I am what you would doubtless call unscrupulous, possibly ruthless, and I do not hold human life in great esteem. We are born, we live, we die. Few of us make a very great impact. If you were to die, very few would miss you and several people would probably be glad to see you go. If your daughter were to die—” Robin Kell paused, and his manner was taunting, as if he wanted to make Falconer lose his self-control. But Falconer held on, finding it easier now, and the young man continued - “you might miss her for a while, and no doubt so would her mother. But who else would really care, Sir Richard? How much sense would her dying make to the world?”
There was a beading of sweat on Falconer’s forehead and upper lip. “Go on,” he said icily.
“Ah, yes. I was discussing your collection,” said Robin Kell. “Has it all been honestly come by?”
Very deliberately, Falconer said: “Every item has been bought at a reasonable value, yes. Mr. Kell, unless you make arrangements to bring my daughter back here at once I shall send for the police.”
“Oh, you would be most ill-advised,” answered Robin softly. “If the police are told, you will certainly never see your daughter again. And you would lose not only Christine,” he went on “but a unique chance to expand your collection at a remarkable rate and really very reasonably. I need no telling that paint and canvas mean more than flesh and blood to you - so let us have no talk of the police, Sir Richard.”
Davies heard all of this, and also knew that, less than an hour before, Sir Richard had talked to Scott-Marie, demanding that the police give absolute priority to finding Christine. The certain thing now was that he, Davies, must do nothing unless Sir Richard told him to.
He himself was much more composed than he had been, Falconer realized with relief. In spite of his inner tensions, he could control his expression, and he did not believe that this young man had the slightest idea how the last words had slashed through him. He moved, and sat on the arm of a couch, crossing one leg over the other, and exerting every fibre of his being to appear calm and unconcerned.
“Mr. Kell,” he said, “you can neither blackmail me nor bribe me. If you fail to make immediate arrangements to return my daughter, unharmed in any way, I shall telephone the police.” He paused long enough to see a flicker of doubt in Robin Kell’s eyes, and went on: “I am prepared to discuss a ransom. I am not prepared to allow delay. How much do you wa
nt?”
Robin did not answer but for the first time turned away, unfastened his jacket and trouser waistband, and drew out a linen-wrapped package, thin, and curled slightly to the shape of his body. He held the package in one hand as he refastened his waistband, and proffered it to Falconer.
“Your daughter and that for a hundred thousand pounds,” he said. “It is a very good bargain.”
Falconer handled the package, and knew that it was a picture but at that moment did not suspect which one. He felt a strange conflict within him: a desire to fling it into the youth’s face and to order him to fetch Christine if he did not want the police here at once; and a desire to see what painting this was. It was a conflict he had known to some degree all his life. He was aware that a great number of people thought he was interested in the precious things he owned because of their value or because of their rarity; that his possessions were for possession’s sake. But it was much more than that. Beauty, especially beauty created by man, had an effect on him that was like a slow-burning fire which sometimes burst into flame. He had first been scorched by this when, as a child, he had stood in rapt wonder in front of pictures in the National Gallery. It was more than desire, even though he desired to possess them as, from time to time, he desired a woman of rare beauty; and it was more than passion.
He loved them.
The artist, through his creation, stretched out and touched him, and it was like being hypnotized. He could not resist things of such beauty. In his youth he had read all he could about them. No matter what it was, painting or sculpture, jewel or piece of furniture, he felt a physical response. It was not simply the pleasure of floating because the beautiful things in this house were his, it was a fact that he knew sensuous pleasure at both the touch and the sight of them.
