‘What do you think of that?’ demanded Sir Graham, more than a little excited.
Temple picked up the letter and read:
My dear Sir Graham,
Just recently there seems to have been a great many rumours to the effect that the author of the novel The Front Page Men is personally responsible for the amazing number of crimes committed by a gang of ruthless criminals, who for some unknown reason wish to be known as The Front Page Men. As the author of the book in question, I need hardly say that the rumours are without the slightest foundation, and that I deplore most fervently the wicked and criminal activities of this gang. I have been intending to write to you about this matter for quite a while, but circumstances over which I have no control compel me to conceal my identity. I trust, however, that you will readily believe me when I say that I am most certainly not connected with the despicable organisation who, for reasons best known to themselves, wish to be known as The Front Page Men.
Yours sincerely,
Andrea Fortune.
Temple slowly re-read the letter, then held it up to the light and examined it carefully. There was no address at the top of the paper, which was of excellent quality. The signature was typed.
‘Looks as if she used a portable typewriter,’ commented Sir Graham. ‘I’ll get Watts on this straight away.’
‘What about the envelope – is there a postmark?’ asked Temple.
Sir Graham rummaged in his wastepaper basket and brought the envelope to light. For some moments he scrutinised it under a powerful magnifying glass.
‘This is interesting,’ he pronounced at length. ‘Funny we should be talking about Ann Mitchell’s flat.’
‘Oh,’ said Temple, failing to see the connection. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because this letter appears to have been posted in Bloomsbury,’ answered Forbes.
Before they could discuss the matter any further, the telephone rang, and Forbes picked up the receiver.
‘Yes? Hello, Digby … yes … on the six-ten from Paddington. Well, tell Hunter to stick to him like glue, and if you see anything suspicious, just pounce on it for all you’re worth. All right … goodbye, Digby.’ He thoughtfully replaced the receiver.
‘Now we’re all set,’ he announced. ‘Mr. John Leonard Paradise leaves for Birmingham on the six-ten with Inspector Hunter – and a million pounds’ worth of jewellery.’
‘Not a bad train, the six-ten,’ murmured Temple, casually lighting a cigarette. ‘Takes just two hours. Plenty of things can happen in that time, all the same.’
‘That,’ declared Forbes rather uncertainly, ‘is just what I am afraid of.’
CHAPTER XXIV
Murder on the Six-ten
With its chocolate-and-yellow carriages gleaming in the evening sunshine, the six-ten slid away from the smoke of Paddington. Clattering through a series of grimy suburbs, it picked up speed until it was swinging along at a steady fifty miles an hour past the new housing estates which sprawl their way into the countryside.
On opposite sides of a first-class compartment sat Inspector Hunter and Mr. John Leonard Paradise, a dapper little man, who held a small attache-case very carefully on his knees. When he spoke, he talked in prim, rather clipped tones. He was meticulously dressed in a blue serge lounge suit, of irreproachable Bond Street cut. His shoes were small, pointed and beautifully polished.
Mr. Paradise had agreed with Hunter that it would be better for both of them to remain in their compartment, rather than take the slightest risk by venturing to the dining-car. Mr. Paradise went over in his mind the dinner he had ordered by telephone, which would be waiting for him when they reached their destination. For Mr. John Leonard Paradise was something of a gourmet.
Hunter found his gaze returning time and again to the attache-case, until he almost imagined that he could see beyond that glossy brown cover to the sparkling diamonds that lay inside. Hunter’s nerves were on edge, and Mr. Paradise was hardly a soothing influence. He fidgeted constantly, not from nervousness, for he was quite accustomed to carrying the Carter Collection around with him. In fact, he was inclined to be rather amused at all the precautions Scotland Yard were taking.
From time to time they carried on a desultory conversation, but both were inclined to be somewhat reticent.
‘What time do you make it, Inspector?’ asked Paradise, presently.
‘It’s about seven-forty. We should soon be getting into Leamington.’
‘H’m, fairly good train this.’
‘One of the fastest in the country,’ replied Hunter indifferently. ‘I suppose you have made all your arrangements in Birmingham?’
‘Yes, I’m staying at the hotel where the ball is being held, so that simplifies matters.’
‘Well, as soon as I’ve seen the collection safely locked away I’ll shoot back to Town,’ decided Hunter. ‘One of our men will call round in the morning to see if everything’s all right, and he’ll come back with you on Saturday.’
‘You people don’t seem to leave much to chance,’ commented Paradise, with a faint smile.
‘We can’t afford to – with a million at stake.’
The roar of the train changed its note as the brakes were gradually applied. ‘This must be Leamington,’ announced Hunter, as a few isolated villas came into view, to be followed by the rather disappointing railside suburbs of the royal spa.
‘Not many people about on the platform,’ commented Paradise, peering out of the window.
‘No, it’s rather late,’ explained Hunter.
‘What sort of a place is Leamington?’
‘I’ve never actually stayed there for any length of time,’ said Hunter. ‘I’ve passed through occasionally by road. It’s very like most of these spas – wide avenues, big shopping street, parks, gardens and so on.’ Before he could add to this description, the form of a ticket-collector appeared in the doorway of the compartment.
Waiting for him to clip the pieces of pasteboard he had handed over, Hunter glanced casually out of the window and saw a man in policeman’s uniform running along the platform.
‘Hello, what’s the matter with this fellow? He seems in a devil of a hurry,’ remarked Hunter, as the man in uniform came up to their compartment.
‘Why, it’s Sergeant Lewis!’ exclaimed the ticket-collector, in a surprised voice.
‘Hello, White,’ said the police sergeant.
‘Anything the matter?’ asked the ticket-collector.
‘Yes, I’m looking for a man named Hunter – Inspector Hunter. He’s supposed to be on this train.’
‘What is it, Sergeant?’ snapped Hunter.
‘I beg your pardon, sir, but—’
‘This is Inspector Hunter,’ Mr. Paradise informed the sergeant.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, sir. You’re wanted on the telephone, urgent. I believe it’s the Chief Commissioner. We have special orders to hold the train.’
‘Oh,’ said Hunter, rising. ‘Where is the phone?’
‘In the second of those huts, sir,’ replied the sergeant, indicating some temporary buildings which had been erected during alterations to the station.
‘I’ll find it. You stay here, Sergeant.’
‘That’s all right, sir. The Chief Commissioner explained about Mr. Paradise.’
‘Good!’
Hunter left the compartment and made his way along the platform. He had no difficulty in locating the hut indicated, but it was some seconds before he saw the telephone in a rather gloomy distant corner.
The receiver was dangling by its cord, and he snatched it up quickly.
For quite two minutes he failed to get any response. Then suddenly, to his surprise, he heard the train moving away.
‘Hello!’ called Hunter, desperately. In his excitement, he snatched at the cord which connected the instrument to a box on the wall. It came away in his hand.
Hearing a slight noise behind him, Hunter turned sharply. Three men stood there. Two wore rather dark and untidy mackint
oshes, and he had never seen them before. By the crude light of the oil-lamp suspended from the ceiling, however, Hunter recognised in the third, the familiar features of Mr. Andrew Brightman.
Mr. Paradise sat blandly clutching his attache-case. The ticket-collector and the sergeant had retired to the corridor, as if they were reluctant to intrude upon his privacy.
If Mr. Paradise had listened carefully to their voices, he would have noticed that the sergeant’s had undergone a complete change from the gruff tone adopted in keeping with his appearance. Swan Williams had now resumed his high-pitched falsetto in addressing his colleague.
‘Are the boys ready?’ the ticket-collector was asking.
‘Yes, they’re standing by at the end of this coach,’ said Swan. ‘What about Digby?’
‘Don’t worry. He’s been taken care of.’
Feeling a slight vibration, Swan looked out. ‘We’re off!’ He beckoned to the other to return to the compartment.
‘My word, the Inspector will have to be quick,’ said Paradise, as they opened the door.
‘You’ll be all right with me, sir,’ Swan assured him, adopting his gruff voice once more.
Nevertheless, Paradise was obviously a trifle alarmed as the train cleared the platform and headed for the Warwickshire countryside.
‘Get the blinds down,’ suddenly hissed Swan Williams.
‘O.K.’ The ticket-collector snatched down a blind in each hand.
‘What—what is—this?’ stammered Paradise, now plainly scared.
‘If you open that mouth of yours …’ threatened the falsetto voice.
Mr. Paradise fumbled in his coat-pocket and rather gingerly produced a revolver.
‘If you don’t stand back,’ he declared with terrified determination, ‘I warn you I shall shoot!’
His assailants backed a pace or two towards the corridor door. Then Mr. Paradise made the mistake of glancing desperately in the direction of the communication cord. The moment his eyes moved, Swan Williams suddenly thrust out a foot with amazing agility and kicked the revolver out of Paradise’s hand.
There followed a terrific scuffle, and Paradise managed to let out a stifled scream a split second before Jed Ware – his ticket-collector’s uniform all awry – placed a large hand over the little man’s mouth.
‘Open the door!’ panted Jed, who had taken control of the situation. ‘We’ll have to get rid of him.’
‘You’re not going to throw him out?’ shrieked Swan, hysterically.
‘Get that door open!’
‘But Jed, for God’s sake—’
Suddenly the door swung open and a rush of air fluttered the blinds. Paradise still struggled desperately, clinging to Jed with terror in his eyes.
But the burly Ware freed himself, and with a tremendous heave flung the shrieking Paradise out on to the line.
Jed pulled the door to with a resounding bang, and he and Swan collapsed on the seats quite breathless for a few moments. Then, in about a couple of seconds, Swan deftly opened the attache-case, ascertained its contents, and closed it again nervously as a train rushed past with whistle screaming.
‘My God ! Another train—and—he’s on the line!’ whispered Williams, in terror.
‘Pull yourself together. He was done for, anyway,’ roughly retorted Jed Ware. He was more interested in the contents of the attache-case.
CHAPTER XXV
Visitors at Eastwood Mansions
‘Speak up, Digby, dammit, man, I can’t hear a word!’ barked Sir Graham Forbes in a voice which almost shattered the telephone. Apparently Digby obliged, and the Chief Commissioner was silent for a few minutes.
‘H’m,’ he grunted at last, in no better humour. ‘That’s a lot of good, I must say!’ There was a sound of protest from the other end. ‘All right, call me back,’ snapped Forbes, planking down the receiver with a tremendous sigh.
He pushed the instrument away from him and relapsed into deep thought. When Reed came in, he hardly gave any sign of noticing him.
‘I’ve seen Hunter,’ announced Reed. ‘He’s recovered consciousness. My, but that’s a lucky laddie. The doctor says that if that crack had been an inch to the left he wouldna be alive to tell us anything.’
‘What did he say?’ demanded Sir Graham, anxiously.
‘They told him he was wanted on the telephone at Leamington, and he left the train. That’s when they got him.’
‘Does he remember what the men were like?’
‘Ay.’ Mac paused. ‘He says he’s pretty sure one of them was Andrew Brightman.’
‘Ah!’ exclaimed Sir Graham, slowly nodding. ‘Anything else?’
‘No, Sir Graham. I only had a wee talk with Hunter. He’s still pretty groggy.’
‘There’ll be hell to pay over this,’ suddenly burst forth Sir Graham.
‘According to Digby, there was a parson laddie on the train who was acting rather suspiciously,’ pursued Mac. ‘He was in a compartment a wee bit further along, when—’
‘I know, I know,’ impatiently interrupted the Chief Commissioner. ‘Digby’s a damn’ fool or he’d have guessed there was something afoot as soon as he saw Hunter leave the train. My last instructions to him were …’ Forbes shrugged his shoulders with a helpless gesture. ‘What’s the use?’
Mac pursed his lips and shook his head.
‘I can’t get that poor devil Paradise out of my head,’ said Forbes.
‘Ay, he might have stood a chance if it hadn’t been for that other train.’
‘A pretty poor chance, I’m afraid.’ Forbes straightened himself abruptly. ‘We’ve got to get the Front Page Men, Mac. No matter what happens, we’ve got to get ’em!’
‘Ay,’ said Chief Inspector Charles Cavendish MacKenzie Reed, but without much enthusiasm.
Steve crossed to a window and closed it, excluding the roar of traffic from below.
‘Was he married, Paul?’ she asked.
Temple looked up from some notes he was scribbling on a pad.
‘Who? Oh, you mean Paradise. I really don’t know, darling. But he didn’t seem the marrying type.’
‘I do hope he wasn’t,’ said Steve earnestly. ‘It’s all so dreadful.’
Temple nodded without speaking.
‘You don’t seem very upset about it, Paul.’
‘I’ve come to expect anything from the Front Page Men. Besides, Sir Graham’s doing enough worrying for six men, so I’m trying my utmost to keep a clear head.’
‘But these Front Page Men can’t go on forever, Paul,’ Steve argued. ‘Sooner or later they are bound to be caught.’
‘So they are,’ agreed Temple, quite cheerfully, ‘sooner or later.’
‘Didn’t you say there was a warrant out for two of them?’
‘There has been for some time. They seem particularly elusive.’
Steve considered the position. Then she stirred again.
‘Paul, where does Mr. Goldie fit into all this? Does he fit in?’
‘Certainly,’ replied Temple imperturbably.
‘Then do you think he is—’
‘Andrea Fortune? No, darling, sorry to disappoint you.’
‘No, no. What I was going to say was—’
But the entry of Pryce prevented her saying it. To the patent surprise of his master and mistress he announced that Mr. Mitchell had called. After they had exchanged inquiring looks, Temple ordered Pryce to show in the visitor.
‘Hello Gerald,’ smiled Steve, rising to meet him. ‘Is Ann with you?’
‘No,’ answered Mitchell, with some hesitation. ‘I’m—er —quite alone.’
‘You look worried to death,’ said Steve. ‘Is there anything wrong?’
‘Yes,’ said Temple, ‘out with it, Gerald. Maybe we can help.’
Mitchell bit his lip nervously, then blurted out, ‘Paul—Ann has disappeared!’
‘Disappeared?’ echoed Temple.
There was a pause.
‘What exactly do you mean?’ asked Steve
.
‘I’m afraid I can’t explain clearly – it’s all so confusing,’ Gerald told them, sinking on to a chair and looking moodily out of the window.
‘Try to remember – as much as you can,’ suggested Temple.
Mitchell swallowed hard and seemed almost in tears. Presently, however, he began. ‘I was rather late getting in last night – I stayed at the office till about nine reading some proofs. When I got home I found a note from Ann. She said that a girl friend of hers named Sandra Storm, who lives at Brighton, had been taken seriously ill, and that she had promised to spend the night with her. This didn’t really worry me, because I knew that they had always been great friends, and that Ann would rush down there like a shot the moment she heard of Sandra being ill. This morning, though—’
He paused, overcome with sudden emotion.
‘This morning, a card arrived for Ann. It was from Sandra, and was posted in Cairo.’
‘Cairo!’
‘Yes, Sandra Storm and her husband are on a cruise. They get back on the sixteenth – according to the card.’
‘Then – Ann couldn’t have gone to Brighton,’ exclaimed Steve in some alarm.
‘No, she can’t be in Brighton,’ agreed Mitchell, who was becoming more and more distracted. ‘But where is she? Where?’ He sunk his head in his hands, and Temple waited a few moments for him to recover before asking, ‘Do you know what time she left the house?’
‘The maid said about seven.’
‘When was the last time you saw her?’
‘Yesterday morning. We did arrange to meet for lunch, but she rang through to the office and cancelled our appointment.’
‘Did she say why?’ asked Temple, looking rather interested.
‘No – I don’t quite remember. I think she said something about having a headache,’ answered Mitchell, vaguely.
Temple and Steve exchanged a glance.
‘My God—I do—hope she’s all right!’ cried Mitchell, somewhat incoherently. Temple went to the sideboard and poured out a stiff whisky and soda, which he brought over to his guest.
‘Am I wrong, or have you been rather worried about Ann this past few weeks, Gerald?’ asked Temple.
Paul Temple 3-Book Collection Page 40
