‘Good afternoon!’ said Temple.
‘Good afternoon to ye, sir!’ she answered with her delicious West-of-Ireland brogue.
She set the tea-tray on the sideboard and began to clear the accumulation of debris from the fireside table. Then she set the tray down on it and was about to go out when Steve stopped her.
‘Is that parcel for me, Mrs. Neddy?’ she asked.
Mrs. Neddy had entered the room carrying a parcel under her arm, and all the while she was clearing the things so that the two could drink their tea in comfort, she still carried the parcel.
‘Parcel?’ she now asked with some surprise, having completely forgotten its existence. Then suddenly she remembered. ‘Why, yes, of course!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s a good job you mentioned it now! I should ’ave probably gone to bed with it under my arm!’
Steve began to laugh. ‘I gather the memory isn’t improving!’ she said.
‘Improving!’ echoed the Irish woman. ‘Oh, ’tis something shocking, miss. There are times when I wonder who the devil I am!’
The two began to laugh at the kindly but absent-minded Mrs. Neddy. But whatever her faults, and they included the most complete disregard and contempt for any kind of efficiency, she did her work well. She kept the flat absolutely spotless, and the most fastidious of epicures could not have found fault with the excellence of her cooking. It might have lacked the variety of a Soho restaurant, but it was good, tasty, and nourishing.
Steve Trent took the parcel from her and began to inspect it. There was no stamp and no indication of its sender. It was about an inch in thickness and a foot and a half across. ‘A plate or a dish of some sort,’ reflected Steve.
‘Where did the parcel come from, Mrs. Neddy?’ asked Steve, rather puzzled.
‘It was delivered about an hour ago, by a boy. A cheeky- faced monkey he was an’ all.’
‘Was there any message?’
‘No,’ replied Mrs. Neddy. ‘No message, dearie.’ She had been staring at the tea-tray on the table in what might have been wistful contemplation. ‘Lordy!’ she exclaimed suddenly, ‘I’ve forgotten the buttered scones! You’ll have to be excusing me!’
Gathering her voluminous skirts about her, Mrs. Neddy swept majestically out of the room, bent on retrieving yet another error. Mrs. Neddy was always making errors, but errors of a kind that endeared her to Steve. Besides, she had a way of saving her face that at once completely removed any possible ill-feeling or grievance.
‘Mrs. Neddy seems quite a character!’ said Paul Temple, as she closed the door.
‘She’s a dear!’ agreed Steve fervently. Then her face became a little more serious. ‘I wonder what this is?’
‘It looks like a disc of some sort, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Steve quietly. She walked over to the sideboard, opened a drawer and took out a pair of scissors. Then she cut the string which fastened the parcel.
‘We’ll soon find out,’ she said, as she pulled back some sheets of corrugated paper and at last extracted a flat cardboard box. Inside was a gramophone record.
Steve looked at Paul Temple, a frown of curiosity over her face. ‘I wonder who sent it?’ she speculated.
‘Isn’t there some writing on the—’ Temple stopped in midsentence. The girl in front of him had turned a deathly pallor. ‘Steve!’ he exclaimed. ‘Steve, what’s the matter?’
She passed him the black disc. ‘Look what it says on the record!’ she said tensely.
Paul Temple examined the label. ‘To Louise Harvey,’ he read. ‘From the Knave of Diamonds.’
He caught her eye. For a moment neither of them spoke.
‘Max Lorraine!’ whispered Steve at last.
‘Yes!’ he agreed.
Steve Trent took the record out of his hands, and walked slowly over to the radiogram.
‘Steve!’ he said sharply. ‘What are you going to do?’
She hesitated an instant. ‘I’m going to play the record,’ she said decisively.
She opened the radiogram, switched it on, and placed the record carefully on the turntable. ‘The set takes a little while to warm up,’ she added.
‘Yes.’
‘Paul!’ This time there were traces of anxiety in her voice. ‘What do you think is on the record?’
‘I don’t know. Probably a message from the—’ He hesitated. ‘Steve!’ he said suddenly. ‘You’re shaking!’
‘No,’ she replied, though without any great conviction. ‘No, I’m…all right.’
‘Here – I’ll set it going. You sit down, dear!’
He took Steve gently by the arm and led her to one of the comfortable armchairs. She sat down in it with an infinite look of gratitude in her eyes.
Paul Temple walked slowly back to the radiogram. For some seconds he looked down at the gramophone record. From where she was sitting, Steve Trent watched him with curiosity.
‘What is it, Paul?’ she asked at length. ‘Why don’t you put the record on?’
‘Just a minute,’ said Temple. ‘Just a minute!’ He hesitated. ‘Aren’t we being a little obvious, my dear?’
‘A little obvious?’
‘Steve…Supposing you sent someone you knew a record – a gramophone record. It had no official label, and looked very mysterious. What do you think would be the first thing they’d do with it?’
‘Why, play it, of course! That’s what everyone would do under the circumstances.’
‘Yes, of course it is,’ agreed Temple. ‘That’s what everyone would do under the circumstances,’ he added slowly.
Steve looked even more puzzled.
‘Paul…I don’t understand.’
‘The person who sent you this record knew that you’d be puzzled by it,’ Paul Temple explained, ‘and he knew, without a shadow of doubt, that the first thing you’d want to do would be to satisfy your curiosity by playing it.’
‘Well?’ she inquired.
Paul Temple began to grow a little excited. His reason had told him something he did not even care to think about.
‘Steve, don’t you see?’ he asked urgently. ‘That’s the whole point! The Knave wants you to play this record – and immediately you do so, his purpose in sending it to you is fulfilled!’
‘But—but what is his purpose?’ asked Steve. Not yet had she begun to suspect what was in Paul Temple’s mind. ‘Why should he send me a gramophone record? If it contains a message, then—’
‘Any message it contains could have been sent to you in writing,’ interposed Temple quietly.
‘Yes, I—I suppose it could.’ But she was still very puzzled. ‘Then what’s on the record?’
‘Nothing,’ said Temple softly. ‘Nothing of importance. I’m sure of that.’
‘Then why should he send it?’ asked the bewildered Steve. ‘You said yourself his purpose was to get me to play it! If nothing is on the record, then—’
‘Yes, why should he send it?’ asked Temple in turn. He, too, was puzzled. ‘By Timothy!’ he exclaimed after a moment or two. ‘By Timothy, Steve!’ He hesitated. ‘The gramophone!’
‘The gramophone…?’
‘That’s what he wants!’ said Paul Temple in excited tones. ‘That’s what he wants He wants you to use the gramophone. Tell me,’ he said sharply, ‘has it always been in this position?’
‘Yes, always, only—’ Steve hesitated.
‘Well?’
Steve Trent had now caught Paul Temple’s excitement. ‘It looks as if it might have been moved slightly,’ she said. ‘It’s further against the wall as a rule. Oh, and look at the gauze on the speaker, why—’
‘It’s been altered, hasn’t it?’
‘Yes!’
Paul Temple walked back to the radio set and looked at it very carefully. He inspected the switches and the other controls; finally he bent down to examine the grill on the speaker itself.
Suddenly he jumped up and his face was set and determined.
‘What is it, Paul?’
‘Stand on one side!’ commanded Paul Temple quietly; then after a little while: ‘Steve, when you want to put a record on, you stand in front of the loud speaker like this, don’t you?’ And he stood in front of the radiogram, his arm stretched over it so that his hand was just above the tone arm.
‘Yes,’ she agreed.
‘And you lift the arm up and bring it across to the record?’ he continued.
‘That’s right!’
‘I’m going to do exactly the same, only I’m going to stand on one side instead – you’ll see why in a minute.’
He stood to one side of the radiogram, making sure at the same time that Steve was well back on the other side of the instrument. Then, very gingerly, he picked up the tone arm. He swung it over, as if to start the motor, just before setting the needle down on the groove of the record.
During that fraction of a second the room was filled with a loud, deafening report. A wisp of acrid smoke began to issue from the loud speaker grill.
‘Paul—’ ejaculated Steve, with a little cry, in sudden alarm.
Temple took her by the arm.
‘There’s a small revolver hidden by the speaker,’ he explained. ‘It’s been wired up with the tone arm. Immediately the arm was moved, the revolver was fired.’ He paused. His next words were ominous. ‘Now you know why he sent you the gramophone record. Obliging little fellow, isn’t he?’
Steve Trent shuddered visibly as she thought of the narrow escape she had experienced.
‘Thank goodness you were here when it arrived. Why, I—’
Paul Temple interrupted her.
‘How many people know that your real name is Harvey…Louise Harvey?’ he said.
‘Yourself,’ she replied, ‘Lord Broadhedge, the proprietor of The Evening Post, and Sir Graham Forbes.’ She thought a moment. ‘That’s all.’
Paul Temple nodded. ‘And Merritt, Inspector Merritt,’ he added. ‘I told him myself.’
‘Inspector Merritt?’
‘Yes.’
For a long while neither of them spoke. Each was preoccupied with this new problem that confronted them.
‘What are you thinking of?’ asked Steve Trent at last.
Paul Temple hesitated. ‘I was just wondering how long Sir Graham had smoked Russian cigarettes!’ he said.
CHAPTER XIV
Behind the Scenes
The door opened and Diana Thornley appeared.
‘Diana!’ There was amazement in Dr. Milton’s voice.
‘Has he been through here on the ’phone?’ asked Diana Thornley irritably, peeling off her gloves and throwing them on to the small oak bench.
The doctor looked up at her in surprise. ‘You mean the Chief?’
‘Yes,’ she replied impatiently. ‘Yes, of course.’
Dr. Milton seemed puzzled. ‘No, of course he hasn’t. I thought you went down to town to see him.’
‘I went to town, all right! I waited over three blasted hours in that tube station, and there wasn’t a sign of him.’
Surprise gave way to anxiety in Dr. Milton’s face. ‘I wonder why he didn’t turn up?’ he asked her.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied thoughtfully.
The two were sitting in the drawing-room of Dr. Milton’s house. It was three hours after the death of Skid Tyler at Scotland Yard.
For perhaps half an hour Dr. Milton had been alone in the room, pacing backwards and forwards, smoking innumerable cigarettes, continually looking at the clock.
When Diana Thornley came in, his eyes brightened for a moment, thinking that she might have news. Now both were sitting in front of the fireplace, equally dejected.
‘You haven’t heard anything further about Skid?’ asked Dr. Milton suddenly.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘They’re still holding him, as far as I know.’
‘I hope to God Skid doesn’t talk,’ he added anxiously. ‘That’s all I’m worried about.’
Just then the door opened, and a tall man moved slowly into sight. Snow Williams was a rather sinister individual in the late forties. He was wearing a drab, grey overcoat, and underneath it an equally drab grey suit with badly worn shoes. He was very thin, and the deathly pallor of his gaunt cheeks added to the unpleasantness of his appearance.
Even the hardened Diana Thornley felt uncomfortable in his presence.
Slowly, he came forward until he stood with his back to the fireplace. Then he took off his overcoat, hung it carefully over a chair, and lit one of Dr. Milton’s cigarettes. Only then did he speak.
‘Any news?’ he asked. His lips barely parted for the words to issue forth. It was a smooth, deep voice, that had, oddly enough, once known a public school, and even a university.
‘No,’ answered Diana abruptly.
‘Didn’t you see the Knave?’ he continued.
‘No,’ she replied again, this time even more impatiently.
Snow Williams seemed to share Dr. Milton’s nervousness. ‘Something’s in the wind!’ he said anxiously. ‘Something’s in the wind, if you ask me!’
‘Well, nobody’s asking you!’ said Diana, with obvious irritation in her voice.
Snow was in no way annoyed by her tone of voice.
‘It’s a devil of a time since the robbery, and we haven’t heard a word about Skid,’ he continued unperturbed. ‘I tell you, he’ll talk! He’ll talk!’
Dr. Milton looked as if he could scarcely restrain himself. ‘Shut up, Snow!’ he burst out angrily. Then after a little while he asked: ‘Have you seen Horace?’
‘Yes,’ was the reply.
‘What about the stuff?’
‘That’s all right,’ answered Snow. He chuckled in his throat. It was an eerie sound. ‘That’s all right!’ he repeated.
‘Then there’s nothing to worry about!’ exclaimed Dr. Milton. He pointed to a sideboard where stood decanters, siphons, bottles and glasses. ‘Mix me a drink, and you’d better mix yourself one too.’
Snow Williams walked over to the sideboard and opened a bottle of whisky. Just as he was pouring it out, a telephone bell began to ring.
‘That’s the Chief!’ said Dr. Milton. ‘It’s the special line.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Diana. ‘I’ll take it.’
She walked over to a cupboard in a corner of the room, pressed a hidden button, and watched a panel slide back to reveal a telephone. She lifted the receiver and started speaking.
‘Hello…Hello…Yes…Why didn’t you meet me? What? Yes…Yes, I’m listening…’
‘What is it?’ put in the doctor anxiously.
Diana signed to him to be still. ‘Yes…When?…Temple? Yes…Yes…I say, be careful! Milton is here now…Yes…Yes, all right. Goodbye!’
She replaced the receiver, pressed the button to close the panel, and rejoined the two men.
‘Well?’ asked Dr. Milton urgently.
‘How’s Skid?’ came from Snow Williams.
Diana Thornley looked hard at them both. ‘Skid’s dead!’ she announced.
‘Dead!’ echoed the doctor.
‘Yes!’ Diana Thornley paused. ‘He was going to—talk.’
‘He…he didn’t?’ inquired Dr. Milton anxiously.
‘No. The Knave got him in time.’
The doctor sighed with relief and took the drink Snow was offering him. ‘Why didn’t he meet you?’
‘He didn’t say,’ Diana Thornley replied. She paused, deep in thought. ‘You’d better get in touch with Horace, Snow!’ she instructed. ‘Tell him we meet again on Friday.’
‘Friday?’
‘There’s a jeweller’s at Nottingham called Trenchman,’ she explained. ‘They’ve got a new stone. The Chief wants me to have a look at it. I’m going over there tomorrow. If it’s as good as the reports say it is, then…we’ll discuss the matter on Friday with Dixie.’
‘Good!’ agreed Dr. Milton.
‘Oh, and there’s just one other point,’ said Diana. ‘Our friend Mr. Paul Temple has got to be taken care of. Do you think you ca
n manage it, Doc?’
Milton began to laugh. ‘What do you think?’ He looked at the lovely dark girl before him, now imperious as she was ruthless. He chuckled again. ‘What do you think?’
CHAPTER XV
The Wristlet Watch
The plan Paul Temple had suggested to the Commissioner of Police had won wide favour. Here, at last, was a definite move that might lead to something tangible. Up to the present the police had been working completely in the dark, for both of the criminals who could be identified with the crimes, Lefty Jackson and Skid Tyler, had met a sudden and unexpected end. Scotland Yard only knew of men who had worked for the gang; they knew nothing of any of its present members, save that its leader might be a nebulous figure known as Max Lorraine or the Knave of Diamonds.
Now Paul Temple was carrying the war into the enemy camp. He had himself formed one or two shrewd suspicions, but needed confirmation for them. The police themselves welcomed the plan in that it might at last give them something positive to work on.
On the Thursday after Skid Tyler’s sudden and mysterious end at Scotland Yard, Steve Trent had driven her little sports car up to Bramley Lodge. An old acquaintance was coming to see Paul Temple, and Steve was anxious to meet him. Temple and Steve were now sitting over their coffee in the lounge, awaiting his arrival. As usual, they had much to talk about, and as usual where journalists are concerned, most of it was concerned with the stranger happenings of the moment in which they were personally involved. In this case, however, although they tried to forget the ‘Midland Mysteries’, conversation seemed to drift back to the subject quite naturally.
At last Pryce came in to announce the arrival of Alec Rice.
As he entered, Paul Temple jumped out of his seat to welcome him. The two had not met for some years, and the warmth of their greeting showed how glad they were to see each other again. The jeweller was a man who looked at least fifteen years junior to Temple, whereas he could only have been four or five years younger at the most. He was a huge man of breezy manners who swept everything before him. He was now wearing a pair of old and very voluminous grey flannel trousers with an even more ancient Harris tweed jacket. Nevertheless, Alec Rice was not entirely an old public school boy who could talk of little but sport, and had to adopt the exaggerated accent of pseudo-culture. He was essentially a businessman who had thrown off his robes of office to get into these comfortable old clothes for an informal call. Consequently, on being introduced to Steve, he felt it more discreet to withdraw as rapidly as circumstances permitted. Not that Steve made him feel gawkish or boorish at all, but he felt he was both intruding and that his garb was not quite what it might have been. Steve was wearing a long dinner dress of black silk, while Paul Temple, who was by no means a slave to fashion but liked to do ‘the right thing’, was wearing a tuxedo.
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