With a bored gesture, each man drew a Metropolitan police warrant card from his pocket and held it in front of Alfred’s eyes.
“Right then, let’s see who’ve we got,” said Alfred, calmly putting on the spectacles he kept dangling around his neck on a string. “The boss is a stickler for protocol.”
“Don’t we know it!” gritted the leader of the two, with an unconvincing attempt at camaraderie. “Kerry Onslow. Inspector Onslow. How do?”
Onslow made no attempt to offer his hand. But then—you’d be careful about putting one of those expensive new blond leather driving gloves into a sweaty underling’s palm, Alfred reckoned. “And this here’s my sergeant. Now if you wouldn’t mind. We’ve got a list of stuff …”
“Say no more! I can save you the bother. The boss had got his things all ready to go himself. I’ve brought them down for you.” He walked to the door and picked up the leather bag.
Onslow’s face darkened and he seemed about to object.
Alfred laughed. “See here,” he said, indicating the luggage label. “Efficient as ever! He’s even put his address on it. But don’t you go leaving it hanging about anywhere. If that bag doesn’t get to that destination in one piece, he’ll have your guts for garters. And he’ll know where to come looking.”
“Meaning?” The single word had the power to crack a jaw.
“Meaning I shall have to ask you to sign this ’ere bit of paper. A receipt. I don’t know what’s in that bag … could be the Koh-i-Noor diamond or a duchess’s knickers. You never know with Sandilands. But I’m not going to get the blame if something goes astray … Sure you understand,” he added ingratiatingly as Onslow, smirking, conceded and took the receipt book.
Having signed with a flourish, Onslow raised an eyebrow to his companion. The two men tipped their hats in a short derisive gesture and turned to leave. Onslow took the trouble, Alfred noticed, to put his size thirteen foot right onto one of the small Dinky cars, squashing it like a cockroach, before they slipped out.
“WELL THEY DIDN’T hang about, the minute they got their hands on the bag,” remarked the police sergeant a moment or two after the door swung closed behind the plainclothes men. “I wonder what you’ve just handed them, Alf.”
Alfred didn’t confide his fears. He cleared his throat and murmured: “We’ll just have to wait a bit now.”
They waited for the longest five minutes of Alf’s life. He spent them on the doorstep, looking to left and right until, with a grunt of relief, he saw his grandsons sprinting towards him down the street. He gathered them up in a hug and dragged them inside. They fought their way free, pink-cheeked and excited, and the older of the pair began to speak.
“Got it! I put the number in my car-spotting book.” He handed a small dog-eared book to Alfred. “Sorry we were so long, Granpa—they’d parked it round the corner …”
“Round two corners,” corrected the smaller boy. “But we found it! They didn’t see us. We tagged along with old Mr. Sparks and his Missis on their way to the shops.”
“AR 6439? That it?” Alfred read out the last number entered.
“No. That’s a Riley. Grey one. Bloke had stopped to get a packet of Woodbines from the corner shop. I put that in on the way back. Common or garden. Not like the one your visitors got into! Cor! That’s the one above. ALM 145.”
“Description of vehicle, sonny?” The sergeant dignified the occasion by producing his own notebook and licking the end of his pencil. He was all benevolent attention.
“It was a Maybach DS8 Zeppelin. Black. Four-seater.” Sid’s eyes glazed over in memory of the extraordinary vehicle.
“A what was that again? Zeppelin? Wasn’t that a bomber plane in the war?”
“Naw! It’s an airship. A dirigible.”
Sid broke into the police officers’ exchange of views. “Naw, mister! It’s a motor car. We saw one when Granpa took us to the exhibition at Earl’s Court. First I’ve ever seen on the road.”
“It’s a monster!” said Ian. “A big, black monster! You should have heard it growl when they started up!”
“Oh, my Lord!” breathed Alfred. “He’d need a pair of ten quid pigskins to handle that!” He put an arm over the boys’ shoulders. “You’ve done well, lads. We’ll make that sixpence a bob, shall we?”
He turned to his colleagues. “I’ll say thank you to you as well, for the pleasure of your company. And now I’d better make a swift phone call to the boss. Warn him there’s a thundering black beast on the way.” He winked at Ian and looked at his watch. “Early morning, there won’t be that much traffic about but our two sportsmen have still got to struggle over the river and out of London. Fifty miles to do. Let’s say they can do sixty miles per hour on the open roads. It’s going to take them just over an hour.”
“Granpa,” the older boy said urgently, tugging at his sleeve, “those cars can do a hundred!”
JOE HAD BEEN hanging on in Marcus’s study within arm’s reach of the telephone for the past half hour but when it rang he had to overcome a sudden attack of paralysis before he could pick it up. He was about to hear nothing good. He picked it up with a leaden hand on the third ring and, the spell broken by the abrasive “Alf ’ere,” he launched into a fast exchange.
“One English, the other didn’t speak? Description, Alfred? Onslow first … Six foot, well-dressed, black fedora …” Joe noted down Alfred’s swift, professional recitation of details. “… hair mid-brown, eyes grey, no distinguishing features. Second: Cummings? Eyes brown, similar but silent. A matched pair. Weapons, Alf? Both had guns in shoulder-holsters. Driving a—what was that?… Good lord! There must be fewer than half a dozen of those cars in the country. Ho, ho! Big mistake? Over confidence?” he wondered out loud.
“Perhaps they’re not expecting to leave witnesses.” Alfred voiced Joe’s worst fears. All he could do was repeat Joe’s own advice back to him. “Get the family out and get help in. Got any armoured divisions down there looking for something to do on a Saturday morning?”
They broke off abruptly, not troubling to take up precious minutes on assurances and good wishes and Joe got up and made his way back to the breakfast room.
Approaching, he heard laughter and conversation. Lydia’s light clear voice was meshing with Kingstone’s low rumble, punctuated by short bursts from Marcus, who’d returned from the field.
“Where on earth have you been, Joe? The papers have arrived. We turned straight to the account of yesterday’s Pilgrims’ luncheon and found our guest’s name in the starry lineup. Come and see. There he is,” she pointed, “sandwiched between an arms manufacturer and a philanthropist. Can’t have been comfortable.’
Joe’s alarm call was momentarily checked by his surprise at Kingstone’s appearance and demeanour.
“They keep their sentiments uncontroversial at these dos,” Joe put in hurriedly. “ ‘Brotherly understanding … genuine comradeship … preservation of an organised society …’ ” He quoted from Bacchus’s notes on the Pilgrims’ lunch while fixing Kingstone with a questioning eye. “Who could possibly argue with that?”
“They also serve excellent champagne at very frequent intervals,” Kingstone added, unconcerned. “After a bottle of Bollinger, even you’d be toasting the Kaiser if invited, Sandilands.”
“Joe, may I re-introduce our guest? Not, as you might suppose, our local rat-catcher! I believe you think you know Senator Kingstone?” Lydia was gurgling with amusement, as well she might, Joe thought as he took in the senator’s appearance. Wearing a pair of Marcus’s old flannels, a linen shirt with a scarf tucked casually into the neck and an ancient white Guernsey sweater tied by the arms about his shoulders, he was a changed man. He was pink and polished and reeking of peppermint toothpaste. His head was high, the grin just fading on his lips. In some way he seemed to have slipped into focus, a man at ease with his surroundings, his company, but above all—with himself. Joe wished Doctor Rippon could have been present to see the effect of his suggested cure beginning to show.