She went to a bureau, unlocked it, and came back with a stout sheet of paper. It was of excellent quality and the writing was in copperplate characters:
“You will send us a thousand pounds on the first of March, June, September and December. The money should be in banknotes and should be sent to H. Frascati, care of J. Jones, 194 Notting Hill Crescent. It will cost you more to get your boy back than it will cost you to keep him with you.”
Gonsalez held the paper to the light, then carried it to the window for a better examination.
“Yes,” he said as he handed it back. “It would be difficult to trace the writer of that. The best expert in the world would fail.”
“I suppose you can suggest nothing,” said the Countess, shaking her head in anticipation, as they rose to go.
She spoke to Manfred, but it was Gonsalez who answered.
“I can only suggest, madame,” he said, “that if your little boy does disappear you communicate with us immediately.”
“And my dear Manfred,” he said when they were in the street, “that Master Philip will disappear is absolutely certain. I’m going to take a cab and drive round London looking for that house of mine.”
“Are you serious, Leon?” asked Manfred, and the other nodded.
“Never more serious in my life,” he said soberly. “I will be at the flat in time for dinner.”
It was nearly eight o’clock, an hour after dinnertime, when he came running up the stairs of the Jermyn Street establishment, and burst into the room.
“I have got—” he began, and then saw Manfred’s face. “Have they taken him?”
Manfred nodded.
“I had a telephone message an hour ago,” he said.
Leon whistled.
“So soon,” he was speaking to himself. And then: “How did it happen?”
“Fare has been here. He left just before you came,” said Manfred. “The abduction was carried out with ridiculous ease. Soon after we left, the governess took the boy out in the car, and they followed their usual route, which is across Hampstead Heath to the country beyond. It is their practice to go a few miles beyond the Heath in the direction of Beacon’s Hill and then to turn back.”
“Following the same route every day was, of course, sheer lunacy,” said Leon. “Pardon me.”
“The car always turns at the same point,” said Manfred, “and that is the fact which the abductors had learnt. The road is not especially wide, and to turn the big Rolls requires a little manoeuvring. The chauffeur was engaged in bringing the car round, when a man rode up on a bicycle, a pistol was put under the chauffeur’s nose, and at the same time two men, appearing from nowhere, pulled open the door of the car, snatched away the revolver which the governess carried, and carried the screaming boy down the road to another car, which the driver of the Vinci car had seen standing by the side of the road, but which apparently had not aroused his suspicion.”
“The men’s faces, were they seen?”
Manfred shook his head.
“The gentleman who held up the chauffeur wore one of those cheap theatrical beards which you can buy for a shilling at any toyshop, and in addition a pair of motor goggles. Both the other men seemed to be similarly disguised. I was just going to the Countess when you came. If you’ll have your dinner, Leon—”
“I want no dinner,” said Leon promptly.
Commissioner Fare was at the house in Berkeley Square when they called, and he was endeavouring vainly to calm the distracted mother.
He hailed the arrival of the two men with relief.
“Where is the letter?” said Leon immediately he entered the room.
“What letter?”
“The letter they have sent stating their terms.”
“It hasn’t arrived yet,” said the other in a low voice. “Do you think that you can calm the Countess? She is on the verge of hysteria.”
She was lying on a sofa deathly white, her eyes closed, and two maidservants were endeavouring to rouse her. She opened her eyes at Manfred’s voice, and looked up.
“Oh my boy, my boy?” she sobbed, and clasped his hands in both of hers. “You will get him back, please. I will give anything, anything. You cannot name a sum that I will not pay!”
It was then that the butler came into the room bearing a letter on a salver.
She sprang up, but would have fallen had not Manfred’s arm steadied her.
“It is from—them,” she cried wildly and tore open the envelope with trembling fingers.
The message was a longer one:
“Your son is in a place which is known only to the writer. The room is barred and locked and contains food and water sufficient to last for four days. None but the writer knows where he is or can find him. For the sum of twenty-five thousand pounds his hiding place will be sent to the Countess, and if that sum is not forthcoming, he will be left to starve.”
“I must send the money immediately,” cried the distraught lady. “Immediately! Do you understand? My boy—my boy … !”
“Four days,” murmured Leon, and his eyes were bright. “Why it couldn’t be better!”
Only Manfred heard him.
“Madam,” said Mr. Fare gravely, “if you send twenty-five thousand pounds what assurance have you that the boy will be restored? You are a very rich woman. Is it not likely that this man, when he gets your money, will make a further demand upon you?”
“Besides which,” interrupted Leon, “it would be a waste of money. I will undertake to restore your boy in two days. Perhaps in one, it depends very much upon whether Spaghetti Jones sat up late last night.”
Mr. Spaghetti Jones was nicknamed partly because of his association with the sons and daughters of Italy, and partly because, though a hearty feeder, he invariably finished his dinner, however many courses he might have consumed, with the Italian national dish.
He had dined well at his favourite restaurant in Soho, sitting aloof from the commonplace diners, and receiving the
