Paul Temple and the Front Page Men. Francis DurbridgeЧитать онлайн книгу.
to find out!’
‘What about the publishers?’
Reed shook his head. ‘They say the manuscript came from a back-alley agency in Fleet Street. We’ve been on to the agency, but they tell more or less the same story as the publishers. The novel was sent to them with instructions that all royalties should be handed over to the General Hospital in Gerard Street.’
‘Any use my seeing the publishers again?’
‘I don’t want to discourage ye,’ answered Mac, ‘but I saw young Gerald Mitchell – he’s the boss – only this morning. He swore he’d never set eyes on Andrea Fortune. I think he’s telling the truth. In fact, he seems pretty scared about the whole business.’
Hunter took a cigarette from his case, caught Mac’s quizzical glare, thought better of the matter, and replaced it. He shut the case with a snap. ‘You seem to have covered the ground pretty thoroughly,’ he commented.
‘Ay, that’s what I’m here for,’ said Mac in even tones, taking up a new card from his desk. ‘Now,’ he announced solemnly, ‘we come to the Blakeley affair.’
Hunter smiled. ‘The papers have certainly been full of the Blakeley affair,’ he said.
Mac frowned. ‘I canna understand how it leaked,’ he murmured irritably. ‘The Chief has even had the Home Office on the phone five times.’
‘Well, the Front Page Men have certainly “made” the front page this time. Is the Chief doing anything about it?’
‘Now, hasn’t he put you on the case?’ demanded Reed, unable to conceal the sarcasm in his voice. ‘Apart from that, he seems to be labouring under the impression that this business might have some connection with the Granville kidnapping.’
‘But surely that was ages before we’d heard of the Front Page Men?’
‘We may not have heard of them, but they could have been there just the same,’ said Mac, who believed in covering all contingencies.
‘It was a sad affair about Lester Granville. Apparently the child was the only thing he had left in the world after his wife died.’
‘Granville completely went to pieces over that business,’ said Mac. ‘Gave up the stage and everything. The Chief was upset, too. But that’s no reason for jumping to conclusions that it’s anything to do with the Blakeley affair.’
‘I wonder,’ murmured Hunter, thoughtfully wrinkling his forehead.
‘Now, look here …’ began Mac, peevishly.
Hunter laughed. ‘All right, Mac, let’s have the rest of the Blakeley story.’
‘I expect you’ve read all there is to tell. Last Friday, Sir Norman Blakeley’s only son disappeared under rather mysterious circumstances and—’
‘By the way,’ put in Hunter, ‘who exactly is Sir Norman Blakeley?’
Before Reed could reply, there was a sharp knock at the door, and a burly sergeant entered.
‘Sorry to trouble you, sir, but there’s a man outside causing a lot of bother. Says he wants to see the Chief, but he refuses to fill up the form.’
Chief Inspector Reed’s sandy eyebrows went up in disapproval. There were too many people walking in and out of Scotland Yard these days, and it was time they put a stop to it. But before he could give instructions, the unruly visitor was standing behind the sergeant.
He was a man of about fifty, obviously in a highly nervous condition; correctly dressed in the customary City uniform of a morning coat, striped trousers and cream gloves. His tie was a shade crooked, his hair somewhat ruffled, and one button of his waistcoat was unfastened.
‘When am I to be allowed to see the Chief Commissioner?’ he began in high-pitched, petulant tones, and Chief Inspector Reed, who had risen to administer a stern reproof as only he knew how, straightened up smartly.
‘At once, Sir Norman,’ he answered politely.
Once inside the unpretentious office that has been described as the nerve centre of Scotland Yard, Sir Norman’s overbearing manner fell from him, and he began to tremble in patent distress.
Sir Graham Forbes looked up from his desk, and at once appreciated the situation. He took his visitor’s arm and led him to a comfortable chair, then went across to a cupboard and poured out a glass of whisky.
‘Drink this first,’ he ordered, and made a pretence of carrying on with some work while Sir Norman gulped down the mellow liquid.
‘Now,’ said Sir Graham, carefully blotting his signature to a letter, ‘any news?’
‘Yes,’ answered Blakeley, in a voice that had sunk almost to a whisper. ‘I heard this morning.’
‘Tell me exactly what happened.’ The manner in which he fidgeted with his paper-knife betrayed that Sir Graham had caught some of his visitor’s nervousness.
Blakeley set down his glass. His hand still shook appreciably, but he appeared to make an effort.
‘At about a quarter past ten, the telephone rang. A girl’s voice said: “We want nine thousand pounds. We want it in twenties. The notes must not be numbered consecutively. Put the money in a brown leather suitcase, and leave it in the telephone-booth at the corner of Eastwood Avenue, Mayfair. The money must be there by four o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”’
‘Is that all?’ asked Forbes, who had been making rapid notes on a scribbling-pad.
‘Not quite. After that, she said, “Don’t worry. The child is safe.” Then she rang off.’ The visitor leaned forward in great agitation.
‘Sir Graham, do you think he is safe? Because if anything’s happened to him, I’ll …’
The Chief Commissioner leaned back in his chair.
‘You can rest assured, Sir Norman, that we shall do everything in our power, but please remember that this is a far more serious business than a mere case of kidnapping. There’s a lot more at stake than just getting back your boy for you.’
‘He’s my only son, Sir Graham, the only son I’m likely to have,’ said Blakeley, quietly.
‘Believe me, I sympathise,’ replied Forbes. ‘I am merely trying to impress upon you the fact that we are doing our utmost to track down the organisation that’s responsible.’
‘Then you really think it’s a big organisation?’
Sir Graham shrugged non-committally. ‘I suspect … but I’m not certain.’ He went across to the cupboard. ‘Another whisky?’
‘No, thanks.’
Sir Graham poured himself one.
‘Your men were at the house yesterday,’ pursued Sir Norman. ‘Did they discover anything?’
The Chief Commissioner consulted a sheaf of papers.
‘Inspector Nelson inclines to the opinion that the boy was snatched out of his bed at four in the morning. All the same, it’s difficult to see how they got him out of the house.’
‘It is, indeed. I have the room next door, and I’m a very light sleeper.’
‘Who was the first to discover that the boy was missing?’
‘I did. I went into his room about half past seven. The little chap is usually awake by then, and pretty frisky with himself.’