For Thackeray himself, the evening was an ordeal. Music hall had never held much appeal for him, but until the present inquiry he had at least been able to sit through an assorted programme of clog-dancing, contortionists, serio comics and buffo vocalists without intimations of distress. This evening he found that certain turns, the monologist and the ballet, revived sensations of acute embarrassment, while throughout the rest of the bill he could not forbear from gripping the edge of his seat in anticipation of some fresh calamity. It would be a long time before he would voluntarily enter a music hall again.
Mercifully the moment arrived, soon before eleven, when the patrons rose, swaying, to render the final chorus, the National Anthem, before streaming to the exits and the public houses. This was the hour when lady promenaders still without an escort cast about in desperation, and might even settle on a middle-aged detective constable with symptoms of nervous exhaustion. He was glad to follow Cribb’s rapid movement to the vestibule. Was this to be some rendezvous with Plunkett to arrange a secret vantage-point from which to witness the collecting of the ransom? No. Cribb’s object was to secure a penny copy of Slap Bang, Here we are Again.
They had not seen Plunkett during the performance, but that was not surprising. Forward-looking halls like the Paragon had dispensed with the chairman seated among the audience; he was part of the tradition of sanded floors and spittoons that had until quite recently limited the patronage to the lower levels of society. Instead, he was positioned prominently in the vestibule, beside a bill advertising the following Tuesday’s entertainment, raising his silk hat assiduously to the classes of customer he wished to encourage. The small army of vendors of pies, nuts, oranges and matches had been persuaded to mount their attack on the steps outside, so that an air of refinement was preserved within.
‘Come along,’ said Cribb, tucking his song-sheet into an inside pocket. ‘We don’t want to be left here.’
Thackeray frowned. His impression was that the reason for attending the music hall was to be installed there when the hand-over of the five hundred pounds took place. With a nod in Plunkett’s direction, he followed Cribb between the groups making their farewells under the portico, past the line of cabs outside and into the enveloping fog. In the thick of the dispersing audience he had to keep a sharp eye on the sergeant’s bowler ahead. He only hoped Cribb planned an arrest inside the hall. In these conditions pursuit through the streets would be next to impossible. He pulled his muffler over his mouth and caught up with Cribb at the next street lamp.
Some fifty yards along Victoria Street they turned into a public house almost as dense with tobacco-smoke as the fog outside. Saturday night was being celebrated in style around the piano, and in the skittle-alley in the cellars below, from the rumpus penetrating upwards.
‘What’s your tipple?’ Cribb asked.
‘The usual, if you please, Sarge.’
‘Three pints of East India, landlord. Did my friend arrive?’
‘Waitin’ in the back room, guv. Over there behind the money-changin’ machines.’
They discovered Albert seated in isolation in the intimacy of the private room, beneath a framed text reading, Women and wine should life employ. Is there aught else on earth desirous? A vase of chrysanthemums had been provided on the table.
‘Good. You’re quite ready then. Where’s the dog?’ said Cribb all in one breath, as he placed the drinks on the table.
‘Beaconsfield? He’s tied up in the yard,’ said Albert. ‘The landlord wouldn’t allow him in. Said the customers mightn’t take kindly to a dog barking. Have you ever heard Beaconsfield bark, Sergeant? There’s ten or more brats in that public bar squawking fit to deafen you, and poor old Beaconsfield has to sit out there in the fog. He didn’t think much of that, I can tell you. I just hope nobody trips over him.’
‘Are you still quite prepared to go through with this?’
Albert seemed surprised at the question. ‘Naturally. I’ve given my word. There’s no danger, is there? You will be watching from somewhere, won’t you?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Cribb. ‘We can’t afford to take risks where Miss Blake’s concerned, can we? Best carry out the instructions implicitly. We’ll be outside the hall.’
‘Outside?’
‘We won’t be spotted in the fog, you see. Now are you quite clear about your part in the proceedings?’
Half an hour later they collected the shivering bulldog and made their way back towards the Paragon. The lights at the front and in the foyer had been turned off. The last of the street-vendors had left.
Plunkett was waiting for them in a shop doorway opposite, valise in hand. The genial mask of an hour before had vanished; lines of anxiety creased his face.
‘Capital show tonight, Mr Plunkett,’ said Cribb, with the warmth of a genuine enthusiast.
‘What? Oh, yes.’
‘The money’s all in the bag, is it? No mistake?’
‘I checked it twice. And I’ve left the single limelight on in the hall.’
‘Very good, sir. Let’s look at the time, then. Three minutes to go, according to me.’
Plunkett was peering hard into the fog. ‘Where are the others, then?’
‘The others?’ queried Cribb.
‘The uniformed police. I thought you’d have the hall surrounded.’
Cribb shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t be wise, sir. Might put our kidnapper off. Now I’d like you to do one more thing for me, Mr Plunkett. This poor perishing animal plainly wants a brisk walk round the streets. Would you do it that kindness, sir? By the time you come back, Albert should have done his job and we won’t have long to wait for your daughter.’
Beaconsfield’s short leash was put into Plunkett’s hand. Before he had time to protest, the manager’s arm was yanked in the direction of the next street-lamp.
‘We shall require the bag, sir,’ Cribb reminded Plunkett. He dropped it for the sergeant to retrieve before Beaconsfield hauled him away.
‘Sixteen minutes to midnight, Albert,’ said Cribb, handing him the valise.
‘Are there really no policemen about?’
‘Thackeray and me. How many more d’you want? We’ve got to think of Miss Blake, Albert. What was that phrase in the letter? “Lasting distress.” Sounded ugly to me. On your way, lad.’
The strong man nodded manfully, took a deep breath, crossed the road and disappeared into the Paragon.
‘It shouldn’t take him long, Sarge, should it?’ inquired Thackeray, feeling an upsurge of sympathy for the young man. The prospect of venturing into that darkened hall would have made an experienced constable hesitate.
‘Ten minutes,’ said Cribb. ‘It just occured to me, though, that Albert’s the only one of us who’s never set foot in the Paragon before. It’d be a crying shame if he lost his way. We’ll give him fifteen minutes and then you can go in after him.’
But there was no need. In a very short time the strong man emerged looking distinctly happier. ‘I put the bag exactly in the centre,’ he told them. ‘Shall we see Ellen soon?’
‘Quite soon, if the letter’s anything to go by,’ said Cribb. ‘Did you hear any movements in there?’
‘No. It was perfectly quiet, but I had a strong impression I was not alone.’
‘I hope you weren’t,’ said Cribb, ‘or we’re all wasting our time.’
The three of them lapsed into silence, all attention directed to the double doors across the road. Their line of vision was intermittently blocked by nocturnal traffic, cabs mostly, with bells jingling, a few late omnibuses and one police van, the horse led by a safety-conscious constable, lamp in hand.