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“My learned friend’s point is well urged,” said Alleyn. “But I put it to her that the murderer or murderess did not sound the gong.”
“Then,” said Nigel and Angela together, “who did?”
“Rankin.”
“What!” they shouted.
“Rankin sounded the gong.”
“What the devil do you mean?” ejaculated Nigel.
“I’m not going to give all my tricks away, and this is such a very simple one that you ought to have seen it yourselves.” Nigel and Angela merely stared blankly at each other.
“Well, we don’t,” said Nigel flatly.
“Later perhaps it may dawn,” commented the detective. “In the meantime, how about a run up to London to-night?”
“To London — what for?”
“I hear that you, Miss Angela, are the fastest thing known off the dirt track, and when I use the expression ‘the fastest thing’ I use it literally, not colloquially. Will you, without explaining your movements to anyone, drive this young ornament of the Press up to London in the Bentley and do a job of work for me? I will talk to your uncle about it for you.”
“Now — to-night?” said Angela.
“It is getting dark. I think you may start in half an hour. You must be back here when it gets light tomorrow morning, but I hope you may return long before dawn. On second thoughts I think I shall accompany you.”
He looked, apparently in some amusement, at the not conspicuously delighted faces of the other two.
“I shall sleep in the back seat,” he added vaguely. “I’ve had too many late nights.”
“Will you come, Nigel?” Angela asked.
“Of course I will,” said Nigel. “What are we to do when we get there?”
“If you will give me the pleasure of dining with me, both of you, I will explain myself then. Now, just one more question: you heard Mr. Rankin’s story of how he became possessed of the knife with which he was killed. Can either of you remember anything, anything at all, that Rankin said which would serve to describe the man who gave it to him?”
“What did Charles say, Nigel?” asked Angela after a pause.
Alleyn crossed to the windows and stood by the drawn curtains. He looked singularly alert.
“He told us,” said Nigel thoughtfully, “that a Russian whom he met in Switzerland gave it to him. He said it had been sent to him. It was sent in return for some service Charles did this Russian.”
“And that was—?” Alleyn moved back into the room.
“I think he said something about pulling him out of a crevasse.”
“That all?”
“I can’t remember anything else, can you, Angela?”
“I’m trying to think,” murmured Angela.
“Did you gather that they had become friends? Did Rankin describe the man?”
“No,” said Nigel.
“No-no, but he said something else,” Angela asserted.
“What could it have been? Think now. Was it something about the accident that led to this incident? Were either of them injured? What!” Angela had uttered a short exclamation.
“That’s it! The Russian lost two of his fingers with frost-bite.”
“The devil he did!” ejaculated Alleyn. “The devil he did!”
“Is that relevant?” asked Nigel.
“It is extremely important,” said Alleyn very loudly. “It links up the Russian evidence very prettily. Let me just explain precisely what I mean by the Russian evidence.” While he was speaking the detective had risen and was standing facing the other two with his back to the curtained windows. The lamp light fell strongly on his dark head and broad shoulders. “Let me tell you,” he said emphatically, “that on Saturday night a Pole was murdered in Soho. He was identified by his left hand.” Alleyn slowly raised his own left arm under the lamp and spread the thumb, index and little fingers of the hand. The two middle fingers he doubled over the palm.
For perhaps two seconds Nigel and Angela sat staring at him in silence. Then they realized that he was whispering urgently, his hand still raised.
“Bathgate!” he was murmuring, “Tokareff is outside watching us. In one minute I shall turn and make for the French window. Follow me and help me collar him. You, Miss Angela, go out of the door as if nothing had happened, speak to no one. Wrap yourself up quickly in the first coat you can find and wait for us in the Bentley.” Then aloud, and lowering his arm as Angela left the room, he added, “and now we are alone, Bathgate, let me tell you exactly what I know of these Russians—”
He had whirled round and was at the French windows before Nigel had got to his feet. The curtain was torn aside violently; Alleyn wrenched at the door.
“Blast!” he said. “Come on!”
There was a crash of splintered glass, a cold wind filled the warm room, Alleyn disappeared with Nigel close on his heels.
Chapter XII
An Arrest And a Night Journey
Outside on the frozen balcony two men struggled together bitterly and silently. The uncertain lamp light, broken by the billowing curtains, wavered across them. Nigel had a swift glimpse of Tokareff’s face, spectacled, strangely passive. He flung himself at the Russian, tackling him low, and was himself bowled over, striking his face against the icy, frost-smelling stones. A moment later he saw Alleyn stagger backwards, and as he himself scrambled up he was aware of a figure that melted away out into the dark.
“After him!” Alleyn grunted. A shrill whistle split the night air.
Nigel was ru
“This is better,” thought Nigel, wrenching a wrist and arm across a writhing back, “I’ve got him.”
“Got him?” echoed Alleyn’s voice out of the darkness, and in a moment the detective knelt beside him, and a bull’s-eye lantern heralded the approach at the double of Bunce, P.C.
Tokareff uttered a short gasping sound, a sort of groan.
“Now then,” said Alleyn, “let’s have my torch.” A pencil of light shot out. Tokareff lay on his back with Alleyn sitting across him. “Get back to your post, Bunce, as quick as you came,” the detective ordered sharply. “Is Green still there?”
“Yessir,” breathed Bunce; “we heard your whistle.”
“Miss North, Mr. Bathgate, and I will come through in the Bentley in ten minutes. Have the gates open and don’t stop us. Keep a cat’s own watch for anything else. Now skedaddle!”
“Yessir,” blew Bunce in the dark, and the bull’s-eye retired.
“Now then, Doctor Tokareff. There’s a perfectly good revolver cuddled into your ribs here, and I think you will come quietly.”
“Proklyatie! proklyatie!” stuttered a furious voice. Something clicked sharply.
“Yes, I dare say. Come now, get up.”
The three stood facing each other in the darkness to which their eyes had grown accustomed.
“I don’t think he carries any deadly weapons,” said Alleyn; “but have a look, will you, Bathgate. Doctor Tokareff, you must consider yourself under arrest. Nothing in his hip pocket, or anywhere? Sure? Right. Now, this way quickly. Damn, too late! Here’s the hue and cry. Oh well, no matter.”
The sound of voices drifted across from the house. Two figures were silhouetted against the dishevelled warmth of the study windows.
“Alleyn! Bathgate!” called Sir Hubert.
“Here we are!” answered Alleyn. “Nothing’s the matter.”
“Nozzing ze matter!” bellowed the suddenly articulate Russian. “I greatly beg a difference. I am under an arrest. I am i
“Come on,” said Alleyn, and he and Nigel propelled their captive back towards the house.
Handesley and Wilde met them in the pool of light outside the windows.