Esk’s diamonds affair and several high-hat blackmail cases which have figured less prominently in the press.’
‘But what’s he like?’
‘Like? Oh, like one of the less successful busts of T.E. Shaw. A Nordic type. He’s rather faddy, by the way; his protective mechanism developed them, I daresay. But you must have water perpetually on the boil; he drinks tea at all hours of the day. And he can’t sleep unless he has an enormous weight on his bed. If you don’t give him enough blankets for three, you’ll find that he has torn the carpets up or the curtains down.’
‘Sounds crazy to me.’
‘Oh, you’ll like him all right. He’s a simple soul, really…’
The figure that emerged from a first-class carriage and advanced towards them with rather ostrich-like strides did not, Hero thought, live up to Michael’s lurid description. Nigel Strangeways blinked at her shortsightedly and bowed over her hand with a courtliness a little spoilt by the angularity of his movement. He made one or two flat remarks, which his loud and exuberant voice somehow redeemed from banality, then they moved down the platform and got into the car. Hero hoped to improve the acquaintance over lunch, but, as it happened, lunch had to be postponed. Her husband had given her a note to take to James Urquhart. She stopped behind the solicitor’s Daimler, which was standing outside his house. But as she was on the point of ringing, the door opened suddenly and a small, pouchy-faced man emerged, carrying a suitcase. ‘Why, James –’ said Hero, but the man leapt down the steps, collided with a nondescript-looking individual who suddenly rose up in his path, sent him staggering away into the road, and flung himself and his suitcase into the front of the Daimler. Heavy footsteps could be heard thundering down the stairs, but by the time the superintendent and the sergeant were out of the house, Urquhart had started his car, thrust off the nondescript man who had picked himself up and was trying to get his hands on the steering wheel, and was twenty yards down the street. Armstrong glanced at Hero and Michael, hesitated a second, then rapped out a few orders to his sergeant and jumped into Hero’s car. Michael had moved into the driving seat, anticipating action.
‘Follow that car,’ shouted the superintendent, ‘he can’t get away for long, but the sooner we catch him, the better.’
Hero bundled into the back seat, where Strangeways took her arm in the most friendly and reassuring way, remarking, ‘I seem to have plunged
in medias res
, as you might say.’ Michael jumped the car forward in second, skidded neatly between a bus and a sandwich man at the corner, and hurled them in a series of swoops and jerks through the traffic of the High Street. ‘O death,’ sang Strangeways, in a raucous baritone, ‘how bitter art thou to him that liveth in peace, to him that hath joy in his possessions and liveth free from trouble.’ The broad back of the Daimler slipped coyly round a corner, fifty yards ahead, its red rear lamp winking an offensive challenge. Michael changed down at forty, the car swayed and seemed to hang like a lift at the bottom of its descent, then he accelerated into the side street and was confronted by a level crossing, with the gates just beginning to close. Michael in control of a fast car was a person in whom one would scarcely recognise the decorous, slightly neurotic schoolmaster of Sudeley Hall. He put his car at the gates like a seasoned huntsman. Nigel murmured to Hero:
‘Does your vehicle jump?’ Then gently closed his eyes as they rocked over the metals with the gates scraping and jarring at their rear wings. The superintendent shot an apprehensive glance at Michael, but he was staring ahead, smiling serenely, apparently not contemplating further addition to his tale of victims.
They were out in the country now, drumming in third up a long incline. Trees pounced at them and withdrew, hedges moved
‘But what’s he like?’
‘Like? Oh, like one of the less successful busts of T.E. Shaw. A Nordic type. He’s rather faddy, by the way; his protective mechanism developed them, I daresay. But you must have water perpetually on the boil; he drinks tea at all hours of the day. And he can’t sleep unless he has an enormous weight on his bed. If you don’t give him enough blankets for three, you’ll find that he has torn the carpets up or the curtains down.’
‘Sounds crazy to me.’
‘Oh, you’ll like him all right. He’s a simple soul, really…’
The figure that emerged from a first-class carriage and advanced towards them with rather ostrich-like strides did not, Hero thought, live up to Michael’s lurid description. Nigel Strangeways blinked at her shortsightedly and bowed over her hand with a courtliness a little spoilt by the angularity of his movement. He made one or two flat remarks, which his loud and exuberant voice somehow redeemed from banality, then they moved down the platform and got into the car. Hero hoped to improve the acquaintance over lunch, but, as it happened, lunch had to be postponed. Her husband had given her a note to take to James Urquhart. She stopped behind the solicitor’s Daimler, which was standing outside his house. But as she was on the point of ringing, the door opened suddenly and a small, pouchy-faced man emerged, carrying a suitcase. ‘Why, James –’ said Hero, but the man leapt down the steps, collided with a nondescript-looking individual who suddenly rose up in his path, sent him staggering away into the road, and flung himself and his suitcase into the front of the Daimler. Heavy footsteps could be heard thundering down the stairs, but by the time the superintendent and the sergeant were out of the house, Urquhart had started his car, thrust off the nondescript man who had picked himself up and was trying to get his hands on the steering wheel, and was twenty yards down the street. Armstrong glanced at Hero and Michael, hesitated a second, then rapped out a few orders to his sergeant and jumped into Hero’s car. Michael had moved into the driving seat, anticipating action.
‘Follow that car,’ shouted the superintendent, ‘he can’t get away for long, but the sooner we catch him, the better.’
Hero bundled into the back seat, where Strangeways took her arm in the most friendly and reassuring way, remarking, ‘I seem to have plunged
in medias res
, as you might say.’ Michael jumped the car forward in second, skidded neatly between a bus and a sandwich man at the corner, and hurled them in a series of swoops and jerks through the traffic of the High Street. ‘O death,’ sang Strangeways, in a raucous baritone, ‘how bitter art thou to him that liveth in peace, to him that hath joy in his possessions and liveth free from trouble.’ The broad back of the Daimler slipped coyly round a corner, fifty yards ahead, its red rear lamp winking an offensive challenge. Michael changed down at forty, the car swayed and seemed to hang like a lift at the bottom of its descent, then he accelerated into the side street and was confronted by a level crossing, with the gates just beginning to close. Michael in control of a fast car was a person in whom one would scarcely recognise the decorous, slightly neurotic schoolmaster of Sudeley Hall. He put his car at the gates like a seasoned huntsman. Nigel murmured to Hero:
‘Does your vehicle jump?’ Then gently closed his eyes as they rocked over the metals with the gates scraping and jarring at their rear wings. The superintendent shot an apprehensive glance at Michael, but he was staring ahead, smiling serenely, apparently not contemplating further addition to his tale of victims.
They were out in the country now, drumming in third up a long incline. Trees pounced at them and withdrew, hedges moved
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