It was a clear night of stars and there was a touch of frost in the air and, although she would not have admitted as much for untold wealth, she enjoyed the short run that brought them to the side entrance of a large restaurant filled with people in varying stages of gastronomic enjoyment.
‘I have booked a table,’ he said, piloting her through an avenue of working jaws to a secluded corner of the annexe.
The atmosphere of the place was very satisfying. The pink table-lamps had a soothing effect, and she could examine him at her leisure. In truth it had been one of the sources of irritation of that very unhappy day that she could not quite remember what he looked like. She knew that he was not repulsive, and had a misty idea that he was rather good-looking, but that his nose was too short. It proved on inspection to be of a reasonable length. His eyes were blue and he was a little older than she had thought. Half her disrespect was based on the illusion of his youth.
‘Now ask all your horrid questions,’ she said as she took off her gloves.
‘Number one,’ he began. ‘What did Harlow offer you when I so discreetly withdrew last night?’
‘That has nothing to do with the burglary,’ she answered promptly. ‘But as it wasn’t very important, I will tell you. He offered me a position.’
‘Where?’ he asked quickly.
She shook her head.
‘I don’t know. We didn’t get as far as that; I told him I was perfectly happy with Mr Stebbings—who, by the way, used to be the lawyer of the Harlow family.’
‘Did you tell him that?’ He thrust his head forward eagerly.
‘Why, no—he told me, though of course I knew,’ she said. ‘He knew, the moment I mentioned Stebbings’s name.’
‘Was he impressed?’ he asked after a pause and she laughed.
‘How ridiculous you are! Seriously, Mr—‘she paused insultingly.
‘Carlton,’ he murmured; ‘half-brother to the hotel but no relation to the club.’
‘You worked that one last night,’ she said.
‘And I shall work it every night you pretend to forget my name! Anyway, it is a confession of crass ignorance which no modern young woman can afford to make. I am one of the most famous men in London.’
‘I think I’ve heard you say that before,’ she said mendaciously. ‘Now tell me seriously, Mr Carlton—’
‘Got it!’ he murmured.
‘What do you want to know about the burglary?’
‘Nothing,’ was the shameless reply. ‘As a matter of fact, I have saved you a great deal of trouble by supplying headquarters with all the details they need. Your uncle emerges tomorrow; do you know that?’
‘Tomorrow?’ she said, with a pang of apprehension.
‘And Elk is going to meet him and take some of the sting out of his anger. I suppose he will be very angry?’
‘He’ll be furious,’ said the girl, troubled. And then, with a quick sigh, ‘I’ll be awfully glad when he has “emerged,” as you call it. He allows me two pounds a week for my trouble, but I can well spare that.’
‘Arthur Ingle ought to be ashamed of himself to drag you into the light which shines so brightly upon the unjust,’ he said. ‘There is only one thing I want to know about him, and perhaps you can tell me—was your uncle a great speculator?’
‘I don’t think so. But really I don’t know. He never spoke to me about any investments. Is that what you mean?’
‘That is just what I mean,’ said Jim. He found it difficult to put the question without offence. ‘You’ve had interviews with him and I dare say you’ve discussed his business to some extent. I shouldn’t ask you to betray his confidence and I don’t suppose for one minute you will. Did he ever talk about foreign gilt-edged investments?’
She was shaking her head before he finished the question.
‘Never,’ she said. ‘I don’t think he knows much about them. I remember the first time I saw him at Dartmoor he told me he didn’t believe in putting money in shares. Of course, I’m well aware he has money, but you know that, too, and I suppose it is stolen money that he’s—’
‘Cached—yes,’ said Jim.
He was very serious. It was the first time she had seen him in that mood and she rather liked it.
‘Only one more question. You don’t know that he is in any way connected with a firm called Rata?’
And, when she confessed that she had never heard of such a firm, his seriousness was at an end.
‘And that’s the whole of the questionnaire, back page and everything!’
He leaned back to allow the burly waiter to place the dish on the table. ‘Sole bonne femme is good for the tired business girl. Will you have wine, or just the Lord’s good water?’
After this he became his old flippant self. He made no further allusion to her uncle; and if he talked a great deal about himself, it was interesting, for he talked shop, and Scotland Yard shop is the second most interesting in the world. He lived at his club.
‘I’d better give you the telephone number in case you ever want me.’ He scrawled the address on the back of the menu and tore off the corner.
‘Why should I want you?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve just got a feeling that you might. I’m a hunch merchant—do you know what a hunch merchant is?’
She could guess.
‘Premonitions are my long suit, telepathy my sixth sense, and I’ve got a hunch…perhaps I’m wrong. I hope I am.’
Once or twice he had looked at his watch, a little furtively, she thought, yet it seemed that he was prepared to break any appointment he had made, for he lingered over his coffee until she brought a happy evening to an abrupt close by putting on her gloves. As they were driving back to her rooms: ‘I haven’t asked you very much about yourself. That is the kind of impertinence which really scares me,’ he said, ‘but I gather that you’re unmarried—and unengaged?’ he asked.
‘I have no followers,’ she said without embarrassment, ‘and I hope that confession will offer no encouragement to the philandering constabulary!’
He chuckled for fully a minute.
‘That’s good,’ he said at last.’ “Philandering constabulary” is taken into use for special occasions. You’re the first woman—’
‘Don’t!’ she warned him.
‘—I’ve ever met with a real sense of humour,’ he concluded. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you.’
‘I wasn’t disappointed. I expected something banal,’ she said. ‘My house is the third on the left…thank you.’
She got down without assistance and offered her hand, and as he looked past her towards the door of the house:
‘The number is 163,’ she said, ‘but you needn’t write unless you’ve something very policey to write about. Good night!’
Jim Carlton was smiling all the way to Whitehall Gardens and his sense of amusement still held when he followed the footman into Sir Joseph Layton’s study.
The words ‘Joseph Layton’ are familiar to all who carry passports, for he was the Foreign Secretary, a man of slight figure and ascetic face; and possibly the most cartooned politician in Britain.
He looked up over his big horn-rimmed glasses as Jim came in. ‘Sit down, Carlton.’ He blotted the letter he had been writing, inserted it with punctilious care into an envelope, and addressed it with a flourish before he spoke. ‘I’ve just come back from the House. Did you call before?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Humph!’ He settled himself more easily in his padded chair, put the tips of his fingers together, and again scrutinised the detective over his glasses. ‘Well, what are the developments?’ he asked, and added: ‘I’ve seen the cables you sent me. Curious—very curious indeed. You intercepted them?’
‘Some of them, sir,’ said Jim. ‘A great deal of the correspondence of the Rata Syndicate goes through other channels. But there’s enough to show that Rata is there preparing for a big killing. I should imagine that every big
