Peter Lovesey: Abracadaver

My safe release rests with you. If you wish me returned unharmed, you must follow meticulously the instructions I give you.

You are to place five hundred pounds in used banknotes of any denomination in a leather valise. At a quarter to midnight tonight, after the house at the Paragon has dispersed, no doors are to be bolted. The valise is to be carried to the centre of the stage by Albert (this is at my suggestion, for I fear for your heart), who must gain leave from Philbeach House on some pretext. You are to arrange for a beam of limelight from the wings to illuminate the place where Albert is to leave the valise, but the rest of the hall must be in darkness, and no person other than Albert is to be in the building. When he has placed it in position he is to withdraw and return to Philbeach House. The money will be collected, taken away and counted, and if all is in order I shall be released within the hour, to meet you outside the Paragon at the main entrance. Any failure in carrying out these instructions, or any attempt to communicate with the police, or to try to follow the person who collects the money, will have consequences which must cause you lasting distress. I repeat that no-one but the courier (Albert) is to be inside the hall. The night-watchman is to be instructed to lock the doors at one o’clock, by which time, God willing, I shall be restored to you. Please do not fail me, Papa. I am mortally afraid.

Your ever-loving,

Ellen

‘You see now why I couldn’t tell you about the letter,’ said Plunkett. ‘Already I may have condemned my daughter to death. Oh, God, have I done that?’

‘I doubt it, sir,’ said Cribb. ‘No-one outside this house knows the Yard is here. We came on foot, you see, through the fog. The four of us in this room are the only living souls who know of this meeting.’

‘Well, what am I to do?’ Plunkett appealed.

‘What were you planning to do, sir?’

‘Precisely what they want. Heavens, my daughter’s worth five hundred to me! I was coming to tell Albert about his part in the proceedings.’

‘Well, Albert,’ said Cribb. ‘Are you game?’

The strong man’s chin tilted to its most intrepid angle. ‘I’ll do whatever I can to help Ellen, Sergeant.’

‘Good man. Do you have this amount of money, Mr Plunkett?’

‘I’ve several hundred in the safe. After tonight’s performance I’ll have enough.’

‘Capital. I’ll provide the valise,’ said Cribb, ‘and then we’ll all have made a contribution. Oh, and one more thing, Albert. I’d like to borrow Beaconsfield. He’ll come to no harm, but we won’t alarm your mother, eh? Tell her you’re both required by Mr Plunkett for a secret rehearsal for next Tuesday.’

‘He’s not a very good guard-dog, Sergeant.’

‘He’ll do for my purposes,’ said Cribb.

CHAPTER

16

SEVERAL TIMES THAT EVENING, as they sat in the pit at the Paragon, Thackeray found himself speculating on the strategy of his sergeant. Was it really necessary to their investigation to spend three hours watching the entire bill, including every turn they had seen the previous Tuesday? It would go into the report, he supposed, as ‘The proceedings were kept under continuous observation’: justification enough for studying the chorus-line through opera glasses, but questionable as an explanation of Cribb’s lusty singing of the chorus of Slap Bang, Here we are Again.

For Thackeray himself, the evening was an ordeal. Music hall had never held much appeal for him, but until the present inquiry he had at least been able to sit through an assorted programme of clog-dancing, contortionists, serio comics and buffo vocalists without intimations of distress. This evening he found that certain turns, the monologist and the ballet, revived sensations of acute embarrassment, while throughout the rest of the bill he could not forbear from gripping the edge of his seat in anticipation of some fresh calamity. It would be a long time before he would voluntarily enter a music hall again.

Mercifully the moment arrived, soon before eleven, when the patrons rose, swaying, to render the final chorus, the National Anthem, before streaming to the exits and the public houses. This was the hour when lady promenaders still without an escort cast about in desperation, and might even settle on a middle-aged detective constable with symptoms of nervous exhaustion. He was glad to follow Cribb’s rapid movement to the vestibule. Was this to be some rendezvous with Plunkett to arrange a secret vantage-point from which to witness the collecting of the ransom? No. Cribb’s object was to secure a penny copy of Slap Bang, Here we are Again.

They had not seen Plunkett during the performance, but that was not surprising. Forward-looking halls like the Paragon had dispensed with the chairman seated among the audience; he was part of the tradition of sanded floors and spittoons that had until quite recently limited the patronage to the lower levels of society. Instead, he was positioned prominently in the vestibule, beside a bill advertising the following Tuesday’s entertainment, raising his silk hat assiduously to the classes of customer he wished to encourage. The small army of vendors of pies, nuts, oranges and matches had been persuaded to mount their attack on the steps outside, so that an air of refinement was preserved within.

‘Come along,’ said Cribb, tucking his song-sheet into an inside pocket. ‘We don’t want to be left here.’

Thackeray frowned. His impression was that the reason for attending the music hall was to be installed there when the hand-over of the five hundred pounds took place. With a nod in Plunkett’s direction, he followed Cribb between the groups making their farewells under the portico, past the line of cabs outside and into the enveloping fog. In the thick of the dispersing audience he had to keep a sharp eye on the sergeant’s bowler ahead. He only hoped Cribb planned an arrest inside the hall. In these conditions pursuit through the streets would be next to impossible. He pulled his muffler over his mouth and caught up with Cribb at the next street lamp.

Some fifty yards along Victoria Street they turned into a public house almost as dense with tobacco-smoke as the fog outside. Saturday night was being celebrated in style around the piano, and in the skittle-alley in the cellars below, from the rumpus penetrating upwards.

‘What’s your tipple?’ Cribb asked.

‘The usual, if you please, Sarge.’

‘Three pints of East India, landlord. Did my friend arrive?’

‘Waitin’ in the back room, guv. Over there behind the money-changin’ machines.’

They discovered Albert seated in isolation in the intimacy of the private room, beneath a framed text reading, Women and wine should life employ. Is there aught else on earth desirous? A vase of chrysanthemums had been provided on the table.

‘Good. You’re quite ready then. Where’s the dog?’ said Cribb all in one breath, as he placed the drinks on the table.

‘Beaconsfield? He’s tied up in the yard,’ said Albert. ‘The landlord wouldn’t allow him in. Said the customers mightn’t take kindly to a dog barking. Have you ever heard Beaconsfield bark, Sergeant? There’s ten or more brats in that public bar squawking fit to deafen you, and poor old Beaconsfield has to sit out there in the fog. He didn’t think much of that, I can tell you. I just hope nobody trips over him.’

‘Are you still quite prepared to go through with this?’

Albert seemed surprised at the question. ‘Naturally. I’ve given my word. There’s no danger, is there? You will be watching from somewhere, won’t you?’

‘Not exactly,’ said Cribb. ‘We can’t afford to take risks where Miss Blake’s concerned, can we? Best carry out the instructions implicitly. We’ll be outside the hall.’