Joe swished the curtains together, turned on another lamp, and emptied half a scuttle of coal onto the fire. “I loathe February. Nothing much happening.”
“The calm between the New Year madness and the spring urges,” Lydia said, nodding. She looked at the clock. “Come and settle down. Curtain up in two minutes. I say—you won’t be interrupted, will you?”
“That’s the big advantage of my new job. Any bodies found floating in the Thames get the attention of one of my superintendents.” Joe sank into an armchair. “And no one knows I’m here. Well, go on, then. Switch it on.” He eyed the radio console with misgiving. “Warm up its valves, tickle its tubes or whatever you do.”
Lydia approached the gleaming black bakelite altar and knelt before it. She began her ministrations, twiddling knobs and whispering encouragement until, after a series of nerve-rending shrieks and bleeps, a station tuned in. Dance music gushed into the room. A reedy tenor was warbling, “A room with a view and you … ou … ou.…”
Joe laughed. “There! Noel Coward agrees with me. Some girls would appreciate a river view in Chelsea! No—hold that one—the play’s on straight after the Greenwich time signal.”
Jack Hylton’s band signed off in a smooth crescendo, and they’d counted the first five of nine pips when the telephone rang.
“Ah! Somebody knows where you are,” said Lydia.
Warily, Joe went to pick up the receiver. “Flaxman 8891, Joe Sandilands here.”
There was a pause and then a hurried and breathless small voice spoke. A boy’s voice. “Hullo? Hullo? Is that my Uncle Joe?”
Joe paused, unsure how to reply. He flashed a puzzled glance at Lydia. His sister had two offspring, both at home with their father in Surrey. And both girls.
“Yes, this is Joe,” he said carefully, “but who are you?”
“It’s Jackie, sir. Jack Drummond. I think I’m in a terrible crisis. This is an emergency.”
“Drummond?” Joe tried to make sense of what he was hearing. And, suddenly connecting, whispered, “Drummond.”
A recurrent nightmare gripped him, tightening its fingers around his throat. Struggling to find his voice and keep his tone level and reassuring, to sound like the staid old uncle the boy obviously took him for, “Jackie?” he said. “Well, well! Jackie! We’ve never met! You must be … let me think … ten years old by now?”
“Nine actually, sir. I’m going to be ten next month.”
“And where are your parents?”
“They’re in India. They brought me over to school in the summer, stayed for a while, and went back home. I spent Christmas with my aunts in Brighton.”
“I see. And this emergency—you’re going to tell me you’ve run out of pocket money, is that it?”
“No sir. This is real trouble I’m in. I was given your telephone number, but they said I wasn’t to use it unless I was in a crisis.”
“Where are you, Jackie?”
“I’m at Victoria Station. I’m in the stationmaster’s office. The lady policeman brought me here. I hadn’t got a ticket, you see. She’s waiting outside. They’re going to arrest me for traveling without a ticket. I’m scared.…” The voice, which had been resolute, now had a break in it. “What shall I do, Uncle?”
“Well, what you do,” said Joe as calmly as he could, “is three things. First, stop worrying. Second, see if you can get yourself a cup of tea. Third, don’t hang up but put the phone down. Go and get the policewoman to come and speak to me. Oh, and fourth, Jackie, I’ll be there with you in twenty minutes. Look, it’s not the end of the world to be caught traveling without a ticket. I’ll bring some cash and bail you out.”
The reply was hushed, a voice trying to force down hysteria. “It’s not that, it’s not that at all, Uncle. You see, I’ve … I’m afraid I’ve killed my form master.”
THE POLICEWOMAN’S VOICE was young, concerned and educated. “Good evening, sir. I take it I’m speaking to Assistant Commissioner Sandilands? Your nephew had your name and number clutched in his hand when I spotted him trying to creep through the barrier. I ought to have taken him straight to a place of safety, I know, but.…”
“You did exactly the right thing, Officer.…”
“Huntingdon, sir. Emily Huntingdon, W.P. 955.”
“Good, well, listen, Huntingdon, I’m on my way. We have a delicate situation on our hands. I have reason to believe the boy may be a witness to a crime. Keep him safe where he is, will you? And I want you to make sure no one else approaches him, not even the local beat bobby.”
There was the slightest pause before Officer Huntingdon replied. “Understood, sir.”
“Now who on earth was that?” said his sister. “Who’s Jackie?”
Joe was already struggling into a pea-jacket. He picked up a flat cap with a leather peak he’d borrowed from a Thames bargeman and said, “I’m not absolutely certain, Lydia, but there’s trouble with a runaway boy. At Victoria Station. They’re holding him until I can get there.”
Lydia glared in exasperation. “A runaway? But why would you be involved, Joe? They don’t call out a grandee like you on a snowy evening to deal with a runaway!” Her expression softened. “Still—on a night like this … poor little chap! But I thought you had women police patrols to round up the waifs and strays of London?”
“This is a rather special runaway, Lydia. Pass me those gumboots, will you? Oh, and it’s quite likely I shall be bringing him home with me.”
WINDING A MUFFLER round his neck, Joe clumped down three flights of stairs to the dimly lit hallway. Inevitably, a door opened, and the hearty voice of his landlord, ex-Inspector Jenkins of the Metropolitan Police greeted him. “Late call, sir?”
“Yeah, late call, Alfred.”
“Wrap up warm, then! It’s coming cold. Oh—sir! You can use the lift again on the way back. They’ve been in and fixed it.”
“My sister will be glad of that, Alfred. I’ll tell her.”
Joe stepped out into the street and to his relief there was a light in the cabbies’ shelter on the embankment. To his further relief there were two taxis in the rank and he ran across the road to claim one of them.
“Victoria Station,” he said. “And get me as near to the stationmaster’s office as you can.”
“No difficulty, sir,” said the cabby, ringing down his flag.
The snow was thickening as they drove the last few yards up Buckingham Palace Road and Joe looked anxiously at his watch. Twenty minutes, he’d said, and twenty minutes it was. He shouldered his way along the platform to the stationmaster’s office and saw, standing feet apart, hands behind her back, the reassuring figure of a policewoman.
“Huntingdon?” he asked.
She saluted neatly. Not many of the female officers could do this naturally. She looked bright, efficient, friendly. She did not, beyond a point, look deferential. No one could add grace to the hideous high-crowned, wide-brimmed hat, nobody could look feminine or even female in the uncompromising blue serge skirt and the clumping shoes, but she managed, Joe noticed.
“Where’s the miscreant?” he asked, showing his warrant card.
“No miscreant, sir, you’ll find,” she corrected him with a smile. “No miscreant at all. Just a boy in trouble. Not uncommon around here.”
“Thank you for dealing with this. Enter your report. Say that I assumed custody. I’ll make it right with your governor, and I’ll take the lad in charge for the time being.”
“Your nephew, sir?”
“Not even that,” said Joe. “He’s newly arrived from India, and you know how it is in India—or perhaps you don’t? Any family friend becomes an honourary uncle. Or aunt.”
“I have one or two of those myself, sir.” Huntingdon’s smile was gracious, her eyes watchful. “Shall I come in with you?” she asked. “I think what our prisoner needs more than anything is something to eat, if I may suggest, sir. He’s had nothing really since breakfast as far as I can work out.”