“She is a widow with a son aged nine,” said the Commissioner, “and she lives in Berkeley Square. A very wealthy lady and extremely charming. About two months ago she began to receive letters, which had no signature, but in its stead, a black cross. They were written in beautiful script writing, and that induced a suspicion of Spaghetti Jones who, in his youth, was a sign-writer.”
Leon nodded his head vigorously.
“Of course, it is impossible to identify that kind of writing,” he said admiringly. “By ‘script’ I suppose you mean writing which is actually printed? That is a new method, and a particularly ingenious one, but I interrupted you, sir. Did these letters ask for money?”
“They asked for money and threatened the lady as to what would happen if she failed to send to an address which was given. And here the immense nerve of Jones and his complicity was shown. Ostensibly Jones carries on the business of a newsagent. He has a small shop in Notting Hill, where he sells the morning and evening papers, and is a sort of local agent for racing tipsters whose placards you sometimes see displayed outside newspaper shops. In addition, the shop is used as an accommodation address—”
“Which means,” said Manfred, “that people who do not want their letters addressed to their houses can have them sent there?”
The Commissioner nodded.
“They charge twopence a letter. These accommodation addresses should, of course, be made illegal, because they open the way to all sorts of frauds. The cleverness of the move is apparent: Jones receives the letter, ostensibly on behalf of some client, the letter is in his hands, he can open it or leave it unopened so that if the police call—as we did on one occasion—there is the epistle intact! Unless we prevent it reaching his shop we are powerless to keep the letter under observation. As a matter of fact, the name of the man to whom the money was to be sent, according to the letter which the Countess received, was ‘H. Frascati, care of John Jones.’ Jones, of course, received the answer to the Countess’s letter, put the envelope with dozens of other letters which were waiting to be claimed, and when our man went in in the evening, after having kept observation of the shop all day, he was told that the letter had been called for, and as, obviously, he could not search everybody who went in and out of the shop in the course of the day, it was impossible to prove the man’s guilt.”
“A wonderful scheme!” said the admiring Gonsalez. “Did the Countess send money?”
“She sent £200 very foolishly,” said Fare with a shake of his head, “and then when the next demand came she informed the police. A trap letter was made up and sent to Jones’s address, with the result as I have told you. She received a further note, demanding immediate payment, and threatening her and her boy, and a further trap letter was sent; this was last Thursday: and from a house on the opposite side of the road two of our officers kept observation, using field-glasses, which gave them a view of the interior of the shop. No letter was handed over during the day by Jones, so in the evening we raided the premises, and there was that letter on the shelf with the others, unopened, and we looked extremely foolish,” said the Commissioner with a smile. He thought awhile. “Would you like to meet the Countess Vinci?” he asked.
“Very much indeed,” said Gonsalez quickly, and looked at his watch.
“Not tonight,” smiled the Commissioner. “I will fix an interview for you tomorrow afternoon. Possibly you two ingenious gentlemen may think of something which has escaped our dull British wits.”
On their way back to Jermyn Street that night, Leon Gonsalez broke the silence with a startling question.
“I wonder where one could get an empty house with a large bathroom and a very large bath?” he asked thoughtfully.
“Why ever—?” began Manfred, and then laughed. “I’m getting old, I think, Leon,” he said as they turned into the flat. “There was a time when the amazing workings of your mind did not in any way surprise me. What other characteristics must this ideal home of yours possess?”
Leon scientifically twirled his hat across the room that it fell neatly upon a peg of the hat-rack.
“How is that for dexterity, George?” he asked in self-admiration. “The house—oh well, it ought to be a little isolated, standing by itself in its own grounds, if possible. Well away from the road, and the road not often frequented. I should prefer that it was concealed from observation by bushes or trees.”
“It sounds as if you’re contemplating a hideous crime,” said Manfred good-humouredly.
“Not I,” corrected Leon quickly, “but I think our friend Jones is a real nasty fellow.” He heaved a big sigh. “I’d give anything for his head measurements,” he said inconsequently.
Their interview with the Countess Vinci was a pleasant one. She was a tall, pretty woman, of thirty-four, the “grande dame” to her fingertips.
Manfred, who was human, was charmed by her, for Leon Gonsalez she was too normal to be really interesting.
“Naturally I’m rather worried,” she said. “Philip is not very strong, though he is not delicate.”
Later the boy came in, a straight, little fellow with an olive skin and brown eyes, self-possessed and more intelligent than Manfred had expected from his years. With him was his governess, a pretty Italian girl.
“I trust Beatrice more than I trust your police,” said the Countess when the girl had taken her charge back to his lessons. “Her father is an officer in the Sicilian police, and she has lived practically all her life under threat of assassination.”
“Does the boy go out?” asked Manfred.
“Once a day, in the car,” said the Countess. “Either I take him or Beatrice and I, or Beatrice alone.”
“Exactly what do they threaten?” asked Gonsalez.
“I
