appear.
Mr Sprott was not alarmed, but he was surprised. He had told Lambert when he was coming back and the boy, though an awful sniveller, was fond of his father.
Mr Sprott went to his study, sent out for a secretary, and was soon deep in his business affairs.
But when the housekeeper came back in the early evening, Mr Sprott was reminded of his son once more.
“Didn’t you bring Lambert, sir?” she asked him. Her voice was hopeful. She really hated the boy.
“How could I bring Lambert? I haven’t got him. I never had him—he’s staying here with you.”
“No, he isn’t. There was a message saying he was joining you in America. It was left by the aunt—she said there’d been a call.”
“The aunt? What aunt?”
“The aunt from the agency. She took Lambert to the zoo and when I got back the boy was gone.”
The flapping posters, the notice of the reward, ran through Mr Sprott’s mind. They didn’t seem so funny now.
“I’m sorry, sir, but—”
“Be quiet.” Mr Sprott was scowling. “I’m going to the police. Tell Merton to bring the car round.”
But at that moment, very faintly, a telephone rang upstairs.
It was his personal phone, or rather one of them. Mr Sprott bought mobiles like other people bought matches and now he couldn’t remember which one it was or where he might have left it. Under his bed? On the lavatory cistern? In the cocktail cabinet?
“Find it,” he ordered, and the bodyguard and the secretary and the housekeeper ran all over the house trying to follow the sound.
It was Mr Sprott who reached it just as it was about to stop ringing. It was under a pile of monogrammed underpants in his chest of drawers.
“Hello!” he shouted. He was a man who always shouted into telephones. There were some strange noises; a sort of gulping sound followed by a gabble. “Speak up, damn you. I can’t hear you!”
“It’s me, Daddy. It’s Lambert. I’ve been kidnapped! You’ve got to come and get me!” More gulping, more tears. What a cry-baby the boy was!
“All right, Lambert. I’ll come and get you, but where are you? Speak clearly.”
“I’m on an island. It’s an awful place—”
“What island? Where is it?”
“It’s in the sea.”
Stanley Sprott rolled his eyes. “Yes, Lambert, islands are usually in the sea. But where? Which sea?”
“I dunno—they won’t tell me—but it’s cold. There aren’t any coconuts. I’ve been phoning and phoning you every day.” He broke off, gulping again. “My battery is running out.”
“Lambert, please think. Are there any other islands near by?”
“There’s a couple on one side.”
“What side. East? West? North? South?”
“I dunno. The sun comes up behind them, I think. It’s awful here—it’s weird. There’s these aunts; they’re mad and they give me drugged food. You’ve got to come, you’ve got to! There’s one after me now!”
The line went dead. Mr Sprott stood for a while thinking. An isolated island with two islands to the east of it. And—unbelievably—a posse of aunts.
He gave his orders. “I want the Hurricane made ready. I’ll pick her up at London docks. Get a couple of armed men aboard and see there’s plenty of ammunition. Pick them carefully; this mission is secret!”
The Hurricane was his yacht—a converted patrol boat and his pride and joy.
It was only then that he went to the police. He would not trust them to find Lambert—that job he would do by himself without telling anybody—but he might as well find out if there were any other clues.
That evening a third picture appeared on the walls of the police station, and in bus shelters and public libraries. This was of Aunt Myrtle, as remembered by the housekeeper and the man who fed the seals in London Zoo. It was even more peculiar than the other two pictures. Aunt Myrtle seemed to be standing in a high wind with her mouth open, and once again no one came forward to say they had seen her.
But Stanley Sprott’s team
Mr Sprott was not alarmed, but he was surprised. He had told Lambert when he was coming back and the boy, though an awful sniveller, was fond of his father.
Mr Sprott went to his study, sent out for a secretary, and was soon deep in his business affairs.
But when the housekeeper came back in the early evening, Mr Sprott was reminded of his son once more.
“Didn’t you bring Lambert, sir?” she asked him. Her voice was hopeful. She really hated the boy.
“How could I bring Lambert? I haven’t got him. I never had him—he’s staying here with you.”
“No, he isn’t. There was a message saying he was joining you in America. It was left by the aunt—she said there’d been a call.”
“The aunt? What aunt?”
“The aunt from the agency. She took Lambert to the zoo and when I got back the boy was gone.”
The flapping posters, the notice of the reward, ran through Mr Sprott’s mind. They didn’t seem so funny now.
“I’m sorry, sir, but—”
“Be quiet.” Mr Sprott was scowling. “I’m going to the police. Tell Merton to bring the car round.”
But at that moment, very faintly, a telephone rang upstairs.
It was his personal phone, or rather one of them. Mr Sprott bought mobiles like other people bought matches and now he couldn’t remember which one it was or where he might have left it. Under his bed? On the lavatory cistern? In the cocktail cabinet?
“Find it,” he ordered, and the bodyguard and the secretary and the housekeeper ran all over the house trying to follow the sound.
It was Mr Sprott who reached it just as it was about to stop ringing. It was under a pile of monogrammed underpants in his chest of drawers.
“Hello!” he shouted. He was a man who always shouted into telephones. There were some strange noises; a sort of gulping sound followed by a gabble. “Speak up, damn you. I can’t hear you!”
“It’s me, Daddy. It’s Lambert. I’ve been kidnapped! You’ve got to come and get me!” More gulping, more tears. What a cry-baby the boy was!
“All right, Lambert. I’ll come and get you, but where are you? Speak clearly.”
“I’m on an island. It’s an awful place—”
“What island? Where is it?”
“It’s in the sea.”
Stanley Sprott rolled his eyes. “Yes, Lambert, islands are usually in the sea. But where? Which sea?”
“I dunno—they won’t tell me—but it’s cold. There aren’t any coconuts. I’ve been phoning and phoning you every day.” He broke off, gulping again. “My battery is running out.”
“Lambert, please think. Are there any other islands near by?”
“There’s a couple on one side.”
“What side. East? West? North? South?”
“I dunno. The sun comes up behind them, I think. It’s awful here—it’s weird. There’s these aunts; they’re mad and they give me drugged food. You’ve got to come, you’ve got to! There’s one after me now!”
The line went dead. Mr Sprott stood for a while thinking. An isolated island with two islands to the east of it. And—unbelievably—a posse of aunts.
He gave his orders. “I want the Hurricane made ready. I’ll pick her up at London docks. Get a couple of armed men aboard and see there’s plenty of ammunition. Pick them carefully; this mission is secret!”
The Hurricane was his yacht—a converted patrol boat and his pride and joy.
It was only then that he went to the police. He would not trust them to find Lambert—that job he would do by himself without telling anybody—but he might as well find out if there were any other clues.
That evening a third picture appeared on the walls of the police station, and in bus shelters and public libraries. This was of Aunt Myrtle, as remembered by the housekeeper and the man who fed the seals in London Zoo. It was even more peculiar than the other two pictures. Aunt Myrtle seemed to be standing in a high wind with her mouth open, and once again no one came forward to say they had seen her.
But Stanley Sprott’s team
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