Paul Temple and the Front Page Men. Francis Durbridge

delivered by hand. Morgan, my butler, thinks it must have been left in the letterbox while we were all rushing over the house looking for Margaret. This must be true, because he had already cleared the first delivery of letters out of the box and put them on my desk.’

      ‘H’m, very interesting. Now tell me, who was the first person to discover your daughter was missing?’

      ‘The maid. She used to take Margaret a glass of milk at about eight o’clock every morning. On this particular day she was surprised to find Margaret was not in her room, and that apparently the bed had not been slept in. Naturally, the poor girl was quite bewildered, so she called Morgan.’

      ‘And you were about to phone the police when Morgan brought you this card?’

      Brightman nodded. ‘Yes. We’d searched the house from cellar to attic, and I was getting more and more alarmed. By the way, I thought perhaps you’d be interested to see the card.’

      He handed over a slip of pasteboard, which Sir Graham examined carefully through a small but powerful magnifying glass. It bore the simple message:

      Don’t call the police. Wait 48 hours. The child is safe.

      The Front Page Men.

      ‘Thank you,’ said Sir Graham at length. ‘I should like to keep this for the time being, if I may.’

      ‘Of course, sir,’ agreed Brightman, who now appeared to be more at ease than ever, and spoke in the slightly pompous manner of the chairman of a company who is about to disclose the payment of an extraordinary dividend. ‘You can imagine,’ he went on, ‘what a state I was in when I received that note. I didn’t know what to do. Suddenly I made up my mind to wait.’ Brightman paused. ‘I needn’t tell you what that week-end was like, Sir Graham. Every minute seemed an eternity. I wouldn’t go through it again – not for a million!’

      Suddenly the recollection of this experience seemed to upset his urbanity for the first time. He swallowed hard, shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and ran a finger round the edge of his collar before continuing. ‘Both Morgan and the maid wanted me to send for the police. In fact, Morgan threatened to go over my head and get in touch with Scotland Yard himself. The poor devil is devoted to Margaret, and he was completely unnerved. Then, at about half past nine, another note was delivered.’

      He handed over the second card, which read:

      Be near the telephone tomorrow morning. The child is safe.

      The Front Page Men.

      Forbes examined it carefully, but it appeared to offer no clue.

      ‘How long have Morgan and the maid been in your employment?’

      ‘Oh, quite a while – long before my wife and I parted. Morgan was with my father for some years. They both worship Margaret, if that’s what you’re thinking, Sir Graham.’

      ‘What time did you receive the phone call?’

      ‘At about 10.15. Naturally I answered the phone myself. A woman was at the other end. She sounded young and quite pleasant. “We want eight thousand pounds,’ she said, ‘we want it in twenties. The notes must not be numbered consecutively. Put the money in a brown leather suitcase, and deposit it in the cloakroom of the Regal Palace Hotel. The case must be there by 12.30 tomorrow morning.” ’

      Sir Graham snatched up his pencil and made several notes. Then he nodded to his visitor to continue.

      ‘The next morning, I turned up at the Regal Palace Hotel complete with suitcase and money. At the cloak-room they gave me a ticket for the suitcase, which rather worried me. I couldn’t quite see how anybody could get the suitcase out without the ticket – and so far, at any rate, I’d received no instructions about sending the ticket on anywhere. I was still thinking about this when I arrived home.’

      He paused, took out a handkerchief, and rather nervously wiped his lips.

      ‘I opened the front door, and the first thing I heard, was Margaret’s voice. She had arrived just after I left the house with the money.’

      If this mystified Sir Graham, he did not betray the fact. He inquired if the child was in good health.

      ‘Perfectly normal, except for one thing,’ replied Brightman. ‘She couldn’t remember anything that had happened. I talked to her for hours, trying to bring back her memory, but it was no use at all. That weekend had just been erased from her consciousness.’

      ‘You made no attempt to retrieve the money?’

      ‘I did consider that point, I admit. I even got as far as starting out for the hotel, but at the last moment I turned back. It struck me that even if I did get the money, something terrible might happen to Margaret again.’

      Sir Graham re-read his notes with a worried frown before asking Brightman if there had been any callers at the house on the day his daughter disappeared, Brightman thought for a while, appeared to be about to reply in the negative, then recalled that the only visitor was a piano-tuner.

      Sir Graham looked up quickly.

      ‘A piano-tuner?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Do you know his name?’

      ‘I’m afraid I don’t,’ confessed Brightman. ‘Morgan did mention it, but—’

      ‘Was it Goldie, J.P. Goldie?’ broke in the Chief Commissioner, unable to repress a hint of eagerness in his voice.

      ‘Why, yes. I believe it was,’ replied Brightman in surprise. ‘But he’s quite a harmless old customer, he couldn’t have had anything to do with this awful business.’

      Sir Graham smiled. ‘That, like so many other things, Mr. Brightman, is a matter of opinion.’

      A rather awkward pause was suddenly interrupted by Sergeant Leopold, who entered with a large map, which he placed on the Chief Commissioner’s desk.

      ‘I think you’ve told me pretty well everything,’ said the Commissioner, ‘and if you’ll excuse me …’

      ‘Why, certainly, Sir Graham. And if I can be of further service, don’t hesitate to telephone.’

      ‘Thank you. Sergeant Leopold will show you the way out.’

      As soon as Brightman had gone, Sir Graham rang for Inspector Nelson, a dark, alert young man, and ordered him to telephone Floyds Bank in Manchester Street and find out whether their customer, Andrew Brightman, had cashed a cheque for eight thousand pounds on March the eighth.

      ‘And tell Reed and Hunter I want them,’ he added as an afterthought.

      ‘Well, Mac, did you check up on Brightman?’ Forbes demanded, as the stocky figure appeared in the doorway, closely followed by Hunter.

      ‘I did that. He’s a stockbroker – lives in Hampstead. Divorced his wife in 1928, and has the custody of the child.’

      ‘H’m, that seems to tally,’ agreed Sir Graham. ‘What else?’

      ‘Brightman and the piano-tuner were the only people who visited Sir Norman Blakeley on the day the boy disappeared.’

      ‘What about the piano-tuner?’

      ‘I checked up on him, sir. He used to be with Clapshaw and Thompson’s in Regent Street. Started on his own about six years ago. Lives at Northstream Cottages, Streatham.’

      ‘That sounds fair enough. Now I’ve some news for you, Mac. Sir Norman’s had a message. They want nine thousand pounds by four o’clock tomorrow afternoon.’

      Even Mac’s inscrutable poker face reacted to this information, and Hunter made no secret of his astonishment.

      There was a moment’s silence.

      ‘Nine thousand?’ repeated Reed. ‘Did he get any instructions?’

      ‘Yes,