Alarmed by his lieutenant’s anxious face, Joe asked quietly, “Tell me.”
“These are cut out of large, stiff prints. Can you picture the remaining photograph after Rapson had done his bit of scissor-work? You’d have a normal-looking piece of card portraying twenty or so little boys, and then your eye would light on the gaping hole where a face should be?”
“Good Lord! Imagine getting one of those through the post! Did he post them? Where are the outside bits, Gosling?”
“Give me a minute to root about in the store. Bound to be copies in there.”
Gosling shot off, and Joe heard him moving boxes about. Finally he emerged, grinning. “Got ’em!”
They fell on the brown envelopes encasing the series of photographs.
“They seem to have kept two copies of each class each year,” Joe commented. “So, as a test year, 1921—Peterkin’s year—will contain … here we are. One copy!”
Gosling had moved on to the back of the file and pulled out a slimmer envelope. And, triumphantly: “Where do you hide a stolen sheep? In with the herd! Here they are—the doctored copies. He hadn’t got around to sending them off in the post, apparently.”
He pulled out the top one. “Oh, my!”
The sight of the photograph with its calligraphed “St. Magnus Preparatory School” followed by a helpful date was, at first glimpse, prim and ordinary. Then the eye was drawn to the gap in the middle of the second row of boys, the black hole into which a child had sunk. The effect was sinister in the extreme.
“I think I’d get the message, wouldn’t you, sir, if I opened this at the breakfast table.”
Gosling pulled out all the sheets and riffled through them. “Yes, the dates correspond with the gallery.” He began to slide them away.
“A moment! Hand them over!”
Joe took them from him and looked at them more carefully, checking the backs of each for scribbled notes or names and finding none. As he got to the end he looked up. “Gosling! Tell me again—how many faces? Nine? It’s nine, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Why?”
Joe counted the sheets. “Because there are ten sheets here. Ten.”
He came around the desk and joined Gosling on his knees, laying down the pile of stiff pieces of card between them. He turned them over until the surface of the last one showed itself. This was intact. Untouched. No gap signifying disappearance. They stared at the rows of shining faces, unable to speak.
Gosling finally broke the silence. “Sir. You recognise this class, I think?”
“It’s year 1932. The current year. Taken last September.” Joe pointed with a shaking finger to the familiar fair hair and bright expression in the centre of the back row. “And this is my nephew’s class. That’s Jack Drummond.”
CHAPTER 17
The two men got to their feet.
“Steady on, sir!”
Gosling turned to him and Joe felt his elbow gripped by a large hand.
“He’s all right! He’s with Miss Joliffe. They’re right next door in the old morning room. Remember? You were quite happy to leave him in her care.” And, feeling Joe’s muscles tense: “I say, would you like me to go and check on Drummond? Sir!”
The response came at once, fast and brutal. With a yell and a thud, Gosling crashed to the floor, knees and chin grinding into the oak floorboards under the pressure of Joe’s knee in his back. An iron grip wrenched his right arm upwards, fingers closed around his neck probing for and finding a lethal pressure point. Gasping with terror, he signalled submission, banging frantically on the floor with his free left hand. In all his bouts, this resulted in instant release from a hold, a graceful recovery and an exchange of smiling bows.
The flapping hand was instantly trapped and crushed under the assistant commissioner’s left knee, and a voice grated in his ear: “No rules here. You lose consciousness in ten seconds. Where is he?”
“Told you! Next door!”
The pressure increased, and Gosling’s forehead clunked onto the floor.
“Clown! I’m not talking about Drummond. Where’s young Spielman?”
JOE FELT THE resilient young muscles he was restraining turn to marshmallow at the name, but he retained his hold.
“Spielman! Oh my God! No! Under our noses! Let me up! Now! Five hours! He’s been gone five hours. He could be anywhere.” And, desperately: “Stop farting about, sir, and I’ll do whatever you want!”
“Sounds like a good offer to me.” The light voice came from the doorway. “I’d take it if I were you, Commissioner.”
Dorcas was standing in the doorway, Drummond in hand and a quartet of small open-mouthed boys behind her. She turned to her flock. “All’s well, you see. The gentlemen are just having a rag. And making far too much noise. I shall speak to them! Go back to your drawing, will you, boys, and I’ll join you in a tick. If I’m not back before the tea bell goes in … five minutes time … you may all go straight down to the dining hall.”
Closing the door, Dorcas eyed the two red faces as the combatants straightened ties and dusted down trousers. Her expression grew fierce. “What a sight for young eyes! What am I to tell them? No use saying you were having a practice bout. They’re not stupid. It was quite obvious the commissioner was trying to kill their schoolmaster. It’ll be all round the school in no time. You, young man! Gosling, isn’t it? What have you done to irritate Joe? Didn’t anyone warn you he fights fast and dirty?”
“I’d heard he’d learned tricks in the East,” Gosling offered hesitantly, scrambling to his feet. “India, was it?”
Dorcas gurgled. “East India Docks more like. Or The Bucket of Blood in Seven Dials. He’s a member of some pretty louche establishments where the pugilist arts are taught and the Marquess of Queensberry has never set foot. You can count yourself lucky he’s getting on a bit and losing his edge. Now, when you’ve had a chance to get your breath back and master your palpitations, Joe, perhaps you’ll tell me what provocation gave rise to this murderous attack.”
“No bloody time!” Gosling’s cry was alarming. “For God’s sake! There’s a child out there who’s been snatched from under our noses. You saw it happen yourself, Miss Joliffe. Spielman. The little kid with the big ears. We all waved him off! He’s paid for and on his way.”
“What? Calm down, Mr. Gosling. On his way to where? The boy I saw going off happily this morning by Daimler was on his way to London. To the bosom of his family.”
“But was he? For God’s sake, Sandilands, tell her.”
Joe had never spoken more swiftly and to a more receptive audience. Before he had even finished, Dorcas was reaching for the telephone. “Only one way to find out. Give me Spielman’s home number. They won’t want to talk to a policeman. Thank you. I’ll check on him. I expect the little chap is tucking into his warm milk and custard creams.… Shush both of you! Ah, am I through to the Embassy? This is St. Magnus School here, where Master Spielman is a pupil. Matron speaking. I was wondering if I could have a word with our young man. It’s rather urgent. No?… Not yet arrived … In that case, may I have a word with one of his parents? Either Mister or Mrs. Spielman.”
They waited for an extraordinarily long time.
Finally, as Dorcas was about to give up and break the contact, a voice was heard at the other end.
“Mrs. Spielman? It’s Matron here at St. Magnus.” Dorcas listened intently to a tumbling of words the men could not distinguish, her face growing very grave. “Please, Mrs. Spielman,” she interrupted, “try to calm down. I’m not quite understanding this. Harald is not with you in London? Taken ill … on the journey.… Can you tell me exactly when this happened? This morning? Four hours ago?… Hospital? Which hospital?”
The torrent recommenced and Dorcas listened intently until finally: “I’m devastated to hear your news, madam, and I apologise for disturbing you at such a time. I will inform the headmaster who will reply to you later at a less stressful moment.”