it introduced me to Ms. Jillian Seabright. I mean there I was, suffering; through that awful play that would have been better left buried in Britain's musty theatrical past. Then I realized this sweet young thing was a near double for Emily Cornwall. Of course, I knew about the emeralds, and that no one had seen Emily for many a moon."
"We keep extensive files," Rowland explained. "Dear Emily is only one of those people whose fortunes we - ah, monitor."
"Monitor, then steal," Frank said.
Hawkins waved a playful finger. "Robbing the rich is an old English sport, Hardy. Started by a chap named Robin Hood. It's much more fun than making second-rate cinema offerings, or - What is it, Walter?"
A lanky man came pushing into the dining room. "Might be trouble," he said gruffly.
The teasing smile vanished from Hawkins's face. "What, exactly?"
Walter said, "We've been trying to call the Forman woman. She's supposed to be sitting on the Cornwall girl, awaiting word from us."
"And?"
"Nobody's answering the phone there." A look of unease passed over the crook's face. "I don't like it. Something's gone wrong with the plan."
Chapter 16
Joe passed the binoculars to Karen. "That's her on the terrace, all right."
Karen put the brand-new field glasses to her eyes. "Yes, she's in the wheelchair, all bundled up in plaid blankets."
"So I'd guess the lady standing next to her must be Miss Forman." Joe and Karen were stretched out in a clump of brush about a quarter of a mile from the rear of the huge, dreary, dark stone Talbot mansion. Swampy fields stretched out all around them, dotted with the occasional leafless tree. Big black crows circled low around the sprawling house, cawing and searching for a meal. "That lump in the fake companion's sweater looks like a gun."
"Can you be sure at this distance?"
"It's part keen eyesight," Joe admitted, "and part good guessing."
"Miss Forman doesn't look much like a companion - more like a barmaid who throws unruly drunks out by herself."
"We've been ducked down here since she wheeled Emily onto the terrace." Joe reclaimed the binoculars they'd bought in town after they'd stowed the gagged gunman at the end of the alley. "I don't see signs that anyone else is at home."
"So we're going through with this?"
"Keep these in your shoulder bag." Joe handed Karen the glasses, took a gray cap out of the pocket of his borrowed raincoat, and pulled it low over his eyes. "I'm taller than the guy who tailed us, but I should be able to pass for him until we're fairly close. Let's roll."
"I'm doing a lot more performing than reporting lately."
"Call it participatory journalism," Joe replied.
Karen stood up, put her hands behind her back, and began walking across the bleak fields toward the mansion.
Joe followed close behind, his head hanging low and the gun he'd taken showing plainly in his right hand. "Act frightened," he whispered.
"I don't have to act. I am frightened."
The crows, who had found something to eat in the tall grass, flapped away from them into the sky, cawing raucously.
Miss Forman looked up when Joe and Karen were about five hundred feet from the wide flagstone terrace. "Willie, you fool," she called out, hand slipping into her sweater pocket. "You weren't supposed to bring her here."
"It's working," Joe said in a tight whisper.
"You were just supposed to follow the girl and keep her away from the police." Annoyance tinged the heavyset blond woman's voice.
"Couldn't be helped," Joe muttered, his head still down.
Emily Cornwall, her mouth slightly open, stared as the two of them approached.
When Joe and Karen were about fifteen feet from the woman, she suddenly glared at them. "You're not Willie!" she exclaimed.
Karen's hands came up from behind her, flinging two fistfuls of swamp muck at Miss Forman's face. She dived at the woman, tackling her around the legs.
Joe sprinted forward, grabbing the woman's wrist before she could yank her gun free. "I wouldn't try anything
"We keep extensive files," Rowland explained. "Dear Emily is only one of those people whose fortunes we - ah, monitor."
"Monitor, then steal," Frank said.
Hawkins waved a playful finger. "Robbing the rich is an old English sport, Hardy. Started by a chap named Robin Hood. It's much more fun than making second-rate cinema offerings, or - What is it, Walter?"
A lanky man came pushing into the dining room. "Might be trouble," he said gruffly.
The teasing smile vanished from Hawkins's face. "What, exactly?"
Walter said, "We've been trying to call the Forman woman. She's supposed to be sitting on the Cornwall girl, awaiting word from us."
"And?"
"Nobody's answering the phone there." A look of unease passed over the crook's face. "I don't like it. Something's gone wrong with the plan."
Chapter 16
Joe passed the binoculars to Karen. "That's her on the terrace, all right."
Karen put the brand-new field glasses to her eyes. "Yes, she's in the wheelchair, all bundled up in plaid blankets."
"So I'd guess the lady standing next to her must be Miss Forman." Joe and Karen were stretched out in a clump of brush about a quarter of a mile from the rear of the huge, dreary, dark stone Talbot mansion. Swampy fields stretched out all around them, dotted with the occasional leafless tree. Big black crows circled low around the sprawling house, cawing and searching for a meal. "That lump in the fake companion's sweater looks like a gun."
"Can you be sure at this distance?"
"It's part keen eyesight," Joe admitted, "and part good guessing."
"Miss Forman doesn't look much like a companion - more like a barmaid who throws unruly drunks out by herself."
"We've been ducked down here since she wheeled Emily onto the terrace." Joe reclaimed the binoculars they'd bought in town after they'd stowed the gagged gunman at the end of the alley. "I don't see signs that anyone else is at home."
"So we're going through with this?"
"Keep these in your shoulder bag." Joe handed Karen the glasses, took a gray cap out of the pocket of his borrowed raincoat, and pulled it low over his eyes. "I'm taller than the guy who tailed us, but I should be able to pass for him until we're fairly close. Let's roll."
"I'm doing a lot more performing than reporting lately."
"Call it participatory journalism," Joe replied.
Karen stood up, put her hands behind her back, and began walking across the bleak fields toward the mansion.
Joe followed close behind, his head hanging low and the gun he'd taken showing plainly in his right hand. "Act frightened," he whispered.
"I don't have to act. I am frightened."
The crows, who had found something to eat in the tall grass, flapped away from them into the sky, cawing raucously.
Miss Forman looked up when Joe and Karen were about five hundred feet from the wide flagstone terrace. "Willie, you fool," she called out, hand slipping into her sweater pocket. "You weren't supposed to bring her here."
"It's working," Joe said in a tight whisper.
"You were just supposed to follow the girl and keep her away from the police." Annoyance tinged the heavyset blond woman's voice.
"Couldn't be helped," Joe muttered, his head still down.
Emily Cornwall, her mouth slightly open, stared as the two of them approached.
When Joe and Karen were about fifteen feet from the woman, she suddenly glared at them. "You're not Willie!" she exclaimed.
Karen's hands came up from behind her, flinging two fistfuls of swamp muck at Miss Forman's face. She dived at the woman, tackling her around the legs.
Joe sprinted forward, grabbing the woman's wrist before she could yank her gun free. "I wouldn't try anything
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