He employed a toothpick openly, and then paying his bill, he sauntered majestically forth and hailed a taxicab. He was on the point of entering it when two men closed in, one on each side of him.
“Jones,” said one sharply.
“That’s my name,” said Mr. Jones.
“I am Inspector Jetheroe from Scotland Yard, and I shall take you into custody on a charge of abducting Count Philip Vinci.”
Mr. Jones stared at him.
Many attempts had been made to bring him to the inhospitable shelter which His Majesty’s Prisons afford, and they had all failed.
“You have made a bloomer, haven’t you?” he chuckled, confident in the efficiency of his plans.
“Get into that cab,” said the man shortly, and Mr. Jones was too clever and experienced a juggler with the law to offer any resistance.
Nobody would betray him—nobody could discover the boy, he had not exaggerated in that respect. The arrest meant no more than a visit to the station, a few words with the inspector and at the worst a night’s detention.
One of his captors had not entered the cab until he had a long colloquy with the driver, and Mr. Jones, seeing through the window the passing of a five-pound note, wondered what mad fit of generosity had overtaken the police force.
They drove rapidly through the West End, down Whitehall, and to Mr. Jones’s surprise, did not turn into Scotland Yard, but continued over Westminster Bridge.
“Where are you taking me?” he asked.
The man who sat opposite him, the smaller man who had spoken to the cabman, leant forward and pushed something into Mr. Jones’s ample waistcoat, and glancing down he saw the long black barrel of an automatic pistol, and he felt a momentary sickness.
“Don’t talk—yet,” said the man.
Try as he did, Jones could not see the face of either detective. Passing, however, under the direct rays of an electric lamp, he had a shock. The face of the man opposite to him was covered by a thin white veil which revealed only the vaguest outlines of a face. And then he began to think rapidly. But the solutions to his difficulties came back to that black and shining pistol in the other’s hands.
On through New Cross, Lewisham, and at last the cab began the slow descent of Blackheath Hill. Mr. Jones recognised the locality as one in which he had operated from time to time with fair success.
The cab reached the Heath Road, and the man who was sitting by his side opened the window and leant out, talking to the driver. Suddenly the car turned through the gateway of a garden and stopped before the uninviting door of a gaunt, deserted house.
“Before you get out,” said the man with the pistol, “I want you to understand that if you talk or shout or make any statement to the driver of this cab, I shall shoot you through the stomach. It will take you about three days to die, and you will suffer pains which I do not think your gross mind can imagine.”
Mr. Jones mounted the steps to the front door and passed meekly and in silence into the house. The night was chilly and he shivered as he entered the comfortless dwelling. One of the men switched on an electric lamp, by the light of which he locked the door. Then he put the light out, and they found their way up the dusty stairs with the assistance of a pocket lamp which Leon Gonsalez flashed before him.
“Here’s your little home,” said Leon pleasantly, and opening the door, turned a switch.
It was a big bathroom. Evidently Leon had found his ideal, thought Manfred, for the room was unusually large, so large that a bed could be placed in one corner, and had been so placed by Mr. Gonsalez. George Manfred saw that his friend had had a very busy day. The bed was a comfortable one, and with its white sheets and soft pillows looked particularly inviting.
In the bath, which was broad and deep, a heavy Windsor chair had been placed, and from one of the taps hung a length of rubber hosing.
These things Mr. Jones noticed, and also marked the fact that the window had been covered with blankets to exclude the light.
“Put out your hands,” said Leon sharply, and before Spaghetti Jones realised what was happening, a pair of handcuffs had been snapped on his wrists, a belt had been deftly buckled through the connecting links, and drawn between his legs.
“Sit down on that bed. I want you to see how comfortable it is,” said Leon humorously.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing,” said Mr. Jones in a sudden outburst of rage, “but by God you’ll know all about it! Take that veil off your face and let me see you.”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” said Leon gently. “If you saw my face I should be obliged to kill you, and that I have no desire to do. Sit down.”
Mr. Jones obeyed wonderingly, and his wonder increased when Leon began to strip his patent shoes and silk socks, and to roll up the legs of his trousers.
“What is the game?” asked the man fearfully.
“Get on to that chair.” Gonsalez pointed to the chair in the bath. “It is an easy Windsor chair—”
“Look here,” began Jones fearfully.
“Get in,” snapped Leon, and the big fellow obeyed.
“Are you comfortable?” asked Leon politely.
The man glowered at him.
“You’ll be uncomfortable before I’m through with you,” he said.
“How do you like the look of that bed?” asked Leon. “It looks rather cosy, eh?”
Spaghetti Jones did not answer, and Gonsalez tapped him lightly on the shoulder.
“Now, my gross friend, will you tell me where you have hidden Philip Vinci?”
“Oh, that is it, is it?” grinned Mr. Jones. “Well, you can go on asking!”
He glared down at his bare feet, and then from one to the other of the two men.
“I don’t know anything about Philip Vinci,” he
