Mad About the Boy? (27 page)

Isabelle ran. Painfully hampered by her evening shoes, she tore them off and, heart racing, she saw lights flare as she panted up to the house. The front door was flung open by her father, flanked by two menservants, who had been awakened by the noise. Sir Philip listened to her story and promptly barked out a set of instructions to the men: fetch the car, telephone the doctor, telephone the police. Then he ran down the drive, Isabelle following.

Haldean still lay unmoving on the grass, Squeak Robiceux kneeling beside him. It seemed to be hours before she saw the headlights of a car come down the drive from the house but she knew it was minutes at most. Sykes, the chauffeur, still dressed in his dressing gown and pyjamas, was driving the Rolls. Sir Philip quickly took command.

‘Lift him gently. You'll have to carry him round these branches. Lie him down on the back seat. Gently with him, there.' He turned to the chauffeur, pointing to the Spyker. ‘Take that car and go and get the doctor. We need him here as fast as possible.' He swung himself into the driver's seat of the Rolls and revved the engine.

Isabelle scrambled into the back, cradling Haldean's head on her knee. He was horribly pale and there was blood on his coat. ‘Jack,' she breathed. ‘Jack, please live. I don't want you to die, Jack.'

To her unspeakable relief, his eyelids flickered open. ‘That's nice,' he said in a nearly inaudible voice, then fainted again as the car moved forward. He groaned as they got him out of the car and carried him up the front steps. His eyes opened briefly and he looked for her. ‘Don't worry, Belle,' he whispered. ‘I'll be all right. Fennimore. They got Fennimore . . .' His head sank forward again and he was carried away.

‘That,' said Dr Speldhurst, accepting the whisky and soda Sir Philip offered him, ‘is a very lucky young man. He's got a bullet through the fleshy part of his arm and a nasty crack on the back of the head. I've strapped him up and I'll be round to see him again tomorrow.' He sipped his whisky. ‘What on earth's going on, Sir Philip? There's been a suicide, a murder and now this. It sounds like something out of the pictures. Your daughter tells me she thinks the men were Russians. She couldn't understand what they were saying.'

Sir Philip looked haggard. ‘I keep thinking about Isabelle. If they had got to her . . .' He broke off and shuddered. ‘She tells me that Smith-Fennimore fought like a demon to stop them. It sounds as if Jack saved her from being shot. Are you sure he'll be all right, Speldhurst? Alice and I are damned fond of the boy.'

‘He'll live,' said the doctor, finishing his whisky. ‘Lady Rivers is with him now and I've given him an injection which should keep him quiet. I've given your daughter and the two other girls a sleeping draught and made sure they took it, too. I've done the same for the lodge-keeper and his wife. They're suffering from shock.'

‘I bet they are,' said Sir Philip grimly. They had found out what had happened at the lodge when Bubble Robiceux arrived at the house. She'd gone to the lodge-keeper's cottage for help and found both Berwick, the lodge-keeper, and his wife tied up. Apparently they'd gone to bed to be woken up to find four armed men looking at them.

‘I've told the police they mustn't ask them any questions tonight,' said Dr Speldhurst. ‘The pair of them were in a real state. From what they told me, I don't think they'll be able to say anything very helpful, anyway.' He picked up his bag. ‘If your chauffeur can run me home, I'll be off now but I'll call first thing. Let's just hope that the police have managed to find Commander Smith-Fennimore by then. I hate to think of anyone being at the mercy of those swine.'

In the morning, however, there was still no news of Smith-Fennimore. It was the first question Haldean asked Ashley when he called. He was having a very late breakfast of tea and toast in the morning room with Squeak Robiceux. ‘Poor devil,' said Haldean. ‘Smith-Fennimore, I mean. I hoped you'd have found him by now, or got on his trail at least. He went down like a log when that bloke bashed him on the head with the gun butt. Sit down, Ashley. There's coffee in the pot, or tea if you'd prefer. Would you like anything to eat?'

Ashley shook his head. ‘No, I've had breakfast, thank you, but I'll have some coffee.' Squeak Robiceux poured a cup and handed it to him. ‘Thank you, miss. I expected you to be in bed, Haldean. How are you managing with that arm?'

Haldean shrugged, wincing as the movement caught him. ‘It's not too bad. I've seen the doctor and he was pleased with how it was getting on. I can move my arm and fingers, but it's a bit stiff. Uncle Phil lent me his valet this morning so I could get dressed and have a shave and so on, and that made me feel a bit more like it. It'll be a while before I can do any more boxing though,' he added with a rueful smile. ‘Did you hear I managed to thump the character who'd grabbed hold of me?'

‘Yes, I did,' said Ashley, stirring sugar into his coffee. ‘All I can say is that I hope you hurt the beggar.' Haldean looked, thought Ashley, a great deal better than he expected anyone to look who'd had a bullet through them only hours previously. His left arm was in a sling, his face was pale and tired, but his eyes were as bright as ever.

‘Did you get anything useful out of the lodge-keeper?' asked Haldean, finishing his toast.

Ashley shook his head. ‘Nothing to speak of. There were four men, all wearing scarves pulled over their faces. He thinks two of the men had beards, and his wife says that the one who tied her up had frightening eyes, which isn't much to go on. The only information of much use is that there was at least one Englishman with the Russians, if that's what they were. He was a short, red-headed man and the lodge-keeper had the impression he was in charge. Can you add anything to that?'

Haldean frowned. ‘I'm sorry, I can't. I didn't even know one of the men was English. I think one had an ear-ring, but that's about all I can tell you. They had a biggish sort of car, a Wolseley, I think. I didn't get the number, I'm afraid. Did you see anything, Squeak?'

‘I didn't, Jack. I couldn't have even guessed it was a Wolseley. I'd been half asleep in the back of the car and then it all happened so quickly I could scarcely take it in.'

‘That's understandable in the circumstances,' said Ashley. ‘What about the guns they were carrying?'

Haldean picked up his teacup, trying to visualize the scene once more. ‘I think they must have been Bergman MP 18s. That's my guess, anyway, from what I remember from the war. They were rotten shots, all of them. I can't imagine they'd had any training. They had no idea of keeping the barrel deflected while they fired, which is the first thing any machine-gun instructor teaches you. They just went blazing away like fun. Fortunately for us,' he added.

‘And you think they were looking for the Commander in particular? I mean, they kidnapped him on purpose, they weren't just scooping up a hostage?'

‘I think so. Did you get that impression, Squeak?'

‘Yes, I did.' She marmaladed her toast thoughtfully. ‘They were certainly looking for Malcolm, but there's more than that to it. I'm convinced they were after you as well, Jack. I'm certain they tried to kill you. Do you remember? One of the men shone a torch in your face as if to be sure of who you were. You hit him, which made him let go, and then at least one of them fired a whole stream of machine-gun bullets at you.'

‘They tried to kill me?' Haldean stopped with his cup of tea halfway to his mouth. ‘Why on earth should they single me out? You must be mistaken, surely.'

‘I'm not.'

Haldean shook his head with a puzzled frown. ‘I don't see what I've done to merit that sort of attention. They certainly went for Smith-Fennimore, though. He was struggling and fighting, but when they fired at Belle, he went crackers. That's when they swiped him with the gun butt. It was all over so quickly, Ashley. It was weird, like something from a film.'

‘Russians,' said Ashley drumming his fingers on the table. ‘There's too many Russians in this for my liking. I'd like to know what the devil the connection is between these ruddy Russians and Hesperus. By the way, you know you asked me to check the telephone exchange? There was a call put through at two thirty or so yesterday afternoon from the public call-box outside the post office to a place called the Paradise Club in London. Apparently Scotland Yard keeps a weather eye on it as it's a favourite haunt for Russian émigrés, but they believed it was safe enough. I rang the Yard this morning to check all the London numbers that the operator could remember putting through and the Paradise Club was the only one they knew anything about.'

‘Did the operator hear anything?'

Ashley shook his head. ‘Not in the way you mean. The only reason the girl noticed the call at all was because it was to a London number and she thought the Paradise Club sounded nice.'

‘Nice, eh?' Haldean grinned. ‘No, I wouldn't call the Paradise Club nice. I've been there once or twice. It's full of hairy blokes shouting about the Revolution and the wine's like engine oil.'

‘It's very fashionable though, Jack,' said Squeak. ‘I've been there.'

‘What would your mother say?' he murmured. He cocked an eyebrow at Ashley. ‘Do we take that as a definite link between the attack last night and Stanmore Parry?'

‘Perhaps,' said Ashley, cautiously. ‘It might be someone booking a table.'

‘I don't think you do anything as conventional as book tables at the Paradise Club. People just seem to turn up and elbow their way in. Did anyone in the post office see who made the call?'

Ashley shook his head. ‘I asked the woman behind the counter if she'd seen anyone who looked like a Russian, and she asked me what did a Russian look like?'

‘She's got a point there,' admitted Haldean. He finished his tea and pushed his chair back from the table. ‘D'you know, I feel absolutely dumb. I haven't got a clue what's going on. I thought I had a glimmer of an idea about the key to the french windows, but that simply won't hang together with anything else. And in the meantime Tim's dead, Lyvenden's dead, Arthur's gone AWOL and that poor devil Smith-Fennimore could be anywhere. Why the dickens should a bunch of hairy Russians kidnap him?'

‘Scotland Yard had an idea about that,' said Ashley. ‘You know your friend, Inspector Rackham?'

Haldean looked at him alertly. ‘Bill Rackham? Yes.'

‘I spoke to him this morning. I'd had a brief word with him first thing to tell him what I was after and he rang me back after he'd done a bit of digging around. To be honest the Chief's wondering if all this has got beyond me and we should call in the Yard. I've begged a couple of days' grace, but I thought as Commander Smith-Fennimore is a London man and these Russians obviously aren't local, Inspector Rackham might be able to give me a couple of hints without becoming officially involved. He sends his regards, by the way, and says he hopes your arm's soon better.'

‘That's very nice of him,' said Haldean impatiently. ‘What did he say about Smith-Fennimore?'

‘He said that the Commander's bank, Smith, Wilson and Fennimore, holds a large deposit of Russian gold.'

Haldean's eyebrows rose. ‘Does it, by jingo?'

‘Yes. It's Tsarist gold, apparently, from before the Revolution. Apparently lots of the London private banks have Russian gold in them and it's a bit of a problem. Most of the real owners are dead, either killed in the war or murdered by the Bolsheviks. That bunch who are running the show over there claim the gold as their own, but you can't call that crowd of thugs a government, so the banks aren't parting with it.'

‘So what's Bill Rackham's idea? That these Russians kidnapped Fennimore to make him cough up the dosh?'

‘That's about the size of it,' agreed Ashley.

Haldean stroked his chin. ‘It's a bit more dramatic than writing a cheque.' He frowned. ‘I dunno. It's a link of some sort, I suppose. They might be dopey enough to think it'll work, but I can't see it somehow.' He looked at Ashley with a wry smile. ‘But why ask me? I told you I wouldn't be much use. It's all too close to home for me to see it properly.'

Ashley finished his coffee and got up. ‘If I were you I wouldn't bother trying to work it out. You concentrate on getting better. That bullet was too close for comfort. I'll be along later to see how you are. I want another look outside. We've examined the lawn already, but I want to see if there's anything we've overlooked.'

Haldean stood up. ‘I'll come to the door with you.'

Leaving Squeak Robiceux, the two men walked down the hall. After seeing Ashley out of the house, Haldean picked up the
Daily Messenger
from the hall table and took it into the library. He took a cigarette from the box and settled down in an armchair, the newspaper on the table beside him. He lit the cigarette, his eyes abstracted.

Somewhere was a common thread which tied together his arm, Arthur, Tim, last night's attack, a telephone call to the Paradise Club and the appalling sight of the sheath knife in Lord Lyvenden's chest. The Tsar's gold; did that fit in? And where was the key to the french windows?
If I was writing this
. . . But he wasn't writing it. Writing this sort of stuff was easy. Trying to make head or tail of it when he was plunged in the middle of it was another thing entirely. He reached out for the paper, biting his lip as his arm twinged. By all accounts Squeak Robiceux had done well last night. She'd been a nurse in the war, of course. She was a useful sort of person. She knew what she was doing. Unlike me, he thought gloomily, irritated by how foggy his thoughts seemed.

His eyes flicked to the columns of newsprint. Lyvenden's murder still held the front page. He recognized the words he had used to Ernest Stanhope yesterday morning. There was a photograph of Ashley, radiating placid reliability, a snapshot of Uncle Phil looking worried to death and a picture of the house taken through the bars of the front gate. There'll be yet more pictures of Hesperus in the news once Stanhope and his merry men get on to what happened last night, he thought, with a brief stab of sympathy for his harried Uncle Phil.