Ranklin nodded and pushed straight into the Commander’s conversation. “He lost it heading north-east, it could have gone to Bloomsbury Gardens.”
The Commander abandoned the policemen in mid-sentence. “Right, all aboard!”
The more respectable looking one said: “I think I’d better come along, too, sir.”
“Sorry, no room.” The Rolls-Royce, an open tourer, could have carried a platoon. And a policeman could add legitimacy to what might otherwise be an outright brawl.
“Mrs Finn’s having her own motor-car brought round,” Ranklin said. “O’Gilroy and I could go in that. Then we can split up if Berenice isn’t at Bloomsbury Gardens.”
The Sherring Daimler appeared at the end of the street at the same time that Corinna shot out of the apartment house.
The Commander waved a hand impatiently. “Oh, all right. Get in the back, Inspector or Sergeant or whatever you are.”
By the time the Rolls-Royce surged away, Corinna had talked the chauffeur out and taken his place. Whatever she promised or threatened, Ranklin didn’t hear, but they left the man looking pretty bewildered.
“Bloomsbury Gardens?”
“Please. But if it looks like getting at all rough, you stay in the motor-car. And if anybody starts shooting, get out and hide behind the engine . . . That’s at the front.”
“I know where the engine is!”
“It’s solid enough to stop anything.”
She turned her head to look at him. “Why this sudden concern? You’ve had me loading artillery guns for you.”
“That just happened. I don’t want your luck running out-Please watch the road!”
The Simplex wasn’t parked outside 14 Bloomsbury Gardens, nor anywhere else in the square or within a hundred yards down any of the streets off it. By the time the Daimler had finished its reconnaissance, the others were inside the house. The Commander was only just inside; he’d found a chair and was letting things develop around him.
Venetia Sackfield, with a rip down the front of her pale violet dress and a wet towel held to her left eye, was in full protest: “You’ve got no right at all to come charging into this house! This is sheer oppression!”
The bowler-hatted policeman said: “A complaint has been made, madam, that-”
Corinna pointed melodramatically: “I want that woman arrested for assault and kidnapping!”
“Berenice got into that car willingly!”
“Do you agree, madam, that you were present-?”
“Are you saying you didn’t assault-?”
“Berenice is within her rights-”
Ranklin and O’Gilroy left them to it and went to help Jay search the house. A kidnapping charge might even make that legal, though the Bureau wasn’t too expert on legality.
They met Jay coming downstairs escorting a young man in shirt-sleeves who looked pale, just woken, and hungover. “Meet Rupert Peverell,” Jay said cheerfully. “The owner of a dark red Simplex landau.”
“Ah, the chap the police say helped murder the French meat porter,” Ranklin said loudly.
Peverell got several degrees more sober. “They say . . . I didn’t . . . What?”
“ ’T was yer motor they used,” O’Gilroy said. “That makes it for yeself to prove yer innocence.” His law was as twisted as his grin, but the grin was indisputable. It possibly reminded Peverell of a shark halfway through a good meal.
“I-I-I lent it t-to some chaps,” he stuttered.
“Names?” Ranklin snapped.
“J-just some friends o-of Feodor’s.”
“Gorkin’s?” Ranklin glanced at Jay, who shook his head: no one else in the house. “Look the place over for clothes and luggage.” Back to Peverell. “Where is Gorkin?”
“I-I d-don’t know. I-I’ve been as-sleep. G-got a bit tiddly. Sorry.” He sat down abruptly on the stairs, leaned slowly over and was sick.
Ranklin went back to the policeman standing just inside the front room with Corinna and Venetia Sackfield. “I’ve got the owner of the Simplex for you. But he’s no idea where it is.”
“Good. The Super very much wants a word with him. It seems there isn’t a telephone here, so-”
“Telephone wire going into the place two doors down,” O’Gilroy told him.
“Oh, splendid. I’ve informed this lady she’s under arrest, so if you’d watch her for me? If she tries to escape, please do not use violence, just follow her.”
“I’m not trying to escape, you nincompoop!” Venetia flared. “I live here.”
When the policeman had gone, Ranklin nodded Corinna after him.
“Now hold on, I-”
“Out.” Ranklin jerked his thumb. She flounced, but flounced out. He turned to Venetia and made his voice quiet and reasonable. “We are genuinely worried about the fate of Berenice. It isn’t a question of the police this time, it’s some unknown men that Mr Peverell lent his motor-car to. The police think Guillet, the murdered Frenchman, may have got into that motor-car just before he was killed. So I hope you understand our worry about Berenice definitely getting into it. I want you – please – to tell us anything you know about those men and where they’ve taken Berenice.”
“She’s going back to France, of her own free will. That’s all.”
“Too late for a boat today,” O’Gilroy said.
“Of her own free will.”
“One last appeal,” Ranklin said. “Please?” After a moment, he turned to O’Gilroy. “She’s obviously in it with them. Maybe two murders, and I doubt the police’ll be able to prove it. Hardly seems just, that.”
He walked over and snapped the bolt on the door.
O’Gilroy took out his pistol, examined it – then thrust it at Venetia’s face.
Ranklin walked back. “She suddenly produced a firearm-this one.” He took out his revolver. “From under that cushion there. You had no choice.”
“We need her fingerprints on it,” O’Gilroy said, his gun quite steady.
Ranklin seized Venetia’s hand and squeezed it round the revolver. She pulled free and Ranklin shrugged. “I’ll get better ones when she’s dead. Nobody can tell.”
“And mebbe a touch of gun oil on the cushion underside?”
“Good point.” He smiled at Venetia. “You see? It’s the little things that give conviction.” He put the revolver down and his fingers in his ears. “In your own time, Mr Gorman.”
“I don’t know their names!” Venetia wailed.
Ranklin shook his head irritably. “Get it over with, man.” He replaced his fingers.
Venetia collapsed into a chair and spoke in one panting rush. “Dr Gorkin met them at the Jubilee Street anarchists’ club. I don’t know their names, honestly. They come from around there, they mentioned a Tarling Street. It’s in the East End, you go down Whitechapel High Street and just after it becomes the Mile End Road-”
By then Ranklin was unbolting the door. Unbelieving, Venetia stared at him. Then she rounded on O’Gilroy, who was calmly uncocking his pistol. “You aren’t police! I’m going to tell the police!”
“What’ll ye tell ’em? That ye helped two fellers ye knew was from the anarchist club kidnap her?” He turned away and, when he had turned, swallowed hard. He honestly hadn’t been sure what would have happened next, what was supposed to happen next. Ranklin had been so convincing about wanting the woman killed . . .
Well, she had been convinced, and that was all that mattered.
When he got outside, Ranklin and Corinna were standing on the pavement, with her pointing out that it was her automobile, God damn it.
“It’ll be the East End, and if we catch up with these men, I don’t want to have to worry about you.”
“But I’ll be driving, leaving you free to-”
“O’Gilroy can drive – and when we get there, I’d like him guarding my back, not staying behind with you.”
That was a low blow and the fury on her face showed it. But it ended the fight: she stood aside, looking daggers. Nasty Eastern curly ones.