Paul Temple and the Front Page Men. Francis Durbridge

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      ‘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.’

      ‘And on this particular morning?’

      ‘The room was very untidy – bed-clothes all over the place.’

      ‘Was it shortly after that you received the message warning you not to communicate with the police?’

      Sir Norman nodded. By this time he had recovered some of his old assurance, probably due to the influence of Sir Graham’s old Scotch whisky. But he was still considerably agitated, and his face twitched with emotion as he answered Sir Graham’s questions. The Chief Commissioner was lost in thought for a while; once he made a move to telephone, then changed his mind, and decided to continue with the questioning. He picked up a typewritten list, and looked across at Sir Norman.

      ‘You gave Inspector Nelson full details of all the visitors to your home during the week. Now this list looks surprisingly short to me. Are you quite sure there’s no one you’ve overlooked?’

      ‘Absolutely certain,’ said Blakeley, with a trace of his City aggressiveness.

      ‘On Tuesday, for instance,’ pursued Sir Graham, ‘apart from the usual tradespeople, a Mr. Andrew Brightman called, and also a Mr. J. P. Goldie.’

      For a moment Blakeley was nonplussed. ‘Goldie? I don’t remember saying anything about a Mr. Goldie?’

      ‘I understand that he came to tune the piano.’

      ‘Oh yes, of course! The piano-tuner! I never knew his name.’

      Sir Graham was toying with his paper-knife again. ‘Is Mr. Andrew Brightman a friend of yours?’ he asked at length.

      ‘Hardly a friend. I’ve known him about two years. We met at a City banquet, and I gave him a lift back to Hampstead. After that we became quite friendly – we’re both interested in old china – but we don’t see a great deal of each other.’

      ‘Then why did he come round on that particular evening?’

      ‘He’d brought a piece of china he’d had repaired for me by a relative of his. Suddenly, in a fit of desperation, I poured out the whole story to him. As you can imagine, I was very cut up, and to console me, I suppose, he started to tell me about his daughter.’

      ‘His daughter? What about her?’

      Sir Norman Blakeley hesitated.

      She was kidnapped too – by the Front Page Men.’

      The paper-knife fell with a clatter.

      For a moment, the Chief Commissioner seemed too astounded to speak. Then he recovered abruptly. ‘Are you sure of this? What happened to the girl?’

      ‘He got her back.’

      ‘The devil he did! How? He never informed us—’

      ‘No. It cost him eight thousand pounds, Sir Graham.’

      The Chief Commissioner was obviously staggered.

      ‘Eight thousand! How soon can I get hold of Andrew Brightman?’ he asked.

      ‘He’s outside in a taxi,’ said Sir Norman. ‘I thought you would probably want to interview him, so I persuaded him to come along.’

      ‘I’m very grateful to you,’ acknowledged Sir Graham, pressing a button at the side of his desk. As if by magic, the door opened, and Sergeant Leopold stood waiting for instructions.

      ‘There’s a gentleman in a taxi outside, a Mr. Brightman. Ask him to come up, Sergeant.’

      When the door had closed, Sir Graham turned to Blakeley again. ‘I suppose you’ve seen the papers today?’

      Sir Norman started in alarm. ‘You don’t mean it’s got into the papers?’

      ‘I’m afraid so.’

      The colour rushed to Sir Norman’s face.

      ‘They СКАЧАТЬ