More Cases of a Private Eye: Classic Crime Stories. Ernest Dudley
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do you mean—everything will be all right?”
The voice that answered her in the darkness mocked her.
“What I say, Miss Malone. You be a good girl and no harm will come to you.”
“Harm?”
“This is a snatch job,” he told her succinctly, brutally. “Your father will pay up for your safety.”
With a terrific wrench Simone tore herself free of his grasp and leaned forward beating wildly on the glass partition.
He seized her shoulder and pulled her roughly back into her corner.
“That won’t do you any good. The driver is in on this too.”
Simone tried desperately to think what Craig would do.
“But I’ve got to be at the Albert Hall, You don’t understand—”
The other only laughed.
Craig. If only Craig had been there he would—he would—what? He would light a cigarette and shrug his shoulders, and she could almost hear him say: “Have it your way, son. I never liked music much either.” She held out an imperious little hand. “I’d like a cigarette, please,” she said as calmly as she could. But her French accent was very pronounced. The man obliged and as he struck a match, Simone added: “But you have made one big mistake. I am not Claire Malone.”
“You’re a cool—” he started and then broke off and brought the match nearer to her face so that the flame almost scorched her cheek. “No, my God, you’re not!” he exclaimed. “I thought there was something funny about your voice—foreign.”
“French.”
Simone, congratulating herself she was putting it over in quite the Craig manner, said: “I am Simone Thérèse Marie Antoinette Lamont. You can settle for Simone,” she said. Her courage was coming back fast.
The man muttered: “What the hell is all this?”
Simone retorted:
“You tell me.”
“What the hell—?” But this time the other wasn’t worrying over the problem of Simone. The car was squealing to a standstill. Simone peered out.
They were in one of the quiet back streets near Shepherds Market, and ahead of them two cars were pulling across the road, blocking their route. The big limousine stopped and suddenly shot into reverse, throwing Simone and her companion almost on to their knees. The man scrambled up and took a lightning glance out of the back window.
“Eddie,” he shrieked. “Eddie. For Pete’s sake watch out—there’s another one behind us!”
The driver must have caught a glimpse of the police car behind because before the words were out, he skidded his car violently up on to the pavement.
“Cops!”
The man made a dive for the door. Simone put out her foot and sent him sprawling into the road. Half out of the door she saw Eddie run hell for leather straight into the arms of half a dozen figures emerging from the two cars in front. Her late companion was being lugged roughly to his feet by two more figures from the car behind. Then a familiar voice drawled in her ear.
“I might have known you would have been in the thick of it with your famous trip-gag.”
She spun round just as Craig touched her shoulder and looked up into his smiling face.
“You all right?” he asked.
“I’m all right. But how—?”
“No questions,” he said as he ducked into the driver’s seat. “Looks like our client not only wanted somebody to impersonate his daughter but his chauffeur as well.” Then as Simone slammed the door, he yelled through the glass partition: “Albert Hall, madam?”
The car mounted further on to the pavement and shot hair-raisingly backwards between the railings of an area and the stationary police car.
They spun through the London streets as though they were speeding on the Great West Road.
“Well,” Simone remarked shakily as she climbed down outside the Albert Hall. “I do not know which was worse. Being kidnapped or driven by you.”
He laughed.
“Depends,” he said, “on whether you find Slouch-Hat more attractive or—me? Anyway, we’re on time.”
Ten minutes later Craig and Burton Maine slipped out of Simone’s box.
“Now I’ve seen everything is all right,” Burton Malone said, mopping his brow. “I want a breath of air. Rozzani certainly thinks it’s Claire in there; did you see him look up and smile?”
There was a touch of naive pride in his voice.
Craig nodded.
“I did. And I’m inclined to agree with you that it was worth it if it has helped him to give a performance like the one he’s putting over now.”
“Worth it?” Burton Malone smiled. “After all, you have been through it is very nice of you to say so. I do hope you’ll forgive me for putting your secretary on the spot like that. Shocking for her, though I must say she looked cool and collected enough when she arrived. A very charming girl. Thank God it wasn’t Claire.”
Craig grinned a trifle bleakly.
“My secretary is a very charming girl. But don’t apologize. It’s all in the day’s work. I won’t say I didn’t offer up a mild prayer of thanks for spotting the chauffeur was a phoney when I did. It was only just a thought I had that he wasn’t the same one I’d seen you with this morning when I noticed the car after dropping Miss Lamont at your house. I have a suspicious mind, so I checked up and when I had a good look at him over the match he offered me, I knew he was a fake. That sent me snooping, and I found your real chauffeur tied up in the garage minus his uniform.”
“Poor fellow,” put in Malone. “He seems to be suffering from shock more than anything.”
“That—and a bump as big as an egg on the back of his head where they slugged him. Anyway, all the rest of the story that some snatch-boys had read about your daughter going to the Albert Hall, stuck out like that phoney chauffeur’s rainbow-corner tie.”
“Tie?”
“His uniform was too tight round the neck and he couldn’t fasten it properly. When he leaned over and lit my cigarette it gaped and showed his own collar and eye-catching tie underneath. That’s what started me thinking.”
“You’re a wonder,” said Burton Malone.
Craig looked modest.
“Just a private dick,” he said blandly.
THE HOUSEBOAT SHOOTING
Mist curled up from the river like silent ghosts, a distant tug’s siren echoed eerily. Overhead the sky was black and starless.
Simone hung on to Craig’s arm, which he didn’t mind a bit, as they made their way along the towpath below Kew Bridge. They were looking for the riverside bungalow of Inspector Lumley. The Inspector was an old friend and had asked Craig to look him up; he thought he had a little job he could put his way.
A dark mass loomed up out of the river on their right and Craig muttered:
“This is the houseboat, anyway. Lumley’s bungalow should be about fifty yards along.”
Simone suggested in her husky French accent:
“Perhaps there are more houseboats?”
“Shouldn’t be,” Craig said. “This is the only one along this stretch of the river. Anyway, we’ll soon check up. ‘Shangri-la’, the houseboat’s named.” He produced his cigarette lighter. “Bound to be the name-board about here—”