.

warning you not to communicate with the police?’

      Sir Norman nodded. By this time he had recovered some of his old assurance, probably due to the influence of Sir Graham’s old Scotch whisky. But he was still considerably agitated, and his face twitched with emotion as he answered Sir Graham’s questions. The Chief Commissioner was lost in thought for a while; once he made a move to telephone, then changed his mind, and decided to continue with the questioning. He picked up a typewritten list, and looked across at Sir Norman.

      ‘You gave Inspector Nelson full details of all the visitors to your home during the week. Now this list looks surprisingly short to me. Are you quite sure there’s no one you’ve overlooked?’

      ‘Absolutely certain,’ said Blakeley, with a trace of his City aggressiveness.

      ‘On Tuesday, for instance,’ pursued Sir Graham, ‘apart from the usual tradespeople, a Mr. Andrew Brightman called, and also a Mr. J. P. Goldie.’

      For a moment Blakeley was nonplussed. ‘Goldie? I don’t remember saying anything about a Mr. Goldie?’

      ‘I understand that he came to tune the piano.’

      ‘Oh yes, of course! The piano-tuner! I never knew his name.’

      Sir Graham was toying with his paper-knife again. ‘Is Mr. Andrew Brightman a friend of yours?’ he asked at length.

      ‘Hardly a friend. I’ve known him about two years. We met at a City banquet, and I gave him a lift back to Hampstead. After that we became quite friendly – we’re both interested in old china – but we don’t see a great deal of each other.’

      ‘Then why did he come round on that particular evening?’

      ‘He’d brought a piece of china he’d had repaired for me by a relative of his. Suddenly, in a fit of desperation, I poured out the whole story to him. As you can imagine, I was very cut up, and to console me, I suppose, he started to tell me about his daughter.’

      ‘His daughter? What about her?’

      Sir Norman Blakeley hesitated.

      She was kidnapped too – by the Front Page Men.’

      The paper-knife fell with a clatter.

      For a moment, the Chief Commissioner seemed too astounded to speak. Then he recovered abruptly. ‘Are you sure of this? What happened to the girl?’

      ‘He got her back.’

      ‘The devil he did! How? He never informed us—’

      ‘No. It cost him eight thousand pounds, Sir Graham.’

      The Chief Commissioner was obviously staggered.

      ‘Eight thousand! How soon can I get hold of Andrew Brightman?’ he asked.

      ‘He’s outside in a taxi,’ said Sir Norman. ‘I thought you would probably want to interview him, so I persuaded him to come along.’

      ‘I’m very grateful to you,’ acknowledged Sir Graham, pressing a button at the side of his desk. As if by magic, the door opened, and Sergeant Leopold stood waiting for instructions.

      ‘There’s a gentleman in a taxi outside, a Mr. Brightman. Ask him to come up, Sergeant.’

      When the door had closed, Sir Graham turned to Blakeley again. ‘I suppose you’ve seen the papers today?’

      Sir Norman started in alarm. ‘You don’t mean it’s got into the papers?’

      ‘I’m afraid so.’

      The colour rushed to Sir Norman’s face.

      ‘They warned me not to get in touch with the police,’ he almost shouted, ‘and you promised to keep it out of the papers!’

      Sir Graham clasped his shoulder. ‘Don’t alarm yourself, Sir Norman. They must have seen the papers before you had the message this morning. Now, tomorrow morning, take a taxi and go straight to your bank. Arrange for the nine thousand pounds exactly as the girl instructed you. Tomorrow afternoon, take the money yourself and deposit it in the telephone-box at the corner of Eastwood Avenue. As soon as you’ve deposited the money, leave the telephone-booth and return home. Is that clear?’

      ‘Then you want me to give in to these swine?’ stammered Sir Norman.

      ‘I want you to do as I tell you and leave the rest to us,’ answered the Chief Commissioner. ‘Now I’d like to see Mr. Brightman alone, if you don’t mind waiting.’

      ‘Yes, yes, I’ll wait,’ agreed Sir Norman, collecting his hat and umbrella.

      Sir Graham ushered out his guest, and returned to telephone for a map of the Mayfair district. He had just replaced the receiver when Mr. Andrew Brightman was shown in.

      The Chief Commissioner surveyed him shrewdly. ‘Please sit down, Mr. Brightman,’ he murmured politely, and his visitor complied. He was a fairly stout individual in the middle fifties. A man who was obviously the life and soul of the party. He reeked with self-assurance, and was never at a loss for a reply of some sort, whatever the situation might be.

      His hail-fellow, well-met attitude was calculated to disarm most people, and doubtless accounted, in no small measure, for his prosperous appearance. He did not seem in the least overawed by his surroundings, and faced Sir Graham with a pleasant smile, as if they were about to discuss a business proposition.

      ‘I have just been having a chat with Sir Norman Blakeley,’ began the Commissioner. ‘He tells me that your daughter disappeared under rather mysterious circumstances, and that you paid a certain sum of money for her return.’

      ‘That is so,’ asserted Brightman. For a second or two, Sir Graham appeared to be puzzled.

      ‘When did this happen?’

      ‘March of this year. The eighth to be precise, a date I shan’t easily forget,’ Brightman assured him.

      ‘Why didn’t you consult us about this matter, Mr. Brightman?’ suddenly demanded the Commissioner, with a hint of anger in his tone. But his visitor was not in the least perturbed.

      ‘To perfectly honest, Sir Graham, because I didn’t wish to take any risk.’

      Forbes’ anger was obviously rising. ‘It seems to me that you took a very grave risk.’

      That,’ murmured Andrew Brightman politely, ‘like so many things, Sir Graham, is a matter of opinion.’

      Once again the Chief Commissioner was at a loss, finally he asked, ‘Is your daughter in town at the moment?’

      ‘She’s at school in France. A small place near St. Raphael. She’s been there six months. I thought was advisable to send her away after that business.’

      Sir Graham gave a nod of understanding. ‘Now, Mr. Brightman, when you handed over this money, did you retain the numbers of the notes?’

      Brightman shook his head. ‘I was told to deliver it in twenties – I remember that rather surprised me. However, I cashed a cheque at Floyds, in Manchester Street, my private bankers. I daresay they could tell you the numbers. I understand it’s usual to keep a record.’

      Sir Graham waved aside the suggestion. ‘How did you receive your instructions about delivering the money?’ he asked.

      ‘By telephone. It was the Monday after Margaret had disappeared. I didn’t feel like going to the office in case something should turn up, and I was wandering round the library when the phone rang.’

      Sir Graham seemed incredulous. ‘Do you mean to tell me you waited two days without making any move?’

      Mr. Andrew Brightman was still very sure of himself, however. ‘I had a reason for waiting,’ he answered quietly.

      ‘Then I should very much like to hear that reason.’

      ‘When Margaret