Chapter 14
Pearson declined a night-cap. Handing Alec the schedule for the night watch, in an unstated acceptance of his authority, he went upstairs to join his wife.
Alec took his seat at the desk and accepted a spot of brandy.
Arbuckle sipped his Scotch and muttered something blasphemous about the Prohibition.
Petrie supplied himself and Bincombe with whisky and soda. “All right, Fletcher,” he said, “what can we tell you?”
Lord Gerald interrupted in a burst of unwonted loquacity.
“Look here, old man,” he said to Alec, “Lucy may not show it much but she’s deucedly fond of Daisy.
Do anything for her. And I’d do abso-bally-lutely anything for Lucy, don’t you know.
Do a good deal for Daisy, come to that. So you’ve only to give the word. ”
Alec gravely thanked him.
“I mean,” the large young man persevered in his laborious effort to explain himself, “we all rallied round for Miss Arbuckle, but after all, we don’t know her.” He cast an apologetic glance at the kidnapped girl’s father. “Except Petrie, what? But Daisy is … well, Daisy, if you know what I mean.”
“I do indeed,” Alec agreed, with a painful clenching of his heart. Where was she? Was she lost, hurt, helpless in the hands of villains?
“That’s all right then,” said Bincombe, relieved. “Wake me when it’s time.” Swallowing his whisky in a single gulp, he silently departed.
Turning to Arbuckle, Alec said, “I’ll have your story first, sir. Just a minute while I find some paper to make notes.”
“Nothing in writing! It’s too damn dangerous.”
“I find going over notes of a conversation often brings to one’s attention points one had not previously noticed.”
“No!” said the American adamantly. “You want me to play along, you do it my way.”
Alec conceded the point, hoping his memory would prove less fuzzy than his tired eyes. He let the touchy gentleman tell the story without interruption, making mental notes of questions to be asked, points to be clarified.
Arbuckle produced the notes he had received from the kidnappers, which he carried on him at all times.
They were printed in pencil in block capitals on ordinary notepaper available anywhere.
The wording was uneducated, but in an awkward way which could well be faked.
Though Alec had never worked on a kidnapping—they were rare in Britain—he knew such was often the case.
Several instances of American slang, spelling, and phrasing, though possibly also faked, suggested that “the Yank” Petrie had reported to Arbuckle was in fact American.
There was always a chance he was some English criminal whose copied methods had earned him the nickname, but Alec was sure he’d have heard at least a rumour of such a man.
“I guess me telling you about the Yank’s just hearsay,” said Arbuckle as Alec pored over the notes, “but Petrie will confirm it.”
“I’m not concerned about hearsay,” Alec assured him. “You’re not giving a formal statement or evidence. I want to know everything: hearsay, opinion, conjecture, distant possibilities.”
Rather red in the face, Arbuckle said, “Waal, there’s something I told Miss Dalrymple that I’ve kept from Petrie here. I’m sorry, son, but I didn’t want you thinking Gloria’s poppa was the kind to go stepping on people’s corns on purpose. The fact is, I’ve made a few enemies in my time.”
“Which of us hasn’t?” said Alec, and Petrie nodded solemnly. His blank look suggested he was trying hard to recall any enemies he had made in his time.
Arbuckle explained how, in the course of his business dealings, he had inevitably offended various people. Asking him to make a list of names, Alec turned to Petrie.
His account, where it covered the same events, coincided closely with Arbuckle’s, allowing for different viewpoints.
“Any comments or ideas?” Alec invited.
“Well, there is one thing, Chief Inspector.”
Arbuckle sat up. “Chief Inspector? That’s real high up, isn’t it?”
“Pretty high up,” Petrie assented in a modest tone which suggested he accepted the credit for providing a police officer of superior rank.
“Swell! I guess that means you’ve got some leeway, Mr. Fletcher, when it comes to acting on your own?”
“A certain amount,” Alec said cautiously, trying not to envisage what his Super, let alone the A.C., would think of his present activities. “What were you going to say, Petrie?”
“Oh, it’s just something that’s rather puzzled me.
If you don’t mind my saying so, sir,” he said to Arbuckle, “I was a bit surprised that the Studebaker had no spare radiator hose in its tool-kit. They’re always splitting or getting punctured, or even just falling off.
Crawford knowing all about motor engines, I’d have expected him to keep such a basic spare part to hand. ”
“Crawford’s my technical adviser, not my chauffeur, son. He keeps an eye on the Studebaker but I don’t hold him responsible. I left Biggs back home, seeing I mostly drive myself anyhow.”
“Gloria—Miss Arbuckle—drives too,” Petrie told Alec proudly.
“Yet Mr. Crawford was driving you on this occasion,” Alec said to Arbuckle. “Why was that?”
“Gloria wanted to show me Hereford.” He pronounced it Her-ford.
“When Petrie took her there, she found out Nell Gwynne was born in the city and thought I’d be interested.
I’m not real hep when it comes to history—like Henry Ford says, history is bunk—but I took a fancy to that old story of Nell Gwynne, the orange girl, and your King Charles.
Now Crawford, he’s almost as keen on your history and the countryside as Gloria is.
Spends all his weekends exploring. So when he hears we’re going to Her-ford, he says he’d like to come along and he’ll drive. ”
“It was his idea to go with you, then?” Alec asked.
Arbuckle pondered. “Gee, I couldn’t swear to it.
He was interested when we were talking about it, all right, but I’ve a feeling Gloria asked him along.
She was pleased, anyhow, because him driving let her and me admire the scenery.
I guess she doesn’t pay much attention to the scenery when she’s out with Petrie,” he added slyly.
Petrie blushed, confirming Alec’s surmise as to the reason for his concern over Gloria Arbuckle.
“So you think Miss Arbuckle invited Crawford to go.” Alec hated to see a promising lead evaporate. “Tell me, what happens when a radiator hose goes? Am I right in supposing it’s quite spectacular?”
“By Jove, yes!” said Petrie. “The remaining water boils and there’s clouds of steam hissing all over the place. You jolly well know it’s happening, which is just as well because if you don’t stop right away, the engine overheats and can be ruined.”
“Steam?” Arbuckle frowned. “I’ll be darned if I recall clouds of steam.”
“You don’t recall whether there was steam,” Alec asked sharply, “or you do recall that there was not?”
“There was not,” the American said in a flat voice.
“Crawford said over his shoulder something was wrong. He pulled into the gateway and opened the hood. The bonnet, you call it. Then he muttered about the radiator, took some piece out—the hose, I guess. He put it in his pocket and I didn’t see it.
He said he’d have to find a garage, and off he went. ”
“He didn’t look in the tool-box?”
Arbuckle shook his head, reluctantly. “He musta known there wasn’t a spare there.”
“You didn’t hold him responsible for the Studebaker. He might assume the tool-kit was complete and not check it beforehand, but if so, you’d expect him to look there for a spare hose when it was needed. On the other hand, if he was aware of a deficiency, wouldn’t you expect him to replace it?”
“Y-yes. Maybe he just hadn’t gotten around to it.”
“I assume in fact there was no spare hose. Petrie, did you look in the Studebaker’s tool-box?”
“No. I saw it on the running board, a topping mahogany chest, which would practically hold my whole engine,” Petrie said enviously. “But Crawford being an engineer, I took it he’d have used the spare if there was one. It’s a simple repair. Besides, I was pretty sure I had a piece I could use.”
“So the…” Alec started.
Arbuckle interrupted. “Listen, I know what you’re suggesting. But this guy’s been with me ten years, my right-hand man. Maybe he did see changes coming, like Miss Dalrymple said, but he knew I’d see him right.”
“Changes?” Much as Alec deplored Daisy’s penchant for meddling, anything which raised her suspicions was worth investigating.
With a sidelong glance at Petrie, Arbuckle shrugged. “A business that doesn’t change dies,” he said unhelpfully.
Alec appeared to go along with him. “You drove the Studebaker here tonight?” he asked. “Petrie, may I ask you to go and take a dekko in the tool-box?”
“Right-oh.” Petrie caught the keys Arbuckle tossed him and departed.
“Changes?” Alec pressed.
“Waal, now, you’ll have maybe figured out that that young man is sweet on my girl. Gloria’s nuts about him, and I’ve found no reason to think he wouldn’t treat her right, nor that all he cares for is her pocketbook.”
“You’ve made enquiries?”
“You betcha! I’m not saying he’s the smartest cookie in the jar, but he’s a decent guy and willing to work, no lounge lizard, and he knows automobiles. That’s my business, see, investing in automobile manufacturers, but I’m a real simp when it comes to the technical side.”
“That’s Crawford’s contribution?”
“As of now. My notion is to train Petrie to take his place. That’s if him and Gloria get hitched, if his snooty family doesn’t throw a monkey-wrench in the works.”
Mentally translating—if Petrie’s blue-blooded family didn’t throw a spanner in the works—Alec sympathized. He took a swallow of the superb Cognac Daisy’s blue-blooded family had no doubt laid down generations ago.
“Is Miss Dalrymple right about Crawford foreseeing the possibility of losing his job?”
“Could be, but like I told her, he knows I’d see he didn’t lose by it.”