by John Creasey
Gideon grunted.
“So we ought to search.”
Thwaites drew his breath rather uneasily through his full lips, and after a few seconds, said: “I would certainly apply for a warrant if it were anyone else, sir, but I would hate to go wrong on this one.”
“Yes,” said Gideon. “So would I. Is Falconer House still being watched?”
“Closely, sir.”
“Any instructions given?”
“To follow anyone who leaves,” answered Thwaites. “I didn’t feel I could go any further on my own authority, sir. It’s been worrying me all the evening. I tried to get Mr. Hobbs but he wasn’t home; he’s visiting a sister and travelling back by road so I couldn’t get him. And when I learned that the man de Courvier was dead I called you.”
“Quite right,” said Gideon. “Go down to Information, will you, and tell them to stop anyone going in or out of Falconer House. I don’t care who it is: Sir Richard himself or anyone. They can go anywhere provided you make sure they haven’t got that painting. All clear?”
“Yes, sir.” Thwaites, obviously lighter-hearted than for some time, almost bounced toward the door.
“Thwaites!”
“Sir?”
“You did say that girl was not seen to leave, didn’t you?”
“I did, sir,” said Thwaites
“And the Hampstead shop is now being closely watched?”
“By half a dozen men, sir.”
“Have anyone who leaves that shop stopped and searched, too,” ordered Gideon.
“I will, sir!”
Thwaites let the door swing to, and it banged slightly.
Gideon glanced at it absently. His forehead was wrinkled in a deep frown. With Hobbs not available and most of the senior superintendents difficult to get at during a weekend, he would have to take this job over himself. He knew that he should, and he wanted to; an issue as delicate as this should not be left to others.
His chief concern now was for the missing girl.
Christine lay on a mattress in a corner of the back room, her legs and hands tied, a scarf bound round her mouth. She had a throbbing headache and her eyes were so heavy she could no longer keep them open. She did not know how long she had been tied up but she did know that Lance had been on the premises alone for a long time and had left her here. Lance, to do such a thing! Lance, whom she had so loved, with whom there had been such deep pleasure in this place only a few hours ago. He seemed to be so desperately afraid of Robin Kell that after a few half-hearted protests, he did whatever the other man told him.
She heard movements, but she could not see.
She heard someone close by, and knew that Lance had pushed aside the curtain. Light flooded the little alcove, bright enough to hurt her eyes. She did not open them and resolutely faced the wall.
“Chris,” Lance whispered.
She pretended that she had not heard.
“Chris, it will be all right, I promise you.”
Did he lie even to himself? She wondered helplessly.
He touched her shoulder, and it was like being touched by fingers of ice.
“Chris, do you want anything?”
She could not answer because the scarf was tied so tightly. He knew that and yet he could bring himself to ask such a question. She did not stir. She was half bemused, anyhow; the effect of whatever drug they had given her had not really worn off.
“Chris,” he said again, his voice so close that she could feel his warm breath on her ear and on her cheek, “he’s gone to see your father. Your father won’t let you down.”
At last she turned to look at him. There was nothing she could say because of the gag, but she could face facts. Here was the man she loved and who had declared his love with such fierce passion, looking at her and doing nothing - nothing to help.
“Robin will come to terms with him,” he insisted.
At that, she closed her eyes, in weariness and with disgust.
“I tell you he will! Robin knows what he’s doing and he’ll make arrangements with your father. I’m absolutely certain.”
Christine could believe that he meant it; he was telling her that Robin had gone to collect a ransom for her and that her father would pay. How much would it be? A big sum, that was certain. Ten thousand pounds? Oh, she was worth more than that even to her father. He would not miss such a sum, would think nothing of paying it for a picture or a casket. He would buy her freedom as he would buy a work of art, and afterward would make her feel that she owed him even more, would expect her to be his prisoner for as long as he desired.
And yet—
He had warned her against Lance.
But he had warned her against every friend not of his own choosing.
“And I—I won’t let Robin harm you,” Lance was saying, as if he believed his empty words. “I promise you, I—What was that?”
There had been a sound downstairs, and it was followed by another, unmistakably the front door of the shop. Lance sprang up and pulled the curtains so that she could see nothing, then bounded toward the staircase.
“Robin! Is that you?”
“Who do you think it is?” Robin demanded. He came running up the stairs, very light of foot. “It’s working out perfectly. I’ve touched on Falconer’s besetting weakness.” He spoke with absolute conviction. “He’s in love with art and its treasures! They’re his idols and his mistresses rolled into one. If he had to choose between the Velazquez and his darling Christine, he’d ditch Christine. Oh, boy, are we on to a good thing!”
Christine felt as if a great weight had suddenly dropped on her, and her heart beat in dull, sickening throbs.
20: The Plot
Lancelot Judd watched as Robin began to dance and pirouette, light on his feet as a ballet dancer. Swinging to a halt, he gave a burst of excited laughter.
“Who wants to be a millionaire?” Robin hummed the tune, and began to pirouette again, then stopped immediately in front of Lance. “And you’re on a bed of roses, Sir Lancelot, you’ll be the millionaire’s son-in-law! Which reminds me, how is our stricken fawn?”
“She—she’s still sleeping. You—you won’t do anything to hurt her, will you?”
“My dear Sir Lancelot, what makes you think I could be so ungallant? Would I harm your wife-to-be - especially as, married to you, she will be able to bring all the necessary psychological pressures on the great Sir Richard. Do as we say dear Daddy-in-law, or think what we’ll do to your daughter.” He laughed again. “Do you know, he didn’t offer me a drink. But you will, won’t you?”
Lance turned to a small oak chest on which stood bottles and glasses.
“What will you have?” he asked eagerly.
“Champagne, Sir Lancelot, what else will suit the mood of the night? Champagne! All right, I’ll settle for a whisky-and-soda!” Now he moved about the room, rhythmic and self-assured despite his excitement. “The superb thing is that everything is working exactly according to plan. I’ll even be able to send for Marie; she was so edgy after the sad death of Jenkins and Slater that I thought she ought to rest.” He sat down in a large armchair and stretched his legs out in front of him, took the glass which Lance proffered, and said “Cheers!” and drank. “Now to business! Falconer has the Velazquez and it nearly gave him a fit, he was so excited. Tomorrow he will pay me for it, and then I’ll show him some photographs of other treasures - treasures he’d sell his wife, his daughter, and his soul for. You will go and see him and if you can marry Christine, and very soon you’ll be one of the family. From that time on, I will sell him treasures as he requires them. The only problem will be a place to keep them, but I expect Sir Richard will look after that. There must be very large cellars and vaults at Falconer House.” He drank again and looked up at his friend, eyes aglow. “Can you see where it can possibly go wrong?”
“Not—er—not really,” Lance said. “Except—er—after this will Christine want to marry me?”
“For her father’s, mother’s, an
d honour’s sake, she will marry you,” said Robin positively.
No, no, no! Christine cried within herself. Not now, not after this. Never.
But she caught her breath as she heard Robin go on.
“She is in love with you, Sir Lancelot. Although for some strange, pathological reason, I am proof against usual human emotions, needing only sex shared with enthusiasm, I can still see the unmistakable evidence of these emotions in others. And Christine is the type of woman who would stay faithful to a man no matter how he beat or ill-treated her, no matter how many other women he flaunted before her distressed gaze. She’s a natural masochist. Look how she suffers the dictates of dear Daddy, pretending to resent them but always going back for more. Oh, she’ll marry you, (a) because she’s in love with you, (b) because it will keep her father out of trouble, and (c) because if she refused and really meant it then I’d cut her pretty throat!”
“Don’t say that!” cried Lancelot.
“Think what incentive you have to be a truly great lover,” Robin said. “Go to her now. Wake her with your prowess and woo her with your love. You are in love with her, aren’t you?”
“God knows I am,” muttered Lancelot Judd. “God knows I am.”
As she heard that, Christine’s despair lifted a little, and although she told herself that it was madness, that they could never marry, she could never be happy in such a marriage, she was aware in her whole body of the gentle touch of his hands.
“It will be all right,” he whispered. “I always said it would be all right.”
She felt sure that he actually believed it. In his way, he must be the most naive man in the world.
For a long time, while all these things were going on, Richard Falconer lay by his wife’s side. He had known, as she had known, a few moments of diffidence not far removed from shyness, but these had soon passed. Their shared warmth was comfort, and for a while he lay wide awake, his muscles tense and aching slightly, his head taut with physical as well as emotional strain, his heart leaden. After a while, he turned on his side and put his arm round her, feeling her body respond to his.
“Are you awake?” he whispered, knowing well that she was.
“Yes,” she said. “Wide awake.”
“I don’t know what to do,” he said. “I really don’t know what to do. I am afraid. I really am afraid that Christine is in grave danger.”
“What can we do?” asked Charlotte.
She sensed that she must lie there, unmoving yet showing her awareness of him, that she must not show signs of agitation or distress, because it might drive him away again, to the distant places where he had been over a long and weary time. So, she stilled her own deep fears and asked him, simply, what they could do.
“That young man who came here,” he said, “is a friend of Lancelot Judd.... And he is—evil, Charlotte. Evil is the only word to describe him. A thief, too, and no fool.” He stopped but she waited without prompting, and he went on: “He left the stolen Velazquez with me.”
This time, she started, her body stiffening, and half turned her head.
“‘The Prince’?”
“Yes,” Falconer answered. “The picture itself, not a copy - I have no doubt at all. I’ve put it in my safe.”
“But—” she began, twisting her head round still further. Then, acutely aware of his need, she forced herself to appear relaxed. “You can’t keep it, surely?” she asked gently.
“No. No, I can’t possibly keep it. Although the temptation is—” He paused, and she felt his fingers pressing into her, powerful but free of passion. “The temptation is awful, Charlotte. I—I love these treasures. I love them.”
“I know,” she said, and, in a whisper that he could hardly hear, went on: “Each like a beautiful woman. It is a long time since I stopped being jealous of them.”
“Jealous?” he echoed wonderingly, and after a pause he asked, “He offered me that and many more, and threatened, if I refused to buy, both to destroy them and to kill Christine. Do you see how fiendishly clever that is? To offer me what I crave for a sum of money which I can well afford, and Christine’s safety to make my connivance seem justifiable. Charlotte, Charlotte,” he went on, his voice almost breaking, “how can I cooperate with this man? How can I leave him free to steal more of the world’s treasures, threatening, bullying, killing those who stand in his way? Yet if I don’t cooperate, what will happen to the treasures he already has? And what will happen to Christine?”
As Charlotte turned to face him, her body astir with fear, he held her tightly as if they were as much part of each other as on the night when their daughter had been conceived, and he said in a voice more broken still: “It’s a terrible dilemma, Charlotte. What are we to do?”
21: Decision
Yes, Charlotte thought bitterly, it is a terrible dilemma. She thought of Christine, and full awareness of the danger pierced through her for the first time; the true horror of it. That it should have taken such a situation to melt the ice which had for so long kept them apart was anguish in itself. But she must not show her feelings too much; if she gave way to them, she might undo what good had already come out of the situation. She had to fight for him, and for themselves, and for Christine.
“How did you leave the situation with this man?” she asked.
“He’s to be in touch with me tomorrow”
“Are you sure Christine is safe until then?”
“He’ll know that if she isn’t kept unharmed, there can be no business between us.”
“So that’s her insurance.”
“It’s the only insurance we can have,” Falconer told her. “I am quite sure that she is in no danger tonight. If I could rest for a few hours, I might see more clearly in the morning. Even if I rest only for an hour or two.”
While he lay sleeping, Charlotte’s mind was in a turmoil; one moment she was sure that they must tell the police at once, the next equally sure that at all costs they must protect Christine. After a while, she could not lie there any longer, and she eased herself away from Richard and then out of bed.
He did not stir.
She went into her dressing room and made some tea and drank it while fighting the battle out with herself. For the first time since they had married, she was in a position to influence him on what course to take. Yet she had never wanted so much to leave the decision to him.
Gideon was still at his desk at half past twelve that Sunday night, and still undecided, but he was veering more and more toward postponing any decision until the morning. There was no certainty that Christine Falconer was in danger, and with the house and the shop closely watched, nothing could be brought away. A raid to search Falconer House now would be difficult to stage, difficult perhaps to justify. Yet if he asked Falconer to let the police search, then obviously the man would have a chance to hide anything he had illegally. Gideon did not want and did not mean to be swayed by Falconer’s wealth and position, but if Thwaites was wrong and the search was abortive, the newspapers would make a tremendous fuss and the prestige of the Yard would be severely damaged. If ever there was a time to be sure before acting, this was it.
He drummed on his desk, going over every aspect of the case, measuring Thwaites’s suspicions against the probabilities and tonight’s evidence. He yawned suddenly. Probably the best thing would be to sleep on it. He could put his head down on a bed in one of the first aid cubicles, used for such a purpose. He had telephoned Kate when he arrived and told her he would probably not be home. She had been yawny and tired and very happy.
“Such a lovely evening, George.”
And here he was, yawning and postponing a decision.
On that instant, he closed his mouth like a trap, pulled a telephone forward, and put in a call to Hampstead, the KL Division Headquarters.
“Any developments at Judd’s shop?” he demanded.
“No, sir. I had a report in only three or four minutes ago. Everything’s in darkness there.”
“Thanks,” grunt
ed Gideon, and put down the receiver only to lift it again and call the AB Division Headquarters, about Falconer House.
“No excitement,” answered the Superintendent in charge. “I went out there myself and came back only twenty minutes ago. Everything’s quiet. The last person seen to go in was Oliphant, Falconer’s personal assistant, and he carried nothing in the way of a case or a parcel.”
“The house is closely watched?”
“Tight as a drum, sir. Like Judd’s shop.”
“Good. I’m going over to Falconer’s place myself, to talk to him,” Gideon told him, hardly aware that he had come to such a positive decision. “I’ll have a couple of men with me, but I want your chaps alerted.”
“They will be! Like me along with you, sir?”
“Do you want to come?”
“Not particularly,” answered the Superintendent. “There’s been a bank robbery in Park Lane, and I ought to go there.”
“Then do that,” said Gideon. He put down the receiver and almost immediately picked it up again, dialled a third time, and said: “I want a car, driver, and one other man waiting for me in five minutes. Not a minute more. Do you know if Mr. Thwaites is still in the building?”
“He’s having a kip - sleeping upstairs, sir.”
Gideon grunted and rang off, took an old raincoat off a peg, and slipped it on as he went upstairs to the first aid room. Two men as well as Thwaites were there, heavily asleep, one of them snoring loudly. Thwaites himself looked very tired and old; he was sleeping in an undershirt, and one big, rather flabby arm was over a blanket. It seemed a pity to wake him, but if this was the kill, Thwaites had to be in on it. Gideon shook him slightly by the shoulder, and Thwaites was alert instantly, his eyes flickering.
