SV - 05 - Sergeant Verity and the Swell Mob. (25 page)

His
attention was recalled to his surroundings by the clatter of hooves. A black
cab passed slowly down the far side of the square. Like a thin, waning moon the
face of Inspector Croaker peered through the glass panel of its window. Further
along the line of houses the cab stopped. Mr Croaker dismounted and stood
gazing across the central gardens of the square. He watched Verity, the swagger
stick tapping against his boot with a mixture of impatience and menace.

In his growing terror over
Bella's fate, Verity felt an urge to run to the inspector, tell him the entire
story, and beg his assistance. He braced himself to burst across the square,
through the gardens, to where Mr Croaker stood. But as he gathered the breath
into his lungs, Croaker turned smartly about, mounted the foot-board, and the
cab moved off with a rattle of harness.

Verity
stared after the swaying vehicle. In his torment he would willingly have
deserted his duty to save Bella. But from what was he to save her? Where was he
to look? At the back of his mind lingered the knowledge that he must not do the
very thing which would deliver him into the hands of his enemies. To remain
calm, to move only when he had a certain destination. That must be his path.

Deliberately he tried to
compile a list of the places where Bella might have gone. There was nowhere in
Brighton that he could think of, except perhaps the chapel or one of the shops.
Would she have returned to London? It was easy enough for her to be there this
evening by train. Paddington Green, Stringfellow's little house? There was no
reason that he could think of. In her behaviour she had been the same to him on
that morning as always.

Verity
was urgently considering these possibilities when the black cab returned to the
square again. He pulled himself up to attention for Mr Croaker's benefit. This
time, he decided, if the cab should stop he would dash forward and beg the
inspector's assistance in finding Bella. The black cab had turned now and was
coming towards him, down his own side of the square. For the first time Mr
Croaker was going to pay him a visit. Verity stepped smartly forward, ready to
open the door, but the cab did not even slow down. In a panic he ran along
beside it, shouting,

'Sir! Sir! Mr
Croaker, sir!'

But
the cab was gaining speed and the face which he glimpsed inside was not
Inspector Croaker's, nor anyone else that he recognised. Verity dropped back,
knowing in his misery that it was not the same cab but one of hundreds of black
hansoms which were almost identical in appearance. As if to mock the fat,
shouting policeman, the occupant of the cab lowered the window on its strap and
threw back a crumpled sheet of paper which fell near Verity's feet. At the same
time, the cabman slashed with his whip at the clumsy figure who had been trying
to keep pace with the coach. Verity swerved to avoid the razor cut of the whip,
lost his footing and fell. The cab turned at speed into the seaside traffic of
King's Road.

Verity got up, his lungs
aching with the exertion, and reached for the scrap of paper. Its message was
printed in bold capitals.

The
last
act
of
Miss
Bella's
tragedy
will
be
performed
on
the
sands
before
the
old
battery
this evening,
at
seven
o'clock
promptly.

There was no further doubt. The one thing he had
feared most and expected least had happened. Whoever had set him up had
abducted Bella as well. In his dismay, he tugged out his watch to check the
time. It was a battered timepiece, so thinly plated with silver that constant
handling had already worn it to the brass in several places. But he kept it
right, and its hands now pointed to ten minutes past seven.

'They never told me soon
enough!' he howled. Then it occurred to him that they would hardly have
delivered the message if it were too late. Lunging forward he ran down the
length of Brunswick Square towards the evening sea, turned east, and began
pounding along the promenade to the astonishment of its sedate strollers. Men
and women turned to stare at the gasping, floundering figure as he struggled
onward. His tall hat came off, rolling away, but he never paused to pick it up.
A wag shouted, 'Stop thief!' Several of the urchin happyjacks began running
along beside him and then gave up the sport after a little way. Before him
Verity saw the web of the Chain Pier stretching out to the dark blob of its
landing-stage. Closer than that was the little crescent, Artillery Place, where
the battery of guns had once stood. A grassy slope with a little pathway led
down from the promenade to the beach at that point. He stumbled down it, saw
the shingle and, beyond it the wet patch of sand which would presently be
covered by the evening tide. Then he looked about him.

The
beach was deserted, not another figure anywhere between the stretch marked off
by the wooden groins before the Old Battery. On the promenade, the strollers
had ceased to interest themselves in him and had resumed their walks. In his
anguish, he roared above the gentle thunder of the incoming waves.

'Bella! Mrs
Verity! Where yer gone? Bella!'

Mingled with his fear for her
there was now a fury at the taunting cruelty which his persecutors displayed.

'Sons of whores!'
he bellowed. 'Where is she?'

There was no answer beyond the
light breeze and the ripple of the tide at his back. He turned to the flat,
shining sand which separated him from the water. And then he saw.

The
first salty tide-mark had almost reached the letters which were cut into the
sand. They were several inches tall, appearing from the promenade only as the
ruffling of the sand by a child's stick. At close quarters their message was
clear to read, though meaningless to a casual reader.

The
health
of
Mrs
Bella
V
.
continues
excellent.
It
may
remain
so
while
her
husband
is
attentive
to
instructions.
The
issue
to
be
at
his
deciding.

Verity
looked round the empty beach with a wail of despair. He turned to the promenade
above, but not a single face was watching him. He had no doubt that Bella's kidnappers
had satisfied themselves that he had read the message, but even while he was
doing so the watcher would have turned away. Taken with the other two messages,
the writing in the sand left no doubt as to what had happened. The words traced
by the stick showed the motive precisely. Mr Croaker must see them! But the
first wave had already swept smoothly over the message, leaving the words
perceptibly fainter as it drained back into the sea.

Racing
up the beach, Verity burst upon the promenaders, clutching men by the arms,
dancing into the path of oncoming couples.

' 'elp me! Quick! I gotta have
a witness! There's writing on the sand! Young person's life depends upon it!
Someone gotta read it too before the tide wipes it away!'

They walked in a careful
circle about him, the women drawing their skirts in a little, the men glaring
at the plump, hatless drunk who struggled to molest them.

'Lissen!' Verity howled. 'Lissen! All of you!'

But he was like a bull in an
arena, formed by the moving procession of men and women on either side.
Suddenly, his despair was pierced by the realisation of his own powers. Of
course! His eye sought out a slightly-built man, inoffensive in appearance, who
was walking on his own.

'You!' shouted Verity,
plunging through the crowd and seizing the man's arm. 'Yer under arrest!'

In the
melee, a woman screamed and there was a mutter of anger. But the men regarded
the ferocity of the drunken bully and kept clear of him. Verity twisted the
little man's arm and propelled him, squealing in terror, down the path to the
beach.

''s
all right!' he gasped reassuringly as they ran. 'You only got to read some
words!'

They came to the patch of sand
below the shingle. From a distance Verity could see that the marks were still
there. But his acquaintance with tides was slight enough. By the time that they
stood over the inscription the wash of the rippling waves had reduced it to a
pattern that was as obscure as hieroglyphics. Verity let the man's arm go and
swung around with a sob to the spectators on the promenade. In a gap between
the figures he saw that a black cab had pulled up. From its window stared the
haggard face of Inspector Croaker.

Old
Mole smiled. He was not a greatly pleasing sight, but then it was not the
girl's role to be pleased. Cosima smiled back, eyes taking in the expensive
suiting and the silk hat. Mole removed the hat and executed an odd
genuflection. He handed her a neat parcel tied by a bow. Cosima pulled the bow
and emitted pleasantly shocked laughter, lightly stifled by one hand, as she
saw the photographic cards of herself within.

'Allow
me,' said Mole in a voice which was almost a sneer. He put one foot over the
threshold of the double door. At that moment the surly figure in tall hat who
stood waiting at the foot of the steps turned about. He strode rapidly up to
the door, bundled Mole and Cosima inside, and followed them. Then the double
doors closed and there was the click of a key being turned.

Within
the hooded shade of his olive-green Pilentum, Sealskin Kite watched the closed
door on the far side of Brunswick Square. Then he craned round to catch a view
of the distant promenade, where old Mrs Kite would open her blue parasol at
once upon the return of the private-clothes jack. But a long time passed and the
parasol remained shut. Sealskin Kite whinnied with merriment at the neatness of
the whole thing.

Inspector
Croaker had himself well under control. He had chosen to give the impression of
a man struggling to be fair. His words might almost have been those of an
officer acting as prisoner's friend in a court-martial.

'Assault,
false arrest, desertion of duty,' he said pleasantly. 'Enough to be going on
with. Eh, sergeant?'

'Yessir,' said Verity glumly.
Though at attention before the inspector's desk, he moved sufficiently to ease
his fleshy neck away from the cutting torment of a tight collar-edge. Mr
Croaker did not even reprimand him for the movement.

'Try to see, sergeant, how it
will look to the board of inquiry.' Croaker's voice had the distant quality of
a man who has attained the perfect equilibrium of bliss. 'Assault upon a member
of the public, admitted. False arrest, admitted. Absence from duty, admitted.
Causing an affray upon the promenade, admitted.'

'Mitigation, sir!' said Verity
firmly. Croaker looked at him dreamily.

'Ah yes, sergeant. I was
forgetting the mitigation. Three messages about Mrs Verity's departure. One
written upon the sand and read only by yourself. One written in block capitals
on paper. You see, sergeant, do you not, that the board will be inclined to
regard both such writings as your own work? Which leaves us with one note,
written by Mrs Verity perhaps. It announces her intention of leaving you.'

'She never, sir!'

'No, sergeant? Lastly there is
the servant's evidence. Mrs Verity going off with another man, having commended
her children to the girl's care.'

'No, sir!'

'No?' said Croaker. 'Evidence to the contrary,
sergeant?' 'Mrs Verity, sir. Her character and her
dooty!’
Croaker sighed.

'Neither
I nor the gentleman of the board, sergeant, have the advantage of the lady's
acquaintance. She is not evidence.'

'She
ain't run off, sir! It's villains as means to sweeten me by taking her! She
gotta be found!'

'I
see, sergeant,' said Croaker tolerantly. 'Mrs Verity has been kidnapped in
order that you will have to obey instructions from these villains. Is that it?'
'Yessir!'

'And
have you received such instructions?' 'No, sir!'

Croaker
shook his head.

'How very unfortunate,
sergeant. In the absence of such demands, I fear the board must simply decide
that Mrs Verity has — how shall we say it? — bolted.'