BY THE TIME CHERRY GOT ONTO THE STREET, RYDER WAS well ahead of her. Had he seen her? He didn’t look back, if that was any encouragement. Was he leading her on a false trail? … “We’ll soon find out,” Cherry thought.
Ryder turned down a shabby, cheerless street. Rows of brick houses, all alike, reared up from empty sidewalks. In some of the windows were signs reading: BED AND BREAKFAST. Cherry rapidly turned down the same street, glancing at a corner street sign: Weir Street.
Ryder was hurrying, a dim, solitary figure in the rain. Cherry followed half a block behind, and saw him enter a house. She counted the houses and figured that the street number of the one he had entered was 26. When she reached the house, she saw that the window blinds were drawn. No one else was in sight. Cherry’s wristwatch read four o’clock, too early for people to be coming home from work, too wet for strollers. She stared at the door.
“Do I dare go in? I didn’t see Ryder use a key, so I guess the door’s unlocked. Unless he locked it after him from inside.”
Her first impulse was to go in immediately. But she paused to think. She looked back for the detective. No sign of him or a taxi. It would be foolhardy, even dangerous, to go in alone. … Maybe Hazard was there too. She hoped so. … But then it would be even more dangerous.
“Yet I must not lose them,” she argued with herself. “Maybe there’s a telephone in the entrance hall. If no one’s around I could slip in, call the police, and slip out again quickly. Then I’ll watch for the detective in the taxi. He should be here any second. … I’ve got to take the chance,” she decided.
Cherry knocked on the door, ready to run if she had to. No one answered. Her hands trembled as she tried the door. It opened, and she peered cautiously into the dark hallway. Leaving the door open, she stepped inside, blinking in the sudden dark.
The door swung closed. Cherry turned in confusion. A hand, hard and heavy, clamped over her mouth. She was jerked backward and held in an iron grip. Ryder, unseen, said quietly into her ear, “If you make a sound, I’ll strangle you. I’ll not have the neighbors hear you.”
Next a handkerchief or a scarf was pulled tight across her mouth, so that she could only whimper. Where were the people who lived in the house? Where was the detective?
Her eyes, growing accustomed to the dark, saw Ryder’s free hand reach out and bolt the door. He forced her to the staircase and started dragging her up. Cherry pulled back and kicked against the staircase railing to make noise.
“That’ll do you no good, my girl,” said Ryder. “There’s no one here except a friend of mine, on the top floor. The respectable couple who rented us their spare room, as a favor to their friend Mrs. Kirby, haven’t any other tenants. Just us two ‘deserving schoolmasters.’” Ryder snickered. “And they themselves don’t come home from work until well after six. So up the stairs with you, now! You thought in Stratford I was a silly fool, didn’t you?”
Cherry glared at Ryder. He laughed in her face, and pulled her along up the stairs.
The stairs were narrow and steep. Cherry counted as they climbed: three flights to the top landing. Ryder still held her arm tightly as he knocked on the one door up here.
“I say, Archie! Open up! I’ve brought a guest,” Ryder said.
Archibald Hazard unlocked and opened the door. He was in shirtsleeves and slippers. A sour smile spread over his face as he saw Cherry, and heard Ryder’s brief account of how she had rashly followed him.
“I made quite a haul, what?” young Ryder said. “Two detectives spotted me.”
“Detectives?” Hazard said. “Then get in here quickly.”
“Oh, no one’s coming,” Ryder said offhandedly. “We shed one man near the shop. The other chap, in a taxi, got caught in traffic about ten or fifteen minutes ago. Meanwhile, my bus moved on.”
Cherry’s eyes flew wide open. She had not seen the detective get stuck in traffic. “I was too intent on watching for Ryder to notice,” Cherry thought. “So the detective isn’t coming—he can’t, he doesn’t even know where I got off the bus! I’m here alone in this house with Hazard and Ryder—and no one knows where I am!”
“For once you used your brain,” Hazard said to Ryder, “when you let the girl in the house. Bring her in and we’ll tie her up,” Hazard ordered. He did not bother to speak to Cherry. “Now if we could get the Logan woman out of our way, too—”
Cherry balked, but Ryder shoved her into the room. She saw it was hopeless to resist—better to save her strength, in case she could find some way to escape later. Hazard locked the door.
The room smelled of stale coffee. It held a bed, a cot, two wooden kitchen chairs, an old bureau, and a shabby table with food, paper bags, and a revolver on it. Cherry looked around for a way out, but the only other door, standing open, led into a clothes closet. And the high dormer windows, recessed under the roof, would hardly be seen from the street. She was trapped.
Ryder pushed her onto a chair, finally letting go of her arm. Cherry rubbed her bruised arm. Then in one quick movement she tugged at the gag. Hazard slapped her hard across the face. For a moment she felt dizzy and blinded. When her vision cleared, she saw Hazard was holding the revolver.
“If you insist on being a nuisance, Miss Ames,” he said in his usual courteous, pompous way, “you will force me to take drastic action. May I suggest that, if you wish to go on living, you stop acting like a fool. You’ve already been too smart for your own good, haven’t you? Rod, haven’t you found that rope yet?”
“Righto, here it is.” Ryder came out of the closet, carrying a length of rope and a knife.
“Tie her hands behind her back,” Hazard ordered. “Next, tie her ankles. Then tie her to the chair. Sit still, Miss Ames—or must I slap you again? Get on with it, Rod.”
Cherry felt hot tears sliding down her cheeks. She was nearly as angry at her folly and helplessness as she was terrified. What did Hazard intend to do with her? At least he put the gun back on the table. … She cringed with fear as the ropes bit into her. With her eyes she followed Hazard, limping around the room, and silently implored him to let her go.
Hazard addressed her with sarcastic formality. “I hope you will enjoy your stay here, Miss Ames. We have a job to do, and immediately afterward we’re getting out of Scotland. You will remain in this room, tied and gagged, as our guest. I’ve already asked our landlords, the Martins, not to come upstairs here until Saturday, when Mrs. Martin can clean. Our rent is paid in advance to Saturday, so they have no reason to come up here. I doubt that the Martins will be able to hear any noise you might be able to make, since they occupy the ground-floor rooms.”
Mr. Hazard made her a little bow, limped away, and sat down on the bed. Ryder sat beside him, changing his wet shoes for a dry pair.
“Any phone call from Mrs. Kirby’s kid, Amy?” Ryder asked. “I mean to say, after I left off playing blind man?”
“No, the kid hasn’t phoned here since lunchtime,” Hazard said, “asking what to do about Meg Greene’s ‘friend’ who telephoned the shop. That was the last phone call. I—um—don’t expect to hear from Mrs. Kirby. Not soon, at least. Either she’s lying low, or the police have arrested her.”
Ryder looked up nervously. “Will she talk to the police?” Cherry’s hopes rose, then died again as Hazard said:
“I doubt that she’ll talk. I paid her well enough to buy her silence, if the police question her. And she needn’t talk in order to save her own skin—she’s in no danger, nothing wrong happened at her shop, actually.”
“Well, will her kid talk?” Ryder asked, and answered himself. “No, the poor thing is scared to death of her mother. Even if the police would suspect a ten-year-old—”
In the midst of her own terror, Cherry pitied the child who had a criminal for a mother.
“Never mind the Kirbys,” Hazard said impatiently. “The main point is that the police are suspicious about you and me, now. I’ve decided we’d better take the Shakespearean paintings tonight, and clear out of here.”
“But can you do it with your bad ankle?” Ryder asked.
“There’s no longer much choice. I’ll manage. You’re a great worrier, Rod,” Hazard remarked.
Cherry listened numbly, as if she were having a bad dream. Ryder got up and paced around the room, passing Cherry as if she were a piece of furniture. Then he folded his long, thin body into the other wooden chair.
“I am worried about my wife,” Ryder said. “I wish I could be sure that she’s safely hidden at her mother’s house. No phone there, or I’d call from Edinburgh as I did before.”
“Shut up,” said Hazard. “You’re talking too much in front of the girl.” He jerked his head toward Cherry.
“Oh, all right, all right,” Ryder said resentfully. He sat brooding. Hazard stretched out on the bed. Cherry’s attention wandered.
She was in such physical discomfort that she almost cried. Her lips under the gag felt dry and stiff. The harsh ropes confined her to one rigid, aching posture. She tried to think. The detectives must have reported the incident of the blind man to police headquarters. But they had no leads to 26 Weir Street.
Cherry turned her head and saw an alarm clock. It read ten to five. She was to have met Peter at five, at the hotel. Perhaps Martha would keep the appointment for her, to tell Peter that she, Cherry, was missing. If only Peter’s talk with Inspector Forbes had uncovered some new lead, some way to find Ryder and this address! But the only information Peter had was the restaurant that Ryder and Hazard had entered yesterday, and that she had reported to Inspector Forbes by telephone at lunchtime.
“Surely the police have investigated at the restaurant by now,” Cherry thought. “I guess they didn’t learn anything, or they’d be here.” She lapsed into a dull, blank despair. She could only sit immobilized and wish for a drink of water.
“Rod,” said Hazard, sitting up on the bed, “lay out the things we’ll need tonight. On the cot.”
“Right.” Ryder stood up and stretched, looking fantastically tall. Then he brought, from the closet to the cot, a small claw bar, a jimmy, a chisel, two flashlights, two small, sharp knives, all small enough to fit in a man’s pockets, and a roughly sketched floor plan marked with X’s. Cherry watched, half sick with helpless rage.
Hazard ordered Ryder, “Next I want you to pack our clothes. Pack tight—”
“I didn’t hire on as your valet, Archie!”
“Just shut up and do as I say. Be sure to pack tight. Leave room for the rolled-up paintings.” Hazard glanced sharply at Cherry, then ignored her again. “Let’s eat early tonight.”
The two men discussed getting food in for supper. Cherry gathered that Ryder had been bringing food in from a local sandwich shop, particularly since Hazard had been spotted by the American women at the doctor’s office. It was clear that Hazard was not going to offer any food to their involuntary guest.… There was a sharp rap on the door.
Hazard and Ryder stiffened. They exchanged glances, but remained motionless and silent. Cherry thought of scraping or stamping her bound feet on the floor, to let the caller know someone was inside. But Hazard reached for the gun, and pointed it at her.
The knocking increased. A man shouted:
“Open up! Police! We know you’re in there—we heard you talking. Open the door, or we’ll break in!”
Hazard placed himself slightly behind Cherry in the chair. She realized what he was doing. If a gunfight broke out, she would be in the line of cross fire—and Hazard would use her as a shield.
“Open up!” the police shouted again. “We’ve got the stairs and all exits covered—this building is surrounded. The two of you haven’t a chance!”
Ryder was tiptoeing toward the closet, but then—as the police rained blows on the flimsy door—Ryder seemed to change his mind. He ran across the room to Hazard. Hazard looked up at Ryder inquiringly, expecting the younger man to speak. Instead, Ryder struck him, threw him off balance, and snatched the gun out of Hazard’s hand.
“All right, I’ll let you in!” Ryder shouted. “I’m not such a fool as to shoot it out!”
Hazard lunged for Ryder, but Ryder knocked him down. Then Ryder sprang to the door, unlocked it, and flung it wide open. Six detectives stood at either side of the door, guns drawn. One was the detective who had tried to follow Cherry and Ryder.
As the detectives rushed in, Ryder cried out half-hysterically:
“You can’t hold me on any charge! I was tricked into this! Hazard’s the man you want!”
“You sniveling liar,” Hazard sneered contemptuously. He picked himself up from the floor.
“Be quiet, both of you!” the detective in charge ordered. “Bally, Jock, untie the girl. Did they harm you, miss?”
She mutely shook her head. Two detectives freed her from the ropes, and looked at her carefully to see if she were all right.
Archibald Hazard limped over to the bed and sat down. He looked defiant. The chief detective, Graham Kerr—who said he was a cousin of the young policewoman, Mary Jean Kerr—told Ryder to sit on the bed beside Hazard. Then Sergeant Kerr came over to Cherry and asked solicitously:
“Sure you’re not hurt? Can we get you anything?”
“A glass of water,” Cherry said. “My—my hands and feet are numb.”
Sergeant Kerr sent one man for a glass of water for her. Bally and Jock helped her to her feet, and rubbed her tingling hands.
“Sergeant,” said one of the detectives, “have a look at what’s on the cot over by the window,”
Kerr picked up the diagram with the X’s. “What is this?” he asked. “Answer me, Hazard.”
Hazard did not deign to answer. Ryder, trembling uncontrollably, shouted:
“I’ll tell you everything you need to know! I’m sick of Archie Hazard’s highhanded treatment and low pay! I’ll tell you what it is. It’s a layout of the exhibit of Shakespearean paintings—the X’s mark the ones we planned to take.… Yes! Yes! … We were going to do it tonight! Only let me off lightly—”
“Tell them,” said Hazard, “about your wife. Or shall I?”
Ryder’s mouth closed tight. He turned on the bed and lunged at Hazard. Sergeant Kerr stopped him with his fists and gave both men a sharp warning.
“You can talk at police headquarters. We’re going there now. Will you be able to walk, Miss Ames? Our man will assist you down the stairs.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I’m feeling better.”
She had to go slowly down the stairs. She leaned on the arm of Detective Cox, who had tried to give chase. “I had a bit of foul luck in that traffic tie-up,” he said to her in apology. “You did a good job today, Miss Ames.”
“I don’t think I’d do it over again,” said Cherry.
They reached the street. The rain had stopped. In the dusk a small crowd had gathered around the police cars. Detectives kept the onlookers back as Hazard and Ryder, handcuffed, were put into one car. Cherry rode with Sergeant Kerr, Cox, Bally, and Jock in another car. Kerr told Cherry that another detail remained in the house to collect the thieves’ tools, search their room, and talk with the Martins when the landlords came home.
The police cars traveled much faster than the bus in which Cherry had reached Weir Street. She asked Sergeant Kerr, “How did you find out about 26 Weir Street?”
“We went to the restaurant on George Street,” Sergeant Kerr said, “about one fifteen. We were unable to get any clue immediately, because yesterday’s lunch waiters do not come in today until dinner hour. However, the manager remembered that a waiter called John waited on two men answering to Hazard’s and Ryder’s descriptions. The manager gave us John’s home address and we looked him up.
“Unfortunately for us—and for you, Miss Ames—John was not at home. His wife said he had gone to the country for a hike, she didn’t know exactly where—but would be home at four o’clock.”
At four o’clock, Cherry recalled, she had been entering 26 Weir Street. The detective went on, “So we had to wait around until four, and then John came in. He remembered hearing Hazard say something about ‘he didn’t think much of Weir Street as a place to stay.’ We came right over to Weir Street, of course on the inspector’s orders. Then it took us a while to investigate several houses until we heard men’s voices and conversation, which we—well, we thought sounded like what we were looking for.”
“I had a narrow escape,” Cherry murmured, and Sergeant Kerr said, “You did, indeed, miss.”
The police cars drew up in front of headquarters. Hazard and Ryder were taken inside. As the detectives helped Cherry out of the car, she saw Martha and Peter getting out of a taxi. They hurried over to Cherry, relief and concern mixed in their faces.
“Thank heavens!” Martha exclaimed. “Cherry, you look shaken. Are you all right? What happened?”
Cherry told them briefly, as they went into the building and waited, as requested to do, in an anteroom. Peter was speechless. Martha looked rather sick.
“We’ve all been worried to death about you,” Martha said to Cherry. “After you and that detective went running off, Mr. Blair—he’s the other detective who was posted near the shop—notified Inspector Forbes by telephone. Then we came here to report details. The inspector was reassuring me that Mr. Cox would look out for you when”—Martha shook her head—“Mr. Cox walked in without you. Said he’d lost you! Well!
“But a minute or two later, the inspector had a phone call from Sergeant Kerr, who’d just learned from the waiter about somewhere in Weir Street. That gave me a little hope,” Martha said.
“Poor you,” said Cherry.
Martha shrugged. “Inspector Forbes finally persuaded me to go to the hotel and rest. But how could I rest? I waited until Peter came in at five, and told him you were missing, and—Well, we came here hoping we could help.”
“If I’d known earlier—” Peter said. “I feel awful about what you’ve been up against, Cherry.”
Cherry looked down at her sore, rubbed wrists. “I’ve been an idiot.”
“But such a nice, well-meaning idiot,” said Martha. They all had to laugh.
Sergeant Kerr came out of the inspector’s office and asked the three of them to come with him. They entered a glaringly lighted office with barred windows. Armed guards stood at the room’s two doors. A policeman stenotypist came in. Then Hazard and Ryder were brought in by the detectives who had captured them. When the inspector came in, everyone sat down. Cherry noticed Hazard’s and Ryder’s inky fingertips; the prisoners had been fingerprinted.
The inspector said, “We are going to take down preliminary statements from Archibald Hazard and Rodney Ryder. They will have benefit of counsel and a trial in due course. I should like our American visitors to listen, in order to verify or challenge anything in the statements of which they have firsthand knowledge. Mr. Hazard, we will begin with you.”
Sergeant Kerr prodded Hazard, who sullenly stood up. “By the way,” the inspector said, “we’ve been checking this afternoon by radio with the police in New York City, with Scotland Yard in London, and with Interpol headquarters in Paris, on the four criminals in this case. So you may as well talk, Mr. Hazard.”
Hazard stubbornly refused to say a word.
“Very well, Mr. Hazard,” the inspector said. “I shall read you Interpol’s dossier on you.” He picked up a typed report. “‘Archibald Hazard, forty, American. Real name Fred Walker. Several aliases given. Early in his life was an unsuccessful actor; now uses his skills in acting and makeup to change his identity on various burglary jobs. Well educated, with some knowledge of works of art. Known to the American police, so transferred his operations abroad. Acquainted in England with known criminals Rodney Ryder, Jessica Ryder, and Ben Egly.’” The inspector glanced up. “Shall I go on, Mr. Hazard? Or will you?”
Ryder called out shrilly, “If he won’t talk, I will!” Kerr silenced him.
“Very well,” Hazard growled. “I have excellent connections in the United States among—er—persons who can resell paintings in cities scattered all over the world—mainly in South America, and in Russia via the Asian route.”
“Do you mean,” the inspector interrupted, “that these persons would sell paintings you stole in England, to wealthy buyers on the other side of the world?”
Hazard said blandly, “That is correct, sir. To this end, I studied up on English painting and planned which ones I wished to take. I made New York my base of operations, and from there, I raised money for this trip, hired my three English friends, assembled my tools, got my passport—”
“A forged passport,” the inspector corrected him. “And no doubt a few disguises.” Hazard nodded. “Go on.”
“Then I had a stroke of luck,” Hazard said. “I saw an item in a New York newspaper saying that Martha Logan, the well-known historical novelist, would soon visit the private Carewe Museum in England. So I made it my business to be aboard the same plane as Mrs. Logan.” He smiled faintly in her direction.
Martha leaned forward, frowning and listening.
“It was quite simple to manage,” Hazard said. “In order to find out the airline, date, hour, and flight number on which Mrs. Logan would fly, I telephoned her publisher in New York. I represented myself as a reporter and said I wanted to interview her at take-off, and have my photographer take pictures of her boarding the plane. We made an appointment for an interview, and I was given the flight information. Of course I never showed up for the interview. Instead, I purchased a ticket for myself for the same flight. And then, once aboard the plane, I recognized Martha Logan from her photograph on the jackets of her books.”
Martha squirmed. “And then you contrived to worm out of me the date and hour when the Carewe Museum would he opened for me.”
“Exactly, my dear lady,” Hazard agreed.
“More than that,” Martha said in quiet anger, “you found out I was acquainted with the owner of a leading London art gallery. By entertaining me and my nurse at lunch, you connived to have me introduce you to the gallery owner, Pierre Selsam. I suppose it helped you to gain some inside information about how the gallery is operated.”
Hazard said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Mr. Hazard,” said Inspector Forbes, “I shall read you a report from Scotland Yard, whose men have arrested your chauffeur and accomplice, Ben Egly, this afternoon in London. The Interpol dossier on you mentions Egly, as you noticed, and this was of help to the police. Also, these ladies’ description of the ‘Shah’s’ chauffeur was of help.”
The inspector picked up another page and read: “‘Egly stated this afternoon that shortly after Hazard visited the Selsam Gallery with the American ladies, he and Hazard burglarized the gallery during the night.’”
Hazard turned pale but admitted nothing. The inspector continued:
“‘The London police have located the rolled-up paintings from the Selsam Gallery, wrapped in three packages, hidden in an East End warehouse where Egly’s cousin works, in an unused storage room under a blanket. Police also found there the paintings taken from the Carewe Museum.’” Hazard needed a minute or two to recover from the shock of this news. “What about Egly, Mr. Hazard?”
Hazard said grudgingly that Ben Egly, who lived in London, was skillful with tools and had a practical knowledge of his country’s laws, customs, and roads—which Hazard, a foreigner here, needed. “I regard Ben Egly as coarse, ignorant, stupid though shrewd,” Hazard said, “but reliable enough if paid well. Not reliable enough to keep his mouth shut with the police…. After the Selsam burglary, I told him to keep out of sight and wait for my orders for the next job.”
“That was my job,” Ryder spoke up. But the inspector directed Hazard to go on. “We’ll get to you later, Ryder.”
Hazard said that early during his stay in London, he briefed his other two accomplices, young Mr. and Mrs. Ryder. Having read about the rare Shakespearean paintings being assembled at Stratford-upon-Avon, Hazard sent Rodney Ryder there to find out which paintings were the most valuable. Ryder was also to find out whether the paintings could be stolen in Stratford, or from the train en route to Edinburgh, or could more safely be stolen later from the exhibit hall in Edinburgh.
“To think,” Peter whispered to Cherry, “that I took him for a simpleton! For just a tennis partner!”
“That accounts for two burglaries you planned,” said the inspector to Hazard. “What about the Carewe Museum job?”
“That took careful preparation and timing,” Hazard admitted. During his first day or two in London, he said, he saw on television the colorful Shah Liddy, who was an art collector, with his blond young English wife, arriving to visit England for three to four weeks. In less than three weeks the Carewe Museum would be opened to Martha Logan. Wasn’t it believable that the Shah and his wife might unexpectedly visit the Carewe Museum? Very well, Hazard decided, he would impersonate the flamboyant Shah. Egly would act as his chauffeur, and Ryder’s wife, young and blond, would pose as Lady Liddy. Assuming the identity of the Liddys was a risk—but a worthwhile one. He just had to take his chances that Carewe and the Liddys had never met.
So he instructed Jessica Ryder, who stayed on in London, to go to The Cat and Fiddle Inn near the Carewe Museum, just a few days before the planned theft, using a false name, Meg Greene. She was to study the country roads and terrain around there, where to abandon a traceable car, how to make the fastest getaway, and other information. On her solitary walks she sketched a map of roads and woods for Mr. Hazard, made a duplicate for Egly, and mailed the maps to Egly in London.
With his plans set in motion, Hazard had left London right after burglarizing the Selsam Gallery. He went to an obscure seaside resort, to think out the details of the Carewe plan, and to wait while the Ryders did their jobs.
Rodney Ryder reported back to him that it would be impossible to steal the Shakespearean paintings in Stratford or from the train; they would have to be stolen in Edinburgh. Hazard then sent Ryder to Edinburgh, to find a hideout for them, and a go-between.
The inspector addressed Ryder. “You telephoned from here to your wife at The Cat and Fiddle Inn, rather than phoning this information to Hazard—is that correct?”
“Yes, sir,” Ryder said. “Because Hazard had returned to London and was keeping under cover. My wife relayed it to him.”
In London, Hazard said under questioning, he rented a black Bentley as discreetly as possible, and obtained a false driver’s license. He bought disguising clothes, a white wig, and a false white beard for himself, some appropriate garments for Jessica Ryder, and a chauffeur’s uniform for Ben Egly. Egly, using a false name and a false driver’s license, bought for cash a secondhand, inconspicuous old sedan and changed its license plates. In this way Egly left no leads for the police later to trace the old sedan, which was to be the getaway car.
By now Jessica Ryder’s maps arrived. Hazard had already instructed her to meet him on a deserted road at nine thirty on the morning of the projected theft.
“Egly and I left London the day before the Carewe job,” Hazard said. “I wore my usual clothes, with a hat and sunglasses, and drove the Bentley. Egly was dressed as a workman and he drove the old sedan.”
“Yes, the Windermere police have reported that you apparently drove all day, traveling separately,” the inspector said, consulting another report. “And you and Egly stayed overnight, separately, at two of the lodginghouses along the highway.”
“Well, no one noticed us,” Hazard said with satisfaction. “Next morning we each started out early, and separately. Ben Egly drove the old sedan into the woods, put on the chauffeur’s uniform, and waited. I picked up Jessica Ryder on the road, in the Bentley, and we joined Egly in the woods. That’s where I put on the ‘Shah’s’ clothing and beard. Jessica changed from ‘Meg Greene’s’ tweed suit into ‘Lady Liddy’s’ fine clothes. And then—” Hazard shrugged.
“Then the theft went off smoothly as planned,” the inspector supplied. “You abandoned the Bentley, and changed out of your disguises. I presume, Mr. Hazard, that Egly concealed the stolen Carewe paintings in the old sedan and drove them to London?” Hazard nodded. “And you traveled alone to Edinburgh?”
“The three of us scattered,” Hazard said, “since the police would be looking for a couple and another man.”
“Archie, if you tell where my wife is,” Ryder burst out, “I’ll make you regret it! Sooner or later!”
“Mr. Ryder,” said Inspector Forbes, “it will go easier for you if you tell us where she is.”
Cherry, Martha, and Peter watched Ryder as he hesitated, nervously biting his lips. “I can’t do it,” he said.
“Mr. Hazard, you will cooperate and tell us,” the inspector directed.
“Well, Egly drove the sedan south toward London. I—I figured the police could hardly suspect a workman driving an old car of having the Carewe treasures,” Hazard hedged. He avoided Ryder’s burning look. “Jessica Ryder was sitting on the floor in the back of the sedan so that she wouldn’t be seen. I’m not really sure where she—if she—”
“Get on with it, Hazard!” the inspector commanded.
“Egly was to let her out at Lancaster, the nearest big town,” Hazard said in a low voice. “From there she was to take a train to her mother’s house in—” He named a Midlands city as Sergeant Kerr restrained Rodney Ryder from hitting the older man.
The sergeant moved Ryder to a chair on the opposite side of the room. Inspector Forbes resumed:
“Describe your movements after the theft, Mr. Hazard.”
“Well, I was dressed as myself again, and I left the woods on foot,” Hazard said. “I walked behind hedges down a country road, to where Jessica had told me I could hail a bus, at one of its pickup points. I changed to another bus at the nearest town, and kept changing buses and trains so that nobody would have much chance to notice me. I reached Edinburgh late Monday evening.” Hazard said regretfully, “Except that my wrenched ankle was beginning to swell and bother me, our plan was working out on schedule. I went to 26 Weir Street where Rod was waiting for me and—well, you probably know the rest.”
“We know,” said the inspector. “Mr. Ryder, we will interrogate you later, privately. Both of you will be flown to London, under arrest. You ‘enterprising art collectors’ can now look forward to trials and prison terms.”
The inspector asked the Americans if there were anything they wished to add to Hazard’s statements. They did not, but Cherry had a question:
“What will become of Amy?”
“The shopwoman’s ten-year-old daughter?” The inspector looked thoughtful. “We never suspected a child, did we? I expect that that unfortunate child will be taken away from her mother, and placed in the custody of foster parents who are fit to raise her.”
“I understand from Mrs. Kirby’s neighbors, sir,” said Sergeant Kerr, “that Amy has grandparents and an aunt, on her deceased father’s side, who are good people.”
Inspector Forbes said he was glad to hear that. So was Cherry. Martha and Peter looked relieved, too.
“Another constructive fact,” said the inspector, “is that a third art theft has been prevented. I wish to thank our visitors for their role in that.” Hazard snorted. The inspector said to the guards, “Take the prisoners out.”
Hazard was taken out one door, and Ryder, glowering at him, was hustled out the other door. Most of the detectives left except Mr. Cox and Mr. Kerr, who came to ask Cherry if she were quite all right.
“I’m fine again, thanks,” Cherry said. “Thank you for rescuing me.”
Inspector Forbes held out his hand to the visitors. Cherry said, “I wish Auntie Pru could receive a medal or something else spectacular.”
The inspector looked amused. “Let’s say she will receive the equivalent of an honorable mention in the newspaper reports.”
They all said goodbye. Peter escorted Martha and Cherry out of the building, and hailed a taxi. He suggested dinner together, but Martha said she and Cherry had better have a quiet dinner in their rooms, and go right to sleep. It was late, and even Peter admitted they all had had enough for one day.
“But may I meet you both tomorrow morning?” Peter asked. “Tomorrow’s my last day here.”
“It’s a date,” Cherry said, and Martha said, “Let’s not go chasing any thieves.”
The next day was sunny and fine. They drove up the historic rock to where Edinburgh Castle perched two hundred and seventy feet in the air. The rock fell sharply on three sides, a natural fortress. As they toured the castle, Peter paid more attention to Cherry than to the guide whom Martha Logan had engaged. The castle had a long, bloody history, said the guide. He took them into the stone-walled apartments where Mary, Queen of Scots, had lived, and into a very small stone room where she bore her son, James VI, who became King James I of England. They traveled still further back into time and history when they stepped into the plain, stony, little Norman chapel where Queen Margaret, who became Saint Margaret, had prayed during the wars and sieges of the eleventh century. On the altar were a few fresh roses, white and red, as if the lady herself had set them there while the castle was being captured and recaptured. Indeed, the guide said, the origins of the castle were lost in antiquity, but went back to the Bronze Age.
Then they crossed the open courtyard to visit the beautiful National War Memorial. Here, in quiet grandeur, were recorded the names of soldiers, and of nurses, Cherry noted, and working people, and even animals who had died in World War I in defense of their country. Feeling subdued, they went outdoors and stood near the barracks, looking down at the city. The guide pointed out to them the Royal Mile, which leads from the castle to Holyrood Palace. Cutting across the heart of Edinburgh lay Princes Street, with its elegant shops and teashops on one side; and on the other, its gardens, monuments, stately churches, and national art museums. “And there,” the guide pointed out at the far end of Princes Street, “is your hotel, at the Waverly Steps.”
They left the castle. Peter had to pack, but since Martha wanted to shop, he took her and Cherry as far as Princes Street.
Peter did not want to say goodbye. But he had to, “Right here and now, darn it. We have to fly back to the United States today,” he said, “if my students and I are to arrive on time for the opening of the fall semester.” He looked longingly at Cherry. “I don’t suppose you’re leaving today, too?”
Cherry smiled and shook her head. Martha answered. “No, we’re going to see a little more of Scotland, the lochs and moors and the Robert Burns country. Then we’ll fly back to London, and from there fly to New York. Ah—excuse me. I want to send some butterscotch to my children.” She started to move away. “I’ll join you in half an hour at our hotel, Cherry…. Yes, yes, I’ll be perfectly all right by myself!”
So Cherry and Peter had a last, short walk together. Peter unashamedly held her hand.
“For once I can’t think of an appropriate quotation,” he said. “Do you think we’ll ever meet again?”
“Well, a nurse moves around a great deal on various assignments,” Cherry said.
“Sometimes professors transfer from one college to another,” Peter said. “There are vacations—and long weekends—Wait! I haven’t your home address.”
They wrote down their addresses for each other. “Here’s hoping,” said Peter. “Here’s to travel.”
“And no more art thefts,” Cherry said.
They walked a while in silence. They reached the hotel and paused. Still Peter held fast to her hand. “I’d like to give you something to remember me by,” he said. “A souvenir bracelet—or a book of Robert Burns’s poems?”
Cherry gently wriggled her hand free. “Thanks anyway, Peter. I’ll remember you, all right, without any souvenir. Just telephone me long-distance some time and see if I don’t.”
“I will!” said Peter. “So help me, I will!”
“It’s been nice. So long for now,” said Cherry.