Yes, thought Gideon, it was very remarkable indeed. Fresh in his mind was Falconer’s approach to Scott-Marie. Would a man with anything on his conscience make such an approach to the Commissioner? On the face of it, it didn’t make sense. He pondered as he looked at the pasted messages, then looked up, frowning.
“What package do you say Kell had with him when he went to Falconer House?”
“It was about the size of an open newspaper, and he seemed to wrap it round himself,” Thwaites said. “It could easily have been a canvas.”
“So that’s what’s in your mind,” Gideon said, heavily. “It could have been the Velazquez.”
“And it is perhaps now in Sir Richard Falconer’s possession, sir.”
“Yes,” agreed Gideon. “So it appears. Let’s have the whole story again.”
“Very well, sir. Kell’s a friend of Lancelot Judd, who owns the Hampstead shop. He was seen going to Falconer House carrying the packet, this evening. He went in with the packet but apparently did not bring it away. That was the time I decided to have him trailed very closely, sir. He went back to the shop about eleven o’clock and is still there. And he had nothing with him, as far as I know. If it was a canvas, it’s probably still in Falconer House.”
Gideon grunted.
“So we ought to search.”
Thwaites drew his breath rather uneasily through his full lips, and after a few seconds, said: “I would certainly apply for a warrant if it were anyone else, sir, but I would hate to go wrong on this one.”
“Yes,” said Gideon. “So would I. Is Falconer House still being watched?”
“Closely, sir.”
“Any instructions given?”
“To follow anyone who leaves,” answered Thwaites. “I didn’t feel I could go any further on my own authority, sir. It’s been worrying me all the evening. I tried to get Mr. Hobbs but he wasn’t home; he’s visiting a sister and travelling back by road so I couldn’t get him. And when I learned that the man de Courvier was dead I called you.”
“Quite right,” said Gideon. “Go down to Information, will you, and tell them to stop anyone going in or out of Falconer House. I don’t care who it is: Sir Richard himself or anyone. They can go anywhere provided you make sure they haven’t got that painting. All clear?”
“Yes, sir.” Thwaites, obviously lighter-hearted than for some time, almost bounced toward the door.
“Thwaites!”
“Sir?”
“You did say that girl was not seen to leave, didn’t you?”
“I did, sir,” said Thwaites
“And the Hampstead shop is now being closely watched?”
“By half a dozen men, sir.”
“Have anyone who leaves that shop stopped and searched, too,” ordered Gideon.
“I will, sir!”
Thwaites let the door swing to, and it banged slightly.
Gideon glanced at it absently. His forehead was wrinkled in a deep frown. With Hobbs not available and most of the senior superintendents difficult to get at during a weekend, he would have to take this job over himself. He knew that he should, and he wanted to; an issue as delicate as this should not be left to others.
His chief concern now was for the missing girl.
Christine lay on a mattress in a corner of the back room, her legs and hands tied, a scarf bound round her mouth. She had a throbbing headache and her eyes were so heavy she could no longer keep them open. She did not know how long she had been tied up but she did know that Lance had been on the premises alone for a long time and had left her here. Lance, to do such a thing! Lance, whom she had so loved, with whom there had been such deep pleasure in this place only a few hours ago. He seemed to be so desperately afraid of Robin Kell that after a few half-hearted protests, he did whatever the other man told him.
She heard movements, but she could not see.
She heard someone close by, and knew that Lance had pushed aside the curtain. Light flooded the little alcove, bright enough to hurt her eyes. She did not open them and resolutely faced the wall.
“Chris,” Lance whispered.
She pretended that she had not heard.
“Chris, it will be all right, I promise you.”
Did he lie even to himself? She wondered helplessly.
He touched her shoulder, and it was like being touched by fingers of ice.
“Chris, do you want anything?”
She could not answer because the scarf was tied so tightly. He knew that and yet he could bring himself to ask such a question. She did not stir. She was half bemused, anyhow; the effect of whatever drug they had given her had not really worn off.
“Chris,” he said again, his voice so close that she could feel his warm breath on her ear and on her cheek, “he’s gone to see your father. Your father won’t let you down.”
At last she turned to look at him. There was nothing she could say because of the gag, but she could face facts. Here was the man she loved and who had declared his love with such fierce passion, looking at her and doing nothing - nothing to help.
“Robin will come to terms with him,” he insisted.
At that, she closed her eyes, in weariness and with disgust.
“I tell you he will! Robin knows what he’s doing and he’ll make arrangements with your father. I’m absolutely certain.”
Christine could believe that he meant it; he was telling her that Robin had gone to collect a ransom for her and that her father would pay. How much would it be? A big sum, that was certain. Ten thousand pounds? Oh, she was worth more than that even to her father. He would not miss such a sum, would think nothing of paying it for a picture or a casket. He would buy her freedom as he would buy a work of art, and afterward would make her feel that she owed him even more, would expect her to be his prisoner for as long as he desired.
And yet—
He had warned her against Lance.
But he had warned her against every friend not of his own choosing.
“And I—I won’t let Robin harm you,” Lance was saying, as if he believed his empty words. “I promise you, I—What was that?”
There had been a sound downstairs, and it was followed by another, unmistakably the front door of the shop. Lance sprang up and pulled the curtains so that she could see nothing, then bounded toward the staircase.
“Robin! Is that you?”
“Who do you think it is?” Robin demanded. He came running up the stairs, very light of foot. “It’s working out perfectly. I’ve touched on Falconer’s besetting weakness.” He spoke with absolute conviction. “He’s in love with art and its treasures! They’re his idols and his mistresses rolled into one. If he had to choose between the Velazquez and his darling Christine, he’d ditch Christine. Oh, boy, are we on to a good thing!”
Christine felt as if a great weight had suddenly dropped on her, and her heart beat in dull, sickening throbs.