Parker Pyne Investigates. Agatha Christie

how did that paper come to be among my father’s things?’

      Wilbraham shrugged. ‘Maybe the Johnny was dying or something. He may have written the thing down in Swahili for protection and given it to your father, who possibly had befriended him in some way. Your father, not being able to read it, attached no importance to it. That’s only a guess on my part, but I dare say it’s not far wrong.’

      Freda gave a sigh. ‘How frightfully exciting!’

      ‘The thing is–what to do with the precious document,’ said Wilbraham. ‘I don’t like leaving it here. They might come and have another look. I suppose you wouldn’t entrust it to me?’

      ‘Of course I would. But–mightn’t it be dangerous for you?’ she faltered.

      ‘I’m a tough nut,’ said Wilbraham grimly. ‘You needn’t worry about me.’ He folded up the paper and put it in his pocket-book. ‘May I come to see you tomorrow evening?’ he asked. ‘I’ll have worked out a plan by then, and I’ll look up the places on my map. What time do you get back from the city?’

      ‘I get back about half-past six.’

      ‘Capital. We’ll have a powwow and then perhaps you’ll let me take you out to dinner. We ought to celebrate. So long, then. Tomorrow at half-past six.’

      Major Wilbraham arrived punctually on the following day. He rang the bell and enquired for Miss Clegg. A maid-servant had answered the door.

      ‘Miss Clegg? She’s out.’

      ‘Oh!’ Wilbraham did not like to suggest that he come in and wait. ‘I’ll call back presently,’ he said.

      He hung about in the street opposite, expecting every minute to see Freda tripping towards him. The minutes passed. Quarter to seven. Seven. Quarter-past seven. Still no Freda. A feeling of uneasiness swept over him. He went back to the house and rang the bell again.

      ‘Look here,’ he said, ‘I had an appointment with Miss Clegg at half-past six. Are you sure she isn’t in or hasn’t–er–left any message?’

      ‘Are you Major Wilbraham?’ asked the servant.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Then there’s a note for you. It come by hand.’

      Dear Major Wilbraham,–Something rather strange has happened. I won’t write more now, but will you meet me at Whitefriars? Go there as soon as you get this.

      Yours sincerely,

       Freda Clegg

      Wilbraham drew his brows together as he thought rapidly. His hand drew a letter absent-mindedly from his pocket. It was to his tailor. ‘I wonder,’ he said to the maid-servant, ‘if you could let me have a stamp.’

      ‘I expect Mrs Parkins could oblige you.’

      She returned in a moment with the stamp. It was paid for with a shilling. In another minute Wilbraham was walking towards the tube station, dropping the envelope in a box as he passed.

      Freda’s letter had made him most uneasy. What could have taken the girl, alone, to the scene of yesterday’s sinister encounter?

      He shook his head. Of all the foolish things to do! Had Reid appeared? Had he somehow or other prevailed upon the girl to trust him? What had taken her to Hampstead?

      He looked at his watch. Nearly half-past seven. She would have counted on his starting at half-past six. An hour late. Too much. If only she had had the sense to give him some hint.

      The letter puzzled him. Somehow its independent tone was not characteristic of Freda Clegg.

      It was ten minutes to eight when he reached Friars Lane. It was getting dark. He looked sharply about him; there was no one in sight. Gently he pushed the rickety gate so that it swung noiselessly on its hinges. The drive was deserted. The house was dark. He went up the path cautiously, keeping a look out from side to side. He did not intend to be caught by surprise.

      Suddenly he stopped. Just for a minute a chink of light had shone through one of the shutters. The house was not empty. There was someone inside.

      Softly Wilbraham slipped into the bushes and worked his way round to the back of the house. At last he found what he was looking for. One of the windows on the ground floor was unfastened. It was the window of a kind of scullery. He raised the sash, flashed a torch (he had bought it at a shop on the way over) around the deserted interior and climbed in.

      Carefully he opened the scullery door. There was no sound. He flashed the torch once more. A kitchen–empty. Outside the kitchen were half a dozen steps and a door evidently leading to the front part of the house.

      He pushed open the door and listened. Nothing. He slipped through. He was now in the front hall. Still there was no sound. There was a door to the right and a door to the left. He chose the right-hand door, listened for a time, then turned the handle. It gave. Inch by inch he opened the door and stepped inside.

      Again he flashed the torch. The room was unfurnished and bare.

      Just at that moment he heard a sound behind him, whirled round–too late. Something came down on his head and he pitched forward into unconsciousness…

      How much time elapsed before he regained consciousness Wilbraham had no idea. He returned painfully to life, his head aching. He tried to move and found it impossible. He was bound with ropes.

      His wits came back to him suddenly. He remembered now. He had been hit on the head.

      A faint light from a gas jet high up on the wall showed him that he was in a small cellar. He looked around and his heart gave a leap. A few feet away lay Freda, bound like himself. Her eyes were closed, but even as he watched her anxiously, she sighed and they opened. Her bewildered gaze fell on him and joyous recognition leaped into them.

      ‘You, too!’ she said. ‘What has happened?’

      ‘I’ve let you down badly,’ said Wilbraham. ‘Tumbled headlong into the trap. Tell me, did you send me a note asking me to meet you here?’

      The girl’s eyes opened in astonishment. ‘I? But you sent me one.’

      ‘Oh, I sent you one, did I?’

      ‘Yes. I got it at the office. It asked me to meet you here instead of at home.’

      ‘Same method for both of us,’ he groaned, and he explained the situation.

      ‘I see,’ said Freda. ‘Then the idea was–?’

      ‘To get the paper. We must have been followed yesterday. That’s how they got on to me.’

      ‘And–have they got it?’ asked Freda.

      ‘Unfortunately, I can’t feel and see,’ said the soldier, regarding his bound hands ruefully.

      And then they both started. For a voice spoke, a voice that seemed to come from the empty air.

      ‘Yes, thank you,’ it said. ‘I’ve got it, all right. No mistake about that.’

      The unseen voice made them both shiver.

      ‘Mr Reid,’ murmured Freda.

      ‘Mr Reid is one of my names, my dear young lady,’ said the voice. ‘But only one of them. I have a great many. Now, I am sorry to say that you two have interfered with my plans–a thing I never allow. Your discovery of this house is a serious matter. You have not told the police about it yet, but you might do so in the future.

      ‘I very much fear that I cannot trust you in the matter. You might promise–but promises are seldom kept. And, you see, this house is very useful to me. It is, you might say, my clearing house. The house from which there is no return. From here you pass on–elsewhere. You, I am sorry to say, are so passing on. Regrettable–but necessary.’

      The voice paused for a brief second, then resumed: ‘No bloodshed. I abhor