The Sad Variety Read online

  ‘You’re welcome. I’m beating down the snow along the lane as far as the village. Milk float won’t be able to get up otherwise.’

  Jim climbed down from the great tractor, which towered over Paul with its canopied top. The rubber tyres were as broad as the length of his forearm. At the rear was a winch. Jim patted it. ‘Always tow you out with this if you get stuck, Mr Cunningham.’

  Just as the farmer was about to move off, Annie Stott ran out of the house. ‘Where’s Evan? Oh, good morning, Mr Thwaite. Evan! Come here at once! You shouldn’t be outside. I told you this morning——’

  ‘But I’m very warm, thank you. And Uncle Paul said——’

  ‘Never mind what he said. Paul, take him in.’ She laid her hand against Evan’s forehead, then gave him a push towards the door. Above the noise of the idling tractor, she spoke up to Mr Thwaite. ‘I know, I’m a bit fussy. But he’s my sister’s only child, and it’s dangerous for him to over-exert himself. I must go in and take his temperature again.’

  The tractor turned and moved slowly away. Paul took Jim to the garage. Annie told the boy to sit near the living-room fire and play with his Meccano. She herself knitted, waiting for the telephone to ring in the next room with a message from the Guest House. Ten minutes later, it rang.

  CHAPTER 4

  * * *

  General Post Office

  DECEMBER 28

  PROFESSOR WRAGBY TOO had awaited a telephone call. It came soon after breakfast. He took it in the proprietor’s room, Nigel Strangeways listening over his shoulder.

  ‘Is that Professor Alfred Wragby?’ said the operator’s voice. ‘I have a call for you from London.’

  There were some clicking sounds. Then a man’s voice spoke, with intonations which Nigel soon pinpointed as Slav, and an accent learnt first from an American teacher but overlaid by some period of residence in England.

  ‘I am speaking to Professor Wragby, F.R.S.?’ inquired the voice.

  ‘Yes. Wragby speaking. Who are you?’

  ‘My name will not be known to you. I have news of your daughter.’

  The professor’s knuckles went white as he clenched the receiver, but his voice remained impassive.

  ‘I take it you are the person who stole her.’

  ‘Let us say “borrowed”, Professor. She is in good order, and will be returned quite soon, if our transaction proves successful.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘In London.’

  ‘Let me speak to her.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible. I am in a public telephone box. Alone.’

  ‘Well? What is this transaction you speak of?’

  ‘You have something my friends need, Professor Wragby. In your head. We have something you need. I propose an exchange.’

  ‘So I imagine. Your methods of business are contemptible, but I should not have expected anything else.’

  ‘Hard words break no bones, my dear sir.’ The voice was calm, almost jovial. ‘For you, it’s simply a question of how much value you set on your daughter.’

  ‘Don’t lecture to me. Get on with it.’

  ‘Very well. If you decide to complete the transaction, you will be at the General Post Office in Belcaster at midday today. You will find, on your left as you go in, a long counter for writing telegrams. At its near end, attached to the wall above the counter, is a holder containing forms for Premium Savings Bonds. You will place a sheet of paper on which you have written your information at the back of these forms, and at once leave the Post Office.’

  ‘And then I get Lucy back?’

  ‘In due course. Naturally we should have to make sure it was the correct—er—formula you had given us. On these terms, Professor Wragby, are you willing to close the deal?’

  ‘Well, it looks as if——’ began Wragby after a silence. Nigel made a slowing-down movement with his right hand. The enemy must not be allowed to feel that Wragby was giving in too easily. ‘It looks as if this is a stalemate. If I refuse, you’re back where you started. If I agree, I’ve no guarantee of getting my daughter back.’

  ‘You have our word for that.’

  ‘Your word!’ The contempt in Wragby’s voice was withering.

  ‘You refuse, then?’

  Wragby did a passable imitation of a man cracking. ‘Look here, how do I know Lucy isn’t dead already? Suppose I find I’ve exchanged a vital secret for a dead child?’

  ‘Nah, nah, we don’t kill unnecessarily. I like children, myself. Of course, I can’t answer for my friends who are looking after her in London. They are impatient folk. There are so many things you can do to a child without actually killing her. She’s a pretty little girl, they tell me.’

  Wragby drew in a sobbing breath—he did not have to act this time. ‘All right, all right! You promise not to hurt her?’

  ‘I promise you that, my friend.’ Curiously enough, Nigel believed this—for a while, at any rate.

  ‘Then I’ll do what you ask.’

  ‘You are wise, Professor. It is the fortunes of war.’ The genial voice grew hard. ‘But don’t play any monkey tricks. I could not stop you broadcasting the news of your daughter’s disappearance. The police will be expecting you to hear from her abductors. You must on no account tell them about the substance of this conversation, or your agreement to our bargain. No doubt, your fertile brain can think up some story to put them off. They are not, after all, very clever: they could not even prevent us getting the child to London. When your Special Branch takes the thing over, it will be more difficult for us. That is why the move must be made at once. You will naturally enter the Belcaster Post Office unaccompanied. Any attempt to set a trap for our agent there would have disastrous consequences for you. Good-bye.’

  Professor Wragby looked at Nigel, his face white under the reddish hair.

  ‘What am I to do?’ His voice was stiff with agony.

  ‘We’ll have to play for time. Do what he told you. But write down some data, symbols, what have you, that look plausible but are in fact misleading. Can you do that?’

  ‘Yes, but——’

  ‘I shall drop hints here that the kidnappers have an agent in the Guest House; he may or may not be the person who’s going to collect your information. If we can establish who it is, we’ll have one end of the thread in our hands. I’ll get in touch with the Superintendent of the County C.I.D., ask him to have the Post Office watched unobtrusively from midday on: one of his men will be stationed behind the grille, to keep an eye out for anyone who comes to pick up your information. No, we shan’t arrest that person at once. He’ll be followed, and the trail may lead us to where Lucy is—that’s to say, if the agent isn’t one of the guests here.’

  ‘But good God, man, Lucy is in London. Do you suppose——’

  ‘I wonder.’ Nigel’s pale blue eyes were fixed on a repellent print, above Wragby’s head, depicting a scene of eighteenth-century courtship. ‘I wonder. Our friend on the telephone did his best to impress on us that London’s where they’ve taken her. He wants the search to be concentrated there.’

  ‘She might be much nearer?’ The mere possibility enlivened Wragby’s despairing face.

  ‘They could have slipped through the two police cordons last night. But my guess is they’re holed up within a radius of twenty miles from here.’

  ‘In which case, we’re bound to have news of her soon. There’ll be descriptions of her in the papers and news bulletins. Somebody’d be certain to notice——’

  ‘Don’t run ahead of yourself. There are plenty of isolated houses in the country. She could be locked away in one of them for days, and nobody know.’

  ‘I must run up to Elena. Don’t like leaving her too long. She’s dreadfully distressed. You’ll do your best, I know.’ The tall stooping figure hurried out.

  And what a wretched best it’s been, thought Nigel. The chance of getting Lucy back is a thousand to one. Her captors would be too afraid of the child recognising them later. Of course, un
til they possess and verify Wragby’s information it will pay them to keep her alive—or delude him into believing she is still alive. An old kidnapper’s trick.

  The Superintendent last night had found footprints and tyre-marks in the snow opposite the pillar box. Wellington boots: those of Nigel’s assailant much larger than those of the person who had emerged from the car. A woman, probably. While impressions were taken, one policeman had followed the tracks of the kidnappers westward along the unfrequented road. At one point it had stopped: then moved on till its traces were lost among many others where the minor road joined a main one. The car’s direction appeared to be north-west now; but the driver might well have done this to shake off pursuit, and doubled back towards London presently. The district was a maze of small, twisting lanes, and heavy snow later in the night had covered all traces.

  But the snow could work two ways. If only there were more falls, heavy enough to block the roads out of the valley, perhaps break down the telegraph wires, it would be physically impossible for the Professor to keep any more rendezvous. The other side must recognise this. For Wragby—and, one hoped, Lucy—precious time would be gained.

  After a telephone conversation with the County C.I.D. Nigel got up and went into the drawing-room. All the guests were there except the Wragbys.

  ‘Good gracious!’ exclaimed the Admiral’s wife. ‘What have you been doing to yourself?’

  ‘Somebody bashed me last night. The doctor told me it must have been an amateurish blow. If the chap had done it properly I should be dead. The doctor seemed quite annoyed that I wasn’t.’

  ‘Not enough drama for him in these parts.’ Lance Atterson yawned.

  ‘A footpad, no doubt,’ remarked Mrs ffrench-Sullivan sapiently.

  Nigel turned to Mr Leake. ‘Did you catch a sight of him, by any chance?’

  ‘Sight of whom?’ Justin Leake, looking puzzled.

  ‘The—er—footpad.’

  ‘No, indeed, my dear fellow. Where did it happen?’

  ‘Half-way down the lane.’

  ‘Last night? I never went out. Why do you ask me?’

  ‘Because you left this room immediately after I did.’

  ‘Look here, Mr Strangeways, I don’t quite like this catechism.’

  ‘Good practice for you, Mr Leake. When they can get round to it, the police will be asking you all just where you were when the assault was made.’

  Justin Leake’s attentive eyes were fastened on Nigel.

  ‘“When they can get round to it”? Are they particularly over-worked just now?’

  ‘Surely you know why?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’

  ‘Strange. You’ve struck me as an unusually observant person.’

  There was an edge in Nigel’s tone which caused the others to sit forward and give him uneasy looks.

  ‘You haven’t noticed,’ pursued Nigel, ‘that Lucy Wragby is missing?’

  ‘I haven’t seen any of them yet this morning,’ Justin Leake returned. ‘Except the Professor for a moment in the hall. He seemed worried.’ A light dawned in the man’s nondescript face. ‘“Missing”? You don’t mean——?’

  Nigel’s eyes swept the circle slowly as he said, ‘Yes. She was kidnapped last night. Don’t any of you listen to the B.B.C. news?’

  ‘The set’s out of order,’ said Cherry.

  This was no surprise to Nigel, since he had disabled it himself. He wanted to see the first reactions to the announcement.

  ‘You’ll read all about it when the papers arrive. The snowfall has held up delivery.’

  Justin Leake appeared to have drawn in on himself, like a snail. Cherry looked incredulous, Lance suddenly ill at ease, the Admiral’s wife outraged.

  ‘There’s no doubt about it?’ asked the Admiral.

  Nigel shook his head.

  ‘What a shocking thing! Poor little Lucy. Who on earth would want to——?’

  ‘Don’t be absurd, my dear man,’ rapped his spouse—Nigel could imagine her terrorising the wives of junior officers—‘it’s obviously a Red plot. Those devils are capable of anything.’

  ‘But my dear lady,’ said Justin Leake, ‘why should they want to kidnap a little girl?’

  Mrs ffrench-Sullivan’s pug-face grew still more animated. ‘Perfectly obvious. They wish to bring pressure upon Lucy’s father.’

  ‘Everything nasty that happens in this country is blamed on the Reds,’ remarked Cherry, scowling.

  ‘Rightly, my dear girl. And I’ll tell you another thing—if you ask me, the Professor has made some scientific discovery they want to get hold of.’

  ‘Is that a guess, madam, or have you some inside information?’ Mr Leake’s tone, though perfectly polite, was loaded.

  ‘Of course I haven’t. I merely use my head. Hope the police will too, Mr Strangeways. What are they doing about it?’

  ‘One might also ask,’ said Justin Leake silkily, ‘why Mr Strangeways should have private information.’

  Nigel ignored this. He gave the company a heavily censored account of the police activities. Then, always glad to set a cat among the pigeons provided he was present to watch the results, added:

  ‘One thing seems possible—that the kidnappers have an accomplice in this house. The police may concentrate on finding out which of us it is.’

  ‘Obviously one of the staff,’ said the Admiral’s wife.

  ‘They have all been here several years. I’m afraid it’s very unlikely.’

  ‘Oh poof,’ said the lady. ‘Domestics are notoriously unreliable these days.’

  ‘Servant problem rears its ugly head again,’ murmured Lance. Cherry giggled.

  Nigel took a firm grip. ‘We shall all have to answer very searching questions. I hope none of us, apart from the unknown accomplice, has anything to hide. Police investigations range far and wide, you know.’

  His statement produced a quite extraordinary atmosphere of uneasiness in the room, though from how many of the guests it emanated he could not judge. Even the irrepressible Lance Atterson had an unusually thoughtful look on his face.

  At this point Professor Wragby came into the room, and there was a general murmur of commiseration. When the Admiral inquired after Mrs Wragby, the Professor said she had got up and was just walking down to the village: she wanted to ask at the Post Office if anything had been seen or heard last night at the time Lucy disappeared—he knew the police had investigated this, but he thought it would be a good thing for his wife to feel she was taking some action herself.

  There was an awkward silence. Then the Admiral’s wife asked, in her forthright way, ‘Have these ruffians been in touch with you yet?’

  ‘Yes. I had a telephone call. They say Lucy is safe and well.’

  ‘What do they want? Money?’ asked Justin Leake.

  Alfred Wragby glanced at Nigel, who almost imperceptibly nodded, before replying, ‘No. Something they consider more valuable.’

  ‘You’re not going to give it to them?’ Mrs ffrench-Sullivan’s eyes opened wide.

  ‘More valuable to you than Lucy?’ Cherry’s flat drawl made the remark all the more shocking.

  A spasm came over Wragby’s face, and he shaded it a moment with his hand. ‘I’m not giving anything away without a fight, Mrs ffrench-Sullivan,’ he said at last.

  ‘You mean, you’re going to have a trap set for these jokers when they come to collect the—whatever they’re supposed to be collecting?’ Lance Atterson’s teeth flashed over his black beard, giving him a foxy, anxious expression.

  ‘But won’t that—I mean, if you double-cross them sort of, won’t they do something horrid to Lucy?’ asked Cherry in faltering tones.

  ‘Lucy is only valuable to them so long as she’s alive. Otherwise she can’t be used as a weapon against me.’ Wragby’s voice was chill and impersonal.

  ‘Jesus! You can’t be human!’ exclaimed Cherry. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that, but——’

  ‘Then keep your mouth shut, child,
’ said the Admiral’s wife. ‘You can’t understand these things. Great issues are at stake.’

  ‘Oh, balls to that!’ Lance broke out. ‘What’s some piddling little secret compared with a child’s life?’

  ‘No doubt you have to think in an adolescent way, but you must learn not to talk in one, young man.’ A touch of the quarter-deck came into the Admiral’s lisping voice.

  ‘Well, I expect we all have our little secrets,’ said Justin Leake. If it was an attempt to pour oil on troubled waters, it only succeeded in creating a kind of turbulent silence.

  Wragby, thought Nigel, had carried out their preconcocted plan well enough. The enemy agent in the Guest House, whoever he was, would now know that the Professor was not tamely acceding to their demands, and that some sort of trap was likely to be set at Belcaster. The agent would presumably get in touch at once with the person deputed to collect Wragby’s information at the G.P.O., and warn him to keep away. If he avoided the telephone, as any competent agent now would, he must rendezvous at Belcaster with the collector and warn him by word of mouth, or by some expedient like chalking a symbol on a wall or pillar box. Of course there was a third possibility—that the Guest House agent and the collector were one and the same person. For various reasons, Nigel thought this unlikely: even if it were true, the agent would have to get in touch with his principals in London, sooner or later, to tell them about the failure of the first attempt and get further instructions: if he did this by telephone, his identity would be revealed.

  Meanwhile, there was the problem of Lucy. Nigel remembered the thin, vivacious little face framed in a sou’wester, the long dark hair, the blue anorak; and his heart grew sick with apprehension …

  At Smugglers’ Cottage, Lucy was playing solitaire on a board she had found in the toy cupboard. Last time, she had finished the game with only three marbles left on the board. If I get it down to one, she said to herself, everything will be all right: these people will let me go; or I’ll wake up in my room at the Guest House.

  Annie Stott came in, carrying a tape-recorder. She seemed to be in rather a temper . Perhaps she’d had bad news on the telephone—Lucy had heard the bell ringing five minutes ago. Annie locked the door, placed the machine on a table and opened it.