“Oh, I really couldn’t,” Simpson said, sorry to have to disappoint this nice man. It seemed strange that such a pleasant-looking person should be a kidnaper, although Clifford Simpson would have been the first to admit he knew very little about the appearance of kidnapers. Villains who tied heiresses to railway tracks, now, they were a crew he had worked with extensively, but... He came down to earth, trying to remember what it was he had been saying. It finally came back. “I couldn’t, you see,” he said, anxious to explain his position, “not until I’ve seen Billy-Boy and Tim—”
“That again! Well, they’re fine! But believe me they won’t be fine for very long, if—”
“Oh, I’m sure they’re fine, quite sure,” Simpson said hurriedly, not wishing the man to think he would doubt his word. “It’s just that I really don’t know how to handle the situation, and I need to ask their advice. Surely you can understand that, can’t you?”
“No,” Clarence said flatly.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Simpson shook his head in commiseration. “You have trouble understanding things, too, eh? I know how you must feel.” He looked around rather vaguely. “Well, shall we go? The sooner I can discuss this with Billy-Boy and Tim — well, more Billy-Boy than Tim, because Tim seems to explode at times without too much advance notice. Or reason, either, you may have noticed — where was I?” He paused to think a moment and then beamed. “Oh yes. I was saying that the sooner I can discuss this with Billy-Boy, the sooner I’m sure we can resolve the entire matter. And that’s what we all really want, isn’t it? To resolve the entire matter?”
Clarence shook his head, a bit dazed by all the words.
“Now, look, you!” he said. “Just hand over that bag, see, and get yourself lost!”
He reached for the overnight bag, but Simpson resolutely held it above his head, coming close to some electrical wires there.
“Yes,” Simpson said sadly, looking down at the other, “you do have the same trouble, don’t you? Understanding, I mean. I’d repeat myself, but my experience is that it really doesn’t serve much purpose. Much better to get on with seeing Billy-Boy and discussing it, believe me. So shall we go?”
Clarence came close to gnashing his teeth. Still, unless he tried to climb the old man like a telephone pole, there seemed little to do about it at the moment. Why, he asked himself desperately, had he made the basic blunder of arranging to meet these people on a railroad station platform, where a fuss could be heard by the guard? He should have set the meetings up in a dark alley, and come prepared with a lead pipe, except he would also have needed a ladder in order to strike this Simpson unconscious. He let his breath out slowly. Someone was going to pay for all the irritation he had suffered, he promised himself, one way or another! Probably Harold Nishbagel; the snatch had been his idea in the first place, after all.
“But you’re going to be blindfolded,” he said, adamant about this point. “Once we’re in the car—”
“Oh no!” Simpson said pleadingly. “Take my word, I’d get the most dreadful headache. Besides, I assure you, I’m most inattentive. I have trouble getting from my rooms to the club. If it weren’t for this kind old lady who owns the journal stand at the corner—”
Clarence sighed.
“Ah, the hell with it,” he said hopelessly. “Let’s go!”
Since gin rummy is basically a game best played by two, or by four if playing partners, Harold had decided that hearts was the proper game to accommodate the three of them, and at the moment he was pleased with the rapidity with which his two charges had caught onto the game. Here only fifteen or twenty hands had been played, and already each of them was into him for over a thousand pounds, and they were now only playing for five-somethings, rather than ten-somethings. However, with his share of the ransom money, he could not only pay off, he was sure, but even come out a few bucks profit ahead, and who could ask for anything more than that? Especially when he was having as much fun as Harold was having at the moment?
He looked at the trick on the table, disappointed but not surprised to find the queen of spades had been laid upon his ace of diamonds, since it seemed to happen with remarkable frequency. Maybe he could shoot the moon and get some of his dough back, except he seemed to remember that one or the other of his opponents had picked up a heart somewhere along the way. He was pondering his next play when he heard Clarence’s key in the outer lock and looked up. Through the doorway from the kitchen to the living room, all three card players could see Clarence come in, ushering Clifford Simpson before him.
“Well, well!” Carruthers said softly, and turned to Harold. “Possibly some glasses for our friend?”
“Sure, pops,” Harold said helpfully, and came to his feet at once, as Clifford Simpson came into the kitchen, ducking his head under the doorframe. Harold paused in his task and smiled delightedly at Carruthers. “Hey, pops! Maybe we can play bridge now!”
“Possibly,” Carruthers conceded, and smiled up at his tall friend. “Clifford! Have a chair. Glasses will be here in a moment. To what do we owe this pleasure?”
“He got kidnaped like we did,” Briggs said sardonically.
“Oh no!” Simpson said hurriedly. He did not wish his host, already apparently guilty of several kidnapings, to be accused of a crime of which he was innocent; that would have been eminently unfair. “Oh no! As a matter of fact” — he looked at his captor in embarrassment — “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I missed your name.”
“He’s called Clarence,” Harold said, opening the cupboard and reaching for glasses. “I’m Hal.”
“Thank you,” Simpson said gratefully, and turned back to the others. “Well, as a matter of fact, Mr. Clarence didn’t even want me to come along. He wanted to take my overnight case and wanted me to take the next train back to London. And go beddy-bye, I believe he said. No, it’s my own fault I’m here, not his. I felt it vital that I discuss something of importance with Billy-Boy.”
“And now that you are here,” Clarence said wearily, “do you mind greatly telling us just what was so important that you wanted to talk to your fat friend about?”
Harold had come over with the extra glasses. Clifford Simpson smiled at him gratefully, sank into a chair, and poured himself a bit of brandy. He sipped it, raised his eyebrows in appreciation of its quality, took some champagne to follow it, wiped his lips and leaned back comfortably, at ease.
“I say!” he observed, looking about. “You don’t have it half-bad here, do you?”
“Not half-bad at all,” Briggs said, a rare admission for him. “Even the beds are fairly decent.”
“And you will find Harold, in addition to being the most accommodating of card players, also to be an excellent chef,” Carruthers added. “His ragout-au-Dannemora...” He kissed his fingers to indicate the merit of Harold’s cuisine.
“And I don’t think they ever heard of cucumber sandwiches in the States,” Briggs added, “or at least not in the places where Harold learned to cook. I’ve only been here a day, it’s true, but if they even have watercress in the house, I haven’t seen it—”
Clarence slammed his hand on the table, bringing silence.
“All right, you clowns,” he said, his voice tight. “Let’s get on with it!” He turned to Simpson. “Talk! Just what was it you wanted to discuss with old baggy-pants, here?”
“Why,” Simpson said, as if surprised he hadn’t mentioned it before, “the fact that we have no money, of course—”