IT IS CURIOUS, I think, that we were to meet the Pell girl that very night, and under most unusual circumstances.
Although it was still several days until the Coronation, the celebration had already commenced. Service in our building was practically suspended, the head porter was almost never around, nobody seemed to go to bed, and a Scotch bagpiper that evening chose the pavement beneath our window to make the most dismal sounds.
As a result we did not hear the noises outside our door until very late. Then Tish aroused Aggie and myself, and we investigated. The building had an automatic elevator, or lift, and it was apparently stuck below our floor. Not only this, but a girl inside it was alternately hammering and shouting.
Clad in our dressing gowns, we at once went out. The lift was dark, but we could see her there, evidently in a terrible temper.
“What is the trouble?” Tish inquired.
The girl stopped hammering and looked up.
“Nothing,” she said, “nothing at all. I’m here because I like it. I like shouting and yelling and breaking my finger nails on these bars. It’s just my way of amusing myself.”
Well, we saw at once that she was an American, and that something must be done.
“Have you pressed the button?” Tish inquired.
“Listen,” said the girl, “I’ve pressed everything but flowers for the last hour. And that damned hall porter is out on the street making whoopee somewhere. Get me out of here, can’t you?”
It was obviously impossible to leave her there, and at last, the top of the cage being open, we tied some sheets together and with considerable effort drew her to our landing. She was still indignant, however, maintaining that she had been deliberately shut in, and that if somebody named Jim Carlisle thought he was being funny he could think again.
We took her into our sitting room to rest, and seen in the light she was extremely pretty. But I saw her inspecting us with a rather startled expression.
“Not in any trouble yourselves, are you?” she inquired.
Aggie sneezed, but Tish was her usual calm self.
“Certainly not. Why?” she asked.
“I just wondered,” she said evasively. “The—the hair is unusual. That’s all. Not that it’s any of my business, of course.”
She then told us her story, maintaining that the power in the lift had been deliberately shut off to keep her a prisoner. She had, she said, had a quarrel with the Carlisle man who lived on the floor above and he had shut her up in the lift and left her there.
“He’s an unspeakable brute,” she said furiously, and then began to cry.
It was some time before she was quiet. Then she explained. She was a newspaperwoman from New York named Bettina Pell, and she had come over to report the Coronation.
“From the woman’s point of view,” she said. “You know, clothes and jewels. Especially the crown jewels. Then tonight I got a hot tip that they were being moved to Buckingham Palace, and if it had not been for that bunch of thugs on the floor above I’d have had the scoop of the world. If those bandits think they were smart—”
“Bandits!” said Tish. “Actual bandits?”
“I’ll tell the world!” she said. “They’ll steal, rob, and probably murder to get what they’re after. They’ll—oh, what’s the use,” she finished drearily. “I’m going home to bed. Not that it’s much of a home. I’m sleeping in a bathtub at the moment. And thanks for the lift, which isn’t a bad pun at this hour of the night.”
It was when she was leaving that I saw her glance at that wretched newspaper picture of us, and I thought she looked startled. But she went away without comment, and Tish voiced our general feeling about her.
“It is very sad,” she said, “that one so young should consort with any gang. But I believe such men often have a fatal attraction for the other sex. To have locked her in that elevator was sheer brutality.”
She was thoughtful, saying little after that; and it was not until three A.M. that Aggie roused me from a sound sleep to report that she was not in her room. What is more, only her bathrobe and slippers were missing, and when it became apparent that our dear Tish was somewhere in the cold London night, unclothed and possibly in danger, our state of mind was quite dreadful.
It was almost dawn when at last we heard a commotion in the bathroom, and discovered her climbing in the window from the fire escape. She closed the window, shivered slightly, and then confronted us.
“That girl was right,” she said grimly. “Those men above are bandits. I have no doubt whatever that they intend to secure the crown jewels; if indeed they have not already done so.”
She said nothing more until we had made her a cup of tea. Iron woman as she is, she had passed through a dreadful ordeal, and it was some time before she had quite recovered.
“There can be no doubt whatever,” she then explained. “The place is littered with cases containing machine guns, and the ammunition is in round tins in a closet. I had to sit on it. Not only that,” she added: “the raid is to be made at the Coronation itself. And the Master Mind is in America!”
Well, it was a long story, although a terrible one. She had been unable to sleep, and had gone up the fire escape to inspect the rooms above by looking through a window. The gang being out, she had climbed in, to make the discoveries I have mentioned. But here misfortune overtook her. They came back before she could escape, and she had been forced to find refuge in a closet!
It was due to this that she heard the cable message, however. The one the others called Jim Carlisle read it aloud to the rest.
“Listen to this, gang,” he said. “It’s from New York. From the boss.”
And then he read the most bloodcurdling message I have ever heard. It said:
BE SURE NO MISTAKE ABOUT LOCATIONS. ESPECIALLY WANT JEWELS AND DECORATIONS. BETTER NOT SHOOT UNTIL YOU CAN SEE THE WHITES OF THEIR EYES.
We were too horrified for speech. Tish finished her tea and put down her cup.
“There is but one thing to do,” she said, “dangerous as it may be I feel that we have no alternative. We must go to Scotland Yard at once.”
Aggie immediately protested, but Tish was firm. And I think it should be said in our defense that we did so that same morning. Nothing was printed in the London press to this effect. Indeed, nothing in our defense was ever printed at all, and as it turned out the risk was entirely useless. The Commissioner who saw us—I think that was his title—seemed to be very busy, and on Tish stating her errand, he merely raised his eyebrows and addressed a large man who was standing by.
“You might get me the plot file, Jewkes,” he said.
And when Jewkes had gone he turned to Tish.
“We have a number of plots just now,” he said. “The natural anxiety of a loyal people to protect—er—the royal jewels and so on. About two thousand, I fancy.” He then took a large file from Mr. Jewkes, and examined it. “Yes,” he went on, “one thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight. Good guess, that; eh, Jewkes?”
“Very good, sir,” said Mr. Jewkes.
I could see that Tish was annoyed.
“These people have machine guns and ammunition,” she said rather sharply. “If that interests you.”
“It does indeed. Excellent weapons; eh, Jewkes? First time we’ve had machine guns reported, I believe. Let’s see. Yes. Bombs, grenades, rifles, and I believe a brick or two. But—”
Here Tish rose with dignity.
“Would you be interested—even faintly—in knowing the headquarters of this gang?” she demanded.
“Oh, rather,” he said. “We haven’t much to do just now; have we, Jewkes? There are only about fifteen million people in town, but we’ll take the address. Naturally. Put it down, Jewkes.”
And it was after this had been done that we had a very narrow escape. A man opened the door and said:
“The American about the dirigible, sir.”
“Show him into the other room,” said the Commissioner resignedly, “and get the dirigible file. What does he expect me to do about his blooming balloon anyhow? Blow it up for him?”
It was Mr. Smith!