by Helen Wells
“What are you doing?” Auntie Pru asked suspiciously.
“Just making a note of what Meg Greene wrote down.”
Cherry checked the blotter minutely. She recalled Auntie Pru’s report—Meg Greene saying “Righto. I’ll remember that.” Remember what? A street address? If not, it was something simple enough or brief enough to remember without writing it down—perhaps a name?
“Whatever do you want to do that for?” Auntie Pru persisted.
At that moment Martha Logan walked into the sitting room, looking refreshed. To her astonishment, Cherry gave her a vague “hello” from the writing desk, while bending over the desk and peering into the mirror of the open compact in her hand.
“What are you doing?” Martha asked.
Cherry turned around from the desk. “—uh—” She gulped apologetically. “Why don’t you talk with Miss Pru Heekins, here, while I—Please, Mrs. Logan!”
“Oh. Certainly.” Martha recognized Cherry’s urgency. “May I sit with you, Miss Heekins? Have you been at The Cat and Fiddle long?”
Auntie Pru at once loosed a torrent of talk at this newcomer. Martha Logan, taken by surprise, defenseless, looked in Cherry’s direction with an expression that asked, “Why did you do this to me?”
Cherry signaled back, “Sorry—something urgent—” No, the blotter held no other entry in the same handwriting, and Agnes must have emptied the wastebasket. Well, it was not up to her but to the police to search further.
Cherry rescued her patient from Auntie Pru, just as Mr. Munn came in to say that lunch was served.
“Sorry it took so long to prepare,” Mr. Munn said, leading the way to the dining room. “Where is Mrs. Greene, I wonder? Hasn’t she come in yet for lunch?”
Meg Greene was never coming back to The Cat and Fiddle, Cherry thought, but said nothing. She did not want to unleash another deluge of talk from Auntie Pru, who sat down at a table with a little bunch of flowers and a napkin ring—apparently her usual table. Mr. Munn seated Martha and Cherry at the far end of the room.
Agnes served them a good meal. Martha ate well, and Cherry was relieved to see how a little sleep and food revived her. Only toward the end of lunch did Cherry tell her Auntie Pru’s story.
Martha at once saw the significance. “I’m fascinated,” she said. “But how reliable are her ‘facts’?”
“Auntie isn’t the brightest person in the world,” Cherry admitted. “Still it’s possible she saw and heard pretty much what she insists she did. Allowing for certain inaccuracies—the police will know how to evaluate her story.”
Several detectives arrived as the three guests came out of the dining room. Auntie Pru was all a-twitter to see them, coquettishly adjusted her ancient hat, removed her glasses, then put them on again because she bumped into Mr. Spencer. He seemed to know Auntie Pru, or at least to know who she was. So did the inspector and the stout detective. Martha Logan whispered to Cherry that some additional men had joined them.
The detectives put most of their questions to Auntie Pru. They seemed inclined to discount her reliability as a source of information at first, but Auntie Pru told the same consistent story she had told Cherry, then dramatically led them to the writing desk. The detectives were very much interested in the telltale blotter and removed it for laboratory examination. One man at once got to work on the phone to trace the call from Edinburgh.
The detectives made a systematic search of the room Meg Greene had occupied. She had left behind a cheap suitcase, a few inexpensive garments from which all labels had been carefully removed, and some toilet articles. The detectives impounded these for further study. They also examined the room for Meg Greene’s fingerprints, and examined the contents of her wastebasket, which Agnes had emptied that morning. Apparently none of these things provided clues.
While this was going on, other detectives questioned Mr. Munn and Agnes. The innkeeper said, “Mrs. Greene told me she would leave sometime today, and she paid her bill this morning before starting out for her walk. I offered to drive her to the nearest bus stop or railroad station, since there is no taxi service here, but Mrs. Greene answered me in a vague way—evasively, I see now.”
The quiet detective, Spencer, again talked with Cherry and Martha. “Your description of Lady Liddy tallies exactly with Mr. Munn’s description of Meg Greene, no doubt about that,” the detective said. “However, she’s evidently an assistant in a carefully planned scheme. The man who posed as the Shah—he’s probably the key man. He’s the man we want. Can you tell us something further about him?”
Cherry hesitated. Had she any right to voice her suspicion that the impostor might be Archibald Hazard? But it was only the slimmest of suspicions, based on a commonplace physical resemblance and a knowledge of art. Neither trait was unique to Mr. Hazard. Cherry kept quiet. She remarked only that the pretended “Shah” was left-handed and had turned his left ankle in his haste at leaving. The detective already knew that.
Martha Logan could only repeat the same description of the thief. The detective said dryly that with the addition of disguising clothes and beard, he tallied with the description of the man whom Auntie Pru had seen driving the Bentley.
“He and Meg Greene must have changed into their disguises somewhere near here,” the detective said, “between the time Auntie Pru saw them meet on the road and the time they arrived at the Carewe Museum. Their chauffeur must have joined them somewhere nearby, too. About that chauffeur, Miss Ames—if you are able to remember where or when you may have seen him before, will you notify us?”
Cherry said she would, and tried to think where she had seen that uniformed chauffeur before. It was hard to remember in the midst of today’s excitement. Where else had she seen a dark man in chauffeur’s uniform and cap? … Martha Logan gave the detective the name of the hotel where they would stay in Edinburgh, on the slight chance they might be needed. Mr. Spencer then said that they and their driver, Edwin, were free to leave.
Auntie Pru rushed over to say goodbye to Cherry, shaking her hand and holding up a magnifying glass that she had importantly produced.
“It’s my embroidery magnifying glass,” Auntie Pru said breathlessly. “Perhaps I can be of further aid to the authorities, seeing as I’ve been of outstanding aid already—the sergeant said so!”
“Well, congratulations—and goodbye, Auntie Pru,” said Cherry, trying to pull her hand free.
“Goodbye, goodbye, Miss Nurse! I fancy you’ll be reading about me in the newspapers. Oh, I say, if you ladies ever come by here again—”
They might never have escaped, except that another group of detectives came in and distracted Auntie’s attention. One reported to the sergeant:
“I’ve found the rented black Bentley, sir. It was abandoned in a meadow out of sight behind a hedge, over near the woods. Three of our men are hunting through the woods.”
The sergeant said, “Either those three are hiding in the woods—or more likely, since they shrewdly abandoned the Bentley, they are using other means of transportation to get away.” He said this so calmly that Cherry realized the police, on a national alert, must already be watching all roads, buses, trains, and planes. The sergeant added, “A pity they had a little additional time to get away while we checked on the whereabouts of the true Shah Liddy. But, of course, as I told Mr. Carewe on the telephone, that had to be done.”
Cherry would not let Martha stay to listen to any more. “We can hear about any developments on the radio or television,” Cherry said. “Now you must go back to our hotel and really rest.”
Edwin drove them quietly along the almost empty roads. Martha Logan murmured that this had been an extraordinary experience.
“I could mention something still more extraordinary,” Cherry said. “Did it occur to you, as it did to me, that our friend in the beard and mackintosh may have been Mr. Hazard?” And she gave her reasons.
Martha Logan considered this, then shook her head. “You could be right, but I just can’t believe it.”
&nb
sp; Cherry did not discuss the theft any further, in the interests of her patient’s peace of mind and health.
For the balance of that afternoon they rested. That evening they packed. Next morning at nine they boarded another big tour bus for the all-day drive north to Edinburgh, Scotland. As the bus started off, Cherry was thinking: Muir 2361.
CHAPTER VIII
Muir 2361
THERE WAS PETER! HE WAS HURRYING DOWN THE LOBBY as Cherry and Mrs. Logan entered the Edinburgh hotel. It was five o’clock. They had enjoyed the drive through steadily higher and wilder hills, crossing the border at Gretna Green for their first look at a Scottish village, then north, into this ancient, gray-stone city of battlements, castle, and churches. By now Martha looked very tired, and Cherry wished Peter could have bumped into them at a better moment.
“Hello, hello!” he said joyfully. “It’s wonderful to see you both! How are you?” He shifted his armful of books in order to shake hands with them.
“How was the bicycle tour?” Martha Logan asked.
“Terrific! My students are enthusiastic. I’m just on my way to meet them to hear a lecture about Sir Walter Scott,” Peter said. He exuded such good health and high spirits that Cherry beamed at him.
“How was your visit to the Carewe Museum?” he asked.
“A great treat,” Martha said, “but we were there when that terrible robbery took place.”
Peter frowned. “I heard about that—the press and radio are full of it.”
“We didn’t do it,” Cherry said, to make him smile again. What was Peter looking so serious about?
“The darndest thing happened this morning—this noon,” he started to say, then changed his mind. “Cherry, I must talk to you, but I see you and Mrs. Logan haven’t even registered yet. Can you meet me here tomorrow, for lunch about twelve thirty?”
They agreed on that. Peter went off to the lecture. Cherry had Mrs. Logan sit down and ordered hot tea for her while she herself took care of registering. One of the hotel clerks gave Cherry their mail. It included letters from Cherry’s family, letters from Martha Logan’s children, and a telephone message from the Edinburgh police. It asked the two American ladies to telephone Inspector Forbes at a given number as soon as they arrived.
They were not surprised—they had told the Windermere police they were coming here. Cherry decided, though, to take care of her patient for a few minutes first.
Their high-ceilinged adjoining rooms each had featherbeds, which delighted Martha Logan. She lay down on hers, “just to test it out.” Meanwhile, Cherry telephoned Dr. Malcolm MacKenzie, the orthopedist whom the London doctor had recommended. She succeeded in making an appointment for Martha Logan for the following morning at eleven.
Then Cherry telephoned Inspector Forbes. A matter-of-fact voice said, “We need to see you at our office immediately. Can you come? … Take a taxi. We will pay the fare.”
“Just a moment.” Cherry consulted Martha Logan, who agreed she was not feeling energetic enough to go and should ask to be excused. “Hello,” Cherry said into the telephone, and explained. “Will it be all right, Mr. Forbes, if only I come?”
“Yes. Please be quick.”
Cherry snatched up her handbag and coat and hurried downstairs and into a taxi. Driving across the somber stone city, she saw in the last light of dusk, high in the air, ancient Edinburgh Castle seeming to grow out of a great rock. How far she was from home, Cherry thought. She remembered uncanny Scottish ghost stories, tales of bloody clan battles and royal balls, and Tam o’ Shanter’s meeting with the witches at roaring River Doon. Here in the city, the streets already were half deserted, and dim street lamps flickered eerily in the cold, misty air.
The taxi let her out at a nondescript building. Cherry was ushered into a brightly lighted, efficient office that brought her back to the present with a jolt. Several detectives were at work at desks and telephones.
Inspector Forbes looked like a cross between a businessman and an Army officer. He had with him a handsome, well-dressed, dignified young woman. She was a policewoman, Sergeant Mary Jean Kerr, who would work with them, the inspector said.
“That is, I hope you are willing to work with us, Miss Ames,” Mr. Forbes said. “I believe you were the first to discover the telephone number Muir 2361, of which the Windermere police notified us yesterday afternoon. Incidentally, their laboratory examination of the desk blotter from The Cat and Fiddle Inn didn’t reveal anything more than you found. … Yes, Muir 2361 is an Edinburgh number. I understand further, Miss Ames, that yesterday morning you were as close to the supposed Shah and his wife as I now am to you. Miss Ames, we need your help in identifying the suspects.”
Cherry said, “I’d be glad to help in any way I can, Inspector Forbes.” The young policewoman smiled at her.
The inspector nodded. “We have traced that telephone number to a shop that does fine needlework and—er—makes and sells doll clothes. A small shop, not prosperous, run by a Mrs. Kirby, a widow. She has no record that we can ascertain.
“We have observed the shop closely,” Inspector Forbes said, “ever since the Windermere police notified us yesterday afternoon. So far we have seen only Mrs. Kirby, a few customers, and a needlewoman bringing in some work. Our men have, of course, followed these persons and checked up on them. We have also listened in, and checked on, all telephone calls to and from Muir 2361. Nothing suspicious, nothing revealing—so far,” he finished.
Cherry thanked him for briefing her.
“Oh, yes, and we’ve seen a child of ten or twelve,” the inspector added. “Neighbors say she is Mrs. Kirby’s daughter, Amy. The child brings Mrs. Kirby lunch from a restaurant at eleven thirty, and eats with her mother in the shop. Then she goes back to school, our men report. Sometimes she runs out after lunch to bring her mother ice cream, or occasionally she returns to the shop after school. We have found no reason to suspect the child.”
“If I may add something, sir?” Mary Jean Kerr said. “She’s a quiet, nice little girl, very obedient—one would almost say, a far better child than one would expect an undesirable person like Mrs. Kirby to have.”
“Quite true,” Inspector Forbes said. “Now then, Miss Ames! Making a telephone call to Muir 2361 is where we need your help.”
He pointed out that since Muir 2361 had originally been supplied to Meg Greene, alias Lady Liddy, whoever answered at Muir 2361 might expect to hear a feminine voice—might expect Meg Greene to call that number. Hers was an English voice. So Cherry’s voice, with her American accent, would not do. The inspector said Sergeant Kerr would telephone.
“I’d like you to listen in,” the inspector said to Cherry, “and tell me whether you can identify the voice of the person who answers.”
It might be the shopwoman, or it might just possibly be Meg Greene or even the pretended Shah—though the inspector did not think that was likely.
“The shop probably is a front for the thieves, not a hideout,” he explained to Cherry. “We have established that much by sending in a fire-department inspector to search the premises. Very likely the thieves know we are watching the shop, and so they won’t use it for a hideout. Our men believe the thieves plan to keep undercover and use the shop as a relay station for messages. That’s why the Muir 2361 number was passed along, probably. But when they will use it and where the thieves are hiding out—”
The inspector sat back, thinking. Then he signaled a man at another desk to plug in three extension earphones, one for the inspector, one for himself, and one for Cherry. Before the call to Muir 2361 went through, the policewoman asked Cherry to describe “Lady Liddy’s voice—that is, Meg Greene’s.”
“Soft, hesitant, but then she was pretending to be sick,” Cherry said. “That’s not much help, is it?”
The inspector drummed his fingers on the desk. “It will be awkward if Meg Greene answers, but that’s a chance we have to take. You had better say—or hint—that you are a friend of Meg Greene’s,” the inspector told Mar
y Jean Kerr. “And if Meg Greene does answer, improvise.”
Sergeant Kerr nodded. The phone at the other end rang repeatedly. No one answered. They waited a few minutes, then telephoned again. Still no answer. Inspector Forbes advised Miss Kerr she might as well hang up.
“It’s well after six,” he said. “The shop is closed. We will try again tomorrow. Miss Ames, can you come back here between nine thirty and ten tomorrow morning?”
“Yes, Inspector Forbes.”
Cherry returned the next morning, and they put through the call again. This time, at the other end of the wire, a woman answered testily. Cherry, listening in, signaled that this was not a voice she had ever heard before. The detective who was listening in wrote on a pad: “It’s the shopkeeper—Mrs. Kirby.”
“A friend of mine gave me your number,” the young policewoman said into the phone. Her voice held hints and promises. “My friend said you might be more or less expecting a call from her.”
“Your friend? What friend?” said the voice, suddenly roughened with suspicion.
The policewoman said smoothly, “Excuse me if I have the wrong number. I had just better not try to deliver her message—”
“Wait a moment!” the voice said. “What message? Can you tell me your friend’s name, miss?”
Sergeant Kerr hesitated. The inspector shook his head—Meg Greene might be with them. The policewoman said into the phone, “I do dislike telling too much on the telephone, don’t you? I’d ever so much rather come to see you.” While they fenced verbally, Inspector Forbes scribbled a note and pushed it toward the policewoman: “Pretend you don’t know where Muir 2361 is.” Sergeant Kerr said into the phone, “You know, I have only your telephone number. I’ll need your address, please—and what time shall I come?”
The shopwoman’s voice floundered. “You’re making a great nuisance for me, miss, especially as I—as I needs must see my dentist today. He—uh—hasn’t said what hour. So if I can telephone you at two o’clock today? … Not earlier, miss. Then perhaps we can arrange something.”
