“No,” said Bristow grimly, “but I’ll give Wrightson something to worry about one day.”
Lynch shrugged his shoulders, although he could sympathise with the Inspector. Between Bristow and Wrightson — one of the new school on whose toes Old Bill had trodden several times for breaches of police-regulations — there was no love lost, and although it was impossible to suggest that Wrightson had deliberately let the letter get into the Press, Bristow was prepared to believe that that had happened.
Bristow forced himself away from thoughts of the other Inspector, however, and returned to the pressing subject.
“So the A.G. is really nasty?”
Lynch shrugged his heavy shoulders again.
“He says, and we can’t argue, that we’ve been too slack over the Baron, and that if we don’t get our man within the week we’ll be the laughing-stock of London.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” admitted Bristow, a little glumly. “But I would be more surprised if we did it. He’ll be very careful for the next few weeks.”
“You sound as cheerful as Tanker,” said Lynch.
“You know these jobs as well as I do,” said Bristow.
The Superintendent pulled a face at the comment.
“All right,” he said. “Do all you can. Er — that man Mannering. He’s helping you ?”
Bristow flushed a little. “How’d you know?”
“I’ve seen you talking to him,” said Lynch, “and I’ve assumed you weren’t questioning him, so . . . Anyhow, he’s the type who might be useful.”
“He’s got his head screwed on properly,” said Bristow slowly. “He didn’t make any bones about saying young Long wasn’t in the pearls job, and it certainly looks as if he’s right.”
“Unless Long’s the Baron,” suggested Lynch, folding his arms across his great waistcoat.
“No luck,” said Bristow. “The first half-dozen Baron jobs started back in March and April. Long’s only been in England since early May. We can rule him out on that count. But . . .”
The Inspector hesitated. Lynch waited patiently, partly because he was a patient man, and partly because he knew that Bristow was arguing with himself. The big Superintendent was a student of men, and he knew just how to get the best out of his own.
“But,” went on Bristow at last, “there’s one other possibility. Mannering doesn’t think much of it.”
“Who have you got in mind ?” asked Lynch.
“The Dowager Lady Kenton,” said Bristow, eyeing his Superintendent evenly. “I know it sounds against ail reason, but . . .”
“I’ll see what I can find out about her bank-balance,” said Lynch placidly. “It still beats me why she paid five thousand pounds for that wedding-present.”
Bristow was surprised — not for the first time, by a long way — at the comprehensiveness of Lynch’s grasp of his job. And he began to think very seriously of that rather short-tempered but not unpopular lady the Dowager. She was not really unpopular, that is, in any place but the Yard, where her name was very nearly poison.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
LORNA OFFERS A BARGAIN
EMMA KENTON HAD READ OF THE ROBBERY IN AN EVENING paper, and she claimed that it was Fate that had made her send out for one when usually she preferred all her news in the morning. She had been too overcome to make any protest to the police or anyone else at first, and she had taken a strong sleeping-draught, hoping to awaken next morning fresh for the fray. She was a persistent woman, as Bristow could have testified, and at times she could be militant; she felt the loss of the pearls very keenly.
The morning paper — she took the Morning Star — brought the story of the Baron’s letter to the Yard.
Lady Kenton stared at it for fully five minutes; then, as though in a daze, she reached for the telephone and called for Lady Fauntley, feeling the need of someone to talk to.
Both Hugo Fauntley and his wife were out of town, but Lorna was in.
“My dear,” gasped Lady Kenton, “I just can’t — it’s too much — I don’t really know — how . . .”
“But it needn’t worry you,” said Lorna soothingly, realising what the trouble was. “It’s Marie’s loss, not yours.”
“It’s the principle of the thing,” mourned Lady Kenton. “Lorna dear, could you pop in for half an hour? It’s all so upsetting, and your mother . . .”
“I’ll come,” said Lorna.
“Good girl,” said Lady Kenton.
At the other end of the line Lord Fauntley’s very strong-willed daughter sat looking bleakly ahead of her. Many people who knew her would have said that she was in a “black” mood, which meant that she would probably retire to the Chelsea studio for days on end, and paint or mope.
She did nothing of the kind this morning.
After replacing the receiver she rang for her maid, and half an hour later was ready for the visit to Lady Kenton. She was not looking forward to it, but it presented one possible way out of a difficulty — and an unforeseen difficulty. Lorna laughed, a high-pitched, rather defiant laugh. She looked overpoweringly beautiful at that moment, but her eyes, dark, probing, restless, held uneasiness.
“If Mr Mannering should call,” she told her maid, “I expect to be back for lunch.”
“Very good, ma’am.”
Lorna left the Langford Terrace house and walked briskly to Regent’s Park, where she found Lady Kenton — whose home was one of the most imposing in that district — distracted almost to tears.
“It’s such a deliberate affront,” complained Lady Kenton for the fourth time in ten minutes. “I always did know that foolish policeman wasn’t any good, but this is too much. It’s the last word, my dear.”
“You can’t very well blame the policeman,” said Lorna, with a quick smile. “He’s probably feeling as badly about this as you. Or worse.”
“Worse! I should think that he feels the smallest thing on — on — I should think he feels insignificant. If I see him again I’ll let him know . . . Oh, bother die girl! What is it, Morgan?”
My lady’s maid was used to the differing tempers of her mistress, and kept a straight face as she entered the room and announced Inspector Bristow.
Lorna also contrived not to smile while Lady Kenton swallowed hard, straightened the shawl she insisted on wearing in the privacy of her home, and said, “Send him up.”
Lorna could see the light of battle in the older woman’s eyes; she was amused, but not so much as she would have been if she could have forgotten the fact that she wanted something desperately from Lady Kenton. She was anxious to humour Emma, but her sympathies in the coming interview would be with the Inspector, who would doubtless get through a trying half-hour with admirable patience.
The Inspector looked sprucer than ever. His shoes were polished until they were almost blue, his suit was perfectly cut, his tie, socks, and shirt matched well, and his trim moustache, yellowed in the centre with the smoke of his interminable cigarettes, was freshly cropped.
He bowed to the two ladies so punctiliously that the older woman was slightly appeased, and he addressed himself to Emma Kenton. The smile on his lips was exactly right.
“I very much dislike bothering you, m’lady, but there are one or two points . . .”
Lady Kenton’s brow was dark, and the question she had been preparing from the moment that Bristow had been announced seemed to burst from her.
“Why wasn’t I told, Inspector?”
Bristow obviously expected something of the sort, and he answered quickly.