The Golden Age

Chapter 26 : Through A Crystal Darkly

Back in London, Police Inspector Jaffe was puzzled. Life, he felt, was becoming too much like detective novels. After the burglary at the Royal Aero Club and the disappearance of the chief suspect he’d had to deal with the London end of the enquiries into the trivial disappearance of Sally Fellows, Agnes Crystal’s personal secretary. It was quite obvious when he’d interviewed Crystal that Fellows had eloped with Graham – the two had evidently found solace in one another’s company after the suicide of the Mottram girl. No doubt they’d turn up soon enough.

However his latest case was a different kettle of fish. The disappearance of the country’s foremost crime novelist, though, that was another matter; one of national interest. And of course there was speculation that it was linked in some peculiar way to these Sally Fellows disappearance. The one thing Jaffe was sure of was that there had indeed been a kidnapping. Beyond that, the case was taxing his detecting abilities.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t got any clues. “It’s not often you can watch a crime happening before your own eyes,” he said to himself as he sat down to watch her abduction for the tenth time. The lights dimmed in the small cinema and the black and white film flickered into life.

“We’re very pleased to be able to meet with Agnes Crystal here at her country home,” the screen showed a smiling man dressed in white tie and tails, his moustache waxed and rimmed, his hair slicked down against his head. “Miss Crystal has been kind enough to grant an exclusive interview for viewers of Movietone News and I know that many of you will be keen to hear about her work on the latest thriller to come from the pen of one of our most popular and famous authoresses.”

The camera panned slowly across to where Agnes Crystal was sitting, the smiling man joined her. Crystal was wearing an elegant evening gown. Even on black and white film the sparkle of the jewellery she was wearing was evident, an enormous pendant diamond hung from her necklace – the proceeds, Jaffe understood, of her previous book. The interview began. “Miss Crystal,” the man said, “our viewers would be most grateful to hear about your latest work. Is it true that your golfing detective from the ‘Strange Affair at Gates’ makes another appearance?”

“Well, yes, I can say that much at least.” Agnes’ voice was soft and the movie sound level had evidently been boosted. She looked surprisingly young in close up, Jaffe thought. Prejudice he supposed but ‘lady writer’ had conjured up a rather spinsterish image to him. Looking at the film, however, he could quite see how her fans were enthused at her public readings. There must be something rather exciting about this glamorous, young woman conjuring tales of violence and death. Certainly it had made her plenty of money. She went on, “but of course I couldn’t possibly tell you any more, except that it has a dénouement that I think it will prove to be a challenging puzzle – I know how much everyone loves to try to work out who the criminal is.”

“Your descriptions of crimes always have a great deal of detail, Miss Crystal,” the interviewer went on. “Do you talk to many criminals in writing your works?”

Exactly what I wonder, Jafffe thought to himself, but so far he’d been able to turn up no evidence of contact and Agnes’ answer was pretty clear.    

“Goodness, no,” Agnes grinned, winningly, “it’s all just made up you know. I read the newspapers just as everyone does, all the stories have their seeds there, you know.”

“Well, thank you, Miss Crystal,” the interviewer began to close the conversation, “Movietone viewers will...”

Then there was the gunshot. The right hand side of the screen darkened as a lamp went out. Crystal screamed and put her hands to her mouth. The interviewer leapt to his feet. The cameras kept turning as two masked men ran into shot. One pushed a pistol into the starched shirt front of the interviewer. The other gripped Crystal by the wrist and dragged her to her feet. “Stay there, all of you,” barked one of the men in a guttural voice waving his gun towards the cameras. The interviewer was now cowering on the floor, hands in the air.

The other masked man was busily securing Crystal with rope, tying her wrists and ankles. It was the work of moments. Within seconds he was hoisting the squealing, kicking and struggling authoress over his shoulder as the other man grabbed a large cardboard box standing on Agnes’ desk. The two men made their escape with their hostage through the French windows.

The film flickered to a standstill. The lights in the cinema came on. And Jaffe called out, “Thank you.”

The interviewer came out of the projection room and down the aisle to where Jaffe was sitting. “Well inspector, do you think you can catch them?”

“I’m sure we shall,” Jaffe replied, “but I’d welcome any other information you can give me.”

“Well Inspector, you’ve seen it for yourself, it all happened so quickly.”

“Yes, of course, but if you do think of something, however small a point, it could help.” The interviewer had hardly covered himself in glory, Jaffe thought but it’s hard to be brave when you are peering into the barrel of a loaded revolver.  

“And you can release the film for us to exhibit?”

“Oh, I’m afraid that’s out of the question, Sir,” Jaffe replied with irritation. “After all it’s the only evidence we have at the moment.

“Very well Inspector, but there is tremendous public interest in this, you understand. People are entitled to know what has happened.”

“It’s been my experience, Sir, that the public interest isn’t necessarily the same thing as what interests the public. We’ll hang on to the film for the time being, I think. And I certainly wouldn’t want to see it appearing in any of your newsreels for the time being.”

The interviewer huffed and took his leave. The Inspector was sitting still, staring at the blank cinema screen. The truth was he hadn’t the faintest idea who the men were or where Agnes was. He went over the film again in his mind. All he had so far was the film and the burnt-out wreck of a van which had seemingly belonged to a company called “Theatrical Removals Ltd.”

It was then that a police sergeant burst into the cinema. “Inspector Jaffe, sir,” he called, “a telephone call. It’s Miss Crystal’s publisher, he says it’s urgent.”

Moments later Jaffe was jumping in to the black Wolsley that was parked outside. “Russell Square, Sergeant. - put your foot down,” he barked and the driver, “and set that gong going – we can’t waste any time. And watch out for a motorcycle – rider in black overalls and a silver helmet.”

The car sped away from the Movietone offices and headed away from Soho in the direction of Bloomsbury. With its bell ringing and its blue lights flashing, the police car scattered Londoners and tourists alike as Jaffe sped into Oxford Street, across Tottenham Court Road and round the British Museum. As the car skidded to a halt outside the offices of Snipcock and Tweed, Publishers, Jaffe leapt out. They’d been as quick as they could but there was no sign of the motorcyclist – of course.

Corbett Snipcock was waiting at the door as Jaffe arrived. “No sign of them, Inspector?” he asked as Jaffe went inside.

“No, but thank you for alerting us so quickly. There’s a chance one of the radio cars will spot the bike. Now perhaps you can show me what they left.”

“Yes, of course. Come into my office, Inspector.” Snipcock led the way up an elegant flight of stairs through two enormous mahogany doors and into his office. Jaffe took in the opulence of the surroundings. Snipcock’s desk looked bigger than the office that Jaffe shared back at the station. Unsurprisingly, bookshelves lined the walls, filled floor to ceiling with the various editions of Agnes Crystal’s novels and short stories. “Published in over twenty languages, Inspector,” Snipcock said, “and read in over 100 countries. She’s a phenomenon, a phenomenon.”

“Yes, but an absent one. Except that you now have some news, I believe.”

“Yes, Inspector, a ransom demand. Please,” Snipcock gestured to a large leather upholstered chair, “take a seat. I’ll get Miss Logan.” He leant forward and pressed a button on his desk.

“Miss Logan?”

“She’s one of my most trusted staff. She received the package on reception. It was her description I passed on to your chaps. Opened the package of course. Bit of a shock, the contents though.” There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” called Snipcock.

An evidently distressed Miss Logan entered the office clutching a large brown envelope. “Here you are, Sir,” she said, presenting it to the Inspector.

“Thanks you, Miss,” Jaffe responded. “Can you tell me how it was delivered?”

“Well, yes. It’s as I told your people. A motorcycle pulled up outside and the rider came in with it. He kept his helmet, goggles and scarf on. He dropped the envelope on my desk, waved his hand and went straight out again.”

“He didn’t ask you to sign anything or give you any indication of where he had come from?”

“No, but that’s not unusual. We have riders in and out all the time with manuscripts, galleys, cover artwork. They are always in a rush and so are we.”

“And you opened it?”

“Well, yes. It wasn’t addressed you see. Just a blank envelop. By the time I’d realised what was in it the bike had gone.”

Jaffe took the envelope carefully. He’d be amazed if there were any finger prints on it but you never knew. He tipped the contents onto the desk. Three, 8 inch by 10 inch black and white photographs and a small spool wound with steel wire.

The photographs made it plain what the envelop was all about. Each showed a helpless Agnes Crystal, tied to a chair with heavy rope, a thick cloth tied across her mouth. In one, balanced on her lap was a copy of that day’s paper showing that she was still alive – or at least had been that morning.

“It’s a disgrace, Inspector,” Snipcock fumed. “Look at this.”  He pulled a volume down from the book shelf and tossed it onto the desk alongside the photograph. “The Missing Mystic – by Agnes Crystal - Winner of the 1935 Sherlock Award” the cover announced. The captive woman on the book’s dust jacket was tied and gagged just as Agnes was in the photographs. “These kidnappers have a black sense of humour inspector.”

“Indeed. But what is this?” Jaffe held up the spool of wire.

“It’s a voice-writer reel, Inspector.” Miss Logan said. “Agnes used a recorder to dictate her works. Then her secretary would transcribe them.”

“Can we listen to it – do you have a machine here?”

“Oh, yes Inspector, we have all the most modern equipment here. I’ll fetch it.” Miss Logan left the office to return a few minutes later with a brass bound wooden box. On top the box had two spindles. Into a socket in the side a stethoscope-like headset was plugged. Miss Logan put the spool onto one of the spindles and wound the wire around the mechanism of the box before connecting it to the other empty spool. She plugged the box in and passed the stethoscope headset to Jaffe.

Jaffe nodded and indicated to Miss Logan that she should start the machine. She flicked a switch and the spools began to spin. As the spools turned, Jaffe listened. The sound quality was not as good as on the film he had been watching earlier but there was no mistaking whose voice was on the spool. He heard the voice of Agnes Crystal.

“Please help me,” she begged, evidently scared but trying to be as calm as she could be. “They say that they will kill me if you don’t do as they say. I believe them, please believe me. They keep me tied up and gagged. They have the voice spools of my new book too. They say that you can have both me and them safely returned for £250,000. They will let you know how. Please do as they say. I am … anncchk,mmmpphh.”

Agnes’ words were cut off as her captors had evidently pushed her gag back in place.  Then there was another voice, a man this time, “Shouldn’t be too much of a bother for you Mr Snipcock, you’ve made more than that from her works, after all. Don’t bother the boys in blue with this, though. We’d hate it if your star writer got hurt because some copper came clumping along in their size nines. Just have the money ready for collection tomorrow. We’ll let you know what to do with it.” The sound on the tape gave way to a clicking and crackle. The wire ran out and the spool spun uselessly as Jaffe removed the headset.

“You’ve heard this?” he said to Snipcock. The publisher nodded. “I have to advise you not to pay this ransom, you know,”

“I understand, Inspector.” Snipcock replied, “but I feel we have to do something and the money is unimportant if we get Miss Crystal back safe and well.”

“Not to mention her book,” thought Jaffe.

“These men are quite ruthless, Inspector,” Snipcock went on, “Their message is quite clear in the picture.” Seeing Jaffe’s puzzled face he continued. “You’ve not read ‘The Missing Mystic’, I take it.”  Jaffe shook his head. “Well Inspector, let me tell you of the Mystic’s fate. On the cover you see her situation quite near to the start of the book.”

“And by the end?”

“I am afraid she doesn’t make it that far. At the conclusion of Chapter 3 her dismembered corpse is found in a cupboard in a room where she is expected to be hosting a séance. I hope you understand why I am somewhat anxious. I really must insist that you leave things to us.”

Chapter 27: Park Pick Up

Jaffe could not miss the opportunity to apprehend the kidnappers, of course. One of his plain clothes men was stationed across the road from Snipcock & Tweed’s offices.

He watched as an armoured car with the arms of the Provincial and Western Bank drew up outside and needed little effort to guess what might be inside. When Corbett Snipcock emerged just before dusk, clutching a large case and hailed a taxi, heading off towards Greenwich. The detective set off in stealthy pursuit.

Snipcock got out of the taxi just beyond a small antique shop on a corner. He walked slowly, clutching the bag closely to him and peering over his shoulder after every few steps. His route took him past some houses and then, into a small public park.

The park was deserted. Snipcock made his way up some steps toward the top of a small rise. The path gave onto an open grassed area. Almost opposite the top of the steps was a small tree. Beyond it a wooden paling fence surrounded an area of bushes. The detective ducked behind some foliage, watching as Snipcock furtively placed the case on the far side of the fence. Snipcock gave another look around him and walked away, back the way he came.

The detective settled down to wait for the ransom pick up.

It was a long, cold, vigil. It came to its end not with the arrival of desperate men to collect the case but with the appearance of his chief, the Inspector. “I think you can get up Dixon,” Jaffe said. “If I’m right, I think were going to both be back on the beat. I assume that no one has been to collect the ransom?”

“No sir, not a soul.”

“Would you mind fetching the case?”

“Certainly Sir,” Dixon loped across the dark clearing and reached over the fence to collect the case. He brought it back to where Jaffe was standing and, at the Inspector’s nod, opened it.

“Damn,” said Jaffe as he saw the blank paper within. “I feared as much. The Chief Constable is really going to blow up when he hears about this.”

“We’ve lost the ransom, Sir?”

“It’s worse than that Dixon. Snipcock and Tweed have lost their ransom all right but they’ve lost their receptionist as well.”

Jaffe’s interview with the Chief Constable was anything but comfortable. He could only relate what Dixon and Snipcock had told him and what he had managed to learn from interviewing a number of passers-by. Yes, Corbett Snipcock had received a contact from the kidnappers. They had told him to take a dummy case to the park and to get one of his staff – the receptionist will do, they had said – to carry an identical case in the opposite direction with instructions to leave it behind a telephone box in Tavistock Square. Then something must have gone wrong. Perhaps Miss Logan had seen whoever was to collect the ransom. Perhaps she had misunderstood their instructions or had done something to arouse their suspicions.

Whatever the cause, the result was indisputable. Two men had grabbed the case but they had grabbed Miss Logan as well. From the descriptions that Jaffe had managed to get they sounded like the same men that had abducted Agnes Crystal. Bystanders told of how Miss Logan, still carrying the case, had been pulled kicking and yelling into the back of a small van. The doors had been pulled shut as the van drove away.

“Had they managed to trace the van?”, the Chief Constable asked, “or was even that beyond the wit of the CID?”

Jaffe was at least able to satisfy his boss in that respect. A van had been found abandoned on the edge of Epping Forest. In the back was the case, empty of course, some lengths of rope and strips of cloth, a cloche hat and one of Miss Logan’s shoes. Unsurprisingly there was no sign of the driver or the other passengers. The Essex force was combing the Forest but they held out little hope of finding the men or their captive.

“You do realise, Jaffe,” the Chief Constable said frostily, “that they will very probably kill them.”

Jaffe gulped uncomfortably. He couldn’t disagree. In fact he thought the likelihood was that they were both already dead.

Fortunately for Heather Logan and Agnes Crystal, Jaffe was seriously wrong. Heather had indeed been snatched by Agnes’ kidnappers as she carried the ransom to the assigned dropping off point. The two masked men had given her no chance of escape as they bundled her into the van, along with the case and the money. A cloth had been pulled across her mouth and ropes around her wrists almost as soon as the van had started to move. She was helplessly tied and unable to cry out before the van had crossed the Euston Road, more ropes around her chest and around her legs meant she could do little more that wriggle on the floor of the van while the two men transferred the money from the case to a cloth sack.

“The delivery girl don’t seem to like that we’ve given her a ride,” said one of the men, amused by Heather’s attempts to kick herself free of her bonds. “wonder what she’ll think of the next bit?”

Heather lay helplessly while the two men carried on with their task. With all the money in the sack they returned to her. They began to untie her but made it plain that the slightest attempt at escape would result in her being shot.

The van came to a stop. Heather was carried out of the van and dumped unceremoniously on the floor inside a big wooden shed.

Still gagged, she pleaded with her eyes.

“Right darling,” one of the men went on. “We just want to take you on your next bit of the journey. PC Plod will be looking for that van soon enough and we’re not planning to stop here.” They’d freed her wrists now but told her to leave the gag alone. “Put this coat on.”

She looked at them with a puzzled look as they passed her a heavy waxed coat. She fastened it on. “Now these.” They tossed her a pair of heavy leather gauntlets. She pulled them on and the men went back to work reapplying the ropes that moments before had been removed. This time her wrists were fastened in front of her but tied into her lap. Her ankles and knees were bound together under the coat. A scarf was wound across the lower half of her face covering her gag.

“OK, you take her feet,” the first man said grasping her under the arm pits. Heather tried to struggle as they lifted her and carried her round behind the truck. There she saw a motor cycle combination. Without too much gentleness they squeezed her into the side car, running a rope around her waist to keep her in place. They buttoned the weather cover across her lap and pulled a crash helmet on to her head. The final touch as she wriggled against them, grunting into her gag in protest, was to pull down a pair of goggles. As the goggles came down over her eyes, Heather realised with horror that the lens had been blacked out. She could no longer see.

The motor cycle combination burst out of the shed and sped away down the narrow country road scattering ducks and rabbits as it went. With the two men on the cycle and Heather in the side car, the bike could not achieve too great a speed but it progressed steadily through Essex and then doubled back around the edge of London and down into the Sussex countryside.

Chapter 28: Heather’s Rendezvous

The motorcycle combination turned into the grounds of a ruined abbey on the outskirts of Chichester just as the sun was setting. It came to a halt at the end of a gravel drive and the two men lost no time in pulling Heather - still helpless, silent and blinded by her goggles - from the side car. They pushed her forward across cobbles, under an arch, and through a heavy oak door that led into one of the few standing buildings. Once inside they pulled Heather’s helmet and goggles from her head and she found herself blinking in the gloom of a gothic stone vaulted hall.

She stared around her, trying unsuccessfully to break free from the grip of the man holding her arms. She saw the figure of a woman chained beside a flight of steps on one side of the hall. As her eyes became accustomed to the light she realised that the helpless woman was Agnes Crystal. She was still wearing the dress that she had been photographed in for the ransom demand but now her head was locked in a fearsome, medieval, iron cage.

Suddenly Heather became aware of a door opening at the end of the hall. Framed in the door was the silhouette of a figure in a hooded robe.

The man holding her called out to the figure, “Good evening, Abbess. We have the girl and the money.”

The figure did not respond but motioned for the men to go. They dropped the sack and let go of Heather and left the hall without a word. Heather heard the motorcycle drive off and then watched as the figure approached her.

“My, they did a good job on you, didn’t they,” the robed figure said, as she untied the cloth that filled Heather’s mouth.

As the knot came loose, Heather pushed the gag clear of her mouth with her tongue. She coughed and spluttered as it fell out. “Too good a job if you ask me,” Heather said. “I’m sure we could have done without the dramatics, Sandy – our would you still prefer Comtesse?.”

The Abbess pushed back the cowl of her robe, letting her auburn hair fall down around her shoulders.  “Oh, please allow me a little amusement,” Sandy smiled. “And we have to keep the good Inspector Jaffe occupied.”

“Hmm,” Heather sounded unimpressed.

“Oh, now don’t be a spoil sport, young lady, or I’ll leave those ropes on you.”

“Sandy!”

“Oh, it’s all right. Come here.” The Comtesse set to untying the knots. “Did my apostles look after you well?”

“Yes, they were very well behaved. Not a furtive grope from either of them. Quite disappointing in some ways.”

Heather, you are incorrigible. I’m not surprised though, I don’t think that girls are quite their ‘tasse de thé’ if you know what I mean.”

“Ah, what a shame. No chance of reforming them?

“I suspect not. Too long in the English public school system and Cambridge University, I fear. They are a useful asset, however, although I’m not sure how long they’ll last.”

“How so? They seem very dedicated, committed, even.”

“Yes, well, that’s the point. There’s four of them in the team; Guy, Donald, Kim and Anthony. Delightful boys all of them and as you say very committed. The only problem is that they are committed to the triumph of international communism and I’m not sure that that is entirely compatible with my own more, shall we say, entrepreneurial goals.”

But surely their political beliefs don’t matter?

“No they shouldn’t. And they wouldn’t if they didn’t think that these little jobs were sanctioned and sponsored by Soviet intelligence as part of a campaign to disrupt western capitalism.”

“So they think you’re some sort of agent for …”  

There was a muffled grunt of complaint from behind the metal bars of the cage around Agnes Crystal’s head. Sandy turned towards her. “Sorry Agnes, we’ll be right with you. The money’s here so we can be on our way. Don’t worry about your four abductors, Heather, they’ll have plenty to do in time. Now let’s set Agnes free, we’ve got a ship to catch, and we all need to get changed.”