“Of course he’s fat!” Briggs said irritably, “but an Englishman would have been polite enough to say ‘obese’!” He went back to the letter. “So, considering all I have said, the police will be utterly baffled, and since even being utterly baffled takes the police more time than our ransom note allows us, in the interim Billy-Boy could well be killed.”
“I’m sorry I suggested the police. I wasn’t thinking,” Simpson said contritely, and attempted to rectify his error, but with only partial success. “I say, Tim,” he said, coming up with something, “Billy-Boy had to be kidnaped by someone who was aware that we had money. Or, rather,” he added unhappily, “who thought they knew that we had money.”
“Which includes about everyone in the British Isles who can read,” Briggs said sarcastically, “including, apparently, foreigners from our former colonies.”
“True.” Simpson was on the verge of wailing. He had never felt so helpless. “So what can we do?”
Briggs shrugged his small shoulders.
“Why,” he said bravely, “we do the only thing we can do. Tomorrow night I shall be on the eleven-sixteen train from Euston Station for East Westerly, in the last car, with an overnight bag...”
Clarence Wellington Alexander was a bit preoccupied. It had nothing to do with picking up the ransom money, for he had spent much time and thought in consideration of this problem and was sure he had covered all angles. He had selected East Westerly as the best place for the drop because as far as he could determine, nobody ever got off or on the train there, and he had come to the conclusion that the station existed only as an excuse to give employment to the ancient guard, without a doubt a relative of some Personage. In addition, Clarence had spent the past two hours inspecting the deserted platform from a vantage point across the road without sighting any minions of the law, before purchasing a ticket for Glossop-in-Dorp, one station up the line, and thereby gaining admission to the East Westerly platform. By now he was certain that no police were involved. But then he had scarcely expected the slightest difficulty when dealing with three ancient and helpless old men.
And he had his stub to leave the platform with the money when he picked it up; that afternoon he had come to East Westerly from Crumley-under-Chum, the next station down the line, with two passages in his pocket, and surrendered only the single stub, so he was also set in this regard. Reading English mystery stories had its advantages, although why the British Railways complicated their corporate lives with all these ticket stubs was a mystery in itself. Nor did Clarence expect the slightest recognition, or even examination, from the sleepy-eyed guard picking up the ticket stubs at the exit; the man looked as if he wouldn’t notice the chorus line of Oh, Calcutta filing through au naturel with the band playing, even if he were wide awake.
No, picking up the ransom money was not the problem. Clarence’s preoccupation came from wondering what to do with old mustard-suit Carruthers once the ransom was paid. Was it possible to put a big enough scare into the old coot to prevent him from going to the cops if he were freed? It was possible but far from certain; some of these crotchety old buzzards got up on their high horse once hard cash was taken from them. Possibly the threat that one of his dear friends would suffer if he opened his yap to the fuzz? But if old baggy-pants couldn’t be sufficiently threatened when he was in their close custody, what threat would possibly bear fruit once he was tree?
Still, the question of leaving the old man’s two hundred-odd pounds of lard buried in lye under the barn, or dropped down the well — which Clarence was convinced would get any future user of the well drunk for a week, considering the old man’s capacity for booze — also posed problems. For one thing, there was no doubt Harold was becoming more and more enamored of the old buzzard. Certainly, Clarence thought with justifiable irritation, you would think that with the old man into Harold’s pockets for more money than Harold even stood to gain from the caper, Harold would be head and shoulders in favor of scragging the old man, if only for sound financial reasons. But, oddly enough, such was not the case. For some inexplicable reason all Harold had was admiration for the old man. It seems the old coot had apparently once written a novel laid in Chicago, Harold’s home town — although the old buzzard had never even been there — which had been titled Petunias for Miss Blemish, which happened to be one of the two or three books Harold had read in his life, and the only one he had actually enjoyed. In fact, Harold said he had never laughed so much at anything before or since.
Harold’s loyalty to Clarence had never been in question up to now, but it was becoming more and more apparent that this singleness of heart was on the verge of being divided, and just how this would lead to Harold’s co-operation in the elimination of old twinkle-toes, was hard to see. Clarence could, of course, also eliminate Harold, but this scenario was more easily written than produced. Harold had survived San Quentin, Sing Sing, Dannemora, Joliet, and the city of Chicago, and Clarence had a feeling he would probably survive Crumley-under-Chum. Besides, the truth was that Clarence had never killed anyone in his life, other than financially, and he would require Harold’s expertise for this chore. He also liked Harold in his own way; Harold gave him someone to feel superior to.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the approaching train, and he put aside the aggravating problem of William Carruthers in favor of reviewing his precautions in the matter of picking up the ransom, for while he expected no trouble, it was in Clarence’s nature to be prepared for anything. Should the train come to a stop and uniformed figures come storming from it wildly waving police batons and madly blowing whistles, Clarence would assume his normal look of innocence and suggest that possibly they were looking for the tall man with the reddish beard and the cast in his eye who had just jumped from the platform and even now was legging it down the road. And, he promised himself grimly, if that were the case, another letter would go off tomorrow with a couple of old baggy-pants’ fingers in it, after which the fat man could practice shuffling cards with one hand!
But his precautions were unnecessary, his fears unfounded. The eleven fifty-eight train for Glossop-in-Dorp and the other subsequent stations separating East Westerly from North Southerly and the end of the line, came creeping into the station and took its place alongside the platform as if feeling its way in the dark, allowing its doors to be slid back in quite diffident fashion, as if fearing the possible intrusion of passengers. Clarence stood well back in the shadows, watching the doors of the last car. Sure enough, someone was emerging there, coming to stand directly beneath an overhead lamp that cast shadows over the scene. There was no doubt, despite the shadows, that it was the short member of the triumvirate, Timothy Briggs, and that he was, indeed, carrying an overnight bag. But instead of putting the bag down and retreating to the waiting train as per instructions, Briggs continued to stand there like a statue, his small hand gripping the overnight bag tightly, until the train sighed electrically, tucked its doors reluctantly back into their sockets, and slowly crept from the station as if its age made the process painful.
From his position deep in the shadows, Clarence frowned. The action of the small man was not in accordance with the demands of the ransom note. Still, it occurred to Clarence — who was feeling a bit generous in view of the fact that it was all working out without any unwanted interference from the police or anyone else — that senile old men, faced with the necessity of deciphering a message written left-handed, and having to cope with a frightening, mind-boggling problem at a moment’s notice, could easily be forgiven one small mistake. Let him who is without fault cast the first stone, Clarence thought, recalling his early Bible training as well as a few times he, himself, had loused up an easy deal. Besides, it was no insurmountable problem; all he had to do was to relieve the tiny man of the loot in the overnight bag, direct him politely to the east-bound platform, and see him on his way back to London, with a boot in the pants to help him, if necessary.